Beauty and the Bachelor(6)

No. Tyler-who didn't cause her heart to pound or the bottom to fall out  of her stomach like a dizzying free fall down a roller coaster-was her  ideal.

Perfect.

The host paused next to a table hidden from most of the room by a  waist-high wall and tall, exotic plants. Private. Intimate. Dangerous,  she silently added. The host moved to pull out her chair, but Lucas  shifted forward, slid the high-backed chair from under the table, and  waited for her to be seated. Just for a moment, he lingered behind her,  and the back of his fingers grazed her shoulders. This time she couldn't  stifle the shudder of pleasure his brief but indelible touch caused.  And when he froze behind her for several more seconds, she wondered if  he'd caught the telltale reaction.

Oh, yes, he had.

The answer reverberated inside her head when Lucas lowered to the chair  across from her, his fierce gaze locked on her face. His scrutiny was  neither polite nor impersonal but piercing, hooded … hot. Beneath her  dress, her nipples beaded, the soft silk of her bra suddenly chafing and  constricting. A sweet, nagging ache pulsed between her thighs, and she  squeezed her thighs together, trying to alleviate the sensual torment.  And succeeded in intensifying-worsening-it.

The timely arrival of their sommelier allowed her to inhale an  inconspicuous breath, and while Lucas tasted the different wine  offerings, she wrangled her body back into submission. Had she said  dangerous? This man was positively lethal.

"Did you enjoy the play?" he asked, extending a glass containing a deep  ruby wine toward her. "Taste?" Then watched, with piercing intensity, as  she sipped. The rich but sweet bouquet of the cabernet smoothed over  her tongue, and she lowered her lashes, humming slightly in  appreciation. When she lifted them, the approval hovering on her lips  died a swift death. His gaze was fixed on her mouth. Nervously, she  swiped the tip of her tongue over her lips, and his expression hardened,  the carnality more pronounced. The scar over and under his eye only  emphasized the danger inherent in the stare. No man had ever looked at  her with such … hunger. As if he was seconds from jerking her to her feet  and crashing his mouth to hers and feasting like a starved man.         

     



 

She gasped, and the hooded turquoise scrutiny lifted, the heat there bright … scalding.

"Do you like it?" The question referred to the wine, but the low, rough  timbre of his voice hinted at something else-something civilized people  didn't discuss over a linen-covered table at a five-star restaurant in a  room full of people.

"Yes," she whispered, settling the glass on the table with trembling hands before folding them in her lap. "It's delicious."

"Good." He nodded and ordered a bottle from the silent sommelier.

Oh my God. She swallowed a groan. How could she have forgotten about the  other man's presence? Heat prickled her skin. What kind of magic did  Lucas Oliver wield to capture her mind and senses so completely?

"So," he continued, "the play. Did you enjoy it?"

Right. The play. "I did," she replied, and thanked God for small favors  that her voice didn't wobble. "I love Phantom of the Opera. The story,  the romance, the music." She laughed softly. "I have to admit, musicals  are one of my vices."

"Just one?" A corner of his mouth quirked. "So just how many do you have?"

"Enough that they require more than one bottle of wine to confess to,"  she retorted, arching an eyebrow. His dark, sexy chuckle necessitated  another sip of her drink. At this rate, she might be spilling all her  secrets by the time dessert was served. "Do you have a favorite play?"

"Several. Phantom of the Opera. Les Misérables. Chicago." He smiled, and  she returned the gesture, knowing from her online research that he'd  grown up in the Windy City. His company's headquarters were still  stationed there. "And," he paused, "Lion King."

She grinned. "Simba, you have forgotten me." She dragged out her best  James-Earl-Jones-as-Mufasa impression, and Lucas laughed, humor  transforming him from beautiful to beautiful squared. "Lion King was  wonderful. I also loved Wicked. And of course Grease."

"Of course," he drawled. "But if you're waiting for me to bust out a verse of ‘Summer Nights,' it's going to be a long night."

"Damn." She snapped her fingers, shaking her head. Lucas snorted,  lifting his glass to his mouth. The wide globe appeared fragile in his  long-fingered grip. Quickly diverting her attention, she asked, "So was  the bit in your introduction at the auction true? Did you really play  Bill Sikes in your high school musical?"

His lips twisted, the expression self-deprecating. "I'm afraid so. But  not out of any great love for the theater or Oliver! That was just a  happy, but unintentional, result. See, Colleen Moore had tried out for  the role of Nancy. I figured if we were both in the play, we would spend  a lot of afternoons and nights together at rehearsals, never  considering she had the singing voice of a cat in heat." Sydney choked  out a laugh, and he shrugged. "Unfortunate, but very true. Mine wasn't  that much better, but I could hold a note and memorize a script.  Besides"-the smile he wore turned a shade more sinister as he tapped the  end of his scar-"I had the rough, criminal look down."

"Does it bother you?" she murmured, the question slipping from her lips  before she could think better of asking it. The mark appeared too old to  cause him pain, but she hadn't been referring to the physical. She bit  the inside of her cheek. She'd been too bold; they were here for a light  dinner before parting and probably never seeing each other again except  for the occasional social event. Did she honestly expect him to spill  his deepest emotions?

"Does it bother you?" he countered softly.

Bother her? Yes. Her heart ached when she thought of the suffering he  must've endured. During and after. From experience, she knew people  weren't … kind to those they perceived as different. Any imperfection was  pointed out, jeered at, or lamented over. Maybe some of those same  people were responsible for dubbing him the Beast. Oh, yes. That  bothered her, since he'd been nothing but lovely and considerate to her  since their first meeting.

But did the scar detract from his appearance? No-hell, no. It added to  his masculine beauty, lent it an element of danger that was both  alarming and seductive.

Yet if she admitted the truth, he would think she was either desperate  or needy. So she settled for, "Not at all. Why should it?"

An emotion flashed in his eyes before he smirked and leaned back in his  chair. He didn't respond but turned the conversation to more mundane  territory. Regret flickered in her chest. Why did she feel as if she'd  failed some test? She buried the pang of hurt and answered his questions  about Boston, family, and herself. Which was novel. Most of her and  Tyler's exchanges revolved around him, his family's company, or whatever  party or benefit they planned to attend.         

     



 

The hour sped by, and when their waiter set a cup of after-dinner coffee  in front of her, she realized their date was nearing an end. Squelching  the disappointment, she added cream to the dark brew.

"How long have you and Tyler Reinhold been engaged?"

Surprised, she glanced up, the spoon she'd been stirring with still  clasped in her fingers. "Not long," she said, silently scolding herself.  She should have no problem talking about her fiancé. This was an outing  because of an auction, not a regular date. Lucas wasn't enamored with  her, no matter what her overactive imagination might have conjured. She  cleared her throat. "We've been together for a year, though."

"He seems very protective of you. Not that I can blame him. Auction or  not, if you were mine, I wouldn't have let you fly to another city with a  man who wasn't me."

If you were mine. She highly doubted he'd claimed any woman as his. That  would be too permanent. "I don't belong to him like a piece of real  estate with a deed," she snapped. And immediately hated the display of  irritation. Because the description pretty much summed up her  arrangement with Tyler. Theirs wasn't a love match; they were an  amicable, companionable merger. And she preferred it that way … damn it.

A small smile played across his sensual mouth. "You don't like the idea  of belonging to a man, Sydney? The idea of knowing beyond a doubt that  he's claimed you so thoroughly, your body's marked by him, your blood  heats for him and him alone? The idea that you're his, and if any man  even looks in your direction, he's taking his life into his own hands?"

"No," she breathed. She didn't. He described everything she was afraid  of-blind passion, possession, jealousy. So why did the heat pouring  through her like a stream of lava brand her a liar? "Would you want that  with a woman? You don't seem like the kind of man who would appreciate  or tolerate a jealous, possessive woman."