by Naima Simone
And the pounding in his cock didn’t give a damn about revenge.
“Ms. Blake? Sydney Blake?” Aiden asked, standing from his perch on the corner of Lucas’s desk.
Lucas flicked a glance in his best friend’s direction before returning his attention to the office door. “Yes. Sydney Blake.”
“Son of a…” Aiden glared at him, disapproval emanating off him. “I thought you said she told you to go to hell.”
He shrugged. “She did. But that wasn’t a no.”
Aiden growled, dragging a hand through his hair. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. You can’t go through with this, Luke.” His eyes flashed with a disappointment that cut Lucas like a shard of glass. “This is crazy. I’ve seen you make some insane decisions that somehow panned out in the end. But that was business. This is…” He spread his hands wide, palms up as if in supplication to a conscience Lucas didn’t possess when it came to Jason Blake. “This is her life. Your life. Rethink this. Please.”
The door to his office cracked open, and his assistant stepped in. But he didn’t see her. He forgot about Aiden and his pleas as every bit of his awareness zeroed in on the tall, regal woman gliding into the room. He devoured every detail of her appearance—from the long ponytail that swayed against the middle of her straight spine as she thanked his receptionist to the thrust of high, generous breasts under the simple but elegant wrap dress.
With a bite of cynicism, he swept his gaze over the sensual swell of her hips. She probably detested their roundness, as most of the women he knew craved to own the body of a prepubescent child rather than a grown, real woman. His uncle, the man who’d raised him after his father’s death, had a saying: “Only dogs want bones. And they bury them.” He and Uncle Duncan had disagreed on many subjects, but this one thing—the beauty of a woman’s curves—wasn’t one of them. Staring at Sydney’s small waist, full hips, and firm ass, he didn’t see fat.
He saw his fingers digging into her flesh, holding her still for a wild, raw fucking that would leave them sweaty, sore, and wrecked. He saw a gorgeous, sexy body that could take the fierceness, the roughness, the untamed lust he often had to leash with his sex partners. With those soft thighs wrapped around his hips, she would take every bit of his cock, every hard thrust.
He’d even let her keep those sexy-as-hell knee-high black boots on.
“Oh.” She drew up short as she noticed Aiden. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know you were busy.”
“We’re not,” he said shortly. “He’s leaving.”
Aiden scowled at Lucas, muttering under his breath. Lucas caught “dumb” and “ass” before his friend turned and extended his hand toward Sydney with a warm smile. “Please forgive him his manners. They left for lunch some years ago, and unfortunately, we’re still looking for them,” he drawled. “I’m Aiden Kent, COO of Bay Bridges and his”—he jerked his head in Lucas’s direction—“best friend. My canonization for sainthood should be coming through any day now.”
She chuckled. “Sydney Blake.”
“Don’t you have a meeting to attend?” Lucas snapped, not as irritated by his friend’s sarcasm as by the sight of Sydney’s smile at Aiden’s humor.
With a dramatic sigh, Aiden released Sydney’s hand. “I suppose I do. Nice meeting you, Ms. Blake.” He stalked across the room but not before pinning Lucas with one last glare as he shut the door behind him.
Sydney faced him, all traces of amusement ebbing from her lovely features until a polite mask remained.
“Mr. Oliver. Thank you for agreeing to see me on such short notice.”
The husky, sensuous timbre so at odds with the cool reserve was a temptation in itself. The contradiction taunted him. He wondered which epitomized the true woman—the sex-and-sin voice or the aloof society princess aura.
Damn, he wanted—needed—to peel back the layers and uncover the reality for himself.
“Lucas,” he smoothly corrected, but with a hint of steel. The previous night—before he’d blackmailed her on the back of a marriage proposal—he’d been Lucas to her. She might consider him an adversary now, but hell if he’d allow her to lodge this particular barrier between them. Some people said pick your battles… Screw that. Win every one of them, and no one will have to worry about who won the war. Because he would be the only one left standing. “Considering the circumstances, formality is a little ridiculous.”
Other than the slight tightening of her mouth, she didn’t display a reaction. He rounded the desk and approached her, pausing only when mere inches separated them. The combination of honeysuckle and skin teased him, urged him to bury his face in the soft crook between her neck and shoulder and inhale. The sweet scent probably came from something as mundane as lotion. Still, he couldn’t help but wonder if that tantalizing aroma would be thicker, richer in the hidden places. The shadowed valley between her breasts. The sensitive, tender skin behind her knee. Between her thighs. He fisted his fingers. Yeah, it would definitely be stronger and more intoxicating near the pretty, swollen folds of her sex.
“Why are you here, Sydney?” he murmured, deliberately using her given name. He shifted closer, invading even more of her space. Curious to see what she would do. And was surprised when she didn’t retreat. Admiration curled in his chest. Not many people dared to stare down the Beast of Bay Bridge.
“You know why I’m here,” she replied, her attention trained on some distant point over his shoulder. “To discuss the…arrangement you proposed last night.”
He slid his hands in the front pockets of his slacks. “Look at me when you speak to me, Sydney,” he ordered softly. She obeyed, and the anger her aloof manner and careful voice hid so well blazed at him from her hazel stare. “Now. What about it?”
A humorless smile lifted the corner of her mouth. “You’re going to make me beg, is that it?”
“Beg?” Slowly, he shook his head. “No, that’s not my intention.” He paused, his scrutiny briefly dipping to her mouth. “At least not here.”
He caught her low gasp as the implication behind his words sank deep, and she shifted back a step. Hmm. His physical presence hadn’t made her retreat, but a sexual innuendo did.
Interesting.
Maybe she realized her error in allowing him to witness her discomfort, because she hurriedly recovered the space she’d placed between them. But it was a little too late for that. He’d seen the chink in her armor. And like any good businessman, he intended to take advantage of it.
He smiled.
The small catch in her breath didn’t escape his notice. Neither did the flutter of her pulse in the shallow bowl at the base of her throat.
“You asked me to marry you,” she murmured.
“Yes.”
“If the offer is still open, I’d like to talk about the terms.”
After a long, heavy moment, he nodded and gestured toward one of the two visitor chairs flanking the front of his desk. Sydney lowered to the seat with the grace of a queen, her spine ramrod straight, shoulders back, chin tilted up. The perfect socialite. The perfect lady.
Aiden would’ve caustically added, “The perfect sacrifice.”
Maybe. And a shade of guilt might’ve tinged the victory bubbling in his blood. But he smothered it. There were always wounded and collateral damage in battle—hell, he should know. He’d been a casualty in the cowardly ambush Jason Blake waged on Lucas’s father.
In this war between Jason and Lucas, Sydney was an unfortunate, but necessary, martyr.
After moving to perch on the edge of the desk, he crossed his arms, his legs spread wide, feet bracketing her chair. Caging her between the seat and his body.
“I made the terms clear last night,” he said, voice flat. “Marry me, and keep your father out of jail and his business solvent for future Blake generations.” He twisted his mouth into a bitter smile, unable to keep the derision from his tone. Hell, he didn’t try. “Or marry Tyler Reinhold, and watch your father suffer the ruin of his reputation and the loss
of his company, face federal charges and jail. Those are your options.”
She tried to contain the small flinch but failed. Again that damned guilt reared its stubborn head, and again he squelched it. He couldn’t afford sympathy or remorse. Not with his revenge so close he could taste the cold bite of it. Could already feel the fifteen-year-old weight of the promise to his father lightening from his shoulders.
“Having a heart that’s three sizes too small must be really convenient for business,” she said. Surprise darted across her features, as if the sarcastic words had shocked her as much as him.
He barely managed to swallow his bark of laughter. He’d bet his left nut she hadn’t meant to let the comment fly. Not the poised, flawlessly polite Sydney Blake. That he’d apparently ruffled her enough for that damn composure to slip sent a warm slide of pleasure through him.
“You’ll turn my head with such flattery,” he drawled. “Most people just claim I don’t have a heart.”
A muscle along her delicate jaw flexed, and he had the impression of her clenching her teeth and imprisoning a particularly impolite retort. Probably started with fuck and culminated in you. “How will you keep him from being charged? If you know about his”—her fingers curled into fists on her lap, the knuckles paling—“practices, then surely others do as well. How do I know after I marry you, he won’t still end up in court?”
“As of now, his crimes haven’t been discovered by the public or the SEC. I have certain sources within the Blake Corporation—”
“Spies,” she snapped.
He shrugged. “—who have kept me informed. No one outside the company knows about the fraud your father has committed. Yet.”
Greed. Power. Money. Those were Jason Blake’s gods. Worshipping at their altars, he’d shattered Lucas’s family, broken his father. Before Jason’s betrayal, Robert Ellison had been a proud, commanding man, his only blind spot his selfish, spoiled, and unfaithful wife. Robert had expected backstabbing and perfidy from his business competition—not from his best friend.
She stared at him with something that resembled pity, a faint half smile curving her lips. “I hate to disappoint you, but if you think marrying me will hurt my father, you’re sorely mistaken. Will he be angry over the embarrassment of me publicly abandoning Tyler? Yes. But ultimately, one wealthy, connected son-in-law will be just as fine as another.”
He lowered his arms, frowning. Did she really believe that bullshit? A man as vain and image conscious as Jason handing his daughter over to a street fighter–turned–businessman? To men like her father, breeding and origins mattered as much as the income total on a profit and loss statement. And everyone knew Lucas Oliver was the adopted son of Duncan Oliver, a blue-collar construction worker from the South Side of Chicago.
“I think you underestimate your value, Sydney.”
The smile widened and, for an instant, increased in sadness. “No, I’m not. You’re overestimating.”
What the hell did that mean? The question hovered on his tongue, but he swallowed the words. They—her response and the insane need to delve deeper into the unmistakable sorrow behind the enigmatic statement—didn’t matter. Neither would keep him from carrying out his plan.
“What did he do to you?” she continued. “Back out of a deal? Cost you money?” Her lips twisted into a hard, cynical smile that somehow seemed blasphemous on her pretty mouth. “Sleep with your wife or girlfriend? It must’ve been something truly horrible for you to consider marriage to a woman you don’t know a comparative cost.”
“Oh, it’s comparative,” he murmured.
“In other words, it’s none of my business. And if your revealing the truth behind your motives is part of my terms?”
“I’ve stated the terms, Sydney. They’re nonnegotiable.”
Her shoulders stiffened until he imagined one brisk wind might crack her in half. “What about fidelity?” she asked.
He stilled. The low question punched through his chest and exposed the dark, mottled place on his soul that contained the rage, hurt, and humiliation of overhearing his parents argue over his mother’s serial adultery. Of witnessing her infidelity firsthand at his thirteenth birthday party, when she and a friend’s father had sneaked off to fuck in the pool house.
He reached up to touch the scar over his eye, beat back the hot waves of anger and pain throbbing inside him. And studied the socialite sitting before him with her rigid frame and unreadable expression.
“Do you want it?” he asked.
“I demand it,” she stated flatly. “If our intent is to convince everyone we’re in love, then breaking the marriage vows before they’re even dry will kind of taint the image.”
“I don’t think that pretense is necessary. I just need your hand in marriage, not your affection.”
“I didn’t offer it,” she snapped. “And you’re wrong. People will not easily accept this engagement. Especially since they’re friends and associates with Tyler and his family. They don’t know you, and after news of our relationship becomes public, you will be viewed, at best, as an interloper. Yes, they will do business with you, but most of those deals are initiated and discussed at social events. And those are ruled over by the women—the wives and daughters of those businessmen. If they don’t invite you or me because of our supposed betrayal of their own—Dad and Tyler—marriage to me won’t matter a damn. The only thing people will be more likely to forgive is a story of a grand, passionate affair. After all”—her lips curled into a hard, jaded smile that somehow seemed alien on her—“everyone adores a love story with a happily ever after.”
Damn. She made perfect sense. Since his arrival in Boston, he’d been marginally welcomed into the insular circle of Boston’s elite and privileged. The social set was a tight-knit group not easily infiltrated, and stealing Sydney from one of the more influential members wouldn’t sit well with them. He couldn’t afford to be ostracized. Not when business and social lines ran side by side, often intersecting. And not when a significant number of the accounts in Jason Blake’s wealth management firm hailed from the greater Boston area. After Lucas claimed ownership of the company—which he would, once the financial part of his plan came together—they would become his clients and stockholders.
Anger flared in his veins. At himself. He hadn’t made it this far by neglecting to weigh and analyze every variable in a decision, personal and professional. Yet desire for revenge had given him tunnel vision. How fucked up would it be to grasp control of his enemy’s corporation only to lose clients, reputation, and money to the fickle loyalties and morals of a few?
But even more…terrifying—screw it, yes, terrifying. Even more terrifying was the fact that he’d placed himself in the position to be humiliated like his father. Short of chaining Sydney to his wrist, he could no more control her actions—particularly what she decided to do with her vagina—than his father could’ve controlled his mother’s.
He’d yet to meet a woman who didn’t scheme, lie, or cheat. He knew they existed, but his money seemed to bring out the worst in the ones who came near him.
“Fine,” he drawled, arching an eyebrow. “I have no problem keeping my dick in my pants.” He tilted his head to the side. “But from my experience, it’s women who seem to have the issue keeping one out of theirs. We’ll see if you prove different.”
Her gasp blasted in the room seconds before she shoved her chair back and shot to her feet. She stalked forward, erasing the distance between them in two short, stiff strides. Outrage spiked color along her cheekbones. “Go. To. Hell.”
Did it make him a depraved bastard that her fury hardened his cock? Slowly, he rose to his full height. Claimed the last remaining step that separated them. He lowered his head until he could detect the dark green flecks in her hazel eyes. Until the soft pants between her parted lips fluttered over his. Until he could taste the flavor of her kiss on her breath.
Until the need to consume that sweet scent and the owner of it roared through him like a
freight train with faulty brakes. The unprecedented hunger should’ve had him shifting away from her, inserting much-needed space. Should’ve had him bolting away from the danger that had led around by your dick scrawled all over it.
Move. Run. Retreat. He should—
He slid a hand up her arm, over her shoulder, and cupped her nape. The warm, vulnerable skin seared his palm while the sleek, thick ponytail of dark hair caressed his fingers. He pressed his fingers into the side of her throat, the tips stroking the tendon running under the graceful column. She shivered. Standing so close together, no way in hell he missed the telltale tremor. From where did it originate? Fear? No, not fear. Though she trembled against him, her glare condemned him to the same pit she’d ordered him to seconds earlier.
But there was something else mingling with the anger. He peered closer. Desire? Desire demanding he back her up against the wall, unwrap the dress held together by two simple ties, and unveil the body he’d been fantasizing about for two long, frustrating-as-hell nights?
Maybe. After all, there was a thin line between love and hate. Or in their case, lust and loathing.
“Been to hell, sweetheart,” he whispered. “Have the T-shirt and refrigerator magnet to prove it.” When her gaze flicked toward the scar, he smirked and added, “That, too.” His fingers paused mid-stroke, his grip tightening. “If you betray me, I’ll make your life miserable.”
Long, feminine fingers skimmed up his arm…circled his neck. Squeezed. “Ditto.”
For the first time in more years than he could remember, laughter—true, clean laughter—rolled in his gut, past his chest, and burst past his lips. Even to his own ears, the rumble of it sounded rusty, worse for wear. Few things surprised him, much less genuinely delighted him. Even fewer people challenged or braved the Beast. She’d done all three.
Again, that blast of warning ricocheted through him.
Caution. Evade. Leave. Don’t—
He nipped her bottom lip. She stiffened, jerked away, but he’d anticipated the move and cupped the back of her head. When she didn’t resist, he smoothed a palm up her throat with his other hand. Rubbed his thumb over one of those glorious, patrician cheekbones.