by Naima Simone
Vengeance, not concern.
“Excuse me if I seem rude, but did we have an appointment today?” her father asked, a tiny furrow crinkling his brow.
“No, we didn’t.” Lucas pressed a hand to her spine, and she fought the instinctive urge to shift away. To move away from the deceit in the protective gesture. “Sydney and I are together. I apologize for the unexpected intrusion, but we need to speak with you.”
Jason’s gaze swung from Lucas to her. Confusion and a deepening suspicion darkened his eyes. “Is that so?” he murmured.
Fear snaked up her chest and circled her throat. It turned her mouth into an arid landscape, and the words became mired on her tongue.
“Sydney.” Her father stepped forward, and at the same time, Lucas edged closer, his lean hip pressing against hers. Jason paused, his gaze intercepting the small movement. Surprise erased the burgeoning anger, but only for a moment. “Sydney,” he repeated, the soft note a warning. “What is going on here?”
She forced a calmness into her voice that belied the chaotic storm twisting in her head like a late summer storm. “Dad, Lucas has asked me to marry him. And I—” She paused, the pounding of her heart momentarily halting her breath. Then the hand on her back moved, smoothed down her arm. His big palm pressed against hers, his fingers tangled with hers. A show of support? Or a feigned act of affection for her father’s sake? At this moment, she didn’t care. She curled her fingers, holding tight. “And I accepted his proposal,” she continued.
Jason’s eyes widened, his lips slackened, shock bleeding the color from his complexion, leaving a waxy pallor behind. Alarmed, she loosed Lucas’s grip and moved forward, arm outstretched. Jesus, what had she done? “Dad…”
His palm slammed up, halting her mid-step as if an invisible wall had sprung up between them. Slowly, his astonishment faded. Crimson bloomed under his skin, mottling his smooth brown skin. A white line outlined the thin, hard line of his mouth like the garish, smudged lipstick of a faded beauty queen.
“Tell me this is a joke, Sydney,” he snapped. “Or a pathetic bid for attention.”
She flinched as his words slapped at her. A bid for attention. As if she were five instead of twenty-five. Inhaling a deep breath, she tucked the throbbing pain and resentment in a pocket of her heart. The same pocket where she’d hidden the hurt, bitterness, and guilt from similar remarks over the years. The compartment was close to bursting at the seams.
“It’s not a joke, Dad,” she murmured. “I’m sorry.”
“Sorry?” he bit out. “Sorry? Do you have any idea what you’re doing? What you’re doing to me, to your mother? Think what this will do to our reputation. You can’t just toss aside Tyler Reinhold. You were lucky he showed interest in you in the first place, much less proposed marriage.”
A brilliant starburst of pain exploded in her chest. She stared at her father, his rage beating against her skin like crashing waves of heat. Inside herself, she curled into a fetal position, blocking her vulnerable organs from another emotional kick. On the outside, though, she squared her shoulders, notched her chin up. Bracing herself for the next punch of his anger, for his verbal jabs.
“I disagree.” The cold, hard objection came a second before an unyielding wall of muscle supported her shoulders and spine. Firm hands bracketed her hips, holding her steady. “Reinhold was fortunate. He had Sydney—beautiful, intelligent, kind, loyal Sydney. Your daughter. And when she decided to share her life with him, he should’ve been down on his knees thanking her and God, because in that moment he became the luckiest man on earth. Just like I felt when she agreed to be mine.”
Beautiful, intelligent, kind, loyal. Lies, lies, lies, her reason blared like a foghorn on a dark, overcast night. All for the benefit of the ruse. But her heart—her heart that had been nicked and bruised by neglect, low self-esteem, and guilt—soaked up his words, gorged on them like a person feasting after a long trek through an arid, barren wasteland.
“You’ve known her for five minutes, and you assume to tell me who my daughter is?”
“Yes,” Lucas stated, voice flat, definite. “Because it’s obvious if you can make a comment denigrating her worth, her value, then you don’t know her at all.”
Jason winced—or maybe it was her imagination. A hallucination caused by her desperation to find acceptance in her father’s grim, forbidding expression. “If you believe you’ll get your hands on my wealth and connections through my daughter, you’re sorely mistaken. I’ll cut her off, disown her if she goes through with this”—he waved a hand back and forth between her and Lucas—“this farce.”
“I don’t need your money,” Lucas replied. “And neither will Sydney. But she does need you and your wife.”
Jason’s gaze cut to her, and the derision and disappointment there scored her. She hadn’t glimpsed such animosity and helplessness since…since Jay.
“Daddy,” she whispered, her throat tightening around the last syllable. It had been years since she’d called him that. Years since he’d been her laughing, loving daddy instead of distant, cold Dad. Only desperation had squeezed the more intimate name from her lips. I’m doing this for him. I’m saving his business, guaranteeing his freedom. Even if he can’t stand the sight of me after this. “I know this sounds crazy and irresponsible to you. And Lucas is right. I don’t want to lose you or Mom.” She spread her hands wide, palms up as if they contained the answers she couldn’t supply him. “But I don’t love Tyler, and spending the rest of my life in a loveless marriage would ultimately make both of us miserable. He deserves to be with a woman who can give him all of herself. He deserves to be happy. If I went through with the marriage, neither one of us would be.”
Truth rang in her words and resonated in her spirit. Just a few days ago, she’d been content with the life set before her. Passionless but stable. Predictable but dependable. Loveless but respectful. While she’d been ready to consign herself to that life, had Tyler? Or one day, would he wake up and realize she wasn’t enough? She wasn’t pretty enough, witty enough, accomplished enough. And would that be the day he sought out other women? Like her father had. And would that also be the day she became the reflection of her mother? An exquisitely coiffed, composed mannequin on the outside while seething with humiliation, hurt, and rejection on the inside? Filling the emotional holes in her life with committees, fund-raising, and parties? Sydney had agreed to marry Tyler to avoid her parents’ fate…and had started the gilded road to that exact destination.
Not that she would find peace or a happily ever after with Lucas. But after their year together lapsed, she would be free—free of the strangling noose of family obligations, societal expectations, social condemnation, and guilt. The awful albatross of guilt.
Even without her father’s support or the financial settlement Lucas had offered her, she would survive. She possessed money of her own, thanks to the inheritance from her maternal grandmother three years earlier. She could live her life the way she desired. The way she dreamed. She could return to school for a degree in education. Spend more time at the youth center. Discover who Sydney Blake truly was.
And love her.
For a second—a blip in time—her father’s expression softened. But the seed of hope didn’t take root before his eyes and mouth hardened. Maybe it’d been her need for his love and approval that had her imagining the compassion she’d glimpsed. Ecstasy had nothing on desperation when it came to creating hallucinations.
“Have you told Tyler yet?” her father demanded.
“No. I wanted to speak with you first.”
“Good.” Jason nodded sharply. “Then we can forget this foolishness, and Tyler won’t have to know about any of it.” He clapped his hands together and turned away as if his proclamation settled the matter. And she couldn’t blame him. In the past, his final word would’ve been just that—the final word. She would’ve caved and obeyed like the perfect, dutiful daughter.
But not this time. She couldn’t. His freedom d
epended on her disappointing him.
“I’m sorry, Dad.” Her apology halted him mid-turn. Slowly, like a wind-up toy, he pivoted, facing her again. Grief and regret swamped her, dragging her under its suffocating tide. “I can’t,” she rasped.
His eyebrows arched high, surprise flaring in his eyes before they narrowed. “Sydney, if you go through with this engagement and marriage, you’re choosing him”—he jerked his chin toward Lucas, who stood quietly behind her—“over your family. Think very carefully about your next words to me.”
Part of her wanted to scream like a banshee on a battlefield. I already chose you. The cry ricocheted against the walls of her mind. Instead she remained silent.
“So you’ve made your decision,” Jason said, his voice a harsh whip across her heart. “Where should I have your belongings delivered?”
“Dad, I—”
“No. You aren’t welcome in the home I’ve provided for twenty-five years. We have nothing more to say to each other if your next words aren’t you’ve changed your mind about going through with this silliness and will honor your commitment with Tyler. Loyalty, Sydney. I believed I’d taught you family loyalty, but it appears you learned nothing. When you come to your senses and realize we are more important than a man you’ve just met and know nothing about, then you can return home. Until then, all I want to hear from you is an address.”
She sucked in a breath, blinking to beat back the tiny pinpricks of tears. Tell him, a small, insidious voice whispered in her head. Just tell him the whole truth, and he’ll forgive you. Her lips parted, the confession almost spilling from her tongue. But an image flashed across her mind’s eye. Her father, disgraced as he faced a judge and jury. Her father, handcuffs shackling his wrists as he was led away from her mother, from Sydney. Her father, old, worn, broken, speaking to her from behind a panel of Plexiglas.
Jason crossed his arms. “Sydney. An address.”
An address. An address. God, I don’t know. She was adrift, a lone leaf floating on a biting, brisk autumn breeze. Out of all the scenarios she’d envisioned, being thrown out of her home hadn’t been one. Where would she go? She had friends, but none close enough to ask if they would take her in. Or more importantly, none close enough to not gossip about her circumstances…
“She’s staying with me.” Lucas squeezed her hip as if warning her not to disagree. As if she could. Objecting would require working lungs and a tongue. “I’ll leave my address with your assistant.” Shifting to the side, he tangled his fingers with hers once more. “And she didn’t choose me over her family or transfer her loyalty from you to me. On the contrary, you chose your pride over her happiness and well-being. If you change your mind about abandoning your daughter, you know where to find her.”
Not allowing her a chance to speak or Jason an opportunity to reply, he turned and led her from her father’s office. Numb, she remained silent, frozen as he shut the door behind them.
“Are you all right?” he asked once they were safely down the hall.
The question seemed to reach her through layers and layers of wool, distant and muffled. God, no, she wasn’t okay. Everything she’d known—her parents, her home, her identity—had been blown to hell and back in a matter of minutes. As flawed as her family and life were, they’d belonged to her. They were familiar. In their own dysfunctional way, they were her safety net…her norm. And now what did she have? No home. No family. Friends who bent and wavered in the direction of the ever-changing societal wind. A man who detested her father so much he had no qualms about stripping her of her will and power to obtain his revenge.
No. “All right” had caught the last red-eye flight out of Boston, and “crazy as shit” had just stepped into the building.
“I don’t know where your father’s assistant went, but she’ll probably return soon.” The dark gray of his shirt and darker silver of his tie filled her vision as his spring-rain scent wrapped her in its embrace. “For the next couple of minutes, don’t think about who’s watching or about appearing weak. Instead, for these two minutes, lean on me. We won’t talk about it, won’t ever bring it up. And I promise not to use it against you.” He cupped her nape gently but firmly, tugged her closer and into the strong, hard lines of his body. “It’ll be our secret,” he murmured against her hair.
The low, dark velvet of his voice lured her in as much as his tender, insistent grip. For just a moment. She rested her forehead on the wide plane of his shoulder. Allowed her lashes to drift shut. She was so tired. The weight of her father’s displeasure and rejection settled across her shoulders like a dumbbell she had no hope of bench-pressing. Instead it pressed down on her, squeezing the air from her lungs, constricting her chest, weakening her legs. Yes, for just a moment, she’d borrow his strength, lean on him…
“Sydney?”
She stiffened. Oh. Damn.
Slowly, she straightened, turned. And faced Tyler.
His gaze switched from her to Lucas and back to her, a frown drawing down his dark brown eyebrows.
“Sydney,” he said, stepping closer, his arm outstretched. “What’s going on? Is something wrong?”
Regret for the humiliation and hurt she was about to inflict clenched her belly. She harbored no doubt that Tyler cared for her, yes, but the affection a man should possess for his wife? No. But he would still suffer from the public rejection. He would still be whispered and gossiped about. And she would lose a friend.
“Tyler,” she pleaded. With a quick glance toward the empty conference room on their right, she shifted to the side, neatly avoiding his hand. Knowing in a few moments he wouldn’t want anything to do with her, much less invite her touch. “Can we talk?”
Tyler hesitated, then nodded. As she moved to follow him, Lucas aligned himself beside her. Once again refusing to let her face the backlash alone.
How ironic.
Suddenly alone of family and friends, her one ally was the Beast of Bay Bridge.
…
Sydney stared up at Lucas’s Back Bay brownstone. The structure resembled its owner: elegant, striking, imposing. And was now her only sanctuary.
No, not sanctuary. Because that implied while she might be safe—physically—and off the street, it also suggested she felt comfortable, warm, sheltered, peaceful. Those couldn’t be further from the truth.
Behind her, Lucas’s driver removed her suitcases from the trunk of the limo, lining them along the curb. Apparently, before she and Lucas could make it out of the building, her father had called and told her mother and housekeeper to pack up Sydney’s belongings and have them delivered. Her and Lucas’s arrival at her parents’ home had expedited the delivery part of the command. That simply, that easily, her father had ushered her out of her home, his life. And now she stood on a sidewalk with her luggage, dependent on the mercy of a man who had none.
Not true, her conscience whispered. Lucas immediately stepped in, defended you, offered you a place to stay.
And he’s also the person responsible for placing me in this situation, she countered.
God, she must be more exhausted than she believed to be debating points back and forth with herself.
Sighing, she hiked her tote higher on her shoulder. Personal and sentimental items the housekeeper had neglected to pack filled the tote. Pictures—of her parents, of Jay that she’d hidden away at the top of her closet. Books, journals, and pieces of jewelry from her grandmother.
“Come on inside,” Lucas murmured, guiding her up the stone steps. Moments later, he opened the front door, and she stepped into the foyer. “I know you’re tired. Let me give you a quick tour and then you can rest.”
Nodding, she took her first inspection of his home.
She hadn’t known what to expect—decor that shouted the wealth of its owner in every painting, piece of furniture, and decorative piece? Or an austere, minimalistic design straight out of the Spartans ’R’ Us catalog? Reality fell somewhere in between.
Clean, uncluttered elegance, ye
t luxurious. Gorgeous landscapes adorned the walls, beautiful earth-toned furniture enhanced the gleaming cherrywood of the floors, banister, railings, and stairs. Airy rooms with high ceilings, large bay windows, and cavernous fireplaces welcomed people to come sit and visit. The entire brownstone belonged to him. The garden level contained his study, while the parlor level, where they’d entered, held the great room, another smaller living area, a bathroom, and an amazing kitchen. The top level had been renovated so the master bedroom occupied most of the space. Huge floor-to-ceiling windows dominated one wall, and late afternoon light poured into the room. Sumptuous, decadent. And perfect for the man standing next to her. She could easily imagine him lying on the almost sinfully large bed with its soaring four posters, the rich black bedspread pooling around his narrow waist, leaving his chest bare.
She reined in her too-vivid imagination and averted her too-enraptured regard.
“Your room is down the hall,” he said, leaving the door to his bedroom open. As if in invitation.
Seconds later he opened the door to a smaller but no less exquisitely appointed bedroom. Her suitcases had beaten her there. So this is where I’ll live for the next year.
As soon as the words ghosted through her head, a wave of exhaustion and loneliness broke over her, almost buckling her knees. Maybe she wavered or swayed, because from one breath to the next, Lucas’s arms were surrounding her, holding her steady.
That fast, the surge of lethargy evaporated, leaving an electrical awareness popping and sizzling under her skin. She shuddered, detesting her visceral reaction. Why, of all people, did her heart pound and her body swell and pulse for this man? Even Tyler made more sense…
Oh, Jesus, Tyler.
Images of their confrontation bombarded her.
She’d prevented Lucas from accompanying her into the empty office while she broke the news to Tyler. Having Lucas there as a witness when she informed her fiancé—former fiancé—that their engagement was off had seemed unnecessarily cruel. And ultimately, she’d made the right call. God, Tyler’s shock, disbelief. His rage.