by Naima Simone
“Well, I guess congratulations are in order,” Caroline said, wearing a satisfied, cat-who-ate-a-whole-damn-flock-of-canaries smile. “In deference to my friendship with Lucas, I would love for you to come by one of my boutiques. But I’m afraid my designs cater to less”—she paused—“Rubenesque women.”
“Sheathe your claws, Caroline,” Lucas snapped.
Too late. Her arrow had struck its target. And Caroline’s hasty, conciliatory apology couldn’t conceal her spite or her malicious joy. Pain radiated from inside Sydney, a mushroom cloud that seemed to expand with each razor-edged breath. Yes, she’d been on the receiving end of criticizing comments and backhanded compliments before. But this was different. This had been personal. Mean. And all because of the man standing next to her.
For the first time in her life, she thanked her mother for the poise she’d drummed into Sydney with tyrannical insistence. Drawing her shoulders back, Sydney nodded. “I appreciate your offer just the same,” she murmured, voice steady, calm, not betraying one iota of the humiliation clawing at her chest. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Ms. Dresden. If you will excuse me.”
Without waiting for Lucas’s agreement or permission, she turned and waded through the heavy throng of guests, heading for the exit.
Her role in tonight’s screwed-up performance was over.
She quit.
Chapter Ten
“Sydney.”
As Sydney crossed the threshold of the brownstone and entered the foyer forty-five minutes after leaving the charity benefit, Lucas’s hard, firm tone demanded she stop, obey. An innate part of her wanted to yield, to submit to the unspoken order. But the other part—the hurt, angry, bruised part—silently told him and his kneel-before-Zod attitude to go suck it.
The rebellious side of her psyche won out. She didn’t pause and continued toward the stairs and her temporary bedroom,
“Damn it, Sydney. Wait.” A gentle but implacable grip halted her mid-step. She stiffened and wrenched her arm away from Lucas’s, and he let her go. Still she seethed. What the hell? Hadn’t he gotten the clue in the limo when he’d tried to talk to her, and she shut him down? What did he want from her? Hadn’t being called fat by one of his former bedmates been enough entertainment for the evening? Rubenesque. Curvy. Statuesque. She’d heard them all—been called them all. And advice on amazing diet plans or offers of plastic surgeons’ names who were positively brilliant with liposuction most often followed the clever euphemisms.
After years of the commentary on her body and weight, she should have skin as thick as an elephant’s hide. Especially since her mother was author of a good portion of the remarks. But tonight had been vicious. And it’d occurred in front of Lucas.
Remnants of heat suffused her chest and face again.
“Yes?” She descended a step and faced him.
“Don’t give me that lady-of-the-manor act,” he snapped. “We need to talk about tonight.”
Really? Talk about how they’d bumped into a woman who knew with disgusting intimacy how he looked naked? Not. Damn. Likely. “Okay. Obviously the news of our sudden engagement has made the rounds. But I think we did a little damage control with our appearance. You were very convincing as a man madly in love, which I think helped mitigate some of the gossip. Of course, I think we’re going to need more than one evening to—”
“Stop it.” He tugged her closer. “I don’t give a damn about what people thought or didn’t think.”
“You should. As shallow as it may seem, some of them will decide whether or not to associate with you or your business because of this broken engagement. They’ll judge you as impetuous or untrustworthy. That if your personal life is a reflection of how you run your company, they would rather not—”
“You’re crawling back behind that ice queen facade you consider a safety net. But I’m not letting you go so easily,” he gritted out from between clenched teeth. “Why did you run?”
Outrage colored her vision until she viewed him through a misty crimson veil. “Run? So it’s my fault your ex…whatever is a catty, ill-bred, rude—”
“Bitch. I believe that’s the word you’re dancing around,” he supplied. “And no, I’m not blaming you for her behavior. But I want to know why you left as if you had something to be ashamed of. Have your parents ground you down to the point where you believe you deserve that kind of treatment?”
His questions struck too close. Much too close.
“What do you suggest I should’ve done?” She descended another step that brought her face-to-face with him. “Grab her by the hair? Roll around on the floor, scratching and punching? And what about the next time I meet someone you’ve been with? And the next time? And the next time? I might need to store boxing gloves in my purse if I’m going to throw down every time we come across a woman you’ve scratched an itch with.”
She stormed past him, dragging her palms over her hair. Who was this woman throwing verbal low blows? She didn’t recognize her—didn’t like her. Resentment and helplessness mingled in the noxious brew already simmering in her stomach. She hated not being in control. Hated the emotions swirling and twisting inside her, making her weak, vulnerable, open to his incisive scrutiny.
In spite of the scandal their abrupt engagement had stirred, men had deferred to Lucas tonight, spoken to him with reverence and admiration. Women had stared at him, lusted after him. His sole worth wasn’t tied to his name or the blood running through his veins. He commanded respect on his own merit and power. Her? She didn’t even receive esteem or love from her own father. To both Jason and Lucas, she was an object. A pawn to be pushed around a chessboard by their motives and agendas.
“We can talk about how many women I’ve been with. We can talk about how some of them are faceless, and how I wish more of them were. We can talk about how I liked some of them and loved none of them.” She pivoted and faced him where she’d left him, hands stuffed into the pockets of his pants, his hooded gaze fixed on her. “We can talk about all of that. Later. Right now I want an answer to my question. Because right now, it’s everything I can do to remain standing here instead of going over to your father’s house and wringing his ungrateful neck.”
Lucas stalked closer, reminding her of a huge, dark jungle cat on the hunt. Common sense and self-preservation urged her to retreat, but experience warned her to stand her ground. Like any predator that smelled fear, he would press his advantage, exploit her weakness. The weakness being her body’s traitorous response to his nearness, his scent. His words. His touch. Especially his touch.
“Why do I have the ugly suspicion you believe that bullshit he spouted in his office?” he asked.
She lowered her gaze to the strong column of his neck. At some point during the return ride home, he’d removed his tie and loosened the top button. Dusky, smooth skin stretched taut over the powerful jut of his collarbone, and she studied the sliver of flesh as if it contained all the nebulous answers to the universe. Anything to avoid meeting his stare that seemed to see too much, to peer too deep.
“Caroline only said what other people are thinking,” she said softly. “That you’re marrying me because of my last name, to get closer to my father and his connections.” Inhaling, she lifted her head. And nearly reconsidered retreating in the wake of the turquoise fire blazing down at her. “Like me, they’ve probably seen the women you’ve dated. None of them look like”—she paused—“me. The charade of being in love is necessary, but not everyone will accept that your sudden affection isn’t financially motivated.” She squared her shoulders, tilted her chin higher. Pride might be regarded as a sin for the world, but for a Blake, it was a virtue. A necessity. And right now, it was all she had left. “Your goal is to humiliate my father personally and professionally. Mission halfway accomplished. By the time we marry next week, your vendetta against him will be realized. Does it matter who or what I believe? Will it change your mind about this engagement? This marriage?”
“No.”
&nb
sp; The immediate, harsh reply shouldn’t have sucker punched the wind from her chest. Lucas had never lied to her about his plans and her role in them. The anger he possessed for her father veered toward hatred. His motivations exceeded money or social acceptance. What? Had she expected he would abruptly abort his campaign for revenge and blackmail because of her feelings? She almost loosed a bark of laughter. That would require placing her desires, her needs, her heart ahead of his own agenda. And no one—not even her parents—had ever done that.
“Good night, Lucas.” She turned toward the staircase, suddenly tired. The weight of his scrutiny propelled her across the foyer, incited a desperation to escape it. Tomorrow, when the veneer over her emotions didn’t stretch so thin as to be damn near transparent, she could face him again. But not tonight…
A hard, solid wall of muscle smacked against her back, driving the breath from her lungs. Only the unyielding band of a black-sleeved arm prevented her from pitching forward. Heat licked against her spine and neck.
“You’re right,” Lucas murmured in her ear, the almost gentle tone at complete odds with the arm anchoring her waist …and the rigid, thick erection branding her through layers of clothes. She sank her teeth into her bottom lip, battling back a groan and the prurient desire to grind against the steely length. “I’ve never been with a woman like you. They’re faceless, nameless, insignificant, while you? I can’t exorcise you from my mind. Sweetheart, sex has been good before, but nothing like the damn near primal need that has been riding me day and night. And I haven’t even been inside you yet. One kiss, Sydney. One kiss. I haven’t felt you tremble under me, haven’t had your arms and legs wrapped around me. But damn, do I want it. No, don’t do that,” he murmured. Softening his hold on her waist, he placed his thumb on her lip and eased it from beneath her teeth. “There you go.” He hummed, rubbing the slight tenderness from her flesh. “Let me…”
He slowly tunneled his fingers under her bun, maybe giving her time to push him away or step out of his embrace. Her carefully styled hair started to loosen and unravel as his blunt nails grazed her scalp, and he gently pulled her head back. This time, she couldn’t contain the moan. It slipped free of its own will.
“I love that sound coming from you. Is that what you were trying to hold back from me?” He smoothed another caress over the lip she’d closed her teeth over. “Why? When this”—he brushed a kiss over the corner of her mouth—“is the only honesty we have between us.”
He tugged her head back farther and covered her mouth with his. His hand returned to her chin, keeping her steady for the plunge of his tongue. While his grip might’ve been devastatingly tender and sensual, the kiss wasn’t. He didn’t cajole or tease playfully. He took. And God, she gave. Surrendered. Submitted. When his tongue coiled around hers, demanding she do the same, she did. When he squeezed her jaw and slowly thrust in and out, mimicking how his cock would stroke her sex, she shuddered and let him. And when he angled his head and muttered, “Open wider,” before sweeping deeper, claiming more, she obeyed.
A faint ache pulsed along her neck as he bent her head back even farther. But she didn’t resist, didn’t whimper a protest. Because then he would stop drowning her in the most wicked, blistering desire she’d ever experienced. Then a cool draft blew over, combating the fire.
Startled, she opened her eyes. Met his sensual, hooded stare.
More air bathed her shoulders, her chest, her…breasts. Oh, God. “Wait,” she breathed, struggling in his embrace.
“Shh,” he soothed, his lips skimming along her jaw. “Easy.”
No, she couldn’t… His big, warm hands closed over her bared breasts. Cupped them. Lust struck her like a lightning bolt, sizzling along her veins and crackling between her weak legs.
“Lucas,” she whimpered, arching into his hands, grinding her head against his shoulder. She clawed at his arms, cuffed his wrists, uncertain. She should drag his hands away from her, but the purely sexual animal inside her held him to her flesh. Dared him to stop. “Please.”
Please don’t. Please don’t stop. She couldn’t voice what she didn’t know.
But he seemed to understand what her mind and body warred against and came down firmly on the side of her libido. With another of those sexy growls that caused her belly to tighten and quiver, he shaped her, molded, squeezed. She didn’t have time to be embarrassed over the weight of her C cups. Not when his hands enveloped her with such ease and reverence. His thumbs swept across the stiff, aching points of her nipples, and pleasure screamed through her like high-velocity winds. She groaned as her core, wet and needy, clamped down on a phantom cock that wasn’t there to fill her.
“So sensitive,” he praised, the rumble a rough caress over her skin. “And pretty. Goddamn, you’re so pretty.” He circled the hard tips, plucked and pinched them until she squirmed in his arms. Desperate for a harder touch, a deeper touch, she closed her hands over his, commanding him to give her more. His low chuckle echoed in her ear. “Can you come from just my hands on your breasts and nipples, Sydney?” He tweaked the buds, and she cried out, shuddering. “I think you can. What about my mouth, too? Come apart for me, Sydney.”
Come apart. Come. Apart.
Her flesh cried out a resounding “hell, yes” at the silken, erotic invitation, but her heart, her brain shouted a blaring warning. Because if she did—if she came apart—what would be left? They weren’t even married yet, and already she was surrendering to the very thing she’d vowed not to allow happen. Not sex—she’d agreed to sex in the marriage bed. But her emotions, her passion. She’d promised herself she’d walk away from this arrangement with her soul intact.
Not tonight. She couldn’t give in when she was already hurting and vulnerable from the evening. Tonight she wasn’t strong enough to wake up in his bed with her defenses intact.
“No,” she rasped, infusing all her fear and confusion into a final shove. A second later, his arms fell from around her, freeing her. Surprising her.
She didn’t question his immediate acquiescence, just took advantage of it. With fumbling fingers, she yanked her dress up over her shoulders, covering her flesh. She didn’t turn around, afraid if she spied the hunger stamped on his taut features, she would change her mind and let him cast her into an abyss of pleasure that would leave her stripped and lost.
An image of her mother wavered and solidified. Not Charlene’s cool, blond beauty, but the painful yearning and bitter acceptance as she stared after her father’s retreating back. Yearning because her mother adored him. Bitterness because she knew the “business meeting” he was headed to would involve the newest young plaything he was cheating with. If Sydney didn’t guard her heart, in a year she would become a perfect reflection of her mother—hardened, angry, and longing for a man who didn’t love her.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, scrabbling for the banister. “I can’t.”
Then she fled up the stairs.
Fled from him.
Fled from the consuming passion he ignited in her.
Fled from herself.
Chapter Eleven
Sydney inhaled. Exhaled. Did it again.
Nope.
Her heart still pounded in her chest like a captive wild thing.
Her wedding day.
Oh, God. She grasped the gleaming banister and contemplated the curving flight of stairs leading from the second level like it had transformed into a booby-trapped maze straight out of an Indiana Jones film. And she had to traverse it in less than sixty seconds to meet her groom.
Her groom. The man she would pledge her body, heart, and fidelity to. The man who had coerced her into a devil’s bargain called marriage. The man who would force her to lie in front of friends and a man of the cloth.
They were both going to hell.
Below her the beautiful opening notes of Bach’s Cello Suite No. 1 danced in the air. Her cue to descend the steps and begin the walk down the aisle. Her belly did another roll and dive.
You
can do this. You’ve come this far. You’re doing this for your father, and he’s worth it.
Sucking in another deep breath, she began her bridal march down the staircase. The dull roar in her ears almost drowned out the music as she neared the entrance to the brownstone’s great room. The space had been cleared of furniture and transformed into a makeshift chapel, complete with ribboned chairs on either side of the aisle for their thirty or so guests, tall candelabra and flowers. A white runner had been rolled down the middle of the aisle, leading her to her soon-to-be husband like the yellow brick road guided Dorothy to the Emerald City.
Clutching her small bouquet—strangling it, really—she risked a glance in the room. And her heart thumped in a sharp leap of joy. Her father and mother sat in the front row. She hadn’t spoken to either of them since she’d left home, but they’d come.
Oh, Jesus. Moisture fled from her mouth, and butterflies evacuated her stomach to make room for raptors. What am I doing? I can’t go through…
She lifted her head and spotted him for the first time.
The birds in her stomach settled. The room and people disappeared, her world falling into an expectant hush.
His turquoise gaze locked with hers—and refused to let go. A curious melting started in her chest and wound its way through her. She should be angry, resentful, terrified—any range of emotions. Instead, as she put one foot in front of the other and started down the aisle toward this impossibly handsome, scarred man who waited for her with quiet intensity, an emotion she couldn’t identify—was too scared to identify—filled her.
And when he extended his hand toward her, she didn’t hesitate when she placed hers in his.
She didn’t trust him. Didn’t love him. Didn’t really know him. But at this moment, she couldn’t picture meeting anyone else but him at the end of the runner.
Ah. There was the terror, after all.