by Naima Simone
“Why?” Lucas straightened from his sprawl against the wall, the movement languorous, his eyes hooded, dangerous.
“Why did they come, or why did she pull me aside?”
“Both. Either.”
“They attended to show our family solidarity. Still, she wanted to make sure I fully comprehended the damage my immature and impetuous decision—her words—caused them. How I’d humiliated both of them and harmed not just Dad’s professional relationship with the Reinholds but their personal one, as well. She didn’t understand how she could’ve raised such a selfish daughter and not realized it.”
Pain radiated from inside her, eclipsing the numbness she’d enveloped her feelings in for the duration of the gathering. Burying the hurt and disappointment had been the only way she could return to the party and smile, chat, and laugh as if she were the happiest of brides. But now, repeating the accusations, they cut into her heart like dozens of tiny slices.
“Selfish?” Lucas rumbled. “Bullshit. What did you say to her?”
“What could I say, Lucas? ‘Mom, I broke off my engagement to a man I dated for over a year to marry a man I barely know so Dad doesn’t go to jail.’” She splayed her hands wide, palms up. “‘I hope you understand.’” Again, she chuckled, and it was as bitter and hard as its predecessor. “I don’t know what you want from me. Tonight, at the gala last week. What do you want?”
“You to tell them all to go to hell,” he growled. Leaning down, he extended his hand, palm out. After a long hesitation, she placed hers in his, and he pulled her to her feet. He tugged her across the room to a gilt-framed mirror hanging on the wall. Drawing her in front of him, he cupped her chin and made her stare at their reflection. “Impetuous? Immature?” His soft tone belied the anger in the blue-green stare blazing back at her from the glass. “This woman is the most conscientious, selfless, considerate person I’ve met. And I’ve known her for weeks. How do they not recognize it? And why does she let them get away with not acknowledging it? With not respecting her gifts, her heart, her feelings?”
Because she owes them! Sydney almost cried out. Her teeth sank into her bottom lip, trapping the admission.
“No.” He touched his thumb to her lip and gently but firmly tugged it free. “I told you not to do that.”
He rubbed her flesh, and she helplessly stared at the sensual picture they created. His big body covered her back and shoulders. His dark head bent over hers. His thumb soothing her mouth as his other hand splayed wide over her abdomen. Her muscles contracted hard, the erotic ache echoing in the deepest, emptiest part of her.
“Lucas,” she breathed, reaching up and circling his wrist. “I can’t.”
“Can’t what?”
His eyes refused to free her as his hand rode higher on her torso, his thumb coming to rest between her breasts. The caress on her mouth emboldened, pressed instead of brushed. The more insistent touch sensitized her breasts, tingled in her nipples, resonated and throbbed in her sex.
She tightened her grip on his wrist.
“This,” she rasped. “What you expect of me. Tonight. I just—can’t.”
He stilled behind her, tension nearly vibrating against her skin, humming in the air around them.
“Why?” he finally asked. “Are you going to say you don’t want it?” As if daring her to utter the untruth, he dragged the pad of his thumb over the tip of her breast. The flesh pebbled, begging for another stroke. A harder one.
“No.” She briefly lowered her lashes, fumbled for any reason other than the truth. In spite of the special vows he’d uttered, the ceremony had been a lie. Her new last name was a lie. And now her wedding night would be one. When she stood here so emotionally raw, stripping her body bare before him, too, on a night that should have commemorated something beautiful and special seemed the biggest lie of all. He would find her sentiment foolish and misplaced, since her body cried out for his in a way that would make a banshee mute. But after sacrificing so much today, this one thing, this one night was the only thing she had control of. And she couldn’t hand over one more piece of herself.
Not tonight.
“No,” she repeated softly. “I’m not going to lie about my…attraction toward you. But not two weeks ago I was engaged to another man. I’m not breaking our contract, I’m just asking for time.”
A taut, heavy silence as stifling and leaden as an ominous bank of clouds hung in the room. The weight of it—the threat of the imminent crash of the storm behind it—weighed on her skin.
“Are you still in love with him?”
“No.” She’d never been in love with him.
Lucas’s hands fell away from her. He shifted back, and the space relieved and distressed her. Jesus, she needed to get a grip.
His brooding gaze met hers in the mirror, the stark outline of his scar lending his lean, sharp features even more of a menacing appearance.
She waited, breath trapped in her lungs, for his objection. For his demand she honor her part in this agreement.
“Sleep well, Sydney,” he murmured, then turned and exited the room.
Leaving her more confused and lonely than ever.
Chapter Thirteen
Lucas thrust open the door to Sydney’s room, not bothering with a warning knock. After a sleepless night, civility and manners had gone the way of sinners and that annoying Bieber kid’s career: to hell. Besides, she’d asked him not to touch. She hadn’t issued a stipulation about looking. Clenching his jaw, he shut the door on that train of thought and padlocked it for good measure. Just contemplating why she’d pushed him away last night…and for whom…
Yeah. Letting it go.
Early morning sunlight streamed in through the bay windows, gliding over the chaise lounge under the windowsill, across the hardwood floor, and onto the bed and rumpled blankets.
Where Sydney slept like some Disney princess under a curse.
He snorted. Why shouldn’t she sleep soundly? She didn’t have balls to turn so blue all they needed were white hats to look like fucking Smurfs.
Feeling like a Peeping Tom but unable to scrounge up a regret, he neared the bed. The pale yellow blankets twisted around her hips, and one of the long pillows had fallen to the floor. Satisfaction rolled through him with the subtlety of a freight train. Good. Maybe her night hadn’t been as restful as he believed. Bending down, he picked up the pillow and propped it against the headboard. This close to her, that damn honeysuckle scent wrapped around him like chains. He’d bet the sheets smelled like her.
Hell, he wanted to smell like her.
Cursing, he reached for her shoulder and noticed the gray T-shirt with a red B and U blazoned across her breasts. His eyebrows jacked high. Sydney had always struck him as the forties-silky-nightgown type, not worn-old-college-shirt-and-boxers type. If she wore boxers. Great. Now exactly what lay under the blankets would bug him until he found out.
Muttering beneath his breath, he reached for her once more—and once more drew up short. He frowned. There was something different…
Her lashes fluttered, opened. Hazel eyes clouded with sleep peered up at him, soft and dreamy. Frozen, he stared, spying the almost smile as it touched her lips. Then noting the moment realization entered that lovely gaze and the curve inverted. Comprehension swept away the drowsiness, and she went rigid before scrabbling to a sitting position. The covers dropped farther down her hips, and he glimpsed red-and-black plaid. Again amusement trickled through confusion. Because he still couldn’t figure out what had struck him as so odd…
“What are you doing in here?” she blurted, shoving her dark gold and brown curls out of her face.
Curls. Jesus. The wild tumble of long, dense spirals brushed her shoulders, forming a sexy halo around her beautiful features. The straight, perfectly styled strands belonged to the socialite. But these vibrant, untamed, free curls belonged to the woman.
“What the hell happened to your hair?” he demanded, shock and hot desire roughening his voice.
“Get dressed,” he said, still off-kilter by this side of Sydney. Comfy, this-side-of-ratty pajamas, hair like a lion’s mane… “We’re leaving for our honeymoon in an hour.”
She gaped at him. “Honeymoon? What are you talking about? I didn’t think we were—”
“Well, we are.” He’d decided to leave Boston and get away just last night. Cooped up in this house with her for the duration of the honeymoon and not be able to touch her? He’d lose his damn mind. “Pack enough for a week.”
Flinging the blankets off, she scooted off the bed, and as she turned, worn cotton pulled tight across her breasts. Oh, fuck. Me. He clenched his jaw. Balled his fingers into fists.
“You can’t just order me to pack for seven days and expect me to be ready in an hour,” she protested, snatching up a short royal-blue robe off the chaise lounge. Clearly flustered, she speared her thick curls with her fingers. “I have to do my hair—”
“Leave it,” he ordered. Her gaze snapped to his, wide, bemused. Inhaling, he deliberately softened the harsh edge to his demand. “Leave it.” Pause. “Please.”
Not waiting for her acquiescence, he strode from the room before he broke his promise not to touch her.
…
“I don’t know what I was expecting. A high-rise condo in New York. A sunny California beach. But not this.” Hair blowing in the brisk Puget Sound wind that swept the patio of his Bainbridge Island cabin—such a misnomer for the huge structure that could easily sleep about ten people but still managed to maintain its coziness—Sydney tossed him a smile over her shoulder. “It’s beautiful, Lucas.”
Lucas nodded and pressed a cup of freshly brewed coffee into her hands, his vocal cords momentarily frozen by the sight of that smile. Relaxed, sweet, unguarded. Since they’d met, he’d most often been the recipient of the polite, aloof turn of lips and the tight go-to-hell version. The one time he’d witnessed the delighted, open grin had been during their first dinner together.
Damn. How could he miss something he’d only had once?
“Thank you.” He lifted his own mug and sipped, welcoming the fragrant brew that combated the brisk, rapidly cooling wind snapping off the dark waters surrounding Bainbridge Island. With dusk rolling in like a kid sprinting home before the streetlights came on, the warm Indian summer weather they’d enjoyed since arriving in Washington State several hours earlier waved so long for the day. Yet she continued to stand at the patio railing, bundled up in a thick cream cable-knit sweater, tight jeans that made his cock whine like a little girl, and knee-high riding boots. “Are you sure you don’t want to go inside? Dinner’s almost ready.” As Lucas had exited the house, his chef had been placing the finishing touches on a roast duck, and the delicious aroma had followed him outside.
“A few more minutes?” She tasted her coffee and hummed, her lashes lowering as she savored it. He stared at her mouth, at the pleasure softening her face, and turned away. He either had to stop looking and imagining if she would wear the same expression during sex or break that. Damn. Promise. “I love it out here. The mountains. The water. The quiet.” She tilted her head. “What made you buy property here? I can see you in exotic, bustling, noisy cities, but this?” Once more she scanned the private beach that led down to the Sound and beyond that, the imposing and regal Mount Rainier as well as miles and miles of majestic trees. “I would never have pictured it.”
He didn’t immediately reply but, deeming it safe, studied her upturned face. Tight honey and cinnamon curls grazed her cheek and jaw. Unable to stop himself—and not wanting to—he clasped a spiral and wound his finger around it, tugging gently. He could so easily develop an obsession with the thick strands. Already imagined them billowing across his naked chest and abdomen, over his thighs. His grip tightened.
“Let’s make a deal,” he murmured. “I’ll answer your question if you truthfully answer one of mine.”
She scrutinized him, a tiny frown furrowing her brow, as if trying to decipher the catch-22 in his proposal. Finally, she nodded. “Deal. You first.”
Releasing the lock of hair, he shifted back a step and leaned an elbow on the railing. He parted his lips, but the words didn’t rush to his tongue. These sharing-kumbaya moments didn’t come to him easily… Correction, they didn’t come at all. But the first rule of business was supply and demand. And if he wanted Sydney to give a piece of her truth to him, he would have to distribute a portion of himself, no matter how loudly and adamantly reason railed at him to keep his mouth shut. Knowledge was power, and people couldn’t use it against him if he didn’t offer it to them.
“When I was a kid growing up in Chicago, I dreamed of a place like this,” he began quietly. “My uncle owned a small, cramped home on the South Side. He was proud of it—and he should’ve been. He’d bought it with his own hard-earned money, kept it ruthlessly clean, but in a bedroom the size of a closet, our house surrounded by run-down buildings and neighbors who were so close I could hear their thoughts…” He blew out a hard breath. “Sometimes it seemed as if I were suffocating. Drowning in people, noise.” Poverty. “I always dreamed of mountains. This villa was one of the first homes I purchased when the company started making a substantial profit. I can”—he paused—“breathe here. It’s wide-open, private. And it’s where I come when I need to get away.”
Tension strung him tight as he waited for her reaction. The picture he’d painted was a far cry from the life she’d enjoyed.
“I understand suffocating,” she whispered. “I’m glad you have this.” Wrapping both hands around her mug and holding it before her like a ceramic shield, she dipped her chin. “Okay. Go ahead and ask your question.”
A corner of his mouth quirked. “You say that like you’re about to face a firing squad. Mine is simple. Why have I never seen you wear your hair like this?” He tugged a long spiral once more.
Her gaze dropped to her cup as she dragged her fingers through the curls, self-consciousness in every movement. Maybe not so simple after all. “You’ve known me a handful of weeks.”
“Okay,” he conceded. “Do you wear it like this often?”
“No.”
“Stop stalling. Why not?”
She heaved a sigh, tipped her chin up. “It’s not a state secret or big deal. The straightened hair is more manageable and more appropriate for many of the events I attend. Less…wild.”
“Bullshit.”
“That seems to be your favorite word,” she muttered around the rim of her coffee mug.
“One of them.”
“Well, if it’s such bullshit, why don’t you tell me the truth?” she asked softy, but he would’ve had to be Helen Keller not to see the glint in her eyes or hear the anger in her murmur.
Edging closer and reclaiming the space he’d placed between them, he regarded her until a flush reddened her cheekbones and her sensual lips parted on a hitch of air.
“I think you’re repeating what you’ve heard from your mother. Not appropriate. Wild. How about unseemly or common?” Something moved behind her unflinching gaze, and if he hadn’t quoted Charlene Blake verbatim, then he’d struck close. He pinched a heavy lock between his fingers, rubbed the strands that resembled rough silk. “I understand certain fashions call for certain hairstyles. But the confined ponytails and buns? Those belong to Sydney Blake, the social princess, the beautification committee woman, the silent daughter of Jason Blake. But this?” He lifted the spiral, wove it around his finger. “This belongs to you. The Sydney who volunteers at the youth center. The Sydney who likes to sit on the back porch and stare at the water and distant mountains with a hot cup of coffee. The Sydney who has dreams she hides and believes
no one notices. The Sydney who kisses like she invented sex and could make a man come just from having her taste in his mouth.”
The gentle, hungry lap of water against the shore. The faint clatter of the chef finishing their dinner behind the glass doors. And the rough huffs of their breaths.
“I also know why you comply with those dictates, Sydney,” he added, need like a serrated blade over his voice. “You don’t want to be seen. You’re comfortable fading into the background. But I have news for you, sweetheart. You can straighten your hair, wear the latest fashion trends that everyone else has on, sit in the farthest, darkest corner, and you would still be the center of attention. All eyes would still go to you when you enter a room.”
“Lucas…”
“Luke,” he corrected.
She frowned, thrown off guard. “What?”
“Luke. All my close friends—all being Aiden—call me Luke.”
What was he doing? He didn’t want her friendship or affection. The ship on respect had sailed the moment he’d threatened her father and blackmailed her. So what the hell was he doing? He didn’t need to know her thoughts, past hurts, or dreams in order to screw her. But a woman like Sydney wouldn’t give her body lightly. She would need an emotional connection to him in order to surrender everything. And he damn sure wanted—hungered for—everything. Him? It was purely physical. He didn’t need to love or trust her to lose himself in her tight, hot core. And Sydney didn’t expect either from him.
For the year they were together, they could enjoy a pleasant, sexually satisfying relationship. And at the end, walk away unscathed, intact.
A shutter seemed to slam shut over her face, blocking him from reading her thoughts. “But we’re husband and wife, not friends,” she reminded him, tone flat.
“One more bargain.” He waited for her slight nod before continuing. “A truce. For the duration of this week. We have to live together as a couple for the next year. I’d rather the next three hundred and sixty-five days be harmonious instead of contentious. We can start here. This week. Try with me, Sydney,” he murmured.