She gave another little nod, then let out a long breath, visibly trying to settle herself, and when she spoke again her voice was steadier. “And if anyone comes to the door?”
“You don’t let them in. Even if it’s the fucking President, understand?”
“Yes, I understand.…” She paused. “Do you have a spare gun or something? You know, just in case someone gets in?”
Jesus, was she serious? Yes, apparently she was.
He raised a brow. “Do you know how to use a gun?”
“No.” Color rose in her cheeks. “But point and shoot, right?”
A sudden vision came to him, of Grace Riley in a paint-stained T-shirt and leggings, holding a gun and pointing it at some asshole’s face, one long finger curled around the trigger.
Fucking hot.
A muscle in his jaw ticked and he shoved the vision away. Because it shouldn’t be hot, yet his cock was definitely intrigued by the idea, and he had no time for that bullshit. “It’s not quite that simple. If I had time I’d show you, but I don’t, so don’t worry about that now. Besides, no one can get in here. I made sure the place was like Fort Knox.”
Her hands clasped tighter against her chest, but all she did was nod once again. “Okay. I’m sure it’ll be fine in that case.”
She was being brave, and he wanted to go over there, take her knotted hands between his, stroke them, make them relax, reassure her that it would be okay, and he didn’t even know why. Because when had her feelings become important to him? When had they begun to matter? She was very alone, was Grace Riley. Only a few friends and a mother she never spoke to. A vibrant woman like Grace needed more than that …
Christ, he needed to get his head back in the game and not be standing there thinking about her.
Ignoring the urge to take her hands in his, he merely looked at her, hoping she’d read some reassurance in his gaze. “No one’s going to hurt you, Grace. I promise.”
She stared back at him for a long moment, the expression in her eyes unreadable. Then she glanced away. “Okay,” she murmured simply.
He found that vaguely unsatisfying for some reason, but every second he spent here talking to Grace was another second he wasn’t helping his brother, and right now that was more important, so he turned to go.
“Lucas.”
He stopped in the doorway but didn’t turn. “What?”
“Don’t be too long.”
CHAPTER TEN
Grace couldn’t settle for the rest of the evening. There was a man locked up in the basement and Lucas wasn’t here and she felt.… yeah, okay, she could admit it. She felt scared.
For the past couple of days, what with her painting and that damn kiss, she’d been ignoring the elephant in the room: namely that her husband had essentially been some kind of criminal and now some very, very bad people were after her.
And while she’d been so wrapped up in painting and fighting her attraction to Lucas, those people had been concentrating on tracking her down and now were very close to finding out where she was.
She didn’t know what to do. She wanted to help Lucas in some way, but she had no idea how. It wasn’t as if she were a highly trained military-type person with lethal skills or anything. She was only an artist who could wield a mean paintbrush, it was true. But short of stabbing someone with it, that really wasn’t going to help.
As the evening crept by, she paced up and down in front of the big stained-glass window, her mind going around and around. Thinking about Lucas. Thinking about Griffin.
She should have paid more attention while they’d been married. He had so many secrets he’d kept from her, but she hadn’t even noticed he had them. She hadn’t even noticed his unhappiness. She’d been so caught up in her own stuff. With her art. With wanting to prove her father wrong, that she wasn’t a talentless waste of time. That she was good.
Maybe if she hadn’t been so single-minded, so blinkered by her creative urges, she might have seen what was going on with Griffin. That he was unhappy.
What would you have done if he was, though? Did you even care that much about your marriage?
That was an uncomfortable thought and one she didn’t want in her head. It was wrong anyway. She’d loved Griffin and wanted to marry him. He’d been one of the few people who’d been supportive of her art and for that alone she would have done anything for him.
That’s not the same as love.
Unease twisted inside her, making her turn away from the window. All this pacing around was doing her no favors and it wasn’t helping Lucas. Then again, there wasn’t anything else she could do to help Lucas except stay out of sight, so she might as well do something productive instead of brooding.
She went upstairs again and back into the studio, trying to lose herself in the painting, but for some reason it was hard work and she couldn’t concentrate. She kept listening for strange noises and jumping at the sounds of sirens in the city outside. A part of her wanted to go down into the basement or wherever it was that Lucas was keeping the fake cop and ask him her own questions. But she knew that would be the height of stupidity, so she stayed where she was, dabbing paint on her canvas and trying to focus.
An hour later, Lucas arrived back and the muscles in her shoulders she didn’t realize were tight abruptly relaxed. She came out of the studio, telling herself she wanted to make sure it was actually him and not some other strange man who’d somehow gotten access to the apartment, and it had nothing to do with the fact that she just wanted to see him.
He was heading toward the stairs when she appeared, halting at the bottom of them and looking up at her. His silver-blue gaze was as cold as it usually was, yet he scanned her from head to foot, sharp and focused as an X-ray machine. “You okay? Any problems?”
She shook her head. “Nope. All quiet here.”
“Good.”
“Everything okay with your brother?” No, she wouldn’t ask for details. No, she wasn’t curious.
“He’s handling it.” His gaze drifted over her again and a hot, shivery feeling cascaded through her. But all he said was, “I need to go visit our uninvited guest.”
“Ah. Well, perhaps I could come and—”
“No. You’re not going anywhere near him.”
Grace didn’t know whether to feel annoyed at Lucas’s arrogance or flattered at his protectiveness. “I just thought I might be able to ask some things about Griffin.”
“This guy won’t know. He’s a minor cog in a very big machine.” Lucas turned away. “Leave this to me.”
All of a sudden she didn’t want him to go. “I thought we were going to talk about this.”
He didn’t even pause, heading back toward the elevator. “We will. Once I’ve managed to get some more info.”
Grace swallowed, watching as he stepped into the elevator, battling the urge to simply straight up ask him to stay. But that would give away far too much and she wasn’t ready to do that. So she said nothing as the doors closed, turning and going back to the studio.
She tried to get back into her work, but her concentration was shot, so she had a bath, then watched some TV. Lucas didn’t appear and she didn’t want it to look like she was simply hanging around waiting for him—even though she was—so she gave up and went to bed.
The next morning she slept in, and once again he wasn’t around. There was a text on her phone waiting for her, telling her he’d gone out to help his brother again and he didn’t know when he’d be back. Which was annoying, though she didn’t know why, since it was easier to work when he wasn’t around.
Irritated, she made herself a coffee, went back upstairs, and very purposefully flung herself into her work.
For some reason it was better today and she was able to concentrate, the feeling she wanted coursing through her as she began to apply the paint to the canvas. Lots of reds and oranges and golds. The colors of passion, of intensity. Of anger. Of lust …
A couple of hours passed.
Grace put
her brush down and began to use her fingers, playing with the paint to get some texture, some movement, some life. Layering on more color as the feeling grew inside her, hot and electric.
The grief and the never-ending questions about Griffin faded. The threat to her life disappeared. There was only her and the hot current of emotion that flowed down her arms and came out through her fingers, into the paint. Onto the white space of the canvas.
More time passed, but she wasn’t paying attention. And there came a moment when she sat back, considering the beginnings of the painting in front of her. There was something it needed, maybe. Blue. Silver-blue—
Abruptly the door to the studio banged open and it gave her a shock, making her jump, her heart in her throat.
Lucas stood on the threshold and there was the oddest look on his beautiful face. The air around his tall, powerful form was full of tension, like a thunderstorm about to break.
She blinked. If she hadn’t known already what an icy, emotionless guy he was she might have thought that he was … angry.
There was no silver in his gaze at all. It was burning blue, like the night he’d kissed her, so full of intense heat it made her wonder how she’d ever thought of his eyes as cold.
Her mouth dried, her heartbeat accelerating as she slowly rose to her feet, her hands sticky with paint.
Something had happened. Something had finally affected him. What the hell had it been?
Lucas said nothing for one long, vibrating second, then he stalked toward her, holding something in his hand. His phone. “Look at this,” he ordered brusquely, shoving the screen at her.
She held up her hands. “Not if you don’t want paint all over it.”
He bit off a curse, stabbed at the screen with his finger, then held it up so she could see. It was a short bit of video showing two people, one very tall man and a much smaller woman, standing together near what looked like the ice rink at Rockefeller Center. As she watched, the man reached out and took the woman’s face between his palms, tilting her head back and covering her mouth with his in a passionate kiss. It was night, but the lights around the rink made the faces of the man and the woman clear, though Grace didn’t recognize them. The video zoomed in, getting a close-up of that kiss, lingering on the couple in a way that made her uncomfortable. It was clearly a deeply private, passionate moment and not one meant for anyone else.
Lucas stabbed at the button again, stopping the video. The air of tension around him grew even tighter, that thunderstorm gathering around him gathering around her too. His gaze met hers and she felt the impact echo through her almost as a physical blow.
“I don’t understand,” she began, because she didn’t. “Who are those—”
“My foster brother and my foster sister.” His voice was utterly flat yet at the same time vibrating with a strange kind of intensity she’d never heard in it before. “He’s screwing with her and he shouldn’t. It’s fucking wrong, that’s what it is. Just fucking wrong.” He turned away abruptly, and before Grace could speak he tossed the phone carelessly onto the floor, the glass screen cracking.
Her breath caught. Okay, so he really was angry. Angry enough that she could read it loud and clear on his normally expressionless face.
“Lucas,” she began, then stopped as he rounded on her, the look in his eyes blazing.
“Van always does the right thing.” There was a rough edge in his deep, cold voice. “He’s the oldest, he’s supposed to set a fucking example.”
“Okay, I get that.” She didn’t, but her instinct was to try to calm him. He was agitated, every movement sharp and jerky, as if he didn’t know what to do with himself.
“No,” he snapped. “No you don’t.” Then his gaze was on hers again, intensifying, sharpening. “I deny myself. All the time, I deny myself.” He took a step toward her. “I keep everything locked down, make sure nothing gets out. I want to do the right thing, Grace. I want to keep everyone safe.”
She had no idea what he was talking about, but he was advancing on her, slowly stalking her, and it was purely instinct that had her backing away. The electricity coming off him was insane; he was virtually crackling with it, making the room seem very small and him seem very, very large.
“I know you do.” She held up her hands, patting the air as if that would help, a ridiculous movement. “Of course that’s what you want.”
“He’s supposed to deny himself too. He can’t just take what he wants.” Lucas prowled closer and closer to her, forcing her backwards like a scared animal retreating from a much bigger predator.
“You’re right, he can’t,” she babbled inanely, abruptly finding it difficult to breathe. “That’s crazy.”
“If he can’t do the right thing what’s the point of me even trying?” He took another few steps and she ran out of places to retreat to, her back hitting the wall. Yet Lucas didn’t stop. “I’m fucking sick of denying myself. Sick of telling myself it’s better if I don’t want anything.” His hands came down on either side of her head, his tall, powerful figure caging her, blocking out the rest of the room. The heat and intensity pouring off him were making her dizzy and she flung up her palms to hold him off, to keep him at a distance. They hit the hard wall of his chest, the paint on her hands staining the black fabric of the long-sleeved T-shirt he wore.
“Lucas,” she said again, not quite sure what she wanted to say, only that he was far too close. Far too hot. Far too everything for her to cope with right now.
“Maybe it’s time I stopped denying what I want.” The words were full of a kind of rough, dark heat. “Maybe it’s time for me to take it instead.”
Grace struggled to get a breath. He was right in front of her and all the ice had dropped away from him, leaving him like a naked flame, hot and burning like a bonfire. God, she could feel how hot. Her palms where they rested on his chest felt scorched.
She trembled.
He didn’t say anything else. And when she opened her mouth to speak, he simply bent and covered it with his own.
She forgot everything in that moment. His mysterious anger. The danger she was in. She even forgot about Griffin.
In that moment there was nothing but Lucas’s kiss, so utterly different from the one he’d given her a few nights ago. That had been a slow kiss that tasted of denial. But this was something different. This was all about surrender to that crackling electricity, the volatile chemistry that occurred whenever they got close to each other.
It was scorching and it was raw, and at the touch of those beautiful lips on hers she ignited like the flame she was.
His tongue pushed into her mouth, arrogant and demanding, the hot slide of it making her gasp. She tipped her head back against the wall to deepen the angle, letting him take whatever he wanted, then taking in return. Exploring the heady, alcoholic flavor of him as the rest of the world fell away.
As everything fell away.
He pressed her against the wall, one hard denim-clad thigh thrusting between her legs at the same time as he thrust his tongue deeper into her mouth, and a soft, needy sound escaped her. She found herself kissing him back, frantic and feverish, tilting her hips so the tantalizingly firm muscle of his thigh pressed against her aching sex. Making her tremble even harder.
This was the storm front breaking. This was the hurricane. This was spark meeting dry tinder.
And she was desperate to lose herself in it, desperate to burn.
Her fingers curled into the fabric of his T-shirt, pulling him closer, the kiss getting hotter, hungrier, their breathing fast in the silence of the studio.
It wasn’t enough. She wanted more than this. She felt like she was dying and only touching him could save her. Letting go of his T-shirt, she slid her paint-stained fingers beneath the hem, feeling taut, hard muscle and smooth skin.
God, he felt like a work of art.
He bit off a curse as her fingers brushed over him, pulling back and jerking his T-shirt up and over his head. Then his mouth was back on her
s and he was crushing her against the wall, blinding her with his heat, getting her drunk on the musky, masculine scent of him.
She couldn’t stop herself from touching him, running her hands over his hot skin, tracing the sculpted corrugations of his abs, the hard planes of his chest, leaving streaks of red all over him, the paint getting everywhere. But she didn’t care. She just didn’t care. Not about anything but this. His kiss and his touch. The ache between her legs that was driving her insane.
She wanted him. She wanted him so desperately she was shaking.
“Lucas,” she moaned against his mouth, unable to keep the need inside. “Lucas … please…”
He shifted his hands from the wall beside her head, and then they were all over her, sliding over the front of the old baggy T-shirt she wore when she painted, cupping her breasts through the cotton, his thumbs brushing over the achingly sensitive tips of her nipples, sending jolts of electricity through her. Making her pant. Then he pinched them and she groaned aloud, because it hurt and yet felt so damn good she almost melted in a puddle at his feet.
Then he shifted again, jerking her T-shirt up and off, tearing apart the cups of her bra and getting rid of the lacy fabric, baring her breasts. And then his hands were on them and he wasn’t gentle. But she didn’t want gentle. She wanted him as desperate and hungry as she was.
He stroked her, squeezed her aching flesh, pinching her nipples, his mouth leaving hers to trail down her neck in a series of small, precise bites that made her shudder and shake, a tree blown by the hurricane that was surrounding them.
She slid her hands up to his shoulders, her nails digging in, clutching him as his fingers moved to her hips, his hot, hard chest crushing her bare breasts as he forced her harder against the wall.
Someone was panting. Her. And she was moving helplessly, grinding herself against his thigh, wanting more friction, wanting to ease the terrible, relentless ache that gripped her.
He pulled away again, jerking her leggings down in a series of sharp movements, taking her panties with them, fabric tearing as he bared her completely. She shivered as the air whispered over her, wound so tight she knew she’d come as soon as he touched her. That was all it would take. One brush of his fingers between her legs and she was going to explode.
The Wicked Billionaire--A Billionaire SEAL Romance Page 15