Escorting the Groom (The Escort Collection Book 4)

by Leigh James

  If the trust terms were deemed voidable, I would inherit the money soon. I wouldn't have to stay married to Blake for the rest of the year. We wouldn't have to pretend to be madly in love, and I wouldn't conscientiously consummate our marriage every single night, often several times a night.

  In other words, I wouldn't need her anymore. She could go.

  The thought made me physically ill.

  So I went home to the one person who could make it all better—the one I was also beginning to see as the root of my problem.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Blake

  Lucas had texted me from the car to tell me he was on his way home.

  He told me he wanted me in bed, ready for him.

  I did as I was told, anxious to be with him. I tried to quiet that part of myself that was aching for him. I needed to get my shit together. Because there is only one way this is ending, and that is in tears.

  But I had a whole year before I had to cry, I reminded myself. A smile played on my lips as I took a quick shower and waited for him. Even though it had only been a few short weeks, my attachment to Lucas had grown strong. I missed him when he left for work, and I couldn't wait for him to come through the door and take me into his arms at the end of the day.

  I was waiting for him on the bed when he came in, his dark eyes were stormy. "Hey," I said, sitting up, "is everything okay?"

  "I don't want to talk." Lucas stripped off his coat and tie and began unbuttoning his shirt.

  "That bad, huh?"

  I caught a brief flash of pain on his face, but it disappeared quickly. He came to me and buried his face against my chest. I ran my fingers through his thick curls, relishing the feel of his naked body on mine. But I could also feel waves of worry rolling off of him. Maybe a deal had gone sour at work.

  I traced my fingers down his face and over his bottom lip. He grabbed my hand, pulling it over my head, and brought his lips against mine for a savage, consuming kiss. His erection rubbed fiercely against me, straining with need.

  I was dizzy, almost breathless, by the time he finally pulled back. He leaned up, his sculpted torso above mine, and stared down at me. I knew he didn't want to talk about it, but something was definitely off. I wanted to ask if it was me, if I'd done something to upset him.

  But just as I opened my mouth to ask the question, his lips were on mine, devouring me again.

  Using his knee, Lucas spread my legs apart. He took both my hands and threaded his fingers through mine, then pinned them above my head. He dipped his hips, rubbing his cock back and forth against my slick heat until I was moaning, begging him to enter me.

  He obeyed, penetrating me all at once, his thickness filling me completely.

  I gasped at the fullness. "Fuck, Lucas."

  His thrusts were rapid and deep. Almost desperate. He was so hard that he rubbed against that part of me only he could reach—what I assumed was my G-spot. He continued to stroke me deep inside, his thrusts relentless, punishing, and insistent. He claimed me by going deeper each time. No one else could ever love me like this. I cried out, tears running down my face, as I came so hard I saw stars.

  Then he came in me, grunting and crushing me against him. My pussy quaked around him and sucked everything he had to give, pleasure and pure female triumph radiating through me. When we could finally move again, he pulled me next to him, cradled me closely against his chest, and stroked my hair. Lucas's tenderness was raw. It was real. I never felt so cared for, so vital to someone else, in my entire life as I did just then.

  He was clutching me as if I was the last life preserver on the Titanic.

  So I was confused when, a minute later, he jumped up from the bed and ran for the shower so fast that it almost gave me whiplash.

  The rest of the week passed in a similar fashion. A surly Lucas would come home from work early every day, and we would make love furiously. I caught him staring at me on several occasions with a fierce, longing look in his eyes.

  Finally, one night over our third respective glasses of wine, I couldn't take it anymore. "What the hell is the matter with you?" I blurted out.

  He blinked in surprise. "You can tell something's bothering me?"

  "It's sort of obvious. At least to me."

  For some reason, that statement seemed to make him look even angrier. "That's just fucking perfect."

  I wanted to ask what was so perfect that he had to describe it with the word "fucking," but I thought better of it.

  "It's just some stuff at work. A deal that's gotten completely out of my control." He scrubbed a hand across his face. "I don't know what I'm going to do about it, actually."

  "That doesn't sound like you," I said, trying to be encouraging.

  "No, it doesn't, does it?" His tone was sharp.

  I stiffened. "Are you angry at me for some reason?"

  "No." His denial sounded like a lie. That didn't prevent him from pulling me onto his lap and taking me six ways from Sunday when we tumbled into bed a few minutes later.

  And it didn't prevent me from screaming his name when I came so hard I was momentarily blinded.

  Orgasms aside, Lucas's foul mood put me in a foul mood. And the next day, after I'd hit the gym and taken a shower, there was a clear sign that my mood wasn't going to lift anytime soon. There was a call on the house phone from the lobby. "Your sister's here to see you, Mrs. Ford."

  "I'm sorry?" My voice sounded tinny, as though it was coming from far away.

  "Chelsea Maxwell's here for you," the hostess said brightly. "Your sister?"

  My heart was hammering in my chest. Fucking Chelsea. "Oh, of course! Tell her I'll be right there!" I slammed down the phone, cursing and spluttering to myself. I had to get down to the lobby fast. She might make a scene, but there was no way I was letting my crazy sister up here. She might try to hide in one of the many bedrooms, and I would never find her.

  I hustled into the lobby and spotted her blond head. Her hair looked as though it had been straightened recently, stick-straight without a flyaway in sight, in spite of the humidity. If she used my mother's prescription money for a blowout at a blow-dry bar, I swear to God…

  She spotted me and jumped to her feet. "Hey!" Chelsea pulled me in for a big, squeezy hug then released me. A Cheshire Cat grin crossed her face. "I'm so glad we're going to finally hang out!" Her voice was too loud for the lobby.

  People were smiling at us. We simply looked like two sisters who were thrilled to see each other. I just wanted to wrap my fingers around her throat and squeeze and squeeze, but instead, I gave her a big, fake smile of my own. "Hang out?" I asked innocently and in a voice several decibels lower than hers. "I don't remember making plans to hang out." I grabbed her by the elbow and dragged her through the lobby, the fake smile never leaving my face.

  When we got outside, Ian was unfortunately waiting. "Mrs. Ford." He nodded. "Can I take you somewhere?"

  "Uh… um…"

  "Absofreakinglutely!" Chelsea charged forward. "We'd like to go to The Palm."

  Ian looked as if he was abstaining from raising an eyebrow. "The Palm? Of course." He held the door open for my sister, and she slid in, tossing her hair behind her and not bothering to say thank you.

  "Sorry about this," I said lowly to Ian. I'd never asked him to drive me anywhere without Lucas. I walked if I needed to get somewhere.

  "Don't be sorry," he said with an easy smile. "Mr. Ford'll be thrilled that you finally put me to use."

  After Ian put the car in drive, Chelsea turned to me. "Does he just sit here all day and wait for you?"

  I just looked at her. "He can hear you, you know."

  She tossed her hair again, and I fought the urge to grab a handful of it and yank. "I didn't say anything wrong. I just think it's cool." She pulled out her cell phone and proceeded to take a selfie against the luxurious leather seat.

  "Where are you posting that?" I asked nervously.

  "Nowhere. Just Instagram. And I'm copying it to Facebook and Twitter
." She looped her arm around my shoulder and took another one with me in it.

  "What? No! I don't do social media."

  "That's okay," Chelsea said, looking at the shot she'd just taken. "You have, like, five chins in this picture anyway."

  "Gee, thanks." I tried to recover from her sudden appearance by leaning back against the cool leather of the air-conditioned car. "How's Mom? Is she still congested?"

  "She's fine." Chelsea yawned. "She's always fine." My sister had never cared about my mother's illness. It was an inconvenience for her, and she didn't have time for inconveniences. She was too busy plotting, scheming, and getting her nails done.

  "She's actually not always fine." I let my eyes wander over my sister, noticing she had a new Coach purse and was wearing an expensive-looking, albeit tacky, tight-fitting rhinestone tank top. Her nails were freshly done and, as I'd already noticed, so was her hair. "Where'd you get all the fancy clothes?"

  She shrugged. "Mom got me some new stuff."

  "Mom?" I tensed. "How'd she do that?" I'd only sent my mother enough money for groceries, rent, and her medications. I would have sent more, but I'd feared my sister would swoop in and try to take some of Lucas's money while I was still on assignment.

  "I asked her for a few new things." She ran her gel-manicured fingertips through her hair. "I figured, since our family's getting upgraded and all, I needed to look the part. It's nice, right?"

  "Mom doesn't have any extra money to give you." My panic was rising. If Chelsea had talked her out of getting her prescriptions, I was going to freak.

  "I know. So she opened a new credit card and told me I could get a few things. I only spent, like, two thousand dollars."

  I started coughing so hard, she had to slap me on the back.

  "Mom doesn't have two thousand dollars—plus interest," I spluttered.

  "Now that you mention it, she doesn't, really…" Chelsea cocked her eyebrow. "But you do."

  I shot her a shut-the-hell-up look and moved as far away from her as possible. "We'll talk about that at lunch."

  We pulled up at The Palm, a pricey steakhouse that Chelsea had probably heard about on Keeping Up With the Kardashians. "I'll be waiting for you," Ian said, nodding as he helped us out.

  "I could totally get used to this," my sister said.

  I groaned inwardly but re-plastered that fake smile onto my face. I wasn't going to let Chelsea trip me up. She was here for a reason, and that reason had everything to do with her new Coach purse and the two thousand dollars she'd already racked up on my poor mother's credit card. She wanted more. She was the queen of wanting—scratch that, demanding—something for nothing.

  We were ushered inside the cool, dark restaurant and seated in a booth. Chelsea immediately ordered a glass of Chardonnay, which was promptly delivered by our suit-clad waiter. Chelsea perused the menu, looking confused. "There aren't any prices!"

  I groaned. "That just means it's ridiculously expensive, and that if you're eating here, you don't need to worry about it."

  She sat back, appraising me. "Well, well, well. Your Highness certainly seems to have learned a thing or two about fine living."

  I bristled against her words but tried not to show it. One thing Chelsea loved to do was press my buttons. "How's Vince?" I asked. I didn't care, but I felt as though she needed to be put in her place.

  She shrugged. "He's a deadbeat. I don't know what you ever saw in him."

  When I'd fallen in love with Vince, he was a boy with an athletic body and a lopsided smile. He paid attention to me. He made me feel very special for a very short period of time. When he turned cold, he left me scrambling to figure out what I'd done wrong. Which, when you had Daddy issues, was sort of exactly what you thought you deserved.

  "He was my high school sweetheart, remember? And then he was my fiancé? And then you started sleeping with him, and he broke off our engagement a month before our wedding?" I grabbed her wine and took a gulp. "And then you married him. Is any of this ringing a bell?"

  She grabbed her wine back and rolled her eyes at me. "I can't believe you're still hanging onto that. You need to let it go—it's ancient history."

  I motioned for the waiter and ordered wine. If anyone could drive me to drink, it was my sister.

  "He's trying to get out of paying me alimony, saying that our marriage was so short-term, I should be ready to be 'back in the workforce,'" Chelsea continued, not missing a beat. "Can you imagine? The nerve!"

  I leaned forward. "I still don't understand how you ever got alimony in the first place. You were only married for a few years. No kids. What's the basis?"

  Chelsea sniffed. "He wanted me to quit my job and stay home. To take care of him. To make his dinner and do his laundry."

  "But as soon as he asked you, you quit your job at the bank. If I remember correctly, you were thrilled about it—it's not like he asked you to give up a job you loved."

  She looked as though she was going to argue, but thankfully, the waiter interrupted us by serving my wine and taking our lunch order. Chelsea ordered the Chef's three-course tasting menu—probably because she pegged it as the most expensive—and then looked at me coyly across the sleek, wooden table. "So, enough about that. You're married and all now. To a billionaire." She played with her wine glass. "All fancy and uppity and all. And you're wearing Christian Louboutin shoes, for Christ's sake. What's it like?"

  "What's what like?"

  The coy look evaporated. "To be rich. To live like that, in a fancy apartment with a driver and more money than you know what to do with. What's it like?"

  Chelsea had been hustling since the day she'd been born. She'd always wanted to live the high life; she had champagne tastes on a Miller Lite budget. When Vince had proved to be more talk than delivery in the earnings department, she had promptly divorced him. She'd been looking for Mr. Right-and-Rich ever since, and not necessarily in that order.

  "The lifestyle's nice, but it's ridiculous. When you think about how we live—just over the bridge in our crappy apartments, it seems opulent. When you think about how people all over the world live—in shantytowns, without running water or electricity—it's too much. But Lucas gives a ton of money to charity. He's wealthy because he's brilliant and he's worked hard his entire life. He doesn't even seem to care about material things."

  My sister snorted. "That sounds like one of those actresses—like Kristen Stewart—who says they don't care about being famous, but they are so famous. That's a problem I'd like to have. I care about material things. I just wish I had more of them to care about."

  "Then you should try getting a job." With all the effort she put into getting something for nothing, it was like a full-time job anyway.

  "I'm thinking about going back to school." She dove into her appetizer of bacon-wrapped scallops and moaned, fluttering her eyelids. "These are so good." She didn't offer me any.

  "You mean to get your GED?"

  "I graduated from high school," she snapped.

  "Barely."

  She leaned across the table and glared at me. "For a hooker, you seriously have a superiority complex."

  "Please keep your voice down," I begged.

  "You need to stop acting like you're better than the rest of us."

  "I don't think I'm better than anybody else." I picked at my wedge salad, wishing we were finished and I could get the hell away from her. "So… school for what?" I hated to ask, but this was the portion of the program where Chelsea finally got to the point. I motioned to the waiter for more wine, because I felt certain it was going to be a doozy.

  "Acting school. There's this really great one in New York that I want to apply to." My sister's eyes glittered with excitement.

  "I didn't know you wanted to be an actress." I thought you just wanted to be a diva, with a driver, Louis Vuitton luggage, and a pair of big-ass sunglasses. On your Miller-Lite budget.

  "I'm thinking about trying out for The Bachelorette." She tossed her hair. "You don't have to be a
n actress to get on there, but I bet it helps. I would kill it on that show. I'm totally perfect for it."

  I opened my mouth and then closed it. Chelsea, queen of looking good for no reason, constant scheming and zero loyalty, would totally kill it on The Bachelorette.

  The idea of my sister relocating for school was immediately appealing, until it sank in that someone was going to have to fund her Manhattan lifestyle—me. "That sounds exciting, but isn't it expensive? I know school's pricey, anyway, but the cost of living in New York is crazy high." I knew this because Elena had looked into expanding AccommoDating into the New York market. She'd said the higher prices we could charge wouldn't offset the price for office space, which she called "completely fucking exorbitant."

  Last time I checked, completely fucking exorbitant wasn't in my sister's budget.

  "Tuition's about one hundred thousand dollars. And I'll need living expenses and money for clothes, of course." Chelsea casually adjusted her sparkly tank top. "You can't dress like a hick in New York."

  "Wow. That's a lot of money. Vince is going to need to pony up on the alimony payments."

  "Vince isn't going to pay for it, silly! What he gives me is, like, coffee money compared to what I'll need." She grinned and my stomach sank. "The money's going to come from you. You're the only one I know who has any!"

  I shook my head. "I don't have any money, though. Lucas has all the money, and I'm not asking him for a hundred thousand dollars to send you to acting school just so you can have a rose ceremony on ABC."

  "But you have to ask him!" she said a little too brightly.

  "Why?"

  Chelsea leaned forward, her grin becoming triumphant. "Because if you don't, I'm going to tell his family and the press and anybody else who'll listen to me that you're a hooker. That before he picked you up and dusted you off, you were literally a filthy whore."

  I recoiled from her words and the venom in her voice. "What did I ever do to you?" I didn't know why she hated me so much. First, she'd stolen Vince. Now, she was trying to ruin me so she could afford to keep herself in gel manicures and Jimmy Choos as she stalked around Manhattan, hoping to meet her near-future husband on the reality television circuit.