JACE (Lane Brothers Book 3)

by Kristina Weaver

  The gall.

  “Look, Mr Lucas—”

  “Greg, please,” he insists, chuckling at me as I do a great fish imitation.

  “Mr Lucas. This is not appropriate.”

  “So? Nothing interesting ever came of appropriate.”

  No, nothing interesting ever does, but that’s not the point. I cannot do this and work with him in any reasonable capacity if I ever find out what he is capable of in bed.

  “That’s not the point.”

  “But it is, Hannah,” he drawls, using my name as if he’s savoring the feel of it on his lips. “I think you know I want you. I think you want me too.”

  “So? Wanting doesn’t make it the right thing to do,” I insist, trying and failing to sound resolute.

  “Perhaps not, but it’s better than dancing circles around each other for weeks while the sexual tension builds. I’ll make this easy for you. You come to dinner with me, and we continue to play this game where you resist me before eventually falling into my bed.”

  I wait for the ‘or’ and frown when he just smiles.

  “Or?” I prompt, breathing in shallow pants at the thought of falling into bed with him, on him, under him.

  “No or. This will happen, darlin’, make no mistake. It’s up to you how long you think you can torture us both.”

  “I don’t—”

  “I dreamed of you last night,” he cuts in, silencing me. “I had you under me, your lithe body bared and spread open.”

  Oh, God have mercy.

  “You were writhing into me, your hands pulling at my hair as I buried my head between your legs—”

  “Stop,” I whimper, squeezing my thighs together as a deep ache sets in.

  I’ve always loved sex, always craved the rush of pleasure and adrenalin that comes from sharing intimacy. That’s what drove me to marry. My ex is a douche, but he is no slouch in the bedroom.

  But sex does not rule my life anymore.

  “Think about it, darlin’,” he whispers as he leans close and sighs against my lips.

  I taste his breath, wanting to lean closer and taste so much more.

  “I’ll give you till tonight, and then I will be at your apartment to take you to dinner. And dessert.”

  I watch in a daze of desire as he straightens and gives me a smile before turning on his heel and heading for the elevator.

  “Tonight, Hannah. Wear something sexy.”

  And then he’s gone, the sound of his jaunty whistling cut off by the closing doors.

  I slump back in my chair and let out a shaky breath, wanting nothing more than a cold shower and a glass of wine as the desire that has pooled low in my belly lets off a disappointed cry.

  Gregory Lucas is right. I do want him.

  I just don’t want to want him.

  Chapter Five

  At five that afternoon I am done for the day, having outlined a decent first draft for the campaign, put it on Jordan’s desk, and swept through the countless other tasks he’s sent my way. I’m surprised to have done so much, considering how tied up and on edge I’ve been the entire time.

  When Jordan popped his head out the door and asked me to run to the deli and get us both a sandwich and a water, his treat, I just about fled outside and onto the packed sidewalk, I was so restless.

  Now, as I step off the elevator and exit the building, I am tempted to run back inside just to hide from what I know is coming. At one point I convinced myself I have nothing to worry about because Gregory Lucas doesn’t have my address. Of course, then I realized the man is a billionaire and has so many resources at his disposal that getting the address of one measly woman is child’s play to him.

  The sidewalk is bustling, and I welcome the intense concentration necessary to navigate my way to the subway and procure a seat before one of the thugs can grab the seat I usually sit in.

  I don’t see the streaker anywhere as I make my way to my apartment, and I’m almost disappointed. Maybe a good flesh show will put me off to the point that the desire that’s been slowly fizzling in my blood all day will die an ignominious death.

  My apartment is as spick and span as usual, thanks to my OCD cleaning skills, so distracting myself with a good scrub up is off the cards. Instead I change into sweats and flop onto the sofa with a frustrated huff.

  A minute later I am up and in the shower, scrubbing myself with a peach scented exfoliator and strawberry scented shampoo. That done, I dry my hair, adding a slight curl to the chestnut brown locks, and then I’m perusing my closet for something, yup, you got it, sexy.

  I want to cry when I see what’s on offer and curse myself for tossing anything even close to nice or revealing in the trash the day my divorce was through.

  All I’m left with now are drab office skirts and shirts that would make Nana shudder, they’re so schoolmarm-ish. Shit. What to do, I wonder while steadfastly counseling myself against the foolishness I am practising.

  You don’t want this, Han, remember that. You’re in a good place now. Don’t ruin what you’ve built for a quick, emotionless roll in the sack.

  But he is so… I sigh as I picture those golden locks and the dimples I want to lick like a favorite treat.

  I can’t say with any certainty how I make this decision, but before I know it I am standing at my neighbor Chrissie’s door in my robe, praying she’ll help me out.

  “Hannah?” she asks when the door opens, and I pull a face in apology.

  “I have a date.” There, I’ve said it. “I need something besides office grandma to wear, and I don’t have anything even close to it in my closet.”

  Chrissie is the cutest woman I have laid eyes on, ever. Her deep red hair hangs all the way to her butt in a straight sheen that I envy, her periwinkle eyes glow, and her freckled face reminds me of Meg Ryan, if she ever dyed her hair that shocking shade.

  I like her because she understands me, most days, anyway, and doesn’t give me crap for being so full of vinegar most of the time.

  “Come on in, Han. I’ve got exactly the dress for you. I bought it at this vintage store because I couldn’t resist it even though it’s way too big for my small boobs. Now I know why,” she says, grinning as she pulls me into the apartment and her bedroom.

  Where my place is perfectly ordered and decorated in creams and beiges, Chrissie’s is a profusion of color and clutter. The dress she pulls from the closet is a deep blue that is almost black, so tight it fits me like a second skin until it hits my knees, and the neckline is low, held up by thin straps that cross at my back.

  It’s beautiful and classy and definitely the sexiest dress I’ve ever worn. I know once Gregory Lucas sees me all bets are off. He’ll only intensify his pursuit, and…I like the idea more than I should.

  “Well damn, Han. You’re lucky I’m as straight as an arrow, or you’d be in some serious trouble, girl,” she says, letting out a loud wolf whistle.

  I giggle and turn in a circle, striking a sexy pose to blow her a kiss.

  When I’m leaving I realize this person wearing the dress and matching heels is the exact person I’ve spent the last three years trying to get rid of.

  Now’s the time for second thoughts. If I’m honest, and I try always to be honest with myself, I’m not as averse to the idea of being the old, carefree me as I would have been even a week ago.

  In the past I was happy and carefree and spontaneous. I was the girl who’d dance in the rain just because she could and win a tequila shooter contest because she loves winning, and having a good time even more.

  What I’ve done to survive my messy divorce and bitterness is turn myself into someone I never imagined I could be.

  It’s not bad, it’s just unsatisfying.

  You say that now because your hormones have you dancing on clouds. What happens when Mr Billionaire has his fill of you and kicks you to the curb just like Tom did?

  I don’t get the chance to answer my question because there’s a knock at the door, and a second later, as I open i
t, I am staring at Gregory Lucas, looking particularly yummy in dark trousers and a light blue shirt. He’s a little more casual than I am used to, but I cannot deny his appeal.

  “Hello, Hannah. You look…” He leaves the sentence hanging, but I am gratified at the deeply appreciative look that lights his eyes as he gives me a slow, thorough inspection.

  “Thank you.”

  “Shall we go?” he asks, taking my elbow and pulling the door closed behind me.

  We ride the elevator in silence because I am nervous and because he’s so busy undressing me with his eyes it’s a wonder my clothes don’t evaporate from my burning skin.

  “Stop that,” I hiss, pulling at the skirt of my dress in discomfort.

  I feel great, but the dress fits my butt so snugly I feel exposed and slightly vulnerable.

  “I can’t help it. You look like a pin-up, with the nicest ass I’ve had the pleasure of seeing,” he says heatedly, and it takes every ounce of willpower I have not to throw myself at him.

  When we exit my building it’s to the sight of a gleaming sliver Mercedes.

  “Nice car.”

  “Why thank you, Hannah, I try to please.”

  My nerves jump at the passionate suggestion in that statement, but I ignore what my body wants and decide not to take his bait so readily.

  “I’ll bet. Does that line usually work?”

  He laughs as he hands me into the car and jogs around to his side.

  “I wouldn’t know, as I’ve never used it before. You tell me.”

  The smirk that pulls at my lips is all wry humor.

  “I don’t know yet. Ask me at the end of the night.”

  “Oh, I will, darlin’, you can bet on it.”

  “Where are we going?”

  I need to change the subject before his hot glances make me combust like a pathetic, sex-starved fool, even though I know, and from his smirk he knows too, that I am retreating before the round has begun. He allows it without a blink and turns the car into traffic.

  “There’s a gem of an Italian place I found a few months back I’d like you to experience. Their spaghetti is to die for.”

  “I love Italian food, although I admit I haven’t eaten anything but pizza on the odd occasion I allow myself takeout.”

  While I’d been married and busy working my ass off to support myself and my lazy husband, I’d eaten so much junk I’d picked up thirty pounds. Now I keep a strict eye on anything I eat. I am toned and lean, and thanks to my new anal retentiveness I really do have a fantastic ass.

  I may enjoy whatever Gregory Lucas has in store for tonight, but I will never let myself go enough to go back to the fat, unhappy loser I was before.

  “That sounds like you only eat what you’ll allow yourself. Can’t be too enjoyable, being food conscious,” he says with a frown.

  “I eat a lot of things I don’t consider healthy, I just don’t enjoy the thirty pounds takeout adds to my ass. Plus, I like cooking, even if it’s only for one,” I aver, not wanting to get into a heavy discussion about my dietary restrictions.

  “Yeah? Maybe you could cook for me sometime. I love home-cooked meals.”

  I raise a brow at the liberty and bite my lip to keep from laughing when he pulls a sad, downtrodden face.

  “Take pity on a poor lonely bachelor.”

  “Oh, Mr Lucas, somehow I doubt you’ve been lonely a day in your life,” I tease, enjoying the banter.

  His face goes hard for a second before it is replaced by what I now associate with the seductive guise I’ve witnessed since meeting him.

  “Gregory,” he says with a scowl. “And you’re probably right, Hannah, but take pity on me anyway.”

  Conversation halts as he pulls into a parking space that must have been sent by the gods — parking in New York is no joke — and comes around to help me out.

  “So chivalrous.”

  “I do aim to please. Now come on, you’re going to love this.”

  The restaurant is tucked away at basement level, something that makes it hard to spot and assures me that the patrons who come here are regulars who guard this secret well.

  It’s a typical little bistro with a romantic ambience and a lovely mix of old and new that keeps me staring as a tiny middle-aged woman leads us to a private table in the back.

  “So good to see you, Gregory,” she says in a slightly accented voice. “And you bring bella signora.”

  I am flattered, even though I’m not too sure my translation is correct, but I suspect she just called me beautiful. I think I like this place, I decide as he seats me and orders a bottle of red wine.

  “I hope you don’t mind my presumption. This specific wine is fantastic and I wanted you to try it.”

  “No, it’s fine. I like anything made from grapes with a vintage stamp on it.”

  See, I can loosen up.

  “So, Hannah Newman,” he muses after the wine is delivered and we order our starters. “Tell me why a beautiful woman like yourself is single.”

  “Because I’m intelligent?”

  A laugh booms out and he tempers it with difficulty, letting me know he enjoys my sharp tongue.

  “Touché. But I think there’s a story here.”

  “If you want a story, Gregory Lucas, you should read more.”

  “Tsk tsk, and here I pegged you for a romantic.”

  Me? I am possibly the most opposite to romantic kind of woman alive today.

  “Nope. Certified realist here. Sorry to disappoint.”

  He sits back, sipping at his wine and watching me as I sip at mine. He’s right, it really is quite lovely. I don’t know much about wine but how to uncork and pour, but I can tell this one is an expensive one.

  “I’m not disappointed, just curious now,” he says, and I think it pleases him that I’m not into happily-ever-afters or declarations of undying love.

  “You know what curiosity did,” I quip, chuckling slightly at his expression.

  The man has big predatory animal down to an art. If I let him, I know Gregory Lucas will eat me up and spit me out.

  “Ah, darlin’, but I’m not a pussy cat, am I?”

  No, this man is more a lion or vicious tiger than the tame tabbies most men today are.

  “No, you’re not. But I’m still not interested in telling you my life story, either,” I say in a hard tone that brooks no argument.

  What has happened in my past is my business and none of his. Besides, as far as I’m concerned, the less we talk the better. I’m not interested in being wooed by a player like him. I want honesty, value honesty, and if he insists on playing this game I’d sooner walk out than keep up the banter.

  His eyes darken before a genuine smile curves his lips, and I stifle a gasp at the pure beauty. Men aren’t supposed to be beautiful, but at this moment he is perhaps the most beautiful creature I have ever beheld.

  Trouble. This seductive, testy man is most definitely trouble.

  “That’s fine by me, Hannah darlin’, as long as your future includes me.”

  The food arrives, and by the time the waiter has left it’s too late to correct his assumption that he has any place in my future.

  “Eat up, darlin’, you’re going to need your strength.”

  I dig in, ignoring his belief that we will end up in bed together before the night is over. Oh, I fully intend to get there now that I’ve made up my mind to engage in a brief sexual affair with him. It just won’t be tonight.

  I want him, yes, with a ferocious need that’s blindsided me, but I’m no light skirt, and if he thinks s few seductively phrased lines and a delicious dinner are enough for me to give up the goods, he’s got another thing coming.

  I also won’t allow things to progress on his terms. If Gregory Lucas wants me enough, he’ll play by my rules, or he can get packing.

  Chapter Six

  “Are you sure I can’t tempt you with a nightcap?”

  We’ve enjoyed a lovely dinner and some surprisingly good conversation.
This surprises me because I’d assumed we wouldn’t have much in common besides the ad campaign. How wrong I was. Gregory Lucas and I share quite a few things in common.

  We both like ‘eighties power ballads, something very few modern heterosexual men will admit to, and we love the ocean and want whalers across the globe to die an unholy painful death.

  I’ve truly enjoyed tonight and want nothing more than for it to keep going to its natural conclusion. I want to invite him up and take him into my small room with its white sheets and see him stretched out naked against them.

  I want a lot of things, but I know that if I bend now he’ll have me exactly where he wants me. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not looking for a long-term commitment or a ring, God forbid, I just don’t want to be another easy conquest for the sexy lothario.

  “No. Thank you for the offer though,” I say, going to open my door.

  “Wait,” he growls, stilling my hand. “At least let me kiss you. I’ve been thinking about it all night.”

  You and me both.

  Letting go of the door I turn to him, licking my lips for the kiss I’ve anticipated since opening my door. He cups my face and leans in, feathering a light kiss against my closed mouth, once, twice, before settling his mouth fully on mine and peeking his tongue out to lick at me.

  I groan at the contact and allow my lips to open infinitesimally, encouraging him to take it deeper. He does, coaxing my lips open with swift flicks of his tongue that leave me gasping, opening for more.

  He tastes like the coffee we drank instead of dessert, and something indefinable. Soon he’s deepening the kiss to something that has me gasping and leaning closer, searching.

  When I spear my tongue past his lips and lick at his, he pulls me over and onto his lap, my head at his shoulder as he plunders my mouth.

  I am so lost in the sensations bombarding me it takes me a minute to realize he’s worked a hand under my dress and is slipping a finger beneath the waistband of my thong.

  I tense, whimpering when his finger skims over my opening and moves higher to my clit. When he touches me I groan, wishing my dress weren’t so tight. I want to spread my legs and invite him in.