by Naima Simone
“Yes or no, Sydney,” he repeated, the need for her answer hardening his tone.
A beat of taut silence.
“Yes.”
Chapter Four
“What the hell are you doing?” Sydney whispered to her reflection in the full-length cheval mirror the following evening. She smoothed slightly trembling hands over the waist and beaded belt of the floor-length black evening dress. After discarding five gowns, she’d settled on this one. The long sleeves and length were ideal for the October evening and an air-conditioned theater, while the beaded embellishments along the deep keyhole neckline prevented the dress from veering into Morticia territory. It said, yes, I am on this date, but, no, I am not up for a one-night stand…or a visit to the morgue.
Perfect.
Except for the nerves that ambushed her stomach.
She groaned, turning from her image before she found something else wrong—the color was drab, the material too formfitting, her hips looked too big, her ass was huge—and changed once more.
This was crazy. Had to be the most nonsensical thing she’d done in fourteen years. Again, what the hell was she thinking?
That’s just it. She wasn’t—she wasn’t thinking.
For once, the opinions of her father, mother, Tyler, or others in their exclusive social circle didn’t overshadow her own wants. For once, she wasn’t censoring her own actions by someone else’s guidelines and desires.
For once, she was doing what she wanted and to hell with the consequences.
Her belly twisted, belying the brave words marching through her head.
This was so not like her.
Even now, the fear of disappointing her parents and fiancé crept up her throat, threatening to strangle the breath from her lungs.
Don’t. Hyperventilate.
Twenty-five years old and terrified of letting down her parents.
How pathetic would that sound to someone like Lucas Oliver, who didn’t appear to be afraid of anyone or anything? She shivered as an image of the gorgeous, faintly intimidating business mogul filled her head. The tall, hard body he’d aligned next to hers as he faced down her parents and Tyler. The big, callused hands that had clasped her own. The midnight waves and loose curls that grazed his sharp cheekbones and granite jaw. The startling beauty of turquoise eyes that had bored into hers as he quietly, but firmly, ordered her to look at him.
Look at me.
The air stuttered in her throat but for a different reason than fear. Those three words uttered in that dark, sensual voice had been like a caress over nerve endings she hadn’t known existed. They had touched a place of yearning so deep inside her she’d obeyed the command before her brain comprehended and telegraphed the order. The need had been physical—good God, her panties could attest to that—but it’d also been emotional. He hadn’t just been issuing an edict for her to return her gaze to him; he’d wanted to see her—her reaction, her wants, her thoughts…her. He’d wanted to see her.
Other than the Evans sisters and the young girls she mentored, Sydney couldn’t remember the last time someone had wanted to just see her.
How could she not have said yes?
Damn, how could she have said yes?
A perfunctory knock on her bedroom door echoed seconds before her mother entered.
“I see you’re still determined to go through with this…outing,” she stated, her tone as tightly drawn as the thin line of her mouth. “Really, Sydney, I have no idea what you could be thinking.”
That seemed to be the opinion of the day, didn’t it?
“Mom, I already explained my decision to you and Dad.”
“Yes, I know, you made a commitment. Fine. But you could have signed the check and passed on this date with an unknown”—she turned her lips up in a disgusted moue—“uncouth stranger. He’s disfigured, for God’s sake,” she spat. “I can only imagine how that came about.”
Of course she’d seen the scar. It was impossible to miss, since it bisected his obsidian eyebrow and continued in a thin ridge under his right eye. The scar appeared to be an old one, but the original wound must have been horrible to leave behind such a visible mark. But unlike her mother, Sydney didn’t find it repulsive. No, the mark added to his dangerous, warrior-in-a-suit air. He reminded her of a barely domesticated panther: dark, sleek, muscled, beautiful, predatory. The Beast of Bay Bridge, she’d learned people called him. The nickname probably wasn’t meant as flattery and referred to the name of his corporation and most likely his business reputation rather than his appearance. Regardless of the meaning behind the moniker, his masculine beauty invited a woman to touch, to pet, but at her own peril. Because this gorgeous animal did—and would—bite.
And from the information she’d read on the internet last night after arriving home, women petted often…and he allowed it. She’d scrolled through the images from the Boston society pages, and she’d never glimpsed the same woman on his arm twice. Still, his dates all seemed to have several things in common: supermodel beauty, skinny bodies, and big, happy smiles.
“He’s a reputable and very successful businessman, not a criminal,” she said, glancing at the clock on her bedside table. Four fifteen. Lucas should arrive in several minutes to pick her up. The play started at seven, and the helicopter ride would take about an hour and a half. “Besides, Dad knows him.”
“Knows about him,” Charlene corrected. “There’s a difference. And believe me, your father is not pleased with this by any means.” She paused, studied Sydney, and tapped a manicured fingertip against her bottom lip. “Do you think that’s the wisest choice for a dress? It’s not very…forgiving, is it?”
Heat blasted Sydney’s face, and she struggled not to flinch or betray the hurt that was like a punch to the chest. After years of the same criticisms, careless remarks, and thinly veiled insults, she should be numb to the pain and humiliating reminders she wasn’t a perfect size two or zero. Reminders she just wasn’t…perfect. Maybe in another twenty years, she would grow the Teflon skin required to exist and thrive in her social set—and her family.
“I don’t have time to change,” Sydney replied, erasing all hints of emotion from her voice. All her mother needed was the slightest indication that she’d scored a hit in Sydney’s armor, and Charlene would harp even more on Sydney’s weight and appearance, calling it motivation. “Lucas should be here in a few minutes.” She lowered to her bed and slipped her foot into her jewel-encrusted black shoe.
“Lucas,” her mother repeated, sneering. Sydney didn’t glance up from fastening the strap around her ankle. “Already you’re so familiar. When did that happen? When you walked off with him last night? You embarrassed Tyler, which to a man like him is unforgivable. And now you’re allowing him to go on a date with another woman? Foolish! You’re just handing him over as if there are men like him lining up around the corner. Sydney.” Charlene set a thin but strong palm on her shoulder. Molding her expression into a cool, detached mask, Sydney lifted her head and met her mother’s scrutiny. “We only want the best for you…for all of us.”
Her heart beat against her sternum like a caged animal, mirroring how she felt. Trapped. Imprisoned by duty, responsibility, and guilt. All of her life, she’d bowed to her father and mother’s expectations: earning great grades, attending the college of their choice, living at home after graduation and assisting her mother with her varied charities and social events instead of getting a job and a place of her own…dating and becoming engaged to a man they approved of. A man to whom marriage was both a social and financial coup.
Not rocking the boat had become an ingrained habit. Because the one time she’d disobeyed her parents and hadn’t listened to their order, it had resulted in catastrophic consequences, their lives forever altered.
The cost of her selfishness and defiance had been her little brother’s life.
A soft rap on the door prevented—or saved—her from responding to her mother’s pointed reminder of duty. And the memories.
>
“Come in,” Sydney called out.
A moment later, their housekeeper opened the door and poked her head inside the room.
“Ms. Sydney, a Mr. Lucas Oliver has arrived for you.”
“Thank you, Maddie.” After the other woman left, Sydney retrieved her wide-collared coat from her closet and headed for the door.
“Sydney—”
“Everything will be fine, Mom.” She grasped the knob before glancing over her shoulder with a small, reassuring smile. “It’s just one night. There’s no need to worry.”
…
“Thank you,” Sydney murmured as Lucas removed her coat and handed both of theirs to the New York restaurant’s coat check. He placed a hand to the small of her back, and they followed the host as he led them to their table. A shiver threatened to dance over her skin and through her body, but she stifled it. There was nothing she could do about the palm-sized circle of heat radiating from her skin where Lucas touched her, though.
All night she’d been waging this particular battle. She’d thoroughly enjoyed the play; Phantom of the Opera was one of her favorites, and the historical Majestic Theatre had been opulent and beautiful. But her delight had been tempered by an almost painful awareness of him the entire time. Of his big body sitting next to her, making her feel—for the first time in her life—delicate and petite. His arm and knee had pressed against hers for two hours, and the firm, constant contact had competed with the timeless story of love, horror, and tragedy that unfolded on the stage.
The contrast in her overwhelming reaction to this man she’d known less than twenty-four hours to the man she planned to spend the rest of her life with should’ve been alarming. Lucas incited a riot of confusion, desire, and consciousness of her body with just his nearness that Tyler hadn’t managed with an actual kiss. More than ever, she was aware of the life she intended to consign herself to—one of levelness and complacency. One without extreme highs or lows of emotions or needs…just a steady, even-keeled existence.
But instead of panicking her, the realization soothed her, ensured her she was making the correct choice with Tyler. Good God, if one evening with Lucas had her alternating between fascination, lust, uncertainty, and joy, then what would a relationship be like?
Exhausting.
And full of anxiety and insecurity. Images of the parade of women from those articles leaped to her mind. Yes, there would be passion, but that desire would end up shackling her to a man who could never love her back the way she needed. A man who could never be faithful.
Why are you so quick to believe gossip columns, a small, insidious voice whispered inside her head.
A hint of shame wormed inside her chest. Especially since even she—with as boring an existence as she led—had been the target of thinly veiled jabs and gossip in the scandal rags and online tabloids. But, as unfair as choosing to believe the rumors about him was, she latched on to what she’d read. Chose to believe. Because that made him unsuitable to her, beyond her reach…safer.
No. Tyler—who didn’t cause her heart to pound or the bottom to fall out of her stomach like a dizzying free fall down a roller coaster—was her ideal.
Perfect.
The host paused next to a table hidden from most of the room by a waist-high wall and tall, exotic plants. Private. Intimate. Dangerous, she silently added. The host moved to pull out her chair, but Lucas shifted forward, slid the high-backed chair from under the table, and waited for her to be seated. Just for a moment, he lingered behind her, and the back of his fingers grazed her shoulders. This time she couldn’t stifle the shudder of pleasure his brief but indelible touch caused. And when he froze behind her for several more seconds, she wondered if he’d caught the telltale reaction.
Oh, yes, he had.
The answer reverberated inside her head when Lucas lowered to the chair across from her, his fierce gaze locked on her face. His scrutiny was neither polite nor impersonal but piercing, hooded…hot. Beneath her dress, her nipples beaded, the soft silk of her bra suddenly chafing and constricting. A sweet, nagging ache pulsed between her thighs, and she squeezed her thighs together, trying to alleviate the sensual torment. And succeeded in intensifying—worsening—it.
The timely arrival of their sommelier allowed her to inhale an inconspicuous breath, and while Lucas tasted the different wine offerings, she wrangled her body back into submission. Had she said dangerous? This man was positively lethal.
“Did you enjoy the play?” he asked, extending a glass containing a deep ruby wine toward her. “Taste?” Then watched, with piercing intensity, as she sipped. The rich but sweet bouquet of the cabernet smoothed over her tongue, and she lowered her lashes, humming slightly in appreciation. When she lifted them, the approval hovering on her lips died a swift death. His gaze was fixed on her mouth. Nervously, she swiped the tip of her tongue over her lips, and his expression hardened, the carnality more pronounced. The scar over and under his eye only emphasized the danger inherent in the stare. No man had ever looked at her with such…hunger. As if he was seconds from jerking her to her feet and crashing his mouth to hers and feasting like a starved man.
She gasped, and the hooded turquoise scrutiny lifted, the heat there bright…scalding.
“Do you like it?” The question referred to the wine, but the low, rough timbre of his voice hinted at something else—something civilized people didn’t discuss over a linen-covered table at a five-star restaurant in a room full of people.
“Yes,” she whispered, settling the glass on the table with trembling hands before folding them in her lap. “It’s delicious.”
“Good.” He nodded and ordered a bottle from the silent sommelier.
Oh my God. She swallowed a groan. How could she have forgotten about the other man’s presence? Heat prickled her skin. What kind of magic did Lucas Oliver wield to capture her mind and senses so completely?
“So,” he continued, “the play. Did you enjoy it?”
Right. The play. “I did,” she replied, and thanked God for small favors that her voice didn’t wobble. “I love Phantom of the Opera. The story, the romance, the music.” She laughed softly. “I have to admit, musicals are one of my vices.”
“Just one?” A corner of his mouth quirked. “So just how many do you have?”
“Enough that they require more than one bottle of wine to confess to,” she retorted, arching an eyebrow. His dark, sexy chuckle necessitated another sip of her drink. At this rate, she might be spilling all her secrets by the time dessert was served. “Do you have a favorite play?”
“Several. Phantom of the Opera. Les Misérables. Chicago.” He smiled, and she returned the gesture, knowing from her online research that he’d grown up in the Windy City. His company’s headquarters were still stationed there. “And,” he paused, “Lion King.”
She grinned. “Simba, you have forgotten me.” She dragged out her best James-Earl-Jones-as-Mufasa impression, and Lucas laughed, humor transforming him from beautiful to beautiful squared. “Lion King was wonderful. I also loved Wicked. And of course Grease.”
“Of course,” he drawled. “But if you’re waiting for me to bust out a verse of ‘Summer Nights,’ it’s going to be a long night.”
“Damn.” She snapped her fingers, shaking her head. Lucas snorted, lifting his glass to his mouth. The wide globe appeared fragile in his long-fingered grip. Quickly diverting her attention, she asked, “So was the bit in your introduction at the auction true? Did you really play Bill Sikes in your high school musical?”
His lips twisted, the expression self-deprecating. “I’m afraid so. But not out of any great love for the theater or Oliver! That was just a happy, but unintentional, result. See, Colleen Moore had tried out for the role of Nancy. I figured if we were both in the play, we would spend a lot of afternoons and nights together at rehearsals, never considering she had the singing voice of a cat in heat.” Sydney choked out a laugh, and he shrugged. “Unfortunate, but very true. Mine wasn’t that much bet
ter, but I could hold a note and memorize a script. Besides”—the smile he wore turned a shade more sinister as he tapped the end of his scar—“I had the rough, criminal look down.”
“Does it bother you?” she murmured, the question slipping from her lips before she could think better of asking it. The mark appeared too old to cause him pain, but she hadn’t been referring to the physical. She bit the inside of her cheek. She’d been too bold; they were here for a light dinner before parting and probably never seeing each other again except for the occasional social event. Did she honestly expect him to spill his deepest emotions?
“Does it bother you?” he countered softly.
Bother her? Yes. Her heart ached when she thought of the suffering he must’ve endured. During and after. From experience, she knew people weren’t…kind to those they perceived as different. Any imperfection was pointed out, jeered at, or lamented over. Maybe some of those same people were responsible for dubbing him the Beast. Oh, yes. That bothered her, since he’d been nothing but lovely and considerate to her since their first meeting.
But did the scar detract from his appearance? No—hell, no. It added to his masculine beauty, lent it an element of danger that was both alarming and seductive.
Yet if she admitted the truth, he would think she was either desperate or needy. So she settled for, “Not at all. Why should it?”
An emotion flashed in his eyes before he smirked and leaned back in his chair. He didn’t respond but turned the conversation to more mundane territory. Regret flickered in her chest. Why did she feel as if she’d failed some test? She buried the pang of hurt and answered his questions about Boston, family, and herself. Which was novel. Most of her and Tyler’s exchanges revolved around him, his family’s company, or whatever party or benefit they planned to attend.
The hour sped by, and when their waiter set a cup of after-dinner coffee in front of her, she realized their date was nearing an end. Squelching the disappointment, she added cream to the dark brew.
