by Naima Simone
“How long have you and Tyler Reinhold been engaged?”
Surprised, she glanced up, the spoon she’d been stirring with still clasped in her fingers. “Not long,” she said, silently scolding herself. She should have no problem talking about her fiancé. This was an outing because of an auction, not a regular date. Lucas wasn’t enamored with her, no matter what her overactive imagination might have conjured. She cleared her throat. “We’ve been together for a year, though.”
“He seems very protective of you. Not that I can blame him. Auction or not, if you were mine, I wouldn’t have let you fly to another city with a man who wasn’t me.”
If you were mine. She highly doubted he’d claimed any woman as his. That would be too permanent. “I don’t belong to him like a piece of real estate with a deed,” she snapped. And immediately hated the display of irritation. Because the description pretty much summed up her arrangement with Tyler. Theirs wasn’t a love match; they were an amicable, companionable merger. And she preferred it that way…damn it.
A small smile played across his sensual mouth. “You don’t like the idea of belonging to a man, Sydney? The idea of knowing beyond a doubt that he’s claimed you so thoroughly, your body’s marked by him, your blood heats for him and him alone? The idea that you’re his, and if any man even looks in your direction, he’s taking his life into his own hands?”
“No,” she breathed. She didn’t. He described everything she was afraid of—blind passion, possession, jealousy. So why did the heat pouring through her like a stream of lava brand her a liar? “Would you want that with a woman? You don’t seem like the kind of man who would appreciate or tolerate a jealous, possessive woman.”
He arched an eyebrow. “I wouldn’t. And I agree with you. I don’t want what I just mentioned. I prefer a relationship of respect with someone who is independent, has her own interests. Someone who understands I don’t work a nine-to-five and is content with that. Desire is easy—lust easier. More than a lover, I want a woman who can hold her own in a social situation or a boardroom as well as the bedroom.”
“And love? I noticed love wasn’t included on your list.”
“No,” he said flatly, something too fleeting and shadowed to decipher flashing in his eyes. “It wasn’t. Which brings me to my next question, Sydney.”
He leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers under chin. His intense gaze ensnared her, refused to free her, even though she desperately wanted to avoid the piercing scrutiny. The conversation had left her off-kilter, his cold, matter-of-fact analysis of his desired relationship unsettling. Even though he’d echoed what she and Tyler had. What she was pledging her life to as Mrs. Reinhold.
She reached for her coffee, desperate for a distraction from him…from her own thoughts.
“Yes? What is it?”
“Marry me.”
It wasn’t a question.
Chapter Five
Fraud. Jail. Marry me.
The words whirled in Sydney’s head like a demonic merry-go-round as she strode into the lobby of the building housing the headquarters of the Blake Corporation the next morning. With a quick nod at the security guard, she continued at a fast clip to the bank of elevators. As if by walking faster she could outdistance the memories of the previous evening and Lucas Oliver’s accusations and threats. Outrun the anger and fear that congealed in her stomach, souring it. She huffed out a breath. Not damn possible.
God, she felt like such a fool allowing herself to be charmed by his attentiveness, by the sensuality that emanated off him like steam off a sidewalk after a quick summer shower. Like a lamb led to slaughter—was that what he’d been thinking as he’d escorted her to the play and dinner? Right before he blindsided her with a proposal of marriage?
Not that he’d been shocked or offended by her quick, and harsh, “Go to hell.” Not Lucas Oliver. A quirk of the corner of his mouth had been his reaction as he handed her a folder—and proceeded to blackmail her. Her hand in marriage to prevent the loss of her father’s reputation and company. A devil’s bargain from a devil.
Or a beast.
She punched the up button on the panel, and seconds later, the metal doors hissed open. The twenty-second ride to the top floor of the steel and glass building seemed like twenty years before she emerged from the elevator into the hallway leading to her family’s corporate offices. A foreign urgency vibrated under her skin, almost as if a hand at her back propelled her down the corridor to the office waiting at the end. She nodded and murmured subdued hellos to the employees who greeted her, but she didn’t pause to chat as she usually would have. The need for answers trumped manners or politeness. The need to affirm that her world didn’t teeter on the crumbling edge of uncertainty and lies.
The need to verify she hadn’t become the pawn in a very real and threatening game of blackmail.
“Good morning, Sydney,” Cheryl Granger said with a wide smile as Sydney paused in front of the desk where the CFO’s executive assistant sat. As long as she could remember, the stately woman had stood guard behind her wide desk, answering phones, typing reports, welcoming those with appointments, and turning away those without. Though Cheryl’s hair bore more gray than brown now, she was a fixture in the Blake Corporation offices. And one of Sydney’s favorite people.
“Hi, Cheryl.” She forced a smile to her lips. “Is he in?”
The receptionist frowned, apparently not fooled by Sydney’s caricature of a smile. “For you? Always.” She rose from her chair and headed toward the closed oak door behind her. With a perfunctory knock, she opened the door and stuck her head inside. “Mr. Henley, Sydney is here to see you.” Cheryl stepped back and waved Sydney inside.
“Thanks, Cheryl,” she whispered before entering Terry Henley’s inner sanctum. The dam she’d been hoarding her emotions behind creaked and groaned as her godfather stood and rounded his massive glass desk, wearing a wide grin and with his arms outstretched.
“Sydney.” He enfolded her in his embrace, and the familiar scents of imported cigars and cologne wrapped around her as securely as his arms. Fissures zigzagged across the dam now, springing leaks. Terry was not only the chief financial officer of the Blake Corporation but also her father’s oldest friend. He’d been a fixture in her life—a dependable, loving fixture. Where Jason had been miserly with affection, Terry had been generous. Where Jason had been absent, Terry had been available. Where Jason had been cold, distant, Terry had been warm…forgiving.
In many respects, Terry had been the father Jason hadn’t been—refused to be.
And this morning when she’d thrown back the blankets, Lucas’s unbelievable and detestable charges driving her from the bed, her first thought had been to run to Terry, not Jason. Even though Lucas’s claims had been laid against her father.
Fraudulent financial statements. Submitting false IRS reports. And if she didn’t marry Lucas, he would ruin Jason. And Lucas’s reason for carrying out his blackmail scheme? He would only say that he hated her father. So simple, yet she had no doubt it was so very complicated. Jason couldn’t have risen to be the powerful man he was today without earning his fair share of enemies. And considering his penchant for other women besides his wife, that number could be even greater.
“What did I do to warrant this pleasure?” Terry squeezed her close once more before cupping her shoulders and leaning back. Again, she tried to smile, to shore up her admittedly weak defenses, but like Cheryl, he saw straight through the facade. His smile faltered then disappeared, his bushy gray eyebrows arrowing down. “Sydney? What’s wrong?”
She pinched the bridge of her nose, dipped her chin. How did she ask this? How did she even form her lips around the question hovering on her tongue? Not by any stretch of the imagination did Jason win father of the year. But he was still her father.
And at one time he’d been tender, doting. Before Jay…before they’d lost Jay, he’d been the parent little girls dreamed and bragged about. Her little brother’s death—an
d her role in it—had transformed him into the detached, critical, aloof man he was today. She’d done that. Her negligence and impetuousness had done that. So how did she dare question his integrity? How did she dare question…anything?
“Sydney?” Terry murmured, guiding her to the brown leather sofa in his sitting area. Gently, he lowered her to the cushion, sitting beside her and cradling her hands between his. “Talk to me. Tell me what’s bothering you.”
She inhaled a shuddering breath, slowly exhaled it.
“Terry.” She lifted her head and met the concern in his gray eyes. “Is Dad—” She hesitated. Hating herself. “Is Dad…in trouble?”
Her godfather’s frown deepened. “What do you mean?”
“Is he—the company—in financial trouble? Has he been lying”—the word tasted sour on her tongue, and she barely managed not to choke on it—“to banks and investors to keep the business afloat?” Lucas had used the term “cooking the books.” She might have majored in psychology instead of business, but she understood the ugliness of the accusation.
A shutter seemed to slam shut in Terry’s gaze, wiping his face clean of expression, leaving a blank, impassive mask. “Where did you hear this from, Sydney?”
Not an indignant “No, of course not,” or even a dismissive “Don’t believe everything you hear.” Her heart pounded against her chest like a jackhammer, thundering in her ears.
“Does it matter?” she asked woodenly. “Is it true? And please don’t lie to me.” I can’t—Dad can’t—afford for you to lie to me.
Terry didn’t respond for several long moments, just studied her in the heavy silence suddenly filled with a tension that crawled over her skin.
“I need to know where you came by this rumor,” he eventually stated, the godfather she loved replaced by the Blake Corporation’s chief financial officer.
“I can’t reveal that.” When he parted his lips, she repeated the gesture, only harder, her refusal adamant. “Trust me when I say I can’t. But I need to know. Please,” she quietly begged. Slipping her hands free of his, she reversed the hold so her palms enfolded his. “Please, Terry.”
His piercing scrutiny thawed the slightest bit. “Sydney, as CFO…”
“You’re bound by confidentiality. I know. But I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t important. And I can’t go to Dad with this. I can’t—” She squeezed his hands. “Please,” she repeated.
Another stretch of time passed before his lashes lowered, and he shot from the couch. He shoved a hand through his thick silver strands, and her stomach plummeted toward her feet. Panic clawed at her throat as the uncharacteristic agitated gesture confirmed her fears. Lucas’s accusations.
“Oh, God, Terry,” she breathed.
He whirled around, pinned her to the couch with a narrowed stare. “Tell me what you’ve heard.”
She jerked her head in an unsteady nod. “Blake Corporation has been in financial trouble for the last five years. And for the last three, Dad has been overreporting the company’s income and assets then using the inflated earning reports to drive up the stock price and acquire fraudulent bank loans and new investors on falsified information.” She opened her purse and removed a thin folder containing a detailed accounting of Lucas’s claims. He’d given it to her last night as she’d exited the limousine, instructing her to read it. Most of the columns of numbers, dates, and names had been an undecipherable jumble to her, but the typed report had been clear and concise. Hand trembling, she extended the file to Terry.
He accepted it and returned to his desk. After a while, he stood, the incriminating folder still clutched in his hand. Instead of addressing her, though, he turned to the wall of glass behind him that offered a gorgeous view of the Charles River. But from the tense line of his jaw and unyielding set of his shoulders, she doubted he was appreciating the sea of steel, glass, and brick.
“Whomever you spoke with seems to have a lot of insider information.”
Abandoning her perch on the couch, she crossed the room, pausing at his side.
“So it’s true,” she whispered.
“Yes,” he said.
The single-word confirmation seemed to resound like a death knell. A fist-sized knot banded around her lungs until bare wisps of air escaped her lips.
“Why?” The question was barely a sigh of sound, but Terry caught it. He shook his head, his gaze still trained on the window.
“There are reasons—reasons that seemed valid and logical at the onset. But do they matter now? Whatever the original intentions—reputation, job employment, tradition, profit—the result is the same. We’re in over our heads. Have been for a while. Jason hopes your marriage to Tyler will—” He broke off the explanation and flinched, realizing what he’d been about to reveal. Pain flickered across his handsome, suddenly weary features, and she shifted closer, grasping his hand. The ache in her chest was negligible. Of course she’d understood from the beginning why her father had been elated over her relationship with Tyler. Two dominant financial institutions allied through marriage. But now her father’s enthusiasm was cast in a whole new light—the light of desperation. “Anyway, with the backing and impeccable reputation of the Reinhold Corporation, he hopes to infuse new capital into the company, covering the discrepancies before they can be discovered.”
She swallowed, trying to moisten her suddenly dry mouth. “And if not?” she rasped.
“If not, then the company will eventually be investigated by the SEC, and your father, myself, and other individuals will face federal charges.” His gaze narrowed, sharpened. “Why? Did something happen between you and Tyler?”
She shook her head. Her and Tyler? No. “We’re fine. I just wanted the entire picture.”
“Sydney.” He turned, gathered her close. “This is our mess. Ours. We realized the potential consequences when we started this course. Regardless of your father’s expectations or wishes, it’s not fair to expect you to marry someone to save us from our mistakes. What I’m saying is if you don’t”—he hesitated before continuing—“love Tyler the way a woman should when pledging her life and heart to a man, then you shouldn’t. I know your father can be intimidating, and the pressure he places on you isn’t fair. But if you have any misgivings…”
She didn’t reply—couldn’t. Love, despair, and resignation trapped the words. Words that would’ve been lies anyway. I love Tyler. Tyler loves me. As much as Terry cared for her, had striven to protect and give her the affection her parents should have offered, she couldn’t grasp the avenue of escape he offered.
Loyalty.
Duty.
Sacrifice.
Those three virtues had been drummed into her head from birth. Her wants and needs finished a distant second to the family’s. Especially for Sydney, who had selfishly cost the family so much.
Her brother, Jason Raymond Blake II—Jay, for short—had been born when Sydney was six. As the long-awaited son, he’d been doted on by their parents from the beginning. And one mistake, one act of defiance and negligence on ten-year-old Sydney’s part had led to his drowning in the family pool. Four years old. He’d lost his life at the precious age of four.
And it’d been her fault—his death had been her fault. If she hadn’t disobeyed her parents and left the back door ajar for him to escape through, Jay wouldn’t have jumped in the unattended pool and died. Her father had said as much.
Though fifteen years had passed since that tragic day, her family still suffered the loss. They never spoke of Jay, as if he hadn’t ever existed. His pictures didn’t decorate the walls or mantel in the living room along with those of the rest of the family. And though Jason had gruffly apologized to her for his grief-stricken accusations after the tragedy had occurred, the truth and guilt still weighed down her soul like the heaviest albatross.
Her selfish disobedience had stolen his son. Now, years later, she couldn’t allow her own desires to cost him the company to which he’d dedicated over half his life.
No. She
’d marry and save her father. Just not Tyler.
It was the very least she could do.
“Thank you for telling me, Terry,” she murmured. Rising on her toes, she kissed his cheek. “I have to meet Mom for brunch, so I need to go.”
“Okay.” Giving her one last squeeze, he loosened his embrace, allowing her to step back. “Tell Charlene I said hello.”
“I will.” But she wouldn’t. Then her mother would ask why she’d visited Terry in the first place. Better to avoid that inquisition. “I’ll call you later.”
Minutes later, she stood on the sidewalk outside the office building, her conversation with her godfather playing on an endless loop through her mind. Blindly, she stared ahead, not seeing the busy morning traffic or hearing the cacophony of drills and raised voices from the ongoing construction across the street.
She exhaled slowly.
She had no choice.
Removing her cell from her purse, she gripped it tight before retrieving the heavy, cream-colored business card embossed with royal-blue ink. Flipping it over, she studied the ten digits with a Chicago area code, then before she could lose the sliver of courage she still retained, punched in the cell phone number.
The other end rang once. Twice.
Then the dark, sensual voice that had tormented her dreams the previous night rumbled in her ear.
“Mr. Oliver,” she said. “This is Sydney Blake. We need to talk. I’ll be at your office in half an hour.”
Chapter Six
“Mr. Oliver, Ms. Blake is here to see you,” his executive assistant informed him.
Lucas pressed the speaker button on the multiline desk phone. “Please send her in,” he ordered, rising from his office chair. Grim satisfaction and more than a little bit of anticipation coursed through him, headier than the most potent alcohol. He studied the closed door, a hot heaviness settling in his gut. He could try to convince himself he watched the entrance like an eagle sighting prey because he wanted to grab hold of this triumphant moment. To savor it. But he wasn’t in the habit of lying to himself.
