Beauty and the Bachelor

by Naima Simone

  “One last item on the agenda, Sydney,” he murmured. “You’re demanding fidelity, and I’ll give you that. But if I intended to be celibate, I would’ve become a priest.”

  Her lips twisted. “So you want conjugal visitation?”

  He chuckled. “Cute.” Swept another caress over her skin. “That’s the second time you’ve intimated I’m taking away your choice. Does it make you feel better to believe I’m forcing you? Have you been giving in to people’s wishes so long, believing I’m taking away your power is comfortable and safe for you? Sorry, you have choices. Even in marrying me. Even in coming to my bed. But, baby, let’s not pretend you don’t want to be there. That you haven’t wondered what being under me…over me…would be like.” Her breath hitched against his mouth, and he nodded, that small reaction as good as a resounding yes. “Yeah, you have,” he growled, then surrendered to the need clawing at him since she’d walked into his office. Hell, since he’d heard her voice on the phone.

  So he took. Conquered. Devoured.

  A too-quiet voice of reason argued he should be gentler, tender, coax her into the kiss with soft brushes of lips over lips. But the moment his mouth touched hers—game over. With a low rumble, he swallowed the whimper she released, claiming her. Angling his head, he thrust his tongue between her parted lips, sweeping the sweet interior, thrusting, sucking, inviting her to tangle with him. Hesitantly, she met him, returning the sensual caress with cautious strokes that soon became bolder, hotter, wetter. Groaning, he pressed closer, demanded more. Every flutter and lick of her tongue against his traced and teased his cock. He lowered a hand to the curve of her hip, palmed it. Again, that image of his fingers gripping her flesh as he rode her, driving deep into a pussy he instinctively knew would be tight as a fist.

  Damn it, he wanted more. He wanted to brand her with his mouth, touch, cock.

  He wanted to drown in her heat. Become lost in it…

  What the hell? He jerked his head up, abruptly ending the kiss. His chest rose and fell on the harsh breaths rushing from between his lips. Lost in her heat, in her. The dangerous thought rattled in his head as clear as a snake’s furious warning. One kiss. One fucking kiss, and already he was slinging purple prose around like a damn poet. How many men—including his father—had allowed sex and lust to hoodwink them into believing in love? Silently, he snorted. Love. Thank God the much-lauded concept that made people lose their goddamn minds wasn’t part of this bargain.

  Revenge. Retribution. Justice. And yeah, sex. Blistering sex, if that kiss was any indication, but not emotion. Not love.

  Stepping back, he inhaled…and wished he hadn’t. Sensual, warm honeysuckle taunted him. Hell, was that her soap? Shampoo? Lotion? Part of him wanted to purge the scent from his senses. And the other half hungered to strip her naked, bare all that honey-and-cream skin, and stroke his body over hers, drench himself in her special perfume.

  He took another step back.

  Her thick fringe of lashes fluttered then lifted, revealing eyes clouded with passion. And he almost reclaimed that space. Damn. Pivoting on his heel, he rounded his desk, placing the furniture between them. And he still didn’t trust himself. Not when she pressed her fingertips to her lips, damp from their kiss. Not when her gaze shifted to him, awe whispering through the desire.

  Not when his zipper was doing an Etch A Sketch impression against his dick.

  “I take it we have a deal,” he said, his voice, hoarse with lust, rougher than he intended.

  She blinked. Dropped her hand to her side. The sensual pleasure cleared from her expression as if it’d never softened her lovely features. Her frame stiffened, her shoulders straightening. He could almost perceive the wall of propriety slamming down between them. Too late. He’d glimpsed the carnal creature hidden behind the facade of decorum. This…arrangement might be in the name of vengeance, but their marriage wouldn’t be in name only. He’d tasted her passion. And he craved more.

  She stared at him. “You fight dirty, Lucas Oliver,” she whispered.

  “There’s no other way to fight, Sydney,” he mocked just as softly. “One week.”

  She blinked. “What? One week for what?”

  “Before we’re married.”

  Her head snapped back as if clipped by a verbal punch. “Are you kidding me? That’s not enough time.”

  “This isn’t going to be some huge event splashed over the papers. We don’t need more time.”

  “I. Do,” she gritted out. “Two weeks. At least.”

  He studied her, noted the glint in her eyes that hinted she was rapidly approaching the limits of her temper. God, that would be something to see. Sydney, letting go, uninhibited. Especially since a hint of what it would be like still tingled against his mouth.

  “Fine,” he conceded, not analyzing why he didn’t push the issue. “Two weeks.”

  A tense silence, heavy with an invisible but palpable force, hummed in the room.

  “How long?” she asked. “How long before I’m free?”

  That shouldn’t have stung. But fuck if it didn’t. Hell, marriage was a trap designed to break spirits and trick people into losing their identities, voice, and pride all under the guise of surrender, trust, and the most deceptive of them all, love. But it was a trap he was willingly caging himself in. With her.

  “One year,” he ground out. That’s all he needed for the plans he’d already set in motion to come to fruition. And by then, he’d almost certainly be gnawing at his foot to escape the ball and chain around it. “You’ll leave with a healthy divorce settlement for your trouble.”

  “For my trouble? Do you define trouble as hurting my family, humiliating Tyler and his family, and ruining my reputation?” She snorted. “Keep your money. But I do want a contract drawn up.” Ice and suspicion dripped from her tone. “I want a written, legal, binding contract that you will not send my father to jail and will leave him alone.”

  Leave Jason alone? Did she actually believe their engagement and marriage would be the end of it? Yes, both would cause Jason embarrassment and have him scrambling to make excuses to the Reinhold family. But by removing Tyler and his family’s financial backing from the equation, Jason would be firmly trapped in the hole his greed had dug. And while Lucas did plan to return Blake Corporation to the black, the funds came with a price. For the past two years, Jason had been steadily releasing more and more stock to cover his fraudulence. And Lucas had been quietly purchasing each share as they became available through the different companies under Bay Bridge Industries’ conglomerate umbrella. By the time he revealed his true identity to Jason Blake, it would be as a majority stockholder. And the other man would be reduced to nothing more than a figurehead of the company he’d ruined his best friend for. Lucas wasn’t quite there yet. But he would be—soon.

  Part of him longed to spill the truth to Sydney about her father, to rip the mask away and expose the ugly, rancid reality of the man she championed. The man she was willing to literally sign her life over for. But he’d come too far. It’d been too long. And he couldn’t risk her revealing his plans to Jason. Not now.

  So close. His breath rattled in his chest. God, I’m so close.

  And a woman—no matter how much he craved her taste or wanted to be buried balls deep inside her—was worth his revenge. His father’s retribution.

  He smiled, and its arctic temperature matched hers. “Of course,” he drawled. “I require written, binding documents with all my transactions.”

  For a moment, her eyes closed, and though she tried, she wasn’t quick enough to conceal her flinch as his verbal blow struck. He clenched his jaw. Hell, yeah, he was a cold, grade-A bastard, but damn it, she hadn’t deserved that barb.

  Frustrated, he balled his fingers into a tight fist. “I—”

  “You really are the beast they call you,” she murmured, then turned, and spine straight, head high, strode from his office. The quiet click of the door closing as effective as if she’d slammed it.

&nbs
p; So the kitten had claws. And her scratch had drawn blood.

  Best he not forget that.

  Chapter Seven

  For the second time in as many days, Sydney stood outside her father’s corporate office building. Yesterday, anxiety and a sliver of hope had filled her chest. Today, that hope had been obliterated with Terry’s confession and her signature on a legal, binding contract.

  By the time she’d returned home from Lucas’s office, the contract detailing the terms of their agreement had arrived in her in-box. Almost as if he’d already had the document drawn up in anticipation of her acquiescence to his blackmail. She scoffed. No “almost” about it—Lucas Oliver was one of the most arrogant men she’d ever encountered. He’d probably harbored no doubt she would ultimately surrender.

  With the document printed out, perused, signed, and mailed back to him by that afternoon, she could find no reason to put off revealing the news of her broken engagement to her father. Dread curdled in her stomach. She swallowed hard, forcing down the nausea born of fear and worry. While a fighter used his fists to pummel and inflict pain, her father employed words and subzero silences to bruise and maim. She’d been on the receiving end of those debilitating blows of disapproval too many times to keep an accurate tally. Yet every instance seemed like the first, the most hurtful.

  And now she had to face her father and reveal she was not only going to humiliate him by publicly ending her relationship with Tyler, but possibly ruin a long business and personal relationship with the Reinholds.

  He wouldn’t know that in dealing this blow, she would also be saving the very thing he loved most. She’d failed him once—she wouldn’t do so again.

  She sucked in a breath, already bracing herself against the cutting condemnation and scorn.

  “Sydney.”

  Startled, she jerked her head up, heart in her throat.

  She blinked. Stared. Blinked again.

  Lucas stood next to her, the brisk October breeze trailing through his dark hair as if it, too, couldn’t resist the lure of the thick strands.

  She knew the feeling. Damn it.

  To be so…“attracted” was such an anemic description of the almost visceral response she experienced at the sight of his tall, lean, powerful frame, his stunning, scarred face and incisive turquoise eyes. One summer while vacationing at Martha’s Vineyard, several of the local teens had set off firecrackers on the stretch of beach in back of her family’s home. Even now, years later, she could hear the sizzle, spark, and pop before the explosion of sound and heat. That buildup and blast perfectly captured her body’s reaction to Lucas, as evidenced yesterday by that foreplay innocuously called a kiss. Desire had sunk its greedy talons into her, and she’d surrendered with an embarrassingly minimal fight. In that instant when he’d cupped her head, controlling and limiting her movement as he thrust his tongue between her lips and destroyed every preconceived notion of passion she’d possessed, she been hit with an image of what sex with him would be like. Scorching. Demanding. Wild. A touch dirty…

  Two weeks.

  Jesus, in two weeks she would be married to him. Be in his bed. Firecrackers erupted into a full-scale explosive assault. Fear, anxiety, and that traitorous heat mushroomed until she fairly vibrated with them.

  Wait. What am I doing? Guilt wormed through the desire, coating the heat in oil. This man had planned and sought to devastate her father and was using her to do it. How could she want him, feel anything for him but loathing?

  She was even more of a traitor.

  “What are you doing here?” she snapped, her inner turmoil sharpening her tone to a razor’s edge. When she’d called him yesterday to let him know she’d mailed the contract back, he’d asked about her plans of telling her father about the broken engagement. She hadn’t expected him to show up this morning. No doubt to gloat over the carnage.

  “You’re here,” he said flatly.

  The two simple words ignited a chain reaction of flutters in her belly, but as quickly as those butterflies burst open, she forced them back into their cocoons. From a different man, his statement might have meant he cared. But she was just a pawn in Lucas’s plan; he’d placed her in the predicament of having to crush her father’s hopes. Not that she desired his affection. This arrangement had nothing to do with love and respect, and as long as she remembered who she was dealing with, her heart would remain uninvolved. She couldn’t be hurt.

  “Translation, you couldn’t resist witnessing my father’s reaction to our engagement for yourself.” She returned her gaze to the intimidating, imposing tower of steel and glass. A perfect reflection of her father. “Or you don’t trust me to go in there by myself. Are you afraid I’ll give him hand signals, tipping him off that this whole thing is a horrible farce?”

  “Sydney.”

  “What?”

  “You’re stalling. Why?” He shifted closer, his large hand settling at the base of her spine. Heat from his touch infiltrated the layers of her light coat and dress, setting the nerves there to dancing. She sidestepped, attempting to place more space between them and dislodge his hand, but he followed. The hard plane of his chest nudged her shoulder, and two long fingers gripped her chin in an unyielding grip, tipping her face up. “Are you afraid? Has your father ever hurt you?” The question ended on a low growl, his eyebrows forming a dark, forbidding vee.

  Not in the way you’re implying. “No, of course not. He’s never laid a hand on me.” She jerked her head, but his hold didn’t slacken, and she glared at him. “Do you mind?”

  His eyes narrowed, but to her relief, he dropped his hold and withdrew several inches, so every breath she inhaled didn’t contain the scent of fresh spring rain.

  “After you.” He ducked his head in a mock bow and swept his arm in the direction of the entrance, a small, sardonic smile curving his mouth.

  She didn’t bother with a reply, all her focus on the glass door that seemed to loom and expand like the gaping, sharp-toothed maw of a predator the longer she stared at it. Go and get this over with. Yes, he’s going to be angry—furious, even—but it’s for him. All of this is for him.

  The mantra scrolled through her mind like a newsreel as she entered the office building, boarded the elevator, and emerged on the same floor she’d visited the day before—the day her world had transformed from a staid but stable existence to a precarious minefield full of lies, pitfalls, and explosive secrets.

  “Good morning,” Sydney greeted the receptionist stationed outside her father’s inner sanctum. The lovely brunette returned her smile with a cool, professional version. Hmm. Sydney studied the twenty-something who couldn’t have been much older than her. She’s new. Had her father slept with this one yet? Well, if they were lovers, she hoped the woman didn’t embrace illusions that Jason would leave his wife for her like the last assistant had. That one had arrived at the house and had been firmly set straight by Charlene. Her father might screw around on his wife, but he wasn’t willing to risk social suicide by divorcing her for a younger model—not when Charlene and her family name carried as much weight in Boston society as Jason’s.

  But it could be her cynicism was premature. Maybe her father had left this one alone…

  “Good morning. Do you have an appointment with Jason—I mean, Mr. Blake?” The woman didn’t bat an eyelash at her blunder, but she did confirm Sydney’s suspicion. Sydney glanced at Lucas. He shared the same magnetism, charm, and power her father wielded. Two men cut from the same expensive, beautiful cloth. And this new plaything of her father’s served as a 3-D reminder of why falling for a man as gorgeous, powerful, and ruthless as Lucas Oliver would be the height of insanity.

  “No, we don’t have an appointment. But could you let him know his daughter is here?”

  Surprise flared in the woman’s gaze seconds before she picked up the phone. “Mr. Blake, your daughter is here to see you.” Pause. “Yes, sir. I will.” Hanging up the receiver, she rose. “If you’ll follow me.”

  Awar
e of Lucas’s quiet but commanding presence close behind her, Sydney trailed behind the assistant, taking note of the minute changes to the decor since her last visit a few years earlier. Though the Blake Corporation had been in her family for three generations, Sydney had only dropped by her father’s office a handful of times. He hadn’t been the kind of dad who bounced his children on his lap, teaching them the ropes of the business they would one day inherit. Maybe if Jay had lived, he might’ve been that kind of father. But…

  She entered the office with a murmur of thanks to the receptionist. Jason didn’t glance up from the work on his desk as the door shut with a soft but ominous click. “Sydney, this is an inconvenient time to show up unannounced,” he admonished, his tone clipped. As usual, his barely concealed impatience toward her grated, but even more so with Lucas there to witness it. “I have a meeting shortly, so make this fast. What—” He glanced up, the irritation in his tight-lipped expression giving way to shock as his scrutiny swept past her and landed on Lucas. Color slashed across his mahogany cheekbones as he slowly stood. “Lucas Oliver.” He rounded his desk, arm outstretched. “My assistant didn’t mention you were here.”

  Sydney absorbed the dismissive blow without flinching; she was used to coming in second—or third or fourth—behind business. But beside her, Lucas stiffened. She glanced up at him. But his shadowed contemplation and relaxed mouth didn’t betray the tension pulling him as tight as a strung bow. His low, cool tone as he shook her father’s hand didn’t relay the contempt that would drive a man to blackmail a woman for revenge.

  Better keep that forefront in her mind.

  Lucas Oliver was a consummate actor. And his reaction hadn’t been out of offense on her behalf. No, standing in this office, he hovered on the cusp of his plans coming to fruition. That kind of anticipation would cause the tautness in his large frame.