by Naima Simone
“Are you seriously doing this to me, Sydney? I’ve always cared for you, respected you, and this is how you treat me? With betrayal and humiliation? What kind of person does that to someone she’s supposed to love?”
She’d never proclaimed to love Tyler, had never even spoken those words to him, but it hadn’t lessened the hurt, the injustice of inflicting harm on a man who’d done nothing to deserve it. An apology had seemed pointless, but she’d given it to him anyway, along with his ring. But when he’d demanded an explanation, she couldn’t give him the truth. And when he’d stalked away from her, hating her, she’d let him.
“Hey.” Lucas gently turned her around, and on reflex, she clasped the waist she’d been fantasizing about only moments ago. As if singed, she dropped her hands to her sides. “Are you okay?”
She released a short bark of laughter. “Am I okay? I don’t even know what that means anymore. In the space of a day, I’ve become public enemy number one, and I’ve been kicked out of my home. I’d say okay is a stretch.”
A beat of silence passed between them.
“My offer from earlier still stands, Sydney,” Lucas murmured. His big, elegant hand cradled her jaw, the pad of his thumb brushing over her cheekbone. His heavy-lidded perusal roamed her face, settling for an unnerving—tantalizing—amount of time on her trembling mouth. “Our secret,” he rumbled, flattening a hand on the wall beside her head. The wall behind her, his tall, strong, wide-shouldered body in front of her. She should’ve felt threatened, at least indignant, but only traitorous molasses-thick warmth wound through her veins, heating her from the inside out, making her body suddenly feel three times heavier. “Let me hold you, touch you. Help you to forget this day even for a short time.”
God. If he’d extended an apple to her along with his low, sensual words, he couldn’t have been more of a temptation. And like Eve, she longed to take him up on his proposal, bite into and savor the delicious sweetness of it. She didn’t doubt he could erase the last few hours from her mind with a pleasure that would leave her a quivering mess. He’d gift her with possibly hours of ecstasy-filled oblivion. Because his hooded, carnal gaze offered more than a simple hug or comforting words. And damn, if she didn’t want it. Wanted him to sink into her with his powerful body, have her crying out for a different reason than grief and loneliness.
And then what?
Sex was part of their agreement, and when he’d initially mentioned it, she hadn’t objected. No, he hadn’t included it in the contract, as he’d implied, and in spite of the mercilessness he was capable of, she didn’t believe he would force her. But if she gave in to him now, the sex wouldn’t be about blackmail, her father, or vengeance. It would be about what she wanted. Him. His hands on her body. Him filling her, pleasuring her.
When the sweat dried and the pleasure ebbed away, where would she be? No family, no fiancé, no pride, and vulnerable, totally at his mercy. Yes, she’d surrendered to his blackmail, was now living in his home, but at this point he didn’t control her. Not her will, her mind, her spirit.
But she suspected once she submitted to the stubborn and relentless hunger that blazed within her like a beach bonfire, she would forfeit the last of her power. Because a man like Lucas didn’t leave women unscathed—didn’t leave them whole.
A year from now, she had to emerge from this pact as her. She had to walk away strong. Not needy, broken, and craving a man who only wanted her for revenge’s sake.
“As kind as your offer is,” she said, pouring a wealth of disdain into “kind,” so there was no way he could misinterpret what she really believed about his suggestion, “I’m going to pass. You have a way of just glossing over the glaring fact that if not for the events you set in motion, I wouldn’t be here in your house, estranged from my family, and my life tossed into a set of luggage. So forgive me if I decide not to lean on you.”
Lucas studied her for a long moment, the emotion in his incisive scrutiny indiscernible. Finally, he pushed off the wall and straightened, his hand falling away from her.
And damn her body or the pathetic neediness—or both—that yearned to grasp his hand and return it to her face.
“If you change your mind, my bedroom is down the hall.”
Before she could assure him that he shouldn’t wait for the knock on the door, he strode away. Leaving her alone, aching, frustrated. And afraid.
Because she’d won this battle, but she couldn’t shake the inescapable sense that he would win this war.
Chapter Eight
“What the hell?” Lucas exited the rear of the Mercedes Rolls-Royce limousine and stared at the three-story brick building. He shot a glance at James, his driver. “You’re sure this is the correct address?”
James nodded. “Yes, sir.”
Lucas returned his gaze to the building that dominated a small portion of the Washington Street block in the Oak Square area of Brighton. Its weathered brick, glass, and white shutters contrasted with the more modern appearance of the neighboring pizzeria and grocery store, making it appear older yet…refined. Maya Angelou Girls’ Youth Center. The black sign with heavy gold lettering further lent a dignified, if worn, air. Like a dowager with her proud head still held high, demanding respect.
So what the hell was his fiancée and roommate of a week doing at a Brighton community center?
“Be right back,” he informed his driver before striding up the sidewalk and cement steps. As soon as he pulled open the wide front door, the scents of lemon wax and glue, with a whiff of chlorine, struck him, propelling him back to the many afternoons and evenings he’d spent at his Chicago neighborhood’s youth center. When he’d first arrived in the unfamiliar city, thrust into a new family that consisted of an uncle—his father’s half brother—whom he’d never met, the center with its huge basketball court, indoor track, and pool had been a godsend…and his sanity. And not just because of the various activities that permitted him to pound out his grief and anger. The quiet but stalwart presence of Michael, the teen youth counselor there, had granted him space and peace in the middle of the emotional squall Lucas had been cast into. Michael had been his first real friend in Chicago, even before Aiden. To this day, they remained in touch, going out for lunch and playing pickup games of basketball when Lucas returned home. Shit, where would he be now without Michael, who’d gifted him with an outlet for his rage and sorrow?
Jail. Or worse.
Lucas grimaced. Damn. Where had those thoughts come from? He refocused his attention on the long corridor he stood in rather than those initial dark weeks fifteen years ago. Continuing down the hall, he noticed the various artwork displayed on the walls. Drawings and paintings of landscapes—some of them quite beautiful—and projects on famous female Bostonians such as Abigail Adams, Bette Davis, Susan B. Anthony, and… He cocked his head to the side, grinned. Faith from Buffy? Apparently he wasn’t the only fan of her badass character.
“Can I help you?”
Lucas turned away from his study of first ladies, actresses, suffragists, and vampire hunters to meet the direct gaze of a short, middle-aged woman. He quelled the instinctive urge to stutter an explanation, but just barely. Damn if she didn’t remind him of his high school English teacher. That woman had been plain scary with her stern manner and steely gaze. This woman might have brown eyes instead of gray, unlined caramel skin instead of Ms. Gregory’s pale, papery complexion, but they shared the same formidable air.
“Yes,” he said. “I’m looking for Sydney Blake. She asked me to meet her here.” He offered his hand. “I’m Lucas Oliver.”
The woman arched an eyebrow. “Oh.” She accepted his hand, gave it a brisk pump, then released it. “Sydney told us to expect you.” Pivoting sharply on the heel of her low-heeled black pumps, she dipped her chin. “Follow me.”
Left with little choice—and frankly, afraid not to obey—Lucas fell into step behind her, bemused. Clearly, she recognized his name, but to say she wasn’t impressed was like saying King Kong was
a simple gorilla who liked heights. A pretty huge understatement.
Moments later, she stopped in front of a closed door. Voices filtered past the thick wood and reached them in the hallway. Without glancing back at him, she cracked the door open and paused in the entrance. She didn’t enter, and not relishing angering the dragon at the gate, he waited with her.
But then he caught a familiar voice and promptly forgot about her. Forgot the frosty welcome. Forgot everything but the husky, sin-and-satin tone that would’ve made a phone sex operator a shitload of money.
Sydney.
“So if the rule regarding the sentinels touching was false, what do you think was the Misgiver’s purpose behind instilling this belief system?” Sydney glanced around the circle of about twenty teen girls surrounding her. Several of the girls bowed their heads over the ereaders they each held, while a few others peeked around, maybe trying to see who would answer first.
Finally, a young girl with an alarming array of different colors in her hair spoke up. “Division. So they would remain suspicious and afraid of one another and never share knowledge or information about themselves.”
Sydney beamed. “Very good, Anna. Anyone else?”
“To keep them weak,” a more timid voice added.
He zeroed in on the speaker, and noted the thin, small girl at the top of the circle, and the farthest away from Sydney. From her wide eyes and rapidly swaying legs, she seemed terrified to be the center of attention. “With no knowledge or unity, they were weaker and easier to control through fear and the unknown.”
Sydney nodded, her grin for this girl not as wide, but softer, as if she understood the courage speaking out had cost the teen. As if she was proud of her and the effort. “Exactly,” Sydney said. “Awesome insight, Lily.”
The discussion continued, neither Sydney nor the girls noticing him and the woman hovering in the doorway, eavesdropping on what seemed to be a book club.
He didn’t—couldn’t—remove his gaze from Sydney. He hadn’t seen her in three days. It’d been a week since they’d met with her father and Tyler. A week since she’d moved into his Back Bay brownstone, infusing the very atmosphere with her presence. Though she’d tried to avoid him—and for the most part succeeded—he felt her there. Caught the trace of her special scent as soon as he arrived home in the evenings. Caught the drum of water when she showered…and imagined all that golden skin slick and glistening. It was pure damn torture sleeping in the same house as her and not being able to trail his fingers down the erect line of her spine, the indent of her waist and flare of her hips. Not being allowed to bare and cup the beautiful curves of her breasts. Not permitted to fuck the sweet, hot flesh between her legs, feel her squeeze his cock like a tight fist. Or a wet, hungry mouth.
He ground his teeth together, his dick pulsing behind his zipper as if demanding, what the hell?
Which explained why he’d called her that morning and let her know he’d received an invitation for a charity fund-raising gala, and he’d accepted. He couldn’t stand one more evening in the house with her, tempted by the suggestion of her. This party tonight would serve as their first appearance as an engaged couple. And he could touch her under the guise of head-over-ass in love while public scrutiny would ensure his behavior. Because right now, the prospect of being able to press his hand to the shallow dip above her perfect ass or nuzzle the fragrant, shadowed spot behind her ear… He would need more than his much-lauded control to keep himself in line.
But when James had pulled up outside the building, he hadn’t been expecting…this. While growing up in Chicago, he’d been the recipient of attention lavished by idealistic, overeager case workers and photo-hungry socialites looking to be the next Great White Hope for underprivileged children. He could spot them at a hundred paces and either scare or piss them off at fifty. But that wasn’t what he witnessed here.
Patience, affection, and delight lit her smile, impassioned her voice. Even the most jaded street kid could discern her true joy in being with these kids. Including him.
Something ancient and primal kicked hard inside him. His survival instinct. The intuition had never steered him wrong. And right now his instincts screamed at him to turn around, run—don’t walk—to the nearest exit, and get the hell away from Sydney Blake. That she was a wild card. That she wasn’t who she appeared to be. He couldn’t trust someone he couldn’t read, someone whose motive he couldn’t pinpoint. Ironic, considering everything people knew about him was a cleverly constructed cover. But this close to success, he couldn’t afford an unknown. Especially when that unknown played such a vital part in his victory. The smart move would be to retreat, regroup, and reorganize. Without Sydney. Just walk away…
He remained in the doorway.
“So, we’ll continue on Monday.” She smiled, closed the cover of her ereader, and glanced up. And froze. The tenderness in her hazel gaze faded, and the curves of her sensual, soft mouth hardened. That quickly the polite, aloof socialite appeared. A part of him damned her presence. Demanded the return of the vulnerable, approachable woman who’d talked, laughed, and listened to the teen girls who hung on every word she uttered as if they were tales of glittering vampires and shirtless werewolves.
Suddenly, he found himself the focus of twenty-one pairs of eyes. One shuttered, the others curious. Hell, standing in front of a table full of investors and stockholders had never made him this uncomfortable.
“Sydney, you have a visitor,” his guide announced, breaking the awkward silence. “Girls, dinner’s ready.”
The scrape of chairs and young voices filled the room moments before a rush of bodies streamed out of the room. Murmurs of “hot,” “Sydney’s got game,” and “day-aam” reached his ears. He bit back a smile and glanced at the woman next to him whom the girls greeted as Ms. Yolanda as they filed past. The corner of her mouth twitched as if trying to contain a smile.
When the last girl disappeared down the hall, Ms. Yolanda nodded, her attention shifting behind him. He didn’t need to look behind him to know Sydney was there. Her signature honeysuckle-and-sun scent pronounced her arrival like a herald’s trumpet. The fragrance, which he doubted he’d ever be able to smell again without associating it with her, reminded him of golden beams on equally bronzed skin. Of bare limbs tangling and crushing freshly mown grass, surrounded by a hedge of the lovely, fluted white flowers.
Of the sweet sin that was Sydney Blake.
“Sydney,” Yolanda said, her direct stare remaining on him even as she addressed the other woman. Her unblinking scrutiny rested on his scar for a long moment, but unlike the rude ogling he was accustomed to, her open study didn’t offend him. Possibly because she seemed to be cataloging his every feature in case she had to hunt him down later. “Have a good time tonight. It was nice meeting you, Mr. Oliver.”
“She scares me,” he drawled once the formidable older woman headed down the corridor and out of earshot.
“Yolanda?” Sydney snorted. “She and her sister, Melinda, are the youth center directors. Being in charge of anywhere between eight and one hundred teen girls at one time, she has to seem a little…um”—she chuckled softly—“daunting. But she loves the children, and they don’t doubt it.”
“Same with you,” he murmured, finally turning to her. “They know they have your love, too.”
An emotion glimmered in her eyes before her lashes lowered, hiding its identity from him. Anger, ignited by impatience and powerlessness, flared in his chest. She shouldn’t be able to keep anything from him. Her thoughts, her emotions, even the loyalty she insisted on bestowing on an old man who didn’t deserve it or her. He wanted every part of her—wanted her to give it to him…
And where had that come from? The fierce need to possess, to own. Claim.
One more second and he would be beating on his chest, grunting, “Me, Tarzan. You, motherfucking Jane.”
Frowning, he jerked his chin in the direction of the empty classroom. “How long have you volunteered here?�
��
She shrugged a shoulder. “A couple of years.”
“A couple of years?” he repeated. “I don’t remember seeing the center included in the Blake family bio on the auction program.” Not to mention when he’d investigated her at the instigation of his plan, he’d compiled a record of the boards and committees she sat on in case he could use the information to his advantage. Apparently, he’d missed one.
Again that…something…flickered in her gaze. And again it eluded him. “I suppose this isn’t as sexy as the junior league.”
He didn’t know which surprised him more—the bite in her voice or that he found the cutting wit hot as hell. In the end, though, the reason didn’t matter. The fact that she did surprise him continued to confuse him, frustrated him. Set him on edge.
He stalked forward, and she edged back into the room, her contemplation of him turning wary, guarded. Then, as if realizing she’d retreated from him, she halted, tipped her chin up, and crossed her arms. The opposing gestures—one defiant, the other self-protective—struck him like an anvil. Strong yet fragile. Reserved yet tender. Courageous yet docile. Proud yet humble.
Determining the secrets of Area 51 would be easier than deciphering the mystery and dichotomies of Sydney Blake.
“You,” he growled, shifting even closer, “are full of secrets.”
She tilted her head, extended her hand. “Hello, pot,” she drawled. “They call me kettle.”
Lust rolled through him, a large bank of storm clouds struck by jagged bolts of need. Inhaling sharply, he cupped her face and swept his thumb under the plump curve of her bottom lip. He gripped her hip with his other hand, holding her steady…preventing her escape.
“Have I mentioned how much I adore your mouth?” he murmured. Her swift intake of breath urged him closer still. Provoked him to capture the gasp for his own, taste it with his tongue. “I do. It was one of the first things I noticed about you. Your pretty, wide, sexy-as-hell mouth. I’ve lain awake nights wondering…how would your lips feel on my skin? How would they look stretching for me, taking me? How much could you take?” Fire raced over his nerves, along his veins, turning him into the damn Human Torch. Needing a deeper, firmer touch, he pressed the tender flesh of her lip against the ridge of her teeth. Studied her for any sign of discomfort. And wondered if he would ease up or push her for more. “I’ve had your kiss. I know what you taste like, and that’s only worsened the need. Made me crave more.”
