Shameless Playboy (12 page)

 
          
“Home?”
He tamped down on the unexpected surge of temper, but still found himself
glaring at her. “You cannot be serious.”

 
          
“Of
course I’m serious,” she said, with that calm gaze of hers that he suddenly
found enraging, not peaceful or relaxing at all. “I understand that you are
used to all manner of late evenings and early mornings, and more power to you.
I, however, require far more sleep in order to function.”

 
          
“This
may very well be the party of the year,” Lucas said mildly, waving his hand at
the parade of celebrities, the overwrought chandeliers up above, the walls
draped in deep magenta and studded with crystals. “You miss a single moment of
it at your peril.”

 
          
“It’s
a bit early in the year to be making such pronouncements, don’t you think?” She
shrugged. “Besides, I believe the intricacies of the London party circuit fall
more within your purview than mine.”

 
          
“I
want you to stay with me,” he said, baldly. He saw her stiffen, saw her eyes
widen. He smiled. “After all, this is the perfect place to drum up excitement
for the gala, is it not? Who knows what other luminaries we can rope into
attending?”

 
          
Her
brown eyes were wary—and furious, he noted with growing interest. Why should
she be furious? But he suspected he knew. He felt it, too, the tightening noose
around them. The pull of it.

 
          
The
difference was, he was not fighting it. Much.

 
          
“Have
I misunderstood something?” she asked in the tone of one who was quite certain
she had misunderstood nothing. “I was under the impression that the collection
of celebrities was your job—a job you are quite good at, actually.” She waved
her hand at the crowd around them. “And, of course, these are your sort of
people, anyway.”

 
          
“Famous?”
he asked idly. “Shockingly attractive? Filthy rich and well connected?”

 
          
“Bored,”
she retorted with that sharp smile and a matching glint in her eyes. “Desperate.
As anyone would be, were their self-worth predicated on how many mentions they
received in a glossy magazine.”

 
          
He
eased back against the settee and watched the flush of heat that stole across
her face.
Passion
, he thought with
deep satisfaction. And she was not happy about it.

 
          
But
he was.

 
          
“As
opposed to the deep social and philosophical relevance of party planning for a
department store?” Lucas asked mildly, baiting her. “I can certainly see where
your exalted sense of worth comes from.”

 
          
She
froze, her eyes shooting sparks at him, temper storming across her normally
impassive face. It fascinated him.

 
          
“I
have a job,” she said from between her teeth. “One that I am very, very good
at. My self-worth derives from my achievements. Not my father’s surname.”

 
          
That
might have landed a blow on a man less used to hearing such things and in far
more offensive terms. But Lucas only relaxed against the settee, stretching his
arm along the back and smiling at her.

 
          
“You
just finished telling me that I’m good at the same job,” he said, making his
tone deliberately insulting, wanting to see the fire in her blaze higher.
Hotter. “How difficult can it be?”

 
          
“Is
anything difficult for you?” she asked, her voice scathing, her hands curling
into fists in her lap. “Or do you just float through life making snide
commentary and endless innuendos, forever the darling of the paparazzi and very
little else? How proud you must be. How deep, indeed, your still waters run.”

 
          
He
was uncomfortably hard, and delighted with her temper, even though she directed
it at him. He, after all, could take it. Temper did not upset him; it usually
only intrigued him, since he so rarely lost his own. Still, he was a man, and
her words made him long to teach her all manner of lessons.
Soon
, he thought, watching her
proprietarily.
Very soon
.

 
          
“Are
we discussing masks, Grace?” he asked quietly, angling close enough to breathe
in her scent. “Because I’ve been waiting to talk about yours since the moment
we met. What are you so afraid of?”

 
          
“Becoming
you, of course,” she threw at him immediately, with all of her customary ice
and that fire that he instinctively knew was blazing bright underneath. “Becoming
anything like you. A zombie with a million-dollar smile.”

 
          
“That
would hurt my feelings—” he began, fighting a smile.

 
          
“If
you had any,” she finished for him, and rolled her eyes. “I know full well that
you don’t.”

 
          
“If
I believed you,” he corrected her, his voice quiet but firm. He waited until
her gaze found his. “But we both know that you’ll say whatever it takes to
maintain this fiction of yours. That you do not want me. That you cannot feel
this thing between us, this pull. What would happen if you told the truth,
Grace? What then?”

 
          
The
party was loud around them, a swirling cloak of laughter and music and the
whirl of interchangeable faces, but Lucas hardly noticed any of it. There was
only this forgotten settee in a darkened corner of the expansive room. There
was only this woman. There was only this need.

 
          
“Oh,”
she breathed, not looking away, her eyes narrowing. “I didn’t understand. This
is still about your ego, isn’t it? I won’t fall at your feet and beg for your
attention, so there must be a grand conspiracy. There must be a detailed
explanation. Masks and fictions and
reasons
.”

 
          
“Not
at all,” he said, unable to keep the laughter from his voice, though it only
seemed to stoke the fire within him. “Only the truth.”

 
          
“Here’s
the truth, then,” she said, her voice dangerous, honey and fire. She shifted
closer, her need to slap at him and show him her power clearly overcoming any
common sense. He needed only to lean forward and he could taste her.

 
          
“I
am all ears,” he murmured, the laughter gone, every part of him focused on that
lush, full mouth so close to his.

 
          
Her
smile was like a razor, her voice like a whip. “If I were to make a list of all
the things that I hate in a man, every single characteristic you possess would
be on that list.”

 
          
“I
have no doubt,” he said, raising his gaze to catch hers. Holding them both
captive for a long, hot breath. “But that doesn’t change the fact you want me
inside of you. Right now. All night. Until you can’t stand the pleasure any
longer.”

 
          
He
saw her silent gasp as her breath fled her, saw the color flood her face, but
most of all he saw the heat in her deep brown eyes. The carnal wonder. The
need.

 
          
His,
he thought. She was his.

 
          
“Your
conceit is rivaled only by how deeply you are mistaken,” she managed to say,
but her voice was no more than a thread of sound, and her eyes were too wide.

 
          
“The
facts remain the same,” he taunted her softly.

 
          
“I
don’t want you,” she said, enunciating every word. But he could see how it cost
her, how she fought for control. “Is that clear enough for you? Is there any
room for error? You bore me.”

 
          
But
she didn’t move away. If anything, she angled her body closer.

 
          
He
looked at her for a long, shimmering moment. The music pounded. The crowd surged.
London sparkled and preened far below them, even as raindrops fell against the
high glass enclosure above.

 
          
But
all Lucas could see was Grace. Maddening, courageous, sharp-mouthed Grace.
His
.

 
          
Then,
never breaking eye contact, he reached over and gently pressed his fingers
against the delicate hollow of her neck. Where her skin was soft like satin and
hot to the touch.

 
          
Where
her pulse thumped out hard and then went wild beneath his hand.

 
          
“Liar,”
he whispered. Then he closed the distance between them and took her mouth with
his.

 
          
MOST
first kisses were gentle, sweet. Lucas was neither.

 
          
He
simply took her mouth with no hesitation—as if it was his, as if
she
was his, as if that devastating
possession was his right.

 
          
It
was like a bomb detonated inside of her, exploding through her limbs, white-hot
fire and spiraling need combusting again and again and again, leaving her weak.
Wanting. Her breasts ached. Her nipples hardened. Her core melted. And still he
kissed her, taking her mouth with an easy command that made her tremble against
him.

 
          
He
kissed with a carnal demand, a sheer, arrogant certainty, that shook Grace
almost as much as the feel of his mouth on hers.

 
          
Hot.
Commanding. As if her entire life had led inexorably to this moment, to the
incomparable feel of his lips against hers, sending desire swimming through her
veins like alcohol and rendering her incapable of doing anything more than
kissing him back.

 
          
As
if she had never done anything else. As if she would die if she did not.

 
          
She
raised a hand, and then forgot why as it found the rock-hard planes of his
chest, the hint of stubble on his lean jaw, each new sensation igniting a flood
of desire, each stronger and more thrilling than the last.

 
          
She
… forgot. Where they were. Why she was angry with him. Why she should not allow
him to angle his mouth over hers with such skill and talent, nor rake a hand
into her hair to anchor her head in place as he tasted her again and again and
again. Everything that was not Lucas was like smoke, drifting away, signifying
nothing. As if only he existed.

 
          
Without
lifting his mouth from hers, without giving her even a moment to breathe, to
collect herself, Lucas shifted on the small settee, his powerful arms sweeping
Grace up and over him, settling her sideways across his lap. He murmured
something she could not understand, could hardly hear over the pounding of her
heart and the wild rush in her ears, and then he claimed her mouth once more.

 
          
It
was too much. He was everywhere. Hard beneath her thighs, hard against her
body, and that talented, wicked mouth of his that took and took, until she
could not think at all. She could only feel the heat. The fire. The slick fit
and exquisite taste of him, expensive liquor mixed with that part that was
purely him. Pure Lucas. Sinful and delicious and capable of making her head
spin around and around while the very core of her pulsed with need.

 
          
One
of his hands remained laced in her hair, and on some dim level she was aware
that he was destroying her careful twist. The pins scattered at his impatient
touch and the heavy, wild curtain of her blond waves cascaded down around them,
shielding them, cocooning them. She could not find it in her to care. His other
hand stroked a lazy path from her cheek to her neck, down the stretch of her
bare arm to settle at her hip, his big hand holding her fast on one side with
his arousal stark and unmistakable on the other.

 
          
Grace’s
hands went to his strong, sculpted shoulders and were lost, unable to keep from
testing the stark physical power he held leashed there—the fine, chiseled lines
of his lean and muscular form. Once again, her hand crept to his cheek as if
she could hold him, understand him, make sense of him that way. As if she could
keep him there, kissing her as if he was starved for her, kissing him back as
if she had never been kissed before, as if he had switched a light on inside of
her and she could only glow. And glow.