Not For Sale (11 page)

She turned back to the closet, added two pairs of shoes and a purse to the small stack of items she’d put on the bed.

What else?

Some of her textbooks. Her laptop computer. A stack of printed notes. She put them all into a backpack, stuffed the clothes, shoes and purse into a canvas messenger bag, took a last look around and swung toward Lucas.

“There,” she said, “that’ll…” The look on his face silenced her. He was looking around him as if he’d never seen a place so small, so pitiful before. And, yes, it was both those things, but it was honest, it was hers, she had paid for it all, and she wasn’t in anyone’s debt.

“Is there a problem?”

She’d meant to sound coolly amused. Instead, she sounded just plain cool.

He looked at her.

“You should not have to live like this,” he said gruffly.

Caroline folded her arms. “Not everyone can live in the sky.”

“In the…? My condo, you mean.”

“Yes. I know it must come as a terrible surprise but in the real world—”

“Don’t take that tone with me!”

“I’ll take any tone I like! As I said, in the real world—”

“I know all about the real world, damnit!” He was on her in two strides, clasping her elbows, lifting her to her toes, his
head lowered so their eyes were on the same level. “Do you think I was born, as you put it, in the sky?”

“Let go of me.”

“Answer the question. Do you think I was always rich?” His mouth twisted. “Do you know what a
favela
is?”

She stared at him. “I’ve heard the word. It’s a—a Brazilian slum.”

Lucas gave a bitter laugh. “A slum is much higher on the socio-economic ladder,
querida.”

He was upset. Very upset. Caroline’s anger faded.

“Lucas. I didn’t mean to pry.”

“I was born in a shack with a tin roof. A couple of years later, things got really bad and we traded that for what was, basically, a cardboard box in an alley.”

Her eyebrows rose. Was it in shock at what he was saying, or because his tone was curt? And why was he telling her this? No one knew his story. It wasn’t that he was ashamed of it.

Not exactly.

It was just that it wasn’t pretty. The poverty. The abandonment by his mother. The foster homes.

The thefts. The pockets he’d picked. Ugly and, yes, he was ashamed. Besides, his personal life was his; he saw no reason to share it with anyone else.

And yet—and yet—

For the first time ever, he felt the temptation to tell someone who he was. Who he really was. People knew him as he presented himself, a man rich almost beyond comprehension, in full command of his own life and, though it was a daunting realization, in command of the lives of others, as well.

But sometimes, in the deepest part of the night, he wondered how people would view him if they knew that he had become that man after a beginning a caseworker in the first shelter that had taken him in had called “humble” when the truth was, his beginnings had not been humble but squalid.

How would Caroline see him if she knew all the details? What would she think of him? Was the Lucas Vieira she cared for rich and powerful, or was he simply a man?

And what in hell was he doing, thinking any of this? What was he doing, thinking Caroline cared for him? She liked him, yes. She was grateful to him for what he had done yesterday. And she liked having sex with him, or she seemed to, unless that was all an act, unless it was yet another part of the game they’d played from that first night.

“Lucas?”

He blinked and looked at her.

“You don’t know me, Caroline. You don’t know a damned thing about me.”

“No.” Her voice was low. She reached up, lay her palm against his jaw. “I don’t. The truth is, we don’t know anything about each other.”

For an instant, the tension in him had eased. Now, she felt it return.

“You’re right,” he said. “For instance, I don’t understand why you live in a place like this.”

Caroline snatched back her hand. “Because it’s what I can afford on a TA’s salary. On a waitress’s tips. For a man who claims he grew up in poverty, you don’t understand much.”

Lucas’s hands tightened on her.

“Is that all you do? Teach? Wait on tables?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I gave you a thousand dollars.”

A flush rose in her face. “You mean, you paid me a thousand dollars for a night’s work.”

His jaw tightened. “Indeed.”

“And, what? That gives you the right to ask what I did with it?”

It didn’t. He knew that. He knew he was on the verge of saying something he would regret but he had questions,
endless questions. Yesterday, he’d been so fixed on the danger of where Caroline lived, on what had almost happened to her, that he hadn’t thought of anything else.

Now, he saw the real poverty of her furnishings. The drabness of her clothes.

What did she do with the money she earned selling herself?
If
she sold herself. He had to keep that “if” in mind.

“Lucas.”

Dani Sinclair’s fee for a night was many times what he had paid Caroline. Caroline’s should have been twenty times more than that.

She was everything a man could want, in bed and out. Warm and sweet and funny. Giving and loving and exciting.

The way she laughed at his jokes. Complimented his cooking. Sighed in his arms and gave herself so completely when they made love. Even her devotion to The Cat from Hell, to that pathetic fern…

How could she be a woman who sold herself? How could she give herself to anyone but him? And that was what this was all about. That he wanted her to give herself only to him…

“Lucas. You’re hurting me!”

He looked at his hands, gripping her shoulders so hard that he could feel each finger digging into her flesh.

Deus,
he was losing his mind!

Carefully, he let go of her. She started to step back and he shook his head, lightly clasped her wrists and drew her to him.

“Caroline.” His voice was low.
“Querida.
Forgive me.”

He could see the shine of tears in her eyes.

“I don’t understand,” she said in a shaky voice. “What is it you want from me?”

He held her gaze for a long minute as he searched for an answer, not only for her but for himself. Then, gently, he ran
his thumb over the curve of her lower lip, bent his head and pressed a kiss to it.

“I want you,” he said softly. “Only you.”

He kissed her. She didn’t respond. He kissed her again, whispered her name. And, finally, Caroline kissed him back.

That was all she wanted. Lucas’s kisses. His arms, holding her to him. Those simple things, and the dizzying realization that something as exhilarating as it was terrifying was happening to her.

That it was happening to—there was no other word for it—to her heart.

W
EDNESDAY
morning, Lucas phoned his office again and told his P.A. that he wouldn’t be coming in.

“Cancel all my appointments, please.”

Was there a split second of hesitancy before she said, “Yes, Mr. Vieira.”

No. Why would there be? They had a pleasant relationship but he was her employer; she never questioned anything he said or did.

But he had never stayed out of the office two days in a row unless it was because he was away on business.

Never, he thought. His behavior was…unusual.

But necessary.

He had things to do. Caroline had mentioned that the semester was over; she had an office at the university.

“Half a closet, actually,” she’d said with a quick smile.

She had to pack her books and files, move them out. She didn’t ask but, of course, he had to help her. He also had to convince her that she couldn’t transport them to her apartment. That was out of the question. He didn’t want her in that place for a second, or taking endless subway trips, her arms loaded with boxes, or climbing the dark stairs to those miserable rooms in that building she had called home.

And he had to find a way to keep her from looking for a place to live.

She talked about that, too. Whenever she did, he changed the subject.

He knew she’d have to go out on her own sooner or later. He wanted that, too. At least, he
didn’t
want the alternative, a woman living with him, sharing his meals, his quiet mornings, his evenings.

His life.

But it was surprisingly pleasant. For now. Pleasant, surely only because it was a new experience, having her clothes in the guest room closet, her makeup, her hairbrush, all her things in the guest bath. Silly, really, because she spent the nights with him.

In his bed. In his arms.

But it couldn’t be a long-term solution.

Of course, it couldn’t.

Not a problem.

He had the Realtor looking for that apartment. Someplace bright and safe. Someplace nearby. And he’d called Saks Fifth Avenue, asked to speak to a personal shopper and been put through to someone who sounded efficient.

“I’ll need clothes for a, uh, a young woman,” he’d said, speaking briskly because he’d suddenly felt foolish.

“Certainly, sir,” the personal shopper replied, as if this kind of thing happened all the time. Maybe it did, but the experience was brand-new for Lucas.

“The lady’s size?”

“She’s a six,” he’d said, because he’d anticipated the question and he’d taken a quick look at the labels in some of Caroline’s things.

“Her height?”

Height. A difficult question.
Tall enough to come up to my heart when she’s barefoot,
he’d almost said, and caught himself just in time.

“Average,” was his answer, even though there was nothing
“average” about his Caroline, but the answer seemed to satisfy the personal shopper.

“And her style, sir.”

“Her style?”

“Yes. Is she into current fashion? Does she like a glamorous look? Has she any favorite designers?”

His Caroline’s style was strictly her own. Easy. Simple. As for designers, from what he could tell, she chose them by price tag.

“She, ah, she prefers a casual look.”

And then he thought of the spectacular outfit she’d worn the night they met—and he thought, too, that of everything he’d seen in the guest room closet when he’d checked her clothing for size, he had not seen anything remotely close to that short, leg-baring dress or the sky-high stilettos.

“But she looks amazing in other things, too,” he’d added. “Silk dresses. Skinny heels. Soft, feminine stuff…”

Deus,
he’d thought, almost groaning with embarrassment.

The shopper had come to his rescue.

“You’ve given me an excellent portrait to work with,” she’d said pleasantly.

Lucas certainly hoped so. Going through this again would be hell.

He told her to charge everything to his black Amex card and to wait for delivery until he called with an address. So that was taken care of. Clothes and, soon, an apartment. He thought about how pleased Caroline would be with those surprises.

She would be pleased, wouldn’t she?

Of course, she would.

But he couldn’t surprise her when it came to packing up her office stuff. Only she’d know what she wanted to take and what she wanted to leave.

He’d considered having his driver take her uptown to the university campus.

Then he thought how much simpler it would be if he did it instead.

He kept a red Ferrari 599 in a garage a few blocks away. He loved the car’s elegant lines and incredible power but he hadn’t had much chance to drive it. Business took up more and more of his life.

This would be a good opportunity to put some mileage on the Ferrari.

All in all, it made sense to take the day off.

They made breakfast together again. He’d decided to give Mrs. Kennelly the week off, with a month’s pay. She deserved it and, yes, if it meant he had his penthouse all to himself, he and Caroline, that he could make love to her wherever, whenever they both wanted, well, that was simply a coincidental benefit.

It was the kind of morning that made June in New York close to perfect, and they took their coffee out to the terrace. Lucas told Caroline the plans he’d made for the day.

She smiled. “It’s a very sweet offer.”

And while he was still wondering when anyone had ever called anything he’d done “sweet,” she added that she didn’t want him to turn his schedule inside out for her.

“I’m not,” he said, with calm self-assurance. “And you’ll be doing me a favor.”

Caroline raised her eyebrows. “I will?”

“The car really needs to be driven. My mechanic says so.”

She looked dubious. No wonder. It was a lie but how could he tell her that turning his schedule inside out seemed far less important than being separated for her, even for a day?

Where had that thought come from? Although,
sim,
it made a kind of sense. Their relationship was so new…

No. It wasn’t a relationship. He didn’t have “relationships.” It was simply—it was just—it was something but he couldn’t manage to call it an “affair,” not with the cool sophistication the term implied.

Caroline lay her hand over his.

“Then, thank you,” she said softly, and he heard himself say, with a roughness that caught him off-guard, that if she really wanted to thank him she could offer him a kiss, just a little kiss, and she laughed and leaned over the table and pressed her lips gently to his and then it was a good thing, a very good thing that Mrs. Kennelly wasn’t there because Lucas got to his feet, swept Caroline into his arms, carried her to a chaise longue and took her under the soft June sky with a ferocity that turned to tenderness with such breathtaking speed that when she reached orgasm, tears glittered in her eyes. And he—

He felt something happen, deep in his heart.

When she began to rise, he shook his head.

“Don’t go,” he said softly, and he held her cradled against him, the warmth of her skin kissing his, the delicate scent of her in his nostrils, and he thought how amazing it was that he was a grown man, that sex—great sex—had been part of his life for years…

But it had never been like this.

They showered and dressed, both of them in jeans and T-shirts, Lucas with a cashmere sweater over his shirt, Caroline with a hoodie over hers.

She looked beautiful and he told her so, and though he knew that nothing could ever improve her beauty because it was already perfect, the silks and cashmeres the personal shopper would provide would be the right touch for her lovely face and feminine curves.

He phoned his garage. The car was ready when they arrived, long and sleek and red, as high-spirited as a race horse.

“Oh,” Caroline said softly, “oh, my! It’s beautiful!”

He grinned. “And fast.”

“I’ll bet. It looks like it’s moving, even standing still. What did you say it was?”

“A Ferrari. A Ferrari 599.”

She wrinkled her brow. “What’s that mean, exactly?”

So he explained. Exactly. The engine specs. The paint. The customization. He explained his car in detail even though he knew, from past experience, that what women wanted to know was if whatever he drove was as expensive as it looked.

But Caroline listened. Asked questions. And once they were moving through the Manhattan streets—slowly, because of traffic, though he could almost feel the car trying to break free—once they were moving, he found himself describing the first car he’d ever owned.

“It was a clunker.”

She laughed. “A clunker, huh?”

“Absolutely. It was older than I was.”

She laughed again. “It’s hard to imagine you driving something like that.”

“Hey, I loved that car. It took me wherever I wanted to go—as long as I pulled over every fifty miles and added a can of oil.”

They both laughed, and Lucas thought how amazing it was that he’d remembered that old car, much less told her the story. He never shared anything from his past with anyone, it just wasn’t what he did, and yet, in a few short days, he’d revealed more about himself to Caroline than he ever had before.

What would she think if she knew his entire story? That his mother had abandoned him. That he’d survived by being a thief and a con artist. That he’d run from the cops. That he’d
grown up in foster homes where sometimes, same as in the streets, nothing mattered but survival.

When he’d first come to the States, tough and street-hardened, unwilling to let anybody or anything get past the barriers he’d built, a well-meaning counselor who treated kids like him told him that he had to accept his past before he could address his future, that pretending bad things had never happened to him was like living a lie…

“But you lied to me, Lucas.”

Shocked, he looked at Caroline. “No,” he said quickly, “never.”

Then the look on her face registered. She was teasing him. The breath eased from his lungs.

“You said you’d help me move my stuff.”

“And I will.”

“Not in this beautiful beast. It’s far too handsome to be filled with boxes. Besides, even if we wanted to, there’s no room.”

Lucas tried for a look of wounded innocence.

“It’s more spacious than you think,
querida.”

She craned her neck and looked at the nonexistent space behind them.

“Uh-huh.”

“It is. You’ll see.”

It wasn’t, but what else could he say? Could he tell her he wanted to share his pleasure in the car with her? That being with her, sharing with her, was what mattered?

“And how are you going to park? Where? You can’t leave this car on the street.”

She was being practical, which was more than he could say of himself. Of course he couldn’t leave the Ferrari on the street.

Well, actually, he could.

He loved the car. Its lines, its grace, its speed. He had
worked long and hard for it. But loving an inanimate object wasn’t the same as loving a woman.

Not that he knew what loving a woman was like, he thought quickly. Not that he ever wanted to know. Love was a fake word, invented by frauds. It was a concept at best, nothing more. He understood that. He had always understood that, at least since his mother had taught it to him that day she’d left him on a street in Copacabana…

“Lucas.” Caroline laughed and poked him with her elbow. “You just drove right past campus.”

He had, indeed. Where was his head? Not on his work, or the appointments he’d canceled, or anything useful.

He frowned.

What in hell was he doing? Behaving like a kid with a crush when he was a man with a multibillion dollar empire to run.

His hands flexed on the steering wheel.

It was still early. Plenty of time to head back downtown, garage the car, arrange for James to shuttle Caroline and her cartons while he changed into a suit, went to his office, got some work done.

“You’re right,” he said. “The car’s too small, and where would I park it in this area?”

She nodded. “That’s what I thought,” she said, in a very soft voice. “This was a lovely idea, but—”

“But completely impractical.” Ahead, the light changed, went from red to green. He’d make a left at the intersection, head back toward Fifth Avenue.

He reached the intersection—and said something under his breath as he wrenched the wheel right, not left, and headed for the Long Island Expressway.

He reached for Caroline’s hand. Her fingers curled tightly with his.

“Forget about packing your things,” he said gruffly. “It’s too nice a day for that.”

“Then, where are we going?”

“I have a house…”

He fell silent. He’d bought his house in the Hamptons a couple of years ago. The towns on the southeastern end of Long Island were charming, the beaches magnificent, and they were within a couple of hours of the city.

The rich and famous kept summer homes there.

That had influenced him, not because he wanted any part of that world but because he’d heard that people in the Hamptons understood the value of privacy.

If you wanted to be left alone, you were. Lucas wanted exactly that. For him, the place would be a retreat. Sand. Sea. The vastness of the blue sky.

It had turned out to be all that.

It was also lonely.

The house was big. The ocean was endless. Without his work to keep him busy, he’d felt unsettled. Maybe that was the reason he’d spent a couple of weekends there with women he’d been seeing at the time.

Two women. Two weekends. And that had been enough.

He’d been foolish to expect that sand and sea and sky were things women would see as entertainment.

Was he about to make the same mistake again? It had been annoying those other times but if Caroline wasn’t happy in his house by the sea…

“A house?” she said. “Where?”

He looked at her. The windows were all open; sunlight glinted on her face and her hair. The moment was so perfect that he wanted to pull to the curb and take her in his arms but in New York traffic, he’d have needed an armored truck, not a Ferrari, to make that happen.