Shameless Playboy (18 page)

 
          
“I
think,” she said, very quietly, unable to look away from him, unable to hide
herself as she should, as she’d meant to do, because something about the way he
was talking made her think he was grieving and she could not ignore that, she
simply could not, “that your looks are quite probably the least interesting
thing about you.”

 
          
“Grace—”

 
          
He
bit out her name, but she could not stop. She lifted her chin and did not so
much as blink as she gazed at him. As she
saw
him.

 
          
“I
think that you could teach lessons on how to hide in plain sight,” she said. “That
you do it all the time. That you are doing it even now.”

 
          
THE
following afternoon, Grace forced herself to unpack her things from her
suitcase and put them away in the wardrobe of her cozy room at the Pig’s Head,
the only inn and tavern in the quaint little village of Wolfestone—just down
the road from Wolfe Manor. The honey-colored beams above her head and the
cheerful fireplace in the corner should have made her feel relaxed, as if she
was on holiday, but she could not seem to keep the wild tension swirling inside
of her at bay.

 
          
In
fact, she was not sure she’d breathed fully since that stark, upsetting scene
in Lucas’s office. She did not know what might have happened had they not been
interrupted by Charles Winthrop’s pursed-mouthed secretary, who had taken no
notice at all of the crackling tension in the room and had invited Lucas to
visit Mr. Winthrop at once.

 
          
It
was only after he’d left that she had retrieved the photographs from his waste
basket, because she could not leave them lying around, and certainly not in his
office. She had shredded them with great relish in her own office, shoved the
past back down into the vault where it belonged and told herself she’d had a
lucky escape.

 
          
But
somehow, she did not feel lucky at all.

 
          
She
should be jubilant, she told herself now and not for the first time, that they
had been stopped before they could go any further along that road of personal
revelation. She had a feeling that they had hovered perilously close to a great
disaster, and disaster was something she could not afford with the gala so
close. It had been a relief to depart for Wolfestone this morning, knowing that
this last stretch of time before the party was crucial—and that living immersed
in the venue and on hand to deal with the inevitable issues that would crop up
was necessary.

 
          
Necessary
and convenient, Grace acknowledged ruefully. There would be little time to deal
with the mysteries of Lucas Wolfe. Much less her own confusion regarding her
reaction to him. So far she had discovered that she could neither keep her
hands off Lucas nor her mouth shut around him. Even his own behavior failed to
give her pause. What was next? She shuddered to think.

 
          
There
was a sharp knock at her door, and she walked over to wrench it open. A jolt of
awareness shot through her when she found Lucas himself standing there, as if
she’d summoned him.

 
          
Were
they both thinking about those photographs? Grace wet, wild, debauched? She
swallowed with some difficulty and felt herself flush.

 
          
Lucas
smiled.

 
          
Up
close, all hints of the tortured, wrecked man she’d seen the day before were
gone. He lounged in the doorway as if he was the local gentry—which, of course,
she reminded herself, he was. His wicked mouth crooked invitingly, making his
lean and clever face seem positively sinful. One arm was propped up over his
head against the doorjamb. His dark hair was artfully tousled, as if he’d just
woken from a nap or had raked his fingers through the mess of it. Repeatedly.
He was wearing a soft-looking shirt in bright blue that clung like a lover to
the planes of his hard chest, thrown carelessly over a pair of denim trousers
that fit him like paint, and Grace could not pretend to herself that he was
anything but the most gorgeous man she’d ever beheld. He made her mouth run
dry.

 
          
Or
maybe that was her fear about what might happen next.

 
          
“Invite
me in.” The crack of command in his voice dragged her attention to his eyes,
which were far darker and ripe with the tension between them than the rest of
him let on.

 
          
She
was doomed.

 
          
“Why
would I do that?” she managed to ask crisply, as if she was affected neither by
his stark male beauty nor the darker truths she could see move through his gaze.
“Do you plan to suck my blood?”

 
          
“Is
that a request?” he replied, but his customary easy charm was gone. She sensed
it before she under stood it—a whisper of trepidation that danced across her
skin, snuck down her spine.
Something is
different
, a small voice whispered in alarm. He seemed edgier. More
dangerous. Less controlled. She remembered that dark fury she’d sensed in him
the first morning he’d walked into her office.
Everything has changed
, she thought. But she cast it aside.

 
          
If
she pretended she didn’t notice that the balance had shifted between them, that
every breath and every moment seemed taut and terrifying and much too unwieldy
to be borne, would that make it so?

 
          
“I
had to see it for myself,” he drawled, his eyes like green fire as they
traveled over her, making her feel scorched. Making her
want
. Making the air seem to hum with everything that had changed,
everything that was new and dangerous. “Up close.”

 
          
“I
have no idea what you’re talking about,” Grace managed to say over the catch in
her throat. She left him standing in the doorway, because it was that or risk
much more than she dared, and moved back over to the bed as if she meant to
finish unpacking. But she was aware only of Lucas.

 
          
“You
do.” He stepped inside the room and let the door swing shut behind him, which
was not at all what she had planned. She jumped slightly and then turned to
face him, her stomach dropping. The room seemed much smaller, suddenly,
constricting around her. Trapping her—and yet she couldn’t bring herself to
run.

 
          
Worse,
she did not want to run.

 
          
She
meant to speak, to deny him again, to keep up the civil, professional pretense—but
she couldn’t seem to do it. It was the hungry look in his eyes as he moved
closer, lean and big and more commanding than he should have been. More
intense. More compelling. She could not tear her gaze away from him. It was as
if, having seen a glimpse of what was behind the mask he wore, she could not
see that mask any longer. She saw the man. Electric and consuming, and so much
more real than he had seemed before—more real than was at all healthy for
Grace. Her heart began to beat low and deep, the pace quickening—becoming ever
wilder, more frenetic—the closer he came.

 
          
“I
had no idea you even owned a piece of clothing that was not strictly stodgy and
office appropriate,” Lucas continued, that mocking note in his voice, the one
that suggested he was being playful when she could all but
see
the tension shimmer through every tendon, every bone of his
lean body. “Other than that one red dress.”

 
          
“There
is nothing in the least bit outrageous, or even interesting, in anything I’m
wearing,” she said, trying to sound authoritative. In control. She had chosen
the crisp denim jeans and smart black cashmere sweater deliberately, knowing
that while her team might choose to dress more casually while away from the
conservative head office, she could only allow herself to unwind so far. Her
version of
casual
involved dry
cleaning and clothes she would be comfortable wearing to business meetings with
her superiors.

 
          
Was
she really thinking about her clothes? With this man so near? So unpredictable?
Did she think that would work?

 
          
He
ignored her, and prowled closer, peering at the clothes stacked in her open
suitcase and beside it on the thick white duvet. Grace felt frozen in place.
She did not dare to move. He was much too close, so close she could smell him,
heat and man and something expensively spicy. So close she could seem to do
nothing at all but think of how his mouth had fit against hers—how demanding,
how sure. Or recall how warm his skin was to the touch, or think about how she
felt so shivery now, so hot and cold.

 
          
And
he knew everything. There were no secrets.

 
          
Why
should that make her feel even weaker? Even more aroused?

 
          
He
leaned back against the bed, far too close to where she stood, crossing his
long legs at the ankle and tucking his hands into the pockets of his jeans. His
green eyes were hooded as he gazed at her for a long, hot moment while Grace
could do nothing but panic. Her heart sped up and her pulse pounded. Her eyes
seemed to glaze over with heat, while her mouth stayed far too dry. The very
air in the room seemed to crackle.

 
          
“Will
we talk about it?” he asked, that dark edge to his voice, as if he fought the same
demons that Grace did. “Or will we continue this game of cat and mouse until we
end up in bed? I love to verbally spar with you, Grace, do not doubt it. And I
intend to take you to my bed. But I rather think there is more to this than
that.”

 
          
“More?”
She did not
quite
stammer. Not quite,
though her voice went up an octave or two, and she flushed.

 
          
“I
am afraid you’ve seen behind the curtain,” he said in a low voice, with that
odd, stirring current beneath. The corner of his mouth flirted with a smile,
though his gaze was far too direct, too disconcerting. Too dark. Was this the
real Lucas? The man behind the mask? Because Grace knew, beyond a shadow of a
doubt, that he was not joking. Not this time. “There are penalties for that.
Taxes that must be levied. Those are the rules.”

 
          
She
could not breathe. She moistened her lips and then clenched against a shocking
flood of heat when his gaze dropped to her mouth and a stark, purely sexual
hunger cast his face into wickedness. The kind of wickedness she wanted to
taste, despite everything.

 
          
“I
came to find you yesterday, after meeting with Charlie Winthrop,” he said,
coiled there, just out of reach, about to pounce. And still, Grace could not
bring herself to move away as she knew she should. His head tilted slightly to
the side, his gaze measuring her. “But you’d gone.”

 
          
“I
had a meeting,” she said faintly. An electric current was buzzing through her,
skimming along her skin, burning through her veins. She felt almost
light-headed. Almost dizzy.

 
          
“I
do not understand this,” he said in the same quiet, serious tone he’d used
yesterday. The same stark, brutal honesty. The same directness, with the same
undercurrent of something like despair. The room seemed to contract, trapping
them both in the same tight, bright grip. “I do not understand why I feel
compelled to tell you things I normally do not speak of to anyone. I do not
understand why I cannot stop thinking about you. I can’t seem to stay away from
you.” His smile turned wry. “And the truth is, I do not want to.”

 
          
“You
must,” she said, but her voice was insubstantial, the barest breath, and he
ignored it, anyway.

 
          
“I
have never been very good at doing what I must,” he said, a hard amusement
flashing through those smoky green eyes. “It is among my many and varied
character flaws.”

 
          
Grace
did not want this. She could not want this—it was too much.
He
was too much. She felt as if the
world shook, as if she shook with it, though nothing moved.

 
          
“I
am not interested in your flaws, many though they may be,” she said, fighting
desperately to return to familiar ground.
She
could not do this
. “We have a job to do. Nothing more.”