Shameless Playboy (2 page)

 
          
However,
all his sexiness and charm had not prevented Samantha Cartwright’s husband from
expressing his displeasure at finding Lucas secluded with his wife sometime
later—all over Lucas’s pretty face.

 
          
The
fact that she, personally, had had a strange moment, a near-interaction with
this man, did not signify. He clearly could not recall it and she—well, if her
sleep had been disrupted last night, what did that matter? It could as easily
have been the espresso she should have known better than to order after dinner.
It had to have been.

 
          
“I
believe I saw you last night at the Cartwright show,” she said now, and felt
gratified when he blinked, as if not expecting that response. Grace smiled,
razor sharp, and let her dislike for him—for all men like him, so careless and
callous—flood through her. “Though I cannot imagine you remember it.”

 
          
“I
have an excellent memory,” Lucas replied, his voice silky, and she had to admit
that it got to her. It should not have affected her at all, the lazy caress of
it, like bourbon and sin, but it did. The man was lethal, and she wanted
nothing to do with him.

 
          
“As
do I, Mr. Wolfe,” she said crisply. “Which is how I know that we do not have an
appointment today. Perhaps I can direct you …?”

 
          
She
let her words trail off, and waved her hand in the general direction of the
door and the offices beyond. But Lucas Wolfe did not move. He only watched her
for a moment. His battered, sexy mouth curved slightly.

 
          
“You
knew who I was the moment you saw me.” He looked amused. Triumphant. She could
not have said why that seemed to claw at her.

 
          
“I
imagine every single person in England knows who you are,” she replied briskly.
She let her brows arch, hinting at disdain. “One assumes that must be your
intention, after so many scandals, all of which are dutifully reported in the
papers.”

 
          
“And
yet, you are not English,” he said, shifting his body, making Grace suddenly,
foolishly glad that her desk stood between them.

 
          
She
was abruptly aware of how powerful he was, how well-tuned and whipcord tough
his body was, for all he kept it concealed behind a lazy smile, calculating
eyes and sophisticated clothes. Leashed and hidden, though the truth of it
lurked beneath the surface. As if his playboy persona was a mask he wore … but
that was ridiculous.

 
          
“You
are American, are you not?” His head tilted slightly to one side, though his
gaze never left hers. “Southern, if I am not mistaken.”

 
          
“I
cannot imagine why it should be relevant, but I am originally from Texas,”
Grace said, in quelling tones. She did not speak about her past. She did not
speak about her private life at all, come to that—never at work, and certainly
not with perfect strangers. The origin of the accent she’d worked so hard to
minimize was about as far as she was willing to take this conversation. “But if
you will tell me why you are here, I can find a more appropriate—”

 
          
“Exactly
what did you see me doing last night?” he asked, interrupting her again, his
gaze amused, his grin widening. “Did I do it to you?” His gaze warmed, became
more suggestive. “Do you wish that I had?”

 
          
“I
hardly think you would have had the time,” Grace said with a short laugh, but
then his eyes gleamed and she recollected herself.

 
          
She
had not worked as hard as she had, nor overcome so much, to ruin it all over
someone like this. She didn’t know why Lucas Wolfe, of all people, should get
under her skin in the first place. Grace had been working in events management
since college, and she had seen her fair share of huge personalities, the very
rich and the wished-to-be-famous, and everything in between. Why was this man
the first to threaten her renowned calm?

 
          
Lucas
only gazed at her, his green eyes mild, though Grace could not quite believe
what she saw there. She had the sense, again, that it was all a mask—the
shocking masculine beauty, the roguish appeal, the sexy swagger—and that
beneath it lurked something far shrewder. But where did such an idea come from?
She dismissed it, impatient with herself.

 
          
“If
you will excuse me,” she said, her voice perfectly calm, betraying none of her
strange internal struggle, “I really must return to my work.”

 
          
“But
that’s why I’m here,” he said, an unholy glee lighting up those marvelous green
eyes. His mouth pulled into a smirk, and he shifted again, as if bracing
himself for a blow—a blow he was fully prepared to handle, his body language
assured her.

 
          
A
prickle ran through the fine hairs at the back of her neck, making her hands
itch to smooth her sleek, understated chignon and make sure it continued to
tame her wild blond hair into something appropriate for her position. Making
her want to remove herself until she had reverted to the ice queen norm that
had saved her time and again, and until she’d gotten the best of this baffling
heat he seemed to generate in her.

 
          
“What
do you mean?” she asked, hoping she sounded cold instead of anxious. Stern
instead of thrown.

 
          
She
was resolved to fire whichever member of her staff had let this man in here to
unsettle her like this when all of her focus needed to be on the relaunch. Yet
even as she thought it, she knew that no one who worked at Hartington’s could
possibly deny this man anything—he was a Wolfe. More than that, he was
Lucas Wolfe
, the most irresistible of
his whole compelling, colorful family.

 
          
Even
she could feel that pull, that attraction—she who had long considered herself
terminally allergic to men of his ilk.

 
          
“I
am the new public face of Hartington’s, like my dearly departed father before
me,” he drawled, his green eyes sharp and mocking, as if he knew exactly what
she was thinking. “Just in time for the centenary relaunch.”

 
          
He
smiled then, that famous, devastating smile that Grace discovered could light a
fire within her even when she knew he must practice it in his own mirror.

 
          
“I
beg your pardon?” she asked, desperately, though she already knew. She could
not seem to believe it, to accept it, and her stomach twisted in protest, but
she knew.

 
          
That
smile of his deepened, showing off the indentation in his jaw that had been
known to cause hysteria when he flashed it about like the deadly weapon it was.
The smile that had catapulted him into the hearts and fantasies of so many
people the world over. The smile that drove so many women to distraction and
regrettable decisions.

 
          
But not me
, she told herself
desperately.
Never me!

 
          
“I
believe we’ll be working together,” he confirmed, smiling as if he knew better.
As if he knew
her
better than she
could ever hope to know herself. As if he had that power already, had claimed
it and who knew what else along with it. “I do so hope you’re the hands-on sort
of colleague,” he continued, in a voice that should have infuriated her and
instead made her feel weak. Susceptible. His smile deepened like he knew that,
too. “I know I am.”

 
          
SHE
looked appalled, which was not a reaction Lucas often inspired in women. Not
even in starchy, standoffish females like this one, not that he met a great
many of that breed in the course of his usual pursuits.

 
          
“Working
together?” she echoed, sounding as if he’d suggested something unduly perverse.
“Here?”

 
          
“That’s
the idea,” he said, smiling wider. “Unless, of course, you can think of a
better way to pass the time in this dreary office.”

 
          
Normally,
even the most constitutionally unimpressed—librarians and nuns and the like—melted
at the very hint of his smile. He had been wielding it as the foremost weapon
in his arsenal since he was still a child. It had felled entire battalions of
females across the globe. It was, in his practiced opinion, even more
devastating than that of his younger brother Nathaniel, who was currently up
for a Best Actor Sapphire Screen Award and whose inferior smile could be seen
via every press outlet on the planet. Lucas was not entirely certain why Grace
Carter, prim events manager for bloody Hartington’s, should be immune when
legions before her had dissolved at the merest sight of it.

 
          
In
point of fact, she scowled.

 
          
“I
certainly cannot,” she said, judgmental and starched stiff and horrified. “And
I’ll thank you to keep your suggestive comments to yourself, Mr. Wolfe.”

 
          
“How?”
he asked with idle curiosity, shifting toward her and watching her tense in
reaction.

 
          
“How
…?” she repeated icily. “By exercising restraint, assuming you are capable of
such a thing.”

 
          
“How
will you thank me?” he asked, enjoying the flash of something darker than
temper in her eyes, despite himself. “I am quite easily bored, you understand,
and therefore only accept the most shocking and ingenious displays of gratitude
these days. It’s my personal policy. One must have standards.”

 
          
“How
interesting,” she said smoothly. Too politely. “I was under the distinct
impression that your standards were significantly more lax.”

 
          
“A
common misconception,” Lucas replied easily. “I am not so much lax as laissez-faire.”

 
          
“If
by that you mean
licentious
,” she
retorted.

 
          
Her
gaze flicked over his battered face. Her distracting Southern drawl went
suspiciously sweet. “I certainly hope you won’t be left with any unsightly
scars.”

 
          
“On
my famously beautiful face?” Lucas asked, affecting astonishment with a small
tinge of horror. “Certainly not. And there are always surgeons should nature
prove unequal to the task.”

 
          
Not
that a surgeon would be much help with his other, less visible scars, he
thought darkly. Lucas had not been particularly bothered by the appearance of
Samantha Cartwright’s movie-producer husband at a delicate moment the night
before. It took more than a few punches to impress him, and in any case, it was
only sporting to let a wronged husband express his ill will. There was nothing
about the situation that should have distinguished the night from any other
night, bruises included.

 
          
Except
that, upon leaving the hotel, Lucas had not ordered the waiting car to take him
to his soulless flat high above the Thames in South Bank. Instead, responding
to an urge he had no interest at all in naming, he had ordered it to take him
out into the wilds of Buckinghamshire to Wolfe Manor, the abandoned familial
pile of stone and bad memories he had assiduously avoided since he’d left the
place at eighteen.

 
          
He’d
heard a rumor that his prodigal older brother, Jacob, had returned after
disappearing some twenty years before and Lucas, with the typical measure of
cockiness brought on by the liberal application of too many spirits, had
decided this particular drunken dawn was high time to test the truth of that
story.

 
          
But
Lucas did not want to think about that. Not about Jacob himself, not about why
Jacob had disappeared, nor why he had returned and certainly not about what
Jacob had said to him that had spurred Lucas into a series of unlikely actions
culminating in his arrival in this office. And so, as he had done with great
determination and skill since he was young, he focused on the woman in front of
him instead.