Shameless Playboy (27 page)

 
          
“How
can you possibly care about that now?” he asked in the same tight voice, as if
he fought to keep himself under control.

 
          
She
should have left ages ago. Why was she still here? Had she lingered
deliberately, hoping for exactly this? His reappearance? What did she imagine
would come of this? She had told him she loved him, and he had walked away.
What more was there to say?

 
          
She
wished there really were rocks strewn in front of her, so she could knock
herself oblivious upon them. It could only be an improvement on the agony she
felt coursing through her, making her feel weak. Making her want to be the kind
of woman who begged. But she was not. She could not allow herself to be, not
even for him. Not even now.

 
          
“I
must pack,” she said in a low voice, not daring to look at him as she jabbed at
her eyes with the backs of her hands. She already felt too much. And she had already
shown him too much, left herself too vulnerable. She was afraid there was
nothing left. “And you must go back to that party. They need you.”

 
          
“I
am sure they do,” he said, in a voice she did not recognize. Uneven. Rough. “But
what about what I need?”

 
          
She
jerked her eyes to his, and caught her breath, not at all sure she recognized
the Lucas who stood before her, his fists clenched and his green eyes so bright
with emotion.

 
          
Out of control
, she thought, in a kind
of wonder.

 
          
“Are
you all right?” she asked, frowning.

 
          
He
moved farther into the room, his big, lean body more tense than she had ever
seen it, his beautiful face in an uncharacteristic scowl.

 
          
It
occurred to her that she had never seen him like this. That this was, finally,
the maskless, artifice-free Lucas Wolfe, all rampaging emotion and driving need—and
he was in a towering rage.

 
          
She
should not find that exhilarating. She should not allow that to let her …
wish
.

 
          
“All
right?” he asked, his tone murderous. He shook his head as if he could not
understand her, and crossed the room until he was right in front of her, inches
away, and still scowling. “I cannot live without you, you idiotic woman! How
could anything ever be all right again?”

 
          
“THAT’S
lovely,” Grace replied, stung, her eyes heavy with tears yet again. “Poetic,
really. Thank you.”

 
          
“Is
this what you wanted?” he continued as if she hadn’t spoken, in the same thick,
rough voice, the volume increasing even as Grace stared up at him. “Did you do
this deliberately?”

 
          
“Did
I …?” She shook her head, fighting back the tears, wanting to reach over and
shove him away from her—but too afraid that if she touched him, it would be to
drag him closer. “What are you talking about?”

 
          
“What
am I supposed to do now, Grace?” he demanded, outraged. “How am I supposed to
carry on with my life? Have you ever thought of that?”

 
          
She
felt her own temper kick in, the one that urged her to wreck things, punch
things, cause damage and destroy her own property. The one she usually tamped
down. It was better than the tears. Anything was better than the tears.

 
          
“I’ve
been a little bit busy today, Lucas,” she threw at him, suddenly, deeply
furious. “There was the invasive tabloid article, complete with photographs,
and the gala I still had to prepare for while awaiting my boss’s arrival. Then
I was summarily fired because of my whorish behavior. So, no—I’m afraid I have
not spent a lot of time wondering what
you
might do with your life. I’m a bit preoccupied with my own!”

 
          
“You
can’t just
do
this!” he cried wildly,
throwing his hands out as if she’d wrecked him, somehow. As if he, the man who
defined
ease
, was at a loss. He moved
closer, to glare down at her. “You can’t show up in my perfectly constructed
life, turn it inside out and then vanish into the night! Were you even planning
to tell me what had happened? That you were leaving?”

 
          
“Was
I supposed to?” she demanded, fire and anguish twining inside of her, making
her stomach tense—as powerful as the urge to reach over and touch him. Hit him.
Caress him. She could not tell. “Before or after you stormed off and left me
standing on that staircase? I told you that I loved you, Lucas, and you ran
away.”

 
          
“I
had to think!” he shouted, completely unhinged, and Grace stopped breathing.

 
          
Lucas
Wolfe … yelling? Truly out of control? Was this really happening? This was
Lucas stripped down, laid bare, she realized. This was no more and no less than
… a man. Not the legend. Not a collection of pretty words and practiced smiles,
one for every occasion, whatever the situation called for. This was just a man.

 
          
An
angry, emotional man.

 
          
Mine
, a small voice whispered,
reigniting that flame of hope she’d thought he’d extinguished when he’d walked
away from her.

 
          
“I
had to think,” he repeated, his breath coming fast, his eyes hard on hers.
Almost desperate. “Because I need you, and I have never needed anyone. Ever. It
is not an easy thing, to change the habits of a lifetime—”

 
          
“Because,
of course, it was so easy for me,” she interrupted, feeling unhinged herself,
as if the world was starting to spin, around and around, drunk and erratic.

 
          
“I
am not a good bet,” he threw at her, almost snapping out the words. “Quite the
opposite, especially for someone who has achieved all that you have achieved,
and all on your own. I have actively discouraged anything so much as
masquerading as a commitment—even a second night in my company. I have never
known any other way to be.”

 
          
“If
that is your résumé, it leaves something to be desired,” she said, trying to
sound fierce, tough, though she could hear the shake in her voice. The quake.
And everything that was not Lucas tilted and whirled—or perhaps that was only
her stomach.

 
          
He
considered her then, seeming to take in her wet eyes, the slight tremor that
shook through her, for the first time since entering the room.

 
          
“I
may crash and burn at any moment,” he said, his voice softer, though not
necessarily calmer. “There is nothing to suggest that I am not exactly the
waste of space everyone believes me to be. Everyone including me.” His green
eyes searched hers. “Everyone save you.”

 
          
She
was afraid to breathe. Afraid to move. Afraid that she was imagining this wild,
electric moment.

 
          
“Are
you?” she asked softly.

 
          
He
let out a breath that was very nearly a laugh, and suddenly his nearness was
overwhelming. She wanted to touch him more than she wanted anything else,
wanted to burrow into him and hold him, even if it was to her own detriment.
Even if it ruined her more than it already had. She did not care what that said
about her, what that made her. A broken ship against the rocks. Her mother.
None of that seemed to matter.

 
          
The
closer he was, the more she felt free.

 
          
“No
one else has ever seen beneath the surface,” he said, his voice low, intense. “But
you—you saw through me from the start.” He reached over, taking her shoulders
in his hands and bringing her flush against him. “If you give me a year, Grace,
I will give you everything I have. I cannot promise it will be much, but it’s
yours.”

 
          
She
tilted her head back, and saw the warring emotion in his smoky green eyes, the
fear and the hope. And something unfurled inside of her then, something strong
and hard. Something right and true. Undeniable.

 
          
Because
she could recognize truth when she saw it, when he shared it. When he offered
her what she had given him earlier today, no matter what words he used.

 
          
The
only words he knew, she thought. The only words he could.

 
          
“Are
you offering me a test run?” she asked, over the sudden lump in her throat. “A
year to see if you can work out all the kinks?”

 
          
“I
could tell you that I love you,” he said in a low, intense voice, his eyes
fixed to hers. “And it might even be true. I believe it is. But what does the
word even mean to one such as me? What context do I have for it?” He leaned
close, placed his forehead against hers, as if he needed her to help him stand.
Grace felt herself shake against him, into him. With him. “I know that I should
let you go—it’s the only thing I’ve ever been any good at—and instead I am here,
making promises I have no idea at all if I can keep.”

 
          
“Qualified
promises,” Grace pointed out, emotion tangling in her throat, in her voice. “What
every girl dreams of, I’m sure.”

 
          
He
let out a breath, and ran his hands up and down her arms, in an easy rhythm,
building heat, spreading fire.

 
          
“My
brother Nathaniel is getting married to his Katie next month,” he said. “Will
you come with me?”

 
          
She
laughed then, unexpectedly, the tears spilling over, and she didn’t care.

 
          
“Have
we downgraded from a year to a month?” she asked, sneaking her arms around his
narrow waist. “How much testing do you think you require?”

 
          
“I
don’t know who I am!” The words seemed almost torn from him. He pulled back and
stared down at her. “Don’t you understand? I want to give you the world, Grace,
but I have no idea how to do it.”

 
          
“I
do not want the world,” she said simply, sliding her hands up to hold his
beautiful face between them. “I can get that for myself, if I wish it. I only
want you.”

 
          
“I
am yours,” he said, his words ringing through her, around her, with the force
of a vow. “In every way.”

 
          
“Then
what else do we need?” she asked, and pressed her mouth to his.

 
          
Fire
and wine. Lucas’s wicked mouth, and her own needy little moan. He pulled back,
his eyes dark with passion and something else, something she knew might take
him some time to accept as truth. To truly believe.

 
          
But
she was more than happy to wait.

 
          
“A
date,” he said, tilting his head back, his mouth crooking up in the corner. “I
need a date to the gala. And you no longer work for these people, Grace, so
really, no more of these appalling suits. I cannot bear it.”

 
          
She
did not ask how he managed to produce a midnight-blue gown from nowhere, one
that clung to her breasts like a lover and then swept all the way to the floor,
fitting her perfectly. And she did not argue when he only looked at her when
she emerged from the en suite bathroom, her hair in a French twist, and ordered
her, in that dark, demanding voice, to take it down.

 
          
“Enough
hiding,” he said, and then held out his hand. And this time, she took it
without hesitation.

 
          
She
walked into the gala she had planned for so many months with her head held
high, her hair swirling around her shoulders, no longer pretending to be
anything but what she was. A woman. A competent and confident woman who did not
need to hide any part of herself away, no matter what Charles Winthrop might
think.