Shameless Playboy (7 page)

 
          
He
could not have said why he wanted so much to believe that. Maybe that was why
he opened his mouth, surprising himself as much as anyone else. More.

 
          
“Exactly
what are you looking for?” he heard himself ask, as if from afar. “In terms of
a location?”

 
          
Her
dark eyes seemed to slam into him. She held his gaze for what seemed too long—and
yet even as she smiled politely at him, he could see the wariness, the
uncertainty, the panic she hid from the rest. It was almost as if he could
feel
it—he, who felt nothing.
Deliberately.

 
          
“It
must be the perfect melding of old and new, to stand as a showcase for
Hartington’s—an updated classic.” She smiled that professional smile, the one
that made him want to lick her until he saw the real one she must have hidden
away in there somewhere. “Do you know anything that fits the bill?”

 
          
“As
a matter of fact,” Lucas said, far too easily, “I do.”

 
          
He
hadn’t known where he was going with this until it fell into his head,
exquisitely formed, the perfect solution. Better by far than the miserable pile
of stones and nightmares and broken childhood dreams deserved.

 
          
“It
must also be suitable for a corporate event, Mr. Wolfe,” Grace said. Her dark
eyes were level on his, her voice perfectly professional. “Not, for example, a
den of iniquity.”

 
          
“Those
are the only dens worth inhabiting,” he replied at once, aware of all the eyes
on him, on them, as if they could see the same sizzle he felt. “I make an
excellent guide to all the local dens of iniquity, in fact. Perhaps we should
take a company field trip.”

 
          
There
was a small titter from the group around him, but Grace, of course, merely
flashed that calm smile.

 
          
“Tempting,”
she said, though it was clear that she was anything but tempted, “and one has
no doubt at all of your expertise—

 
          
“I
should hope not,” he said, his lips curving. “I’m Lucas Wolfe.”

 
          
“—but
I think we’ll have to decline.” Her smile took on that edge. He should not have
found it so fascinating.

 
          
“Never
fear,” he said before she could dismiss him entirely. “I have something far
more boring in mind for your event.”

 
          
“Wonderful,”
Grace said, her brows raised. She did not trust him, of course. Who did? Who
could? He had made certain it was impossible—and so he could not imagine why it
should bother him now. “By all means, let’s hear it.”

 
          
She
thought he was as much of a lost cause as his brother did, he knew. He had gone
out of his way to make sure of it—to make sure he lived down to every single
low expectation others had of him. The “famous Lucas Wolfe” was his own, best
creation, and he’d taken pride in that for years.

 
          
So
there was no reason at all he should want to alter her impressions.

 
          
“What
you need is a place that is intimately connected with Hartington’s, yet adds a
touch of exclusivity, as well. A destination location.” He had no idea what he
was talking about, or why. And yet he could not seem to stop himself. He held
her gaze. Challenge and demand. Mystery. He could not resist it. Her. “How
would Wolfe Manor suit?”

 
          
The
rest of the team exploded into excited noise, but Lucas could only see Grace.
It was worth it, he told himself, to see her stunned expression, to watch her
swiftly reevaluate him in that single split second. The fact that he might be a
touch cocky in proposing this particular solution hardly signified, he told
himself. He could
see
the wheels in
her head turning, the possibilities occurring to her, a new plan taking shape.

 
          
And
then she smiled the real smile he’d imagined, and time seemed to still. There
was nothing fake or pointed about this smile—it was all that honey and shine,
and he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that, no matter what, he would have this
woman.

 
          
He
had to.

 
          
RAIN
drummed against the roof of the limousine as it made its way out of London
toward Wolfe Manor the following day. Water tracked silken, wet paths across
the windows in ever-changing patterns as the car slid through mile after mile
of the wet and green British countryside—and yet all Grace could concentrate on
was the six feet and more of Lucas Wolfe, stretched out with far too much lazy
confidence and sheer male appeal next to her in the confines of the car.

 
          
“You
can look at me directly,” he said in that low, insinuating, endlessly amused
voice, far too close to her ear. “I can’t imagine why you would fight the urge.
I am, after all, quite marvelously handsome.”

 
          
“I
believe the word you’re looking for is
conceited
,”
Grace replied, her gaze on the PDA in her hand as if he did not affect her in
the slightest. And yet she could only seem to concentrate on the fact that he
was much too close to her on the plush seat, his strong shoulders
just
a whisper away, his spicy,
expensive scent—male and seductive and
him—
seeming
to inflame her, to tease her and taunt her, every time she inhaled.

 
          
He
laughed, completely unfazed, as ever. “Conceit cannot possibly be the right
word,” he countered. She was much too aware of how he shifted in his seat, how
he inched even closer. “I’ve had independent confirmation in the press for
years. I am a glorious male animal. You may as well simply admit the truth.”

 
          
“You
should probably not believe everything you read, Mr. Wolfe,” Grace replied
airily. Easily. She wished she could feel the way she sounded. “It can lead to
all sorts of issues. A swollen head, for one thing.”

 
          
She
knew the moment she said it that she should not have used that word.

 
          
“My
head is the not the part of me—” he began, evident delight in his tone and in
his bright green eyes when she turned to frown at him.

 
          
“I
beg you,” she said crisply. “Let us preserve the fantasy that you are not, in
fact, a twelve-year-old schoolboy. Please do not finish that sentence.”

 
          
The
wicked smile that should have irritated her, but somehow did not, flirted with
his mouth even as his eyes darkened with a heat she wished she could not feel.

 
          
“I
assure you, Ms. Carter,” he said softly. “I am a grown man in all the ways that
could possibly interest you.”

 
          
She
was all too aware that he was a man. Just a man, she reminded herself. No more
and no less, no matter what the fawning press and her own reactions seemed to
suggest. And no matter that, yesterday, he had seemed to sense how agitated she
was when no one else had. She had no idea what that could mean.

 
          
He
had discarded his suit jacket the moment he’d entered the vehicle, stripping it
from his lean, masculine form in a manner she’d found entirely too
disconcerting—and Grace was forced to note that his biceps were more muscular,
his shoulders wider and harder, his torso more sculpted than she had imagined
when he was covered in more than just a soft bit of linen. She shifted farther,
trying to pull herself as far toward the opposite side of the car as possible
without looking as if that was what she was doing.

 
          
“Tell
me about Wolfe Manor,” she said, dropping her PDA into her lap and facing
head-on the dragon in its lair. An apt comparison for this man, who was all
fire and heat and that coiled danger that no one ever seemed to mention, but
which Grace found mesmerizing. And alarming.

 
          
His
green eyes gleamed and his fine mouth crooked into a half smile as he
considered her for a moment.

 
          
“If
we are to pull off a huge party there in a very short period of time,” she said
mildly, reminding them both why they were there, together, “I really should
know everything there is to know about the place.”

 
          
“I
can tell you that it has never flooded,” Lucas said in that silken voice, a
dark eyebrow arching high. Grace was forced to consider—and not for the first
time—the unnerving possibility that he was much quicker and significantly
wittier than any pathetic international playboy had a right to be. She did not
know why that thought should unsettle her. Why it should make her arms break
out in goose bumps.

 
          
“Touché,”
she said, but still gazed at him expectantly.

 
          
“What
is there to tell?” he asked then, with a careless sort of shrug. “It is a manor
house like any other. The country is infested with them. It is the ancestral
encumbrance, passed down through generations, a monument to aristocratic greed.
I thank the gods every morning for the great gift of primogeniture, which, as I
am not the firstborn son, ensures I need never set foot there again unless I
wish it.”

 
          
A
moment passed, and then another. The tires swished along the wet roadway, the
rain drummed against the roof, and still, Grace was too aware of the way his
eyes met hers, bold and demanding, daring her to look away. To ignore him. To
pretend he was not getting to her.

 
          
“Thank
you,” Grace managed to say in her driest tone. “I’m sure that will be very
useful information as we prepare to throw a gala there. No thoughts on an
appropriate place to pitch the tent? Where to set up the catering? How to craft
the perfect delivery system to ensure the guests are properly wowed as they
enter the event?”

 
          
Lucas
only continued to watch her, that wolfish smile and a silvery light in his eyes
that made her feel as if she was made of sand, something insubstantial that
would blow away at his next breath. Grace felt almost dizzy, and hated it.
Hated
him
, she told herself fiercely,
that he should be the reason she felt so wildly out of her depth when she was
working—the one place Grace had always exerted complete control.

 
          
He
was a devil, clearly. He was used to this, to using his incredible sexual
magnetism to bend all he encountered to his whim. Simply because he could. But
he was not the first devil she’d met, and she refused to be seduced.
She refused
.

 
          
“I
imagined my role was to be rather more decorative than administrative,” he
said, his eyes laughing at her.

 
          
“My
mistake,” she said, redirecting her attention to her PDA as if dismissing him. “I
thought for a moment in yesterday’s meeting that you were a creature of
substance as well as style.” She smiled, to soften her words—to pretend she was
still being professional, when she felt so edgy, so raw and unwieldy within. “But
you can rest assured, Mr. Wolfe, that your face alone is of great use to
Hartington’s, however else you choose to help. Or not.”

 
          
“I
know,” he agreed, not appearing in the least chastened by her words. Or even
particularly offended by them. “This is not the first time I have worked for
Hartington’s, Ms. Carter. Though it is true that when I did it last, I was
still quite young.”

 
          
She
blinked at him, thrown. She could hardly think which was more astonishing—that
he had ever been young, or that he had ever actually worked. Neither seemed
possible. He was too dissolute to have ever been a child, surely, and far too
committedly lazy to ever have worked for his living.

 
          
“Define
‘worked for Hartington’s,’” she suggested, mildly enough, trying to conceal her
interest. She should not find him fascinating. She should not care that he was
able to fence words with her so easily. She should not let that soften her. “Because,
and do forgive me if I’ve misunderstood, I was under the impression that you
took great pride in the fact that you’ve never worked a day in your charmed
life. Aside, that is, from your vague claims last week of once having been
employed.”