Chapter 11
As darkness fell, Lucas managed to get the extra bodies out of his house. Joaquin came by for Sara and volunteered to drive Stella and Valerie home. His sister had refused the ride, saying she was quite capable of driving—all four women had sobered up with an early supper that Emmaline managed to put together with his help. Pots of strong Earl Grey tea, scrambled eggs with a light dusting of freshly-grated parmesan cheese and minced parsley, along with toasted and buttered slices of black olive-dotted artisan bread. For dessert there’d been a dollop of sheepishness.
“Don’t worry darlings,” Joaquin had said, passing out aspirins and pouring more tea. “White rum and afternoon sun…they can take anybody down.”
“I wanted them to take me away to a man-less island.” Valerie had put her fingertips to her temple, as if recalling the details of some strange dream. “And I think I propositioned Emmaline.”
“Most everyone does,” Sara had answered cheerfully. “I’ve offered her sex for her marinara recipe on numerous occasions.”
“Oh, really?” Her fiancé had instantly switched directions to approach his woman. “How come this is the first I’ve heard of it?”
Sara had clapped her hand over her mouth. “I might still be a little drunk,” she said, her voice half-muffled. “Forget I said that.”
“I don’t think I can,” Joaquin had answered, sneaking an arm around her. “No un-ringing that bell, eh, Lucas?”
“Those offers have dwindled severely since she met you,” Emmaline had told the other man. “I think she’s now more interested in your inches than my marinara.”
“Do tell,” Joaquin had murmured into Sara’s ear, and soon after the pair were dreamily winding their way out the front door.
Stella and Valerie followed, leaving Lucas alone with his butler.
Sliding onto a stool pulled up to the island, he watched her retie her apron around her waist. “What are you doing now?”
She crossed to the oven and turned it on, then reached into a cupboard for a pair of pans. With their guests on the road, he’d thought he’d have a chance to engage her in real conversation. The kind that led to them having a real relationship, one in which Emmaline finally let down her guard.
One in which she didn’t lie to him.
Because that shit about cheating on the man she was going to marry—he’d eat his BMW piece-by-piece if that were true.
“I’m baking red velvet cupcakes,” she said over her shoulder as she started putting pastel paper cups into tins with the characteristic round indentations. Had those pans been in the house when he bought it, right after Stella went abroad junior year in college? The place had come with some furnishings and a lot of kitchenware—it had been a complete teardown, rebuilt then purchased as a corporate retreat for a company that had gone belly-up before the over-compensated CEO or any of the board of directors had spent a single night inside.
It had been soul-less but functional, sort of like him for the past few years as he took his company to a new level.
Until the arrival of his butler.
“I don’t know that I need any more baked goods, Emmaline,” he said. “I’ve started running again, but there aren’t enough miles of Malibu beach for me to work off two-dozen of anything, not to mention red velvet.”
“They’re not for you.”
“Oh. Well.” Then he bristled. Was she making them for that…that Roland?
“They’re for Wells.”
Lucas closed his eyes, annoyed with himself for the momentary spurt of jealousy. Was this kind of reaction going to be the norm for him? From now on would he be susceptible to swings of mood depending upon Emmaline’s smiles, her attention, her cupcakes?
Shit, yeah, he supposed, until he found a way for her to open up to him and admit things she felt, things she wanted, things she was willing to give him.
“Are you okay?”
He opened his eyes to see Emmaline’s pansy-soft brown ones on him. “I’m just wondering why Wells needs red velvet,” he said, wanting to keep her talking to him.
“Can you keep a secret?” A smile flickered at the corners of her mouth.
“Sure,” he said, though pretty certain what she was about to impart wasn’t going to be the kind of secret he wanted her to share with him. Which would be all her secrets.
“Charlie is a sensible baker. It’s probably her one imperfection.”
“A ‘sensible’ baker? What does that even mean?”
“She’s prudent and practical. Cupcakes needed for the summer program Friday party? She’ll buy a boxed cake mix. Yellow. And then she’ll whip up some chocolate icing and toss sprinkles on top.”
“That sounds okay.”
She pointed at him with a wooden spoon. “You just said it. Okay. Much better to make red velvet batter with sour cream and cocoa and my special ingredient—a couple of ounces of Dr. Pepper. Then there’s the cream cheese frosting with just a hint of the soda in it, too.”
His stomach might be growling. “You’re right. Better than okay.”
“When you make something for someone you care about, you need to put at least a little heart in it.”
His mind went to his monogrammed shirts and the T-shirts she ironed despite his protests. Warmth kindled in his belly as he thought of Emmaline putting her heart into things she did for him.
“It’s more work to make the red velvet,” he pointed out.
“Nothing’s too good for Wells, which Charlie happens to believe too, which is why she bribed me to make my red velvet recipe.”
“What does it take to pay you off, Emmaline?”
She spun back to her bowl and started stirring. “Enough about me. What have you been, um, up to now that the merger’s accomplished?”
Frustrated, he stared at her back, watching the play of small muscles in it as her arm worked. How could he reach her? What would it take to make her open up to him?
Your own truths, a voice inside him answered.
“I’ve been struggling a bit, actually.” He idly arranged and rearranged the salt and pepper shakers.
“Can I help?” she said.
Automatically, as he should have known she would. Emmaline, always ready to give…while keeping her inner life so private.
“I’m having a hard time having fun,” he admitted. “I told everyone I’d be out of the office a few days, and I don’t know what to do with myself.”
She glanced over her shoulder at him. “Do you need to find a hobby?”
“Maybe. But I think I’d have trouble enjoying that too.” He took a breath. “There’s a set of characteristics adult children of alcoholics share. That happens to be one of them.”
Turning now, Emmaline looked at him with wide eyes.
“Yeah, I know. I don’t seem like the kind of guy who contemplates much about the forces that shaped me. But when I became responsible for Stella, I did some reading.”
“That was smart of you.”
“I wanted a sense of her vulnerabilities.”
“And learned something about yourself as well?”
He lifted a shoulder. “I suppose. Kids of alcoholics…they often tend to take on adult roles as children.”
Emmaline turned back around to adroitly pour batter into the prepared pans. Without her gaze on his face, he found it easier to talk.
“Sometimes they don’t learn how to play,” he said.
“You didn’t?”
With another shrug, he went back to fiddling with the salt and pepper shakers. “I suppose.”
“What other characteristics are common?” she asked, and came toward him with the bowl and spoon to set them on the granite top.
“For me?” he asked, looking at the remains of the batter.
“For you,” she said, nudging them nearer. “Now play.”
As she put the pans in the oven and cleaned the kitchen, Lucas helped himself to the batter, licking at the spoon like he was seven instead of thirty-two. “Isn’t this bad for me? Raw batter?”
She gave him a pitying look over her shoulder. “Haven’t you seen the ice cream they sell with cookie dough and brownie batter in it? And in any case, the eggs I buy are pasteurized.”
He sent her a dubious look.
Another smile. “Go ahead and live a little.”
When the bowl was as clean as he could get it, he took it and the spoon to the sink. “How’d I do?”
She glanced over. “Excellent.”
“Another characteristic,” he said, “is that adult children of alcoholics seek approval. Also, they have low self-esteem.”
“That’s not something you need to worry about,” she said, voice dry as a desert. Then she bustled out of the kitchen.
He followed her into the laundry room, where she began pulling a load of towels from the dryer. “Don’t you ever stop working?”
“It’s my adult characteristic. I like to keep busy.”
She liked to keep obstacles between them. Cupcakes. Clean towels. He pulled the one she was attempting to fold free of her hands and tossed it aside.
“Emmaline.” Putting his hands on her shoulders, he turned her to face him. “The children of alcoholics learn three rules early. Don’t trust. Don’t feel. Don’t talk. As they grow to adulthood, it’s not uncommon for them to have trouble with intimacy because wanting to get close to another person makes them feel like they’ve lost control. They often have difficulty expressing their needs and feelings.”
He cleared his throat. “I pretty much epitomized all that,” he admitted. “And it likely would have been worse if I didn’t have Stella to bring up as best I could. With a young girl to raise, I couldn’t retreat as much as I might have.”
In the distance, a timer sounded, and he cursed under his breath as Emmaline broke away from him.
“The cupcakes,” she murmured.
He remained behind a few minutes, trying to think his way through the predicament. At every turn, she seemed to thwart his need to get close to her, while at the same time showing in so many unspoken ways—from monograms to melting glances—that she cared for him.
Still stymied, he finally made his way back into the kitchen to watch her ice the cupcakes and then place them carefully into a two-tiered plastic holder.
“I’ll take them to Wells tomorrow morning,” she said.
He nodded, his focus on the graceful movements of her hands. As she deposited the last treat into the box and fastened the top, he saw a smear of icing on one of her fingers. It drew him, and he thought of taking it to his mouth, sucking off the sweetness, of the way her gaze would jump to his as he sucked. She’d shiver as he let her finger go with a pop, and then he’d transfer the last trace of sugar to her mouth with his tongue.
But when he gathered that hand in his now, he hesitated, then grasped the other one. Squeezed. “Emmaline.”
She stared at his chest. “Yes?”
“I’ve always been a lousy half of a romantic relationship. Living in my head all the time. Not even knowing what my needs are to express them and not caring enough to fulfill the needs of the woman in my life.”
He’d fallen into an engagement because it had seemed to make practical sense at the time. Thank God he’d not gone through with the marriage because now he knew what one was supposed to feel when one committed to a partner for a lifetime.
Part-fool, as Ethan had hinted. And part-dreamer.
The last thing Lucas had ever considered himself to be, a man who made a business out of breaking things.
But he also made a business out of sneaking into things. Hmm. Maybe he could find a way to reach Emmaline’s heart after all.
“Why are you telling me all this?” she asked, addressing the sun-and-wave logo on the pocket of his T-shirt.
“You know why. I’m different now. I see things differently. You…” He brought her fingers to his mouth. Kissed them. “After the destructive marriages they saw growing up, a lot of adult children of alcoholics don’t want to repeat that mistake. So they don’t look for a spouse. They don’t want children, in case they damage their own. But I—”
He broke off, his gut twisting as he saw the sudden silver slide of tears on Emmaline’s beautiful face.
“Sweetheart,” he said, alarmed. “What have I done? What have I said?”
Without a word, she broke free of his hold and darted toward her rooms.
Though he followed, the door slammed in his face, as tightly barred against him as her heart.
Spine to the door, Emmaline slid to sit on the floor, her legs drawn up, her forehead to her knees. Then the cool surface behind her vibrated, startling her, until she realized that Lucas was mimicking her movement on the other side.
She lifted her head and pressed her ear to the wood. Maybe it was her imagination, but she thought she could hear him breathing.
“What are you doing?” she demanded, pitching her voice so he’d be certain to hear.
“I’m sitting on the floor with my back to the door.”
“I mean why are you doing that?”
“It’s the closest I can get to you.”
The sting of tears burned her eyes again. A few minutes before, he’d been talking about marriage. Children. Both of which she thought she’d accepted would never be hers. Imagine the dishonesty of marrying a man using a false identity and compounding that by having children with him!
And beyond the deceitfulness, there would be the ever-present threat to their safety. Rumors about the Abelli family included violence—beatings, even deaths. She knew firsthand Enzo’s vicious ways of settling differences and paying back perceived slights.
It wasn’t a stretch to think he’d target anyone close to her, if he ever discovered her whereabouts and then desired retribution.
Drying her face with the heels of her hands, she told herself to get up and go to bed. Maybe things would look brighter in the morning. Perhaps a lead for a job would come in from the butler academy’s placement center.
Something jabbed at her backside. Looking down, she saw that a long forefinger had slid between the bottom of the door and the dark-stained hardwood floor. It nudged her again.
“What are you doing?”
“I guess I’m poking your ass, but I meant to offer a little physical comfort.”
Did he hear her tears or just sense them? Without meaning to, she reached down and let her finger touch his. Immediately, he curled the tip, a snug hold like a hug.
More tears sprang to her eyes. Again she wiped them away.
“Lucas,” she said, when she thought her voice wouldn’t crack. “How did it come to this?”
“Poets and songwriters have tried to explain since time began.”
She shook her head, even though he couldn’t see it. “I just wanted to have sex with you.”
“Sweetheart, we can do that too. As a matter of fact, I’m all for it.”
Emmaline rolled her eyes. “There’s no ‘too,’ don’t you understand? There’s just the sex.”
A long moment of silence passed. She might have thought he’d left, except for his finger still curled warmly around hers.
“Okay,” Lucas said finally. “I’ll take that.”
“What?” Her breath backed up in her lungs and her throat was shutting down, all serving to make her heart beat heavy in her chest.
“I’ll take the ‘just’ sex.”
She swallowed and felt heat gathering beneath her clothes. Her apron was still tied around her waist, and she resented the extra layer of fabric. “Y-you’ll accept it doesn’t mean anything?”
“I’ll accept—for now—that you don’t want it to.”
She bit her lip, telling herself in a stern voice this was a stupid idea. Getting into bed with him again would surely make the parting harder. But that finger of his was now stroking the sensitive inside of hers, scattering her common sense even as it mobilized the sensual forces that wanted what they wanted.
Him.
“I’m in charge,” she heard herself say. “And you don’t get to do anything…fancy.”
He laughed, a low chuckle that abraded every one of her nerve endings. “Are we negotiating?”
“Yes.”
“Then you have to call me Mr. Curry. ‘Sir’ is acceptable as well.”
Emmaline thought her blood might boil over. Panting a little, she tried to control her riotous, crazy lust. “Isn’t that a little…perverted?
“God, I hope so,” Lucas said, fervent. “I think perverted sex is going to be great. I think it might be my new hobby. How I finally learn to have fun.”
Who could resist that combination of good humor and barefaced sexual need? Feeling faint and just a little bit drunk, like the mojitos only better, Emmaline rose to her feet.
“You promise that I’m in charge?”
“I promise,” he answered.
Her hand trembled as she unlocked the door.
When she threw it open, Lucas was on his feet as well. He stared at her, a flush across his cheekbones and the bridge of his nose. He held out his arms from his sides.
She grabbed the hem of his T-shirt and tugged him over the threshold. The room was only lit by the low, golden glow from the lamp on the nightstand, but it was enough for her to see the heavy ridge behind the zipper of his jeans.
“Please come in, Mr. Curry.”
And he smiled, slow and devastating, and in a way that caused a quick rush of wetness between her thighs.
Though she wouldn’t have thought he could maintain his discipline, he kept his word and allowed her to call the shots. It emboldened her in all ways, and she stripped him of his clothes, her own smile curving her lips. It was going to be the closest she could come to meaningless sex with Lucas, with “Mr. Curry” and “sir” creating that emotional distance she needed.
“This is just a game,” those words reminded them both.
When he was standing naked, he stared at her, his erection heavy and stretching to his navel, his jaw tense, and his eyes alert. She swallowed, then her hands went to the tie of her apron. She pulled the strings slowly, like a striptease.
His low groan was mostly only a vibration in the air. Giddy from her power over him, Emmaline let the covering drop from her fingers as if she was letting go of a G-string. When she was down to panties and a bra, she stood trembling before him.
“Mr. Curry, do you approve?”
His eyes glittered, reminding her that this remained a dangerous game.
“Come closer, and you’ll find out.”
One step, and she was near enough to kiss. He took her mouth, his arms still hanging loose at his sides. His lips were hot, his tongue insistent, she took the kiss he gave her and let her own tongue battle with his. Then he tore his mouth away, turning his head to the side to take in great draws of air.
“Tell me to make love to you, Emmaline,” he demanded.
Make love. She ignored the risky words.
“Hold still, sir,” she said, then drew her hands up and down his chest, scoring his skin lightly with her short nails. Leaning close, she touched the tip of her tongue to the hard bead of his nipple. He sucked in a harsh breath, and his hand flew up, as if to sink into her hair, but then he let it drop again.
She tasted the other nipple.
And then she fell to her knees.
“Oh, God,” Lucas choked out. “If you only knew…”
“What, Mr. Curry?” she asked, looking up.
The blue of his eyes was hot enough to scorch her.
“Mr. Curry?”
He shook his head. “If I told you we’d move from perverted to kinky.”
“One’s a step below the other?” She drew a line down his shaft with the tip of her tongue.
“Yes. No. I can’t think,” he said, squeezing his eyes shut.
“Then don’t think, sir,” she whispered against his smooth skin, each syllable a soft kiss.
As she took him into her mouth, it astonished her at how aroused she was. Her inner flesh throbbed and wept, and her nipples ached where they pressed against the fabric of her bra. With the plump head of his penis resting on the flat of her tongue, she reached behind her to loosen the elasticized material and when it dropped, she moved closer to rub her breasts against his hair-roughened thighs.
Sensation shot over her skin, and she took him deep again, bracing one hand on his leg and the other reaching between them to play with the cool sacs there. He was shuddering, his slick chest heaving with each breath, and she watched him from beneath her lashes, thrilled.
Her tongue tickled the slit at the top of his shaft, and her throat worked, swallowing the liquid she found there. The taste intrigued, and she lightly sucked, wanting more.
Lucas broke.
He hauled her up by the elbows and tossed her onto the bed.
“Lucas,” she gasped out.
“Sir,” he corrected, stripping off her panties with hot, desperate hands. “Your sir.”
His desperation made a giggle bubble up her throat, but then it converted to a moan as he spread her legs and buried his face in her sex.
He didn’t go about his seduction gently. His lips owned the territory, his tongue a dauntless explorer.
She came, shameless as she lifted into that marauding mouth.
There was no gentle easing down from the peak. With hard hands, he flipped her onto her belly and yanked up her hips. In one deliberate stroke, he drove inside her. They both sucked in a breath, the pleasure overwhelming, then Lucas began moving in deep lunges. The urgency reminded her of that night at the airport, of the desperate nature of their kisses in the taxi, of the way her heart had moved in her chest, as if it recognized a different kind of coming home.
“Say ‘thank you, Mr. Curry,’” Lucas directed, without waiting for her to obey, just driving inside her again. “Say ‘more, Mr. Curry.’”
Emmaline clutched at the covers and pushed back into each thrust. Her body tried holding onto him even as he retreated, only to plunge inside her again.
“Say ‘love me, Mr. Curry.’”
And when she didn’t, it seemed to enflame him into even stronger strokes. One of his hands skimmed her hip then drove toward her mons. She felt him trace her skin stretched around his shaft and shivered, the intimacy nearly unbearable.
Then his fingertips found her clitoris and his teeth bit down on the back of her neck and she came again, pleasure bursting through her in waves. Though her muscles tightened down on him, the rest of her opened, reveling in his heat, his scent, his possession. The tiny aches she knew she would happily cherish tomorrow.
Love me, Mr. Curry.
When he moved from her, she was too spent to do more than crawl under the covers he pulled back. Nor did she complain or protest when he settled beside her. Instead, she fell into instant sleep, and sometime later, dreamed..
…She wore her bridal gown, but she’d lost her shoes and was running barefoot on the hot sidewalks of Palm Springs, horrified that she was late for her own wedding. Tears ran down her face, but she couldn’t stop them, even though Enzo would be furious that she appeared at the altar looking less than perfect.
Up ahead was the church, finally, its double doors thrown open, the inside only deep shadows, making the entrance look like the mouth of a monster.
Sobs wracked her chest and she clutched the skirts of her dress in both hands and forced herself onward. Then a hard hand grasped her bicep and pulled her around.
Another monster. Enzo, his dark handsomeness exaggerated by the black tuxedo he wore. “I’ve been looking for you,” he said, then raised his arm to strike.
Cringing, Emmaline put up her free hand to protect her face, a fearful scream tearing from her throat.