Читать книгу The Platinum Collection: Surrender To The Devil - Caitlin Crews - Страница 15

HEAT LIGHTNING CRACKLED between them, making Becca’s nipples pull tight. A low, insistent ache bloomed between her legs. She felt heat flood her face, and something too bright, too hot to be tears sear through her eyes.

She did not even know if she was breathing.

And Theo only lounged there, so close and yet separated by the fancy table and the fussy centerpiece, his gaze hard on her, like a fierce caress. She had the sudden sense that he was far more primitive than his elegant suit and carefully manicured appearance might suggest. She could suddenly see him, deep into him, as if somewhere inside they were the same—a matched set. She could see all the wildness and passion and heat that burned in him, and burned in her, too.

How could she want him like this? A bone-deep longing crashed over her then, moving through her like the rising tide, making her whole body, every cell and every stretch of her skin, yearn.

But they were in public, this was all a charade, and she would never really know who he was looking at that way, would she?

It made her heart hurt. She reached up as if to cover it with her hand before she knew what she meant to do. Her palm flexed below her collarbone before she dropped it back in her lap.

“You don’t,” she said. She meant to sound strong. Dismissive. But instead, her voice got tangled in her throat, and it was only a whisper. “You don’t want me.”

“Don’t I?”

“Of course not.” She tore her gaze from his, and looked down at her plate, scowling fiercely to stem the panic, the emotion, the threat of tears. “You want whatever you’ve been carrying around in your head all these years. I’m the captive audience as well as the show. That’s what you want, not me.”

“I want to know how you taste,” he said, his voice like a drug, narcotic and thrilling, moving over her like his mouth had last night, spinning out fires in every direction, though he did not move. He did not need to move. “Your neck. That hollow between your breasts. I want to taste every inch of you. And then start again.”

She could not breathe. She could not look at him. She was paralyzed—as afraid of what he might say next as she was terrified that he would stop speaking. How could she be so conflicted? Why did he torment her so much? She had never had any trouble with men, and she had thought that all her coworkers’ talk of theatrics and fireworks and life-altering complications were just the stories people told themselves, the way they brightened things up, as real as their claims that they would join the Peace Corps, write that book, or pack up and move to Fiji someday.

But now she knew better. Now she knew. She’d been waiting for Theo to incinerate her. Her whole life she’d waited, and now she burned, and he was in love with a woman he could never have—a woman Becca could never be, no matter what she looked like. It might not be her idea of love—it might make her angry to think it was what he thought he deserved—but none of this was within her control, was it?

“I want to move inside of you until the only thing you know, the only thing you can say, is my name,” he continued, unaware, perhaps, of what he was doing to her with just those silky, disturbing, sensual words. Or all too aware it.

“Stop,” she said then, her voice much weaker than it should have been. Almost as if she was pleading with him. “We’re in public. People are watching.”

“You should feel safe, then,” he said, so arrogant. So offhandedly powerful. So at peace with the sensual danger that thickened in the breathing space between them. “What can happen here, with all of New York looking on?”

“What about your plan?” she threw at him, desperate, even as her breasts seemed to swell and she felt very nearly feverish, hot and then cold. “Is this how you and Larissa acted in restaurants?”

The name was like a slap of cold water. She could see the way it worked on Theo, reminding him. Changing him.

She had thrown the name out there deliberately. So she should not have felt so … betrayed by the way he reacted. So hurt.

“You have already achieved what I wanted today,” he said, all that electricity slipping behind his smooth, corporate mask. Though his eyes still burned, still bored deep into her and stirred her in ways that should not thrill her as they did. “You have been seen in public, all in one piece. No one has looked at you as if you are anything but what and who you appear to be.”

“Wonderful,” Becca said tightly.

He surprised her then, by leaning forward and taking her hand in his again, this time gently holding on when she tried to pull it away. His skin against hers. The heat of him, exploding into her palm, sending shock waves up her arm and into her breasts, her belly.

“But you and I both know what lies beneath the surface,” he said, in that snake charmer’s voice, smoky and low, while his amber eyes made promises that left her aching all over. For him. For things she dared not even think through.

“I already told you,” she gritted out. “You don’t know me, and you won’t. That’s not part of the deal.”

“I know you.” His gaze dropped to their linked hands, and she was sure she could feel the heat of it, scorching her, leaving marks on her skin. “You are prickly and full of pride. Qualities I recognize and even admire. You’ve sacrificed yourself for your sister, no doubt your mother, too.”

“My mother—” she began fiercely.

“Made her own choices,” he interrupted smoothly. With perfect confidence that she would fall silent, and she did, not even hating herself for that acquiescence as she thought she should. As she knew she would later. “But still, you feel guilty. And so you are here, an angry hen set down amongst the foxes, to get what should have been yours by birth.”

“You are a randy dog and I am a chicken,” she said dryly. “What other residents of the barnyard will we be before this is over, I wonder?”

“You use this attitude and your wit as a shield,” he continued as if she had not spoken. “And sometimes as a weapon. You attack before you can be attacked. And you do not back down, even when you must know you should. Sometimes retreat is a strategy, Becca.”

“Then feel free to employ it,” she snapped at him. She wanted to squirm in her seat. She wanted to yank back her hand, leap to her feet and bolt for the door. She could lose herself in the city within moments. She could be back in Boston by evening. She and Emily would figure something out. They always did.

But she didn’t move.

“And you are as fascinated by me as I am by you,” he said then, his fingers tracing patterns against hers, his amber eyes pinning her, paralyzing her—reading into her, seeing truths that she knew she’d never be able to take back.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” she whispered, but she didn’t pull her hand from his. She didn’t look away. And she thought her heart was beating so loud that it might drown out the restaurant all around them. The city beyond. The planet.

“I don’t have to flatter myself,” he said softly. Intently. “I have only to look at you.”

And see who? that cold, suspicious, rational part of her brain hissed. And that easily, it broke the spell. Becca yanked her hand from his as if she’d suddenly found it on a red-hot burner. She sat as far back in her chair as she could, though it was not nearly enough space. He seemed so big. As if he was the whole world.

“My mother had no idea how to take care of herself, much less a baby,” she said abruptly, throwing her words out like a lifeline. Theo only watched her. Waiting, that small voice warned her. Lying in wait. But she could not stop talking. There was that reckless part of her that thought she saw more in him—that thought she saw him. “She found men who helped, in one form or another. Though how helpful any of them were is really open to interpretation.” She sucked in a breath. “Eventually we settled in Boston, where she actually married Emily’s father. He was nice enough. Unless he was drinking.”

Theo shifted in his chair, and Becca found her gaze drawn, inexorably, to the hard muscles in his chest, his toned torso. He was too beautiful. Too lethal. She should not play with fire, not with him. That way lay only ash and regret.

“So eventually she kicked him out and it was just the three of us. We did the best we could.” She shrugged, feeling panicked and resentful suddenly—as if he had forced her to say those things, as if she had not simply offered them up because of the emotional currents between them that she was afraid to examine more closely. “Is that what you wanted to hear? My idyllic, illegitimate youth?”

“So defensive,” he observed. Was that sympathy she saw move through his hypnotic eyes? Or worse—pity? She found the thought unbearable. “You have nothing to be ashamed of.”

“I know that!” Her temper flared, and all those old wounds, scarred over with years of guilt, seemed to hurt all over again. Like they were new. “But my mother was ashamed anyway. She’d had bigger, better plans for herself. And for her daughters. I think that if she’d lived, she would have come to Bradford herself.” She shook her head, and then glared at him. “And she didn’t happen to conveniently resemble anyone. So she would have humiliated herself in front of that little toad of a man, her brother, and he would have sneered at her and sent her away. Just because he could.”

That lay there between them for a moment, as heavy as the centerpiece. Becca couldn’t understand why she’d said that in the first place and why, having said it and knowing it all to be true, she felt as if she’d gone too far. As if she’d blamed Theo unfairly for Bradford’s theoretical behavior. What was the matter with her? If Theo wasn’t guilty of this particular thing, that didn’t mean he was blameless. After all, she was only here because of his Machiavellian little plan, wasn’t she?

“You’re probably right,” Theo said after a moment, in that relentlessly unsentimental way of his. She should have found it brutal. Instead, oddly, she found his honesty far more soothing than any platitudes might have been. “But the fact that Bradford is not much of a human being should hardly matter to you,” he continued. “Why should you care?”

“It doesn’t,” she said, though it did. “I don’t.”

But she had said too much, she realized, as a new silence fell between them, and Theo gestured imperiously for the check. She had said too much, revealed too much, and now she was in exactly the position she had resolved to avoid. He didn’t deserve to know a damned thing about her. He didn’t deserve anything save what he’d paid for.

So why, knowing that, had she opened herself up anyway?

Becca still hadn’t answered that question to her own satisfaction when they arrived back at Theo’s private Manhattan castle. They’d spent the ride back from the restaurant in silence; Theo stretched out in the limo’s expansive backseat tapping away on his BlackBerry while Becca pretended to gaze out the window at the frenetic crowds on the city streets. In truth, she was obsessively going over every detail of their lunch in her head. She couldn’t help but feel that everything had shifted between them, beneath her feet. That between last night’s series of revelations and today’s unbearable heat, the geography of their arrangement had remade itself. She just couldn’t seem to figure out the map. Or if she’d ceded too much ground without realizing it.

The car glided to a smooth stop at the curb, and Becca jolted in her seat when Theo laid his big, warm hand on her arm.

When she raised her gaze to his, there was amusement in those amber depths. And the same electricity she felt in a white-hot current just beneath her skin. Yet when he spoke, his voice was cool.

“The paparazzi are here,” he said. He inclined his head toward the sidewalk outside the car window, though his eyes never left hers. “Are you ready?”

“How can I possibly know if I’m ready?” she asked with perfect, baffled honesty, blinking. Could anyone be ready for that kind of intrusion? She looked out the thankfully tinted window, swallowing nervously when she saw the scrum of shady-looking men already jostling for position outside the car—already snapping pictures and shouting. One even slapped his hand against the car itself.

“They want a reaction,” Theo said, his voice even. Calm. She jerked her attention away from the chaos in the street and back to him. “The more emotional you are, the better. They will say anything to goad you into the reaction they want. Anything. Do you understand?”

He was so at ease. So unperturbed that there were jackals baying out his name, separated from them by only a flimsy bit of steel and tinted glass. Becca felt the panicked fluttering of her heart slow as she looked at him. He was so. solid. So sure. As if he could save them both, by the sheer force of his will. As if he were the anchor in rough seas, and she needed only to hold on to him.

He wants this particular storm, she reminded herself. He probably called these awful men himself!

But that knowledge didn’t change the fact that when he looked at her like that, as if he knew she was capable of whatever lay before her, she felt as strong as he believed her to be. As if she could do anything at all. Even run this gauntlet.

For him, a different, treacherous voice whispered, and she was so far gone she did not even shudder in horror. She only ignored it. And forced herself to smile.

“How bad can it be?” she asked lightly. She shook her ponytail back over her shoulder. “No matter what they say, they won’t be talking about me, will they?”

How many times had he watched Larissa navigate these baying hounds? How many times had he marveled—sometimes with more cynicism than admiration, it was true—at her seemingly innate ability to use this kind of attention to serve her purposes, to send the messages she wanted to send or cause the exact sort of commotion she wanted to cause? How many times had he dealt with them himself, and regretted only that dealing with them meant giving them some kind of legitimacy?

The Whitneys lived in an endless media glare. The great American celebrity fishbowl. Theo had never questioned that. He had only learned what he could about it, and used that knowledge to his advantage. Larissa had never had to learn it—she had been brought up in it. She had courted the attention she received, and, he’d eventually realized, used the narratives the press spun about her as shorthand for her own life, until it was sometimes uncertain where the press ended and Larissa began. He had known this, and still, he had merely watched his fiancée perform the intricate steps of this peculiar dance. He had never interfered, not even when they turned on her. Not even when they turned on him, too.

And yet this time, with this woman, he nearly lost his cool. This time he wanted to rend them apart, these squalid little men with their sordid insinuations. He wanted to break the arm of the man who dared shove against Becca as she moved past him, ducking against the driver’s burly frame and outstretched arm, her face concealed behind big, dark sunglasses.

Theo was used to them—hell, he expected them, and even on occasion utilized them, like today. And yet he wanted to have them all thrown in jail for trespassing, for assault, for something—because he could see how difficult an ordeal the short walk from the car was for Becca. How her breath caught in her throat in panicked little gasps, how her body swayed every time they shouted Larissa’s name. How she looked as if they were physically attacking her. But they were immune to any reprisals, these cockroaches, and Becca was stronger than she should have been. More warrior than woman, he thought. Quixote to the end. She simply kept walking. And the scum were forced to stop at the door to the apartment building, where the staff of doormen stood ready to do battle to keep them from the premises.

Theo found that he was holding on to his temper by the barest thread.

“I would have saved you from that if I could,” he said quietly, taking her by the arm and steering her toward his private elevator. He could not read her gaze behind those sunglasses, but he could see the turn of her mouth, the faint quiver of her lower lip. And yet she stood too straight, too tall. As if she dared not bend, lest she break apart.

“But that would have defeated the purpose of taking me out to lunch,” she said, her voice devoid of inflection. Of emotion. Of Becca. “So what would be the point?”

He said her name as the heavy doors slid closed behind them, enclosing them in the lush maroon-and-gold elevator car. But it was too quiet, suddenly, too close, and she was still standing there like a soldier.

“I had no idea that was what it felt like,” she continued in that same empty voice. “All those cameras. All those people. So many of them, and so close.” She squared her shoulders, in a show of bravery that seemed to roll through him, leaving marks.

“Becca,” he said again, but she wasn’t listening to him.

“But this is what you wanted, isn’t it?” She slid her sunglasses up over her forehead and into her hair, and fixed him with those mossy-green eyes, so serious now, so dark. “I assume that’s why you didn’t prepare me. So I wouldn’t look confident, or used to them. So I would look fragile instead. Like someone just recovered from a collapse and fresh from private rehab somewhere should look.”

He had never hated himself more than he did at that moment. She was not even condemning him—which made it that much worse. She was simply accepting his ulterior motives, and he could not pretend that they weren’t true. That he hadn’t had exactly that thought, that hope. That he hadn’t set the scene with exactly that end in mind.

What did that make him? He almost laughed at himself then—make him? This was clearly who he already was. Who he’d been for some time. What that meant, he wasn’t at all sure he wanted to know.

“Becca,” he said again, his voice unusually thick—as if it belonged to someone else. “I’m—”

“Don’t you dare apologize!” she snapped at him, some kind of temper flaring in her—but at least that was better than the blankness. “This was the deal. This is the job. Did I say I couldn’t handle it?”

“I didn’t know you,” he said, urgently, not meaning to move closer to her, not meaning to take her shoulders in his hands, not meaning to draw her into him, so her head tilted back and she looked up at him with those damned eyes of hers, that seemed to turn him into a stranger to himself. “I didn’t know you at all. I only knew that you looked like her. I had no idea that this would be anything but a game for you to play.”

She looked at him, and he had the uncomfortable sense that she saw things he didn’t even realize were there. Something dark passed over her face, and when she smiled, it was brittle.

“Who says that it’s not?” she asked. “It turns out that I’m good at passing for a spoiled little princess. Who could have guessed?” She laughed, a little bit wildly. “It must be those Whitney genes, after all.”

“Don’t do this,” he said then, that urgency moving through him, making his voice rougher than it should have been.

“I don’t understand,” she said, her own voice uneven in return, the wildness fading from her expression, and something far older, far sadder, taking its place. “Is it that you don’t want me to play this game according to the rules you set up yourself? Or is it that you don’t want me to be any good at it?”

He found himself shaking his head, found his fingers testing her toned muscles, found himself achingly, shockingly hard. He wanted to answer her with his body. He wanted to lose them both in the only truth that mattered to him right then. The only thing that could set them both free of a game he no longer understood the way he’d thought he would.

“I don’t know,” he said, with brutal honesty. He wanted things he couldn’t name. He wanted. And she was Becca, not Larissa, and he couldn’t seem to find that anything but perfect. Right. And her eyes held all the secret depths of the forest. And he wanted her, most of all. Now. But more than that, he wanted to be the kind of man who never would have hurt her, and it was already much too late.

Electricity seemed to hum in the air, and he could see only her. Only her, and that wild, unmanageable heat that only she seemed to stir in him, reflecting back at him. And then she sighed slightly, and he saw something almost like hopelessness flash in her gaze. But then she blinked, and it was gone.

She smiled then, heartbreaking and real, and he forgot everything but that.

“I didn’t know who you were, Becca,” he gritted out. “I swear.”

“It’s all right,” she whispered. “I know who you are.”

And then she arched up on her toes, hooked an arm around his neck, and pressed her mouth to his.