Page 13 of Lucas

“They always turn the temperature down at these functions, like they think we might fall asleep otherwise.”

My lips curls at the cocky tone of Buck Andrews’s voice, the obnoxious reporter for the New York Times, and a perpetual pain in my ass. He’s always undermining my integrity with muttered insults while still hovering close enough in hopes I’ll slip up on a scoop. Ironic how “tabloid” journalism gets the bad rep when guys like Andrews, who work for supposedly reputable publications, can climb the ranks with shady practices and questionable morals. Dick.

I try to ignore Buck, but, as usual, he swoops in for the kill shot. “Heard your company is going through a bit of a rough patch.”

“We’ll survive.”

His eyebrow lifts. “Not according to what I’ve read.”

I smile at a passing waiter who drops a flute of champagne in my hand. Lifting the glass in mock salute, I say through grit teeth, “You of all people should know better than to believe everything you read in the paper.”

“Touché,” he says, and takes a sip from the sparkling elixir in his glass. Buck isn’t hard on the eyes—more pretty boy than the rugged handsomeness that oozes from someone like Lucas Hammer—but beneath that boyish charm is the kind of smarminess that gives even reporters a bad name. And I’d rather not be seen with him.

“I should mingle,” I say, again raising my champagne, this time in dismissal.

His lip curls into a cruel sneer. “And risk running into Lucas Hammer? I thought you’d want to avoid that.”

My blood goes cold. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

Buck responds with a smirk. My pulse ratchets up, quick on the defense, but before I can push him for more details, a dark shadow falls over us. I know without looking it’s Lucas, his presence bringing with it a stifling, almost oppressive, warmth. A bead of sweat slides down my cleavage, glistening under the glittering chandelier.

“Is there a problem here, Eden?”

His voice is tense, cool. Buck visibly shrivels, and under his breath mutters an excuse to step away, leaving me on my own with the one man in this room with whom I shouldn’t be alone—ever. Slowly, I turn to face him, steeling myself for confrontation.

My breath catches.

Lucas Hammer fills out a suit like an Adonis chiseled for the cover of GQ—fitted slacks taper to his long, lean legs; a dark jacket hangs from his shoulders like vulture wings; a crisp shirt conforms and molds to his muscular chest. My fingertips burn, itching to feel his naked skin once more.

Somehow, I manage to find my voice. “Decided to leave the Metallica shirt at home?”

His mouth twitches with amusement. “It didn’t seem appropriate for this crowd.”

“Clever.” Something tells me that Lucas Hammer isn’t the type to obey the rules of basic party etiquette anyway—certainly his stature in the pages of Fortune 500 afford him some leniency. Which is just the kind of entitled behavior that usually makes my blood boil. Annoyance flashes through me.

“You should have told me who you were,” I say, seething with fresh anger.

Over his shoulder, I spot Mason Wood and his new wife, Olivia, her baby bump proudly on display in a gold gown that contours to her figure. Rumor has it Mason’s relationship with her almost destroyed the Daylight Holdings brotherhood.

Just another example of how they’ve been underestimated by the press.

Because while Mason might have ducked off the country’s most eligible bachelor lists, his marriage hasn’t altered the company’s success, nor has it tamed Lucas and Holden’s notorious womanizing. Oh yes, in the weeks since I last laid naked in Lucas’s bed, I’ve done my research, torturing myself with picture after picture of various beautiful women draped on his flexed arms. I’ve studied their Botox-infused smiles and plastic tits, unfairly, perhaps, comparing myself to them, and always coming up short.

Bile creeps up my throat as I realize I was nothing more to Lucas than another notch on his ornate bedpost. But below the disgust, buried somewhere in the pit of my stomach, is another, more dangerous emotion: jealousy.

It consumes me now as I quickly scan the room, wondering which of the model-perfect ladies in tight ball gowns might be going home on Lucas’s bulging bicep tonight. Will he seduce her in the Jacuzzi, or skip straight to the satin sheets?

“When?” Lucas says.

I blink back to the present. “Huh?”

“When should I have told you who I was?” he presses. “Before I leapt to your defense at the bar—”

“I never asked you to do that,” I snap.

“—or when my mouth was full of your pussy?”

My face flushes with embarrassed heat, and damn if my clit doesn’t tighten. “That was a mistake.”