Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
Epilogue
Chapter 1
"Mysterious Pickles Games, how may I help you?" Stacy said, answering the phone.
"Really, Stacy? A receptionist?" she heard her mother say, her tone irritated. "This was the important thing you had to go and do? This is why you couldn't meet Martha and I to talk about the Foundation fundraiser on New Year's Eve?"
"Mom, first of all, I'm interim office manager, which just happens to include answering the phone," Stacy said, forcing herself to sound reasonable and patient. The fact that she was, in fact, sitting at the reception desk was beside the point. "Second, you and Martha do the masquerade ball every year. You've had it all planned since before Thanksgiving, and it''s only a week away. There isn't anything to talk about, really. So you didn't need me there anyway."
"Yes, but..." She sighed. "Well. Maybe you could join us for lunch. We've got some last minute details we'd love you to look over. You know, fresh eyes. Can you make it up to Gianfranco's? Around noon? We should be ready for a break by then."
Her mother sounded breezy, totally casual. Having known her mother all of her life, however, Stacy was onto her tricks.
"I can't possibly. I need to go over to Ain't She Sweet, pick up some things for a, erm, meeting."
"This is important." Her mother's voice was insistent. "Honestly. Can't you have someone else get it, and stop by instead?
Stacy's eyes narrowed. "Don't tell me. Martha's got a son, or nephew, or cousin or something who is around my age and just happens to be single."
A slight pause, then her mother huffed. "Stepson. And from what I hear, he's absolutely charming."
"I already fell for charming, thanks." Stacy tightened her jaw.
"Sweetie," her mother pleaded, now sounding sad. "You can't judge all men based on one bad one."
"I know that," Stacy replied, then plowed forward before her mother could interrupt. "No, seriously. Logically, I know that all men aren't con artists like Christian was."
But it wasn't about him, she thought bleakly. It wasn't that she couldn't trust men. It was that she couldn't trust herself--or her own judgment.
"You made a bad choice," her mother said, snapping her out of her thoughts. "Of course, your father and I knew immediately that something was wrong with him."
And here it comes, Stacy thought, already pulling out her preemptive ibuprofen and popping out two capsules.
"You're young, and it's easy to get misled by some fast talking, good-looking man. They count on that."
"I'm twenty-seven, not eighteen." Which made the fact that Christian had duped her out of $200,000 all the more mortifying.
"Trust me. That's still young," her mother said briskly. "That's why we're saying there are plenty of eligible young men that are from good families, families we know--with enough money that you'll know for a fact they're not trying to rob you of yours."
"Mom, I don't want you and Dad setting me up anymore." Stacy was pleased her voice stayed firm. "I'm serious."
"Well, are you at least bringing someone to the masquerade ball?"
Stacy grinned. "Yes. I'm bringing several somebodies, in fact."
"Several? What do you...oh. The girls." Stacy heard the eye-roll in her mother's voice. "Well, I'm sure they'll be...memorable."
"We also agreed to do that little promotion for the bookstore."
"It's a benefit fundraiser, not a yard sale," her mother said primly. "Nothing so tacky as flyers, correct?"
"Don't worry. We'll all be tasteful." Stacy frowned, wondering what Mallory would end up wearing. "Well, most of us."
"But will you bring a date?" her mother pressed.
Stacy sighed. "I've been on dating sabbatical all year," she said. "That technically includes New Year's Eve."
"A year is a long time, especially at your age."
"Thought you said I was young," Stacy said, then gratefully saw the other line light up. "Need to go back to work, Mom."
"We're going to talk about this more," her mother warned.
"And I look forward to it. Love you," she said, then hung up, clicking on the other line. "Mysterious Pickles Games, how may I help you?"
"I was wondering if you could bring me a cup of tea," a low, sexy British voice said.
She blinked, staring at the phone blankly, then looked up when she heard chuckling.
Rodney, one of the coders, was leaning against a nearby wall, talking on his cell phone, staring right at her. He winked, shutting off the phone. "Sorry. Seemed like you needed an escape there."
"You have no idea," she said, feeling both grateful and embarrassed.
"Oh, I've an idea, right enough," he said. "Seems like my Mum calls weekly to see if I've any plans to procreate and carry on the family name."
"Really?" she said, surveying him. "Is that a concern? You look like you've got plenty of time."
For a second, a somber look crossed his normally cheerful face. He was striking looking--deep cobalt blue eyes, black hair, a trimmed beard that only accentuated those turn-quick-and-I'll-cut-you chiseled cheekbones. He was damned good-looking with a wicked grin.
With an intense expression, he was downright mesmerizing.
"Yes, well," he said, shaking off the moment with a flippant gesture. "She's concerned that I'm too focused on sowing oats of some wild sort. Which is nonsense. I've told her repeatedly: I can't even keep a houseplant alive, much less oats."
She smirked. "I'm guessing you've sowed plenty."
"Do you, now?" He leaned on the reception desk. "Given it much thought?"
"Not really," she said, quickly and emphatically. "I'm allergic to oats like yours, pal, so eyes front."
"Seems like you're allergic to everyone's oats," he pointed out. "I heard you say something about a dating sabbatical. Sorry, didn't mean to eavesdrop, but you were just out here at the front desk," he added, obviously unrepentant.
"I decided to take the year off from men. And women, before you ask."
His eyes widened. "I wasn't planning to, but thank you for that vivid image."
"Sorry. Jose hit me with that one." She shook her head, then palmed the ibuprofen and downed them with some water. "Relationships are headaches. I don't need any more headaches."
"True." he said, nodding sagely, then grinned, one of pure deviltry. "Of course, that doesn't discount, ah, oat farming."
"Moratorium on that, too," she said. "Which Steve from marketing could've told you, since he made a similar offer."
"That was more of an observation than an offer, but I suppose it's good to know." His expression turned serious for a second. "Truly, though--you looked upset, and getting more so. And I sort of specialize in family headaches." He winked. "Keep your chin up."
"Keep calm and carry on, right?" She smiled. "That's so British."
"As I am," he said, tipping an imaginary hat to her. "Right to the marrow, love."
She watched as he waltzed away, heading back to his office down the stairs. She felt a little tingly squirm of admiration.
"Stop that," she scolded herself...then decided to sneak one last peek at him as he was walking away.
He was waiting at the end of the hall and grinned when he saw her glance.
Damn it, she thought, and quickly buried herself in filing. There was a reason why she was on a dating moratorium. The absolute last thing she needed was a sexy-as-sin Englishman, who was a player with a capital P, ruining all her carefu
lly built defenses.
Chapter 2
An hour later, Rodney was still thinking about the exchange as he typed away at code. Just light stuff at this point--he was waiting for the next project to come down the pipeline and almost all publishers were shut down for the holidays, so he was just killing time. His own phone jumped to life beside him. Seeing the number, he smiled.
"Hello, darling," he said. "It's odd, I was just talking to someone about you."
"Don't darling me," his mother, the Dowager Duchess of St. Charles, said sharply. "I'm still unhappy you missed Christmas."
"I am sorry about that, but weather was terrible. Also, we had a late release we needed to go to the wire on," he said.
"You know none of that makes any sense to me." She sighed. "You've been there three years already, Rodney. Aren't you done having your fun?"
He felt his muscles tense. So it was going to be this conversation again. "It's my job, mother."
"Your job. You realize how utterly horrid that sounds. How plebian."
"Now, now. Let's not dabble in class warfare," he said, hoping to head her off at the pass.
"You are the Duke of St. Charles, Earl of Loamshire, and one of the British peerage," she said, gaining steam. "You could probably buy that little company twenty times over, and there you are, at their beck and call. At Christmas!" She was quiet for a second. "Your father would be scandalized."
He rubbed his head. Like Jacob Marley, his father was a ghost that usually visited around Christmas, even though the man had been dead for some twelve years now. "Mother, must we? Haven't we exhausted this avenue of conversation?"
"You are the duke," she repeated. "You're not getting any younger--and lord knows, neither am I. At what point will you buckle down and tend to your responsibilities?"
"What responsibilities?" he countered, lowering his voice and shutting the door. "I keep an eye on the family investments. I ensure that my sisters are taken care of. And employment is hardly scandalous. Most of the other members of the peerage work."
"At respectable jobs," she countered. "They don't work in denim and t-shirts at silly little games!"
"More's the pity, the poor bastards," he said, through gritted teeth. "These 'silly little games' are my passion. I love working on them."
"Spoken like a child," she said. "Keep being childish, and you'll never have children of your own."
"My four sisters all have children," he shot back. "If you're feeling remiss in grandmotherly duties, I'm sure a nice visit will calm your sensibilities."
"You know very well that only you can produce the heir to the title!"
"I'm twenty-eight," he said, remembering Stacy's observation. "There's plenty of time."
"Anything could happen. You have no idea how much time you have," she said, her voice solemn, and he knew she was referring to his father, yet again, who had unexpectedly died of a massive heart attack while returning from the bank.
"I may move back to England," he said, a small effort at comforting her. "But right now, I'm learning too much, doing too much, here."
"And still chasing around those women, I imagine," she sniffed. "Not a one suitable to be a wife and the mother of your children, I might add."
He held his breath and mentally counted to ten. "I'm not having this conversation."
His mother paused, the sighed softly as they reached the usual impasse. "I suppose it's too much to ask if you're coming home for New Year's?"
He'd considered doing just that, but in his current frame of mind, he realized there was no way. "I can't," he said. "But I will try to be home for a visit the month after or so."
"Very well." She sighed again, a demure, restrained exhalation. "I'm sorry we had words. But this is important."
"I know, Mother. Love to the girls," he said, then rang off, putting the mobile phone down on his desk.
She hadn't understood. He'd mourned his father, although the two of them had never been close. He wasn't necessarily that close to his mother, either, although he felt more affection for her. He knew how much his presence here pained her. It represented a clear threat to the legacy that she was trying so hard to preserve.
But he wasn't kidding. Games were his life. They'd been a salvation for him at boarding school. It was through mass multi-player games that he'd befriended Fezza. He'd studied computer engineering and programming when most of his mates were studying law or finances. That was how he'd gotten the job here at MPG.
He'd done too much to get this far. He could've been partying in Ibiza or skiing in the Alps, like his rich and reckless cousin Gerard. But even though he was "roughing it," he was still happier here than he'd ever been anywhere.
There was a light tapping on his door--more like a light kicking. Puzzled, he got up, and opened it.
Stacy was standing there with a tray.
"You called," she said, smirking. She proceeded to put the tray down on his empty desk. "Requesting a cup of tea, remember?'
The tray held a teapot, a teacup and saucer, a strainer, a small pitcher of milk, and a bowl of sugar.
"How do you take it?" she asked, her smile widening.
Stunned, he replied, "Ah, milk and one. Thanks."
She poured the milk, then deftly poured the tea into it, removing the leaves once they'd served their purpose. Then she stirred in one spoon of sugar. "Hope it's up to standard," she said. "It's been a while."
He took a sip, and moaned. "Oh, God," he said. "You have no idea how long it's been since I've had a decent cup of tea. This is brilliant."
"Least I could do," she said. "Thanks for this morning."
"No, this is above and beyond," he said, feeling genuinely grateful. "I insist. I must pay back the favor. What can I do?"
She looked at him, and for a split second, hunger crossed her face, strong enough to startle him--and to jump start a hunger of his own.
He was more than willing to provide her with whatever payment she required, if the look on her face was any indication. In fact, he'd beg for the opportunity.
She quickly shuttered her expression--something he imagined she was good at by now.
"Moratorium," she said, more regretful than stern. "I'll let you know the next time I need my car washed, though."
With a cheeky grin, she left him with a perfect cup of tea--and a libido that was considerably stirred up.
As he sipped with a fervent sense of comfort, he thought about her. She'd been surprisingly thoughtful, gone out of her way. She obviously hadn't just had this stuff tucked away. This wasn't some loose, cheap quality, paper-bagged tea-dust from the shops. It was something special, a delicious Earl Grey with just the right amount of bergamot and full bodied black leaves. The water was boiled, not lukewarm, and she'd poured the milk first, like she knew the proper way to do so...how Brits took tea.
She was gracious, and grateful, but kept up a wall. She was beautiful and kind. Open, but somehow aloof.
She wanted him, but seemed almost scared--more of herself than him.
And wasn't that fascinating?
She was working temporarily at this job as an office manager. Her car and clothes bespoke money, so why the job? What was she doing here?
It was definitely a puzzle.
He grinned.
Luckily enough, puzzles were his absolute favorite kind of game.
Chapter 3
The guys were playing pool on the table near the Pit, enjoying draft beers. It was oddly awesome. None of his old mates from Cambridge could say that their offices were similar to a pub.
"Say, Fezza," he said, pulling his friend aside. "I was wondering. What's the deal with Stacy?"
The mere mention of her name had all the guys looking over at him and he suddenly wished he'd been a bit more discreet.
"No go, man," Fezza said. "Seriously. We've all made a run at her. Nobody survives. Even you would crash and burn."
"Nobody said anything about making a run at anyone," he said. "Good God. You make it sound like I was plann
ing on strafing her like a B-52 bomber."
"Every single straight guy here has asked her out," Fezza continued, oblivious.
"I asked her out the first day," Jeremy said, shaking his head. "She was nice, but shot me down in under two minutes."
"I made thirty seconds," Jose said. "And that was on the first attempt."
"How many attempts have you made?" Rodney asked.
"Not like I keep count." Jose shrugged, then sighed. "About ten. The last time, she said no before I even started talking. It's how she says hello now."
"Well, that's not stalker-esque or anything," Rodney said, now somewhat appalled on Stacy's behalf. He'd had some audacious and persistent women pursue him when he'd still been hitting the club circuit with Gerard, and he knew how draining it could be. How much worse to be a woman, stuck in a building with that kind of obstinance?
"The delivery guys ask her out, too," Jeremy added.
"I waited for a few days, and she was polite about it, but ice cold," Fezza said. "Seriously. Freezer burn. Not trying that again."
"All right," Rodney said. "But I didn't ask about your 'attempts' at her. I'm asking, who is she? What's her story? Why is she even here?"
The question seemed to take them all aback.
"Well, she's the interim office manager," Jeremy said, as if he was an idiot. "She's here to...you know, order things, make sure repair men get called, set up meetings. Stuff like that."
"You're just messing with me now, right?" Rodney stared at them. "Beyond the fact that she's the office manager and she's shot you all down, do you know anything about this woman?"
The guys all stared at each other for a second, then stared at him as if he'd grown another head.
"She's nice," Jose finally offered. "Even when she's pissed at me, she stocks the cookies I like in the break room."
"She also recommended a great vet for my dog, Boo Radley," Fezza added. "When I brought Boo by to say thank you, Stacy didn't mind that he got her slacks all muddy, either. Which is pretty cool."
Rodney waited, but that's all they provided. "Some observant lot you are," he muttered.
HOOKED Page 1