"It's mine," she said, stroking his chest. "Ignore it."
He nipped kisses down the pale column of her throat, placing her breast in his palm, marveling at the perfect fit. He kneaded her gently, gratified by the hitch in her breath and the way her silky legs stroked against him restlessly.
After a moment, her phone rang – her home phone, he realized, not her cell.
She groaned, not in a good way. "Oh, for God's sake. Let the machine get it," she said, straining against him.
"Stacy? It's your mother. Pick up, damn it. This is an emergency."
They both froze.
"Well, that's a mood killer," Stacy said, rolling off of him, much to his body's displeasure. She crossed the room, gloriously naked, and picked up the phone. "Mother? What is it? Is something wrong?"
He watched as she frowned, rolling her eyes. He barely made out her mother's voice over the phone--the woman was surprisingly loud. "I don't really think it's your business who I sleep with, Mother. I'm twenty-six, not..."
She paused.
"His name is Rodney Charles. I saw the paperwork myself."
Oh, shit. Rodney sat straight up. Why hadn't he seen this coming? He figured he'd have to tell her at some point--but really, now?
"How precisely did you come by this information, Mother? Overnight, on a holiday, no less?" Stacy's tone was frozen, then she held up a hand. "You know what? Never mind. I don't care. I'll find out myself."
She hung up, then he saw her take a deep breath and turn to him, her eyes frozen.
"My parents did a background check on you," she said. "They said Rodney Charles isn't your real name. That it's a fake identity."
He sighed. "Listen, I can..."
"Oh, God." Her hands went to her face. "Oh, God."
He leaped out of bed, reaching for her.
"Don't touch me!" she yelled, jumping away from him. "Just...get out. Get your clothes and get the hell out."
"There's a damned good reason for it," he said. "I came here to..."
"I don't care!" she said. "I don't care if you're in witness protection or if you're doing it to save your kid sister. I don't care what your reason is. I just... You lied to me!"
"I didn't even really know you," he argued. "And there were circumstances..."
"I can't do this. Do you understand? I can't..." Tears clouded those gorgeous eyes, came spilling down those porcelain cheeks. "I can't trust..."
"Oh, I get it." Pain sliced through him. "Because I have one, admittedly large, piece of information that doesn't match what you were expecting, for very bloody good reason, you won't trust me or any man?"
"I can't trust myself." Her voice broke. "Just...just get out. I have to think. I have to be alone."
"You can't just tar us all with the same brush," he said, gathering up his clothes, putting on the ridiculous costume, looking like a drunken 18th century pirate. "It's not fair, Stacy."
"Life's not fair, Rodney. Or whatever your name is."
He slammed the door behind him.
Chapter 12
Hours later, Stacy sat in her parents' living room, feeling numb. She'd burned her tongue on the coffee they'd poured her, and barely noticed. Her parents were talking, pacing, ranting. She watched them blankly, as if she''d wandered into a lecture in a class she wasn't taking. It was almost an out of body experience.
It couldn't have happened twice. Could it?
It was too painful to think about, so her mind had basically shut off, cringing away from any thought of... him. The pleasure of the previous night. The pain of this morning.
"At least we caught this one in time," her mother said, patting her on the arm. She'd been plying Stacy with iced tea all morning, it seemed like.
"Who exactly is he?" Stacy heard herself ask, and frowned. With her brain trying desperately to protect her, it seemed that one was coming from her heart. Somehow, she held out hope that he had some kind of explanation.
Please don't tell me I fell for a bastard twice.
"Does it matter?" Her father said, pacing. He'd upgraded from iced tea to gin and tonic by noon and he was still livid. "The man is a proven liar. Not even an American citizen--God knows what he was trying to take you for."
"But how did you find out?" Stacy asked.
Her mother looked pained. Her father spun. "We've got a private detective on retainer," he said. "And considering the amount we pay him, he's damned well going to do some digging."
"But on New Year's?" Stacy asked. Then her eyes narrowed. "When did you ask him to look into Rodney?"
"Yesterday," her father said. "And don't give me that look. It's getting to the point where I want to run fingerprints on every man who looks at you!"
Her mother tutted. "We've just been so worried," she said. "Yes, it may seem crazily overprotective--but after Christian, we're just lucky he wasn't someone who was interested in ransom."
"Christian was a con artist," Stacy said.
"It's not a huge leap in criminal terms," her father countered. "Damn it! We vet people for a reason. Is there something wrong with decent, well-bred young men we know, that you've got to go running out and looking for liars and losers?"
Silence fell like an ax blade. Stacy had thought nothing could feel worse than finding out that Rodney was a liar about his identity. Apparently, this was worse.
She couldn't trust herself. She was a liar-magnet. Which made her a loser herself, didn't it?
The intercom buzzed. "Mr. Fielder? There is a...Rodney Charles, here to see Stacy."
Stacy jolted. "He's here?"
"The balls on this guy," her father said. "Kick him out. No, wait-- I'll kick him out."
"No, Dad," Stacy followed in his wake, her mother trailing behind, making nervous noises. "I'll take care of it."
"Stacy!" she heard Rodney shouting from the foyer. The security guard at the door was with the housekeeper, Mrs. Lance. "Stacy! Damn it, the least you can do is hear me out!"
Her father walked over to Rodney. "You've got about a second before I beat your ass into the floor."
Rodney sighed. "Given your position, I can understand. I lied about my name, and I know your daughter has been hurt before. But I tried to tell her this morning: it has nothing at all to do with her. I can prove this."
"We don't want to hear anything you have to say," her mother said.
"I'd like the chance to mount my own defense," he said. "You have to at least give me that chance!"
"Why should I?" her father thundered.
"Because I'm falling in love with your daughter, damn it," Rodney said, his accent so sharp it could cut glass. "Something I do not say lightly and something I find galling to need to relay through intermediaries. She is a grown woman. At least give her the dignity of making her own mind up about me."
"Her judgment" her father said, with derision, "is hardly a reliable factor here!"
And there it was. Why she'd run off with Christian, perhaps. Why she'd always been attracted to the bad boys. She had rebelled.
She was twenty-six years old. She needed to do more than just rebel. She needed to take the reins on her own damned life.
"I want to hear what he has to say," she said.
Her father turned. "Are you kidding me?"
Her mother interrupted. "Honey, you're distraught."
"No. He's right about one thing," Stacy said. "He shouldn't have lied to me, but I have the right to make the decision based on what I hear, and what he has to say."
"I'm not living through that again," her father said. "If you want to play Russian roulette with your relationships, fine. But you're not going to have access to your trust fund. You're not going to ruin your financial future and threaten your family's well-being because you're not thinking straight."
He was waiting for her to roll over. She sighed.
"I'm taking a job. A permanent job," she said. "I'll move out of the townhouse. I need to get my act together. And Mom, Dad...I love you, but I'm twenty-six years old. I really need
to grow up here."
She walked out, Rodney following her. She took a deep breath. "Can you give me a lift to the bookstore?" she asked simply.
He nodded, opening the door to his car.
"Thank you," he said.
"Don't thank me yet," she answered. "I'm giving you the chance to explain yourself. That doesn't mean that I'm going to get back with you, or that we're going to be anything after this discussion. Do I make myself clear?"
"Crystal," he replied. He took a deep breath. "Unfortunately, my story is a little...unbelievable."
"Of course it is."
"I'm a duke." The words spilled out of his mouth. "And yes, it sounds bloody ridiculous. Especially in light of what your parents are accusing, and what you've gone through in the past. But I am."
"And you drive an Audi and live in an apartment with Fezza."
"Next door to Fezza, but yes."
"Well, then," she said, shaking her head. "I'm certainly glad you cleared the air."
He pulled over, and looked at her. "I know it sounds insane. But I was...bored. Stifled. My family's quite wealthy. I'm a titled heir, but all I wanted to do was make video games," he said, sounding rather impassioned. God help her, he sounded like he was telling the truth.
But didn't they all?
"I changed my name because I couldn't very well go around introducing myself as Rodney, Twelfth Duke of St. Charles," he said. "I left England because I wanted to leave that behind. I wanted to get by on my own merits. Whatever else can be said about the United States, you believe in a man making it on his own, not because of how he was born. And when I became a designer and architect here, it was because I could code, not because of a title and who I went to bloody school with!"
She stared at him. "Why didn't you tell me before now?"
"Do you know how many women have tried to 'land' me...the titled heir to a fortune? Do you know how many women tried to sue me, on trumped up charges of paternity? Who sold details of my life to tabloids?" He looked at her sadly. "I wanted you to care about me for me. As a guy who wears T-shirts and jeans and occasionally needs to be bailed out of the parking lot because Fezza's car needs to be towed. I wanted you to see me as normal."
"I think you're not normal," she said, with a watery laugh. "But that doesn't mean I didn't like you."
"I wanted you to more than like me, I think," he said quietly. "Have I ruined it, then? Have I completely destroyed anything you might've felt for me?"
She took a deep breath. She kept hearing her parents. Saw Christian's face. Thought of the missteps, the mistakes.
Thought about what she was risking.
Then she got very silent. Centered, like Cressida had always mentioned. She wanted to take it all in...hear her own voice. Not her parents, not her past.
What was she feeling now?
"Stacy?" she heard him ask tentatively, after a minute or two of silence.
"I trust you," she said. "God help me, but I still do trust you."
She didn't realize she'd been crying until he wiped her tears away with his thumbs. "I want you to keep trusting me," he said. "And I'll do whatever I can to make you feel safe. I'll never, ever hurt you."
"You'd better not," she said, and kissed him.
Epilogue
One month later...
"I can't believe this," Stacy breathed, as Rodney helped her off the private jet.
"What? You've been in England before."
She gave him a gentle shove. "I've never been in a private jet before, and certainly haven't landed on the private airstrip of a big English mansion.""
"Seat of the family's estates," he admitted, looking a tiny bit sheepish. She noticed that he'd certainly dressed the part. He looked scrumptious, every inch the English Lord-of-the-manor. Although in this case, she supposed duke-of-the-manor was more appropriate.
"So...all this is yours?"
"Yes, quite." He put his hands in his pockets, suddenly looking boyish. "Not put off, are you?"
He sounded like he was joking, but there was a serious look in his eyes--a studying. As if to see if a dollar sign radar was going to suddenly light up in her eyes. She shook her head.
"It's going to be pretty tough to take," she drawled, then grinned. "I would've fallen in love with you, even if you were just a coder, driving Fezza's beater car."
His answering smile was like sunlight on the overcast day. "Nonsense. No woman in her right mind would fall in love with a man who owns that damned junker."
She grinned, and let him escort her to the mansion.
HOOKED Page 6