by Christa Wick
Oops, she thought then immediately chastised herself for the intentional act.
She wasn't about physical aggression, hadn't been raised that way. Maybe Los Angeles, particularly the film industry, was finally getting under her skin and it was time, as her mother had suggested, for her to come home, room with her mom at the house Melanie grew up in, open an Etsy shop or something for smaller costume creations and forget about the bigger dreams that had drawn her to Hollywood to begin with.
At least then she wouldn't have to deal with the oversized egos of men like Declan Bain.
Chapter Four
"You've barely said a word since I picked you up at the airport," Nancy Winslow crisply noted as they neared the entrance to the subdivision Melanie had grown up in.
Melanie pretended to look at the houses they were passing until a sigh snuck past her lips. "All I'm going to talk about is working on a movie you won't watch."
Irritated with herself, she rubbed at her jaw. The complaint was valid. Some day she might win a damn Oscar for costume design and, even then, her mother wouldn't watch the film. A librarian by education and profession, Nancy Winslow mostly belonged in an era before there was cinema.
And the older the book, the better.
No billionaire, biker bad boys with secret babies for this librarian. Give her Ivanhoe or Beowulf. If someone really wanted to make her dizzy with delight and curl her toes, all they had to do was request a copy of Chaucer's Canterbury Tales or, better yet, Edmund Spenser's The Fairie Queene.
"I'm sorry," Melanie mumbled. "I just figured you would be telling me all about your trip. You were gushing the first two weeks about all the old bookshops, but then you clammed up all of a sudden. You didn't even post any pictures of the London Library."
Unfortunately, as much as her mother eschewed television, she was a regular pro at Facebook because it let her keep up with other diehard readers. But her feed had been oddly empty since the beginning of her third week in England.
Before Nancy could offer any explanation, they came within sighting distance of the small ranch home that her mother owned. Melanie looked from the drive, to her mother, then back to the drive.
"Did you win the lottery and forget to tell me?" she asked, staring at the midnight blue Audi R8 parked in front of the house.
"Oh..." The sound escaped Nancy like she just had the wind punched out of her. "That must be Roger's son. He did say he was doing well...although I thought he was just going to rent something at the airport."
Melanie couldn't help but process her mother's words in reverse. Airport rental, someone doing well, blah blah blah, then "Roger's son," which led, invariably, to Melanie shouting as her mom's SUV pulled into the drive and came to a stop alongside the Audi.
"Who the hell is Roger?"
Putting the vehicle in park, Nancy took her hands off the steering wheel then nervously patted her palms together. After the fourth pat she scratched the pointed end of her chin twice then patted her hands together three more times before whispering a reply.
"He's your new stepfather."
The answer refused to sink in for several long seconds. When it did, Melanie locked her gaze on her mother's.
"Six weeks, Mom!"
She shook her head. That wasn't possible. Nancy Winslow was the last person in the world to go off on a vacation touring bookstores and come home married.
"Wait, this is someone you've been dating before you left and you never told me about him."
The nervous smile playing on her mother's lips suggested Melanie's first guess had been correct.
"Melalee, honey..."
"Don't even start that," Melanie barked. Every time she was in trouble with either of her parents, they had always given her the full name treatment.
Melanie Lee Archer.
But when it was her mom in trouble, like any of the dozen times Nancy forgot to sign a permission slip or missed a parent-teacher conference or any of the other things normal parents remembered to do because they didn't have their nose perpetually buried in a book, out came "Melalee," the smashing together of her first and middle names.
"Melanie, honey," her mother corrected. "I'm not a young woman in case you haven't noticed. I don't have the months and years to make sure my head is satisfied with what my heart already knows."
"Good lord," Melanie bit out. "What book did you pull that from?"
Nancy touched her fingers lightly against her own chest, their position approximately over her heart.
"This one."
Melanie huffed but softened at the maudlin gesture. Maybe her mom hadn't done something insane. Maybe she'd done something entirely reasonable that just happened to be romantic and daring and life changing all at the same time.
Melanie figured she could at least go in and meet the guy before drawing any other conclusions.
"Fine," she relented, unhooking her seatbelt and opening the passenger door slowly so she wouldn't risk hitting a car that had a base price of six figures.
"So you haven't met his son?"
"No," Nancy answered with a warble as her voice dropped lower. "They have long been estranged."
Grabbing her luggage from the back seat, Melanie paused to lift a brow. Seeing the silent inquiry, Nancy shrugged.
Melanie dropped the brow back down and reminded herself that she wasn't going to jump to conclusions. Just because a man was "long estranged" from his son didn't mean he was a bad parent. Of course, it also didn't mean he was the world's greatest dad.
"Well," Melanie said, shutting the door and extending the handle on her suitcase. "Let's get this circus started!"
Chapter Five
Melanie and her mother entered through the front door into the living room. Two couch-side lamps were on, the area dimly lit. Forgetting for a second that she had just acquired in the matter of a few seconds a stepfather and stepbrother, Melanie instinctively braced for a full barrel assault by Bujo, the dog her mother had adopted shortly after the death of Melanie's father.
Greeted by nothing but silence, she looked at Nancy with a question in her eyes.
"They must be in the kitchen, or maybe the backyard. Roger smokes a pipe..."
Melanie shook her head. "You didn't get rid of Bujo, did you?"
"No, honey." Nancy wrapped a shaky hand around her daughter's elbow. "Let's go find the men, shall we."
Melanie let her mother lead her through the living room and dining area. As they were about to push through the swinging door that opened onto the kitchen, she heard a man's voice, the accent very British and cultured.
"Now, son, I don't see--"
Before he could finish, Nancy and Melanie entered the room. The speaker, Roger by default of his age and the fact that his lips had been moving mid-sentence, faced the swinging door and stopped talking at the interruption.
The other man had his back to them, but Melanie only barely noticed his presence. There was something about her new stepfather's face, something she recognized but her brain refused to acknowledge.
With her gaze solidly stuck on Roger's face, she stumbled and hit her hip against the kitchen counter. Turning in the periphery of Melanie's vision, the younger male grunted in a voice that had no business being in the kitchen of her book-loving mother.
"Of course," he said. "It had to be you."
With the same slow hesitation she would have used pulling a sliver of glass out of her eye, Melanie looked from Roger to the second man, his face masked with a harsh scowl and a hard stare. Both men had the same flinty gray irises, the same strong, angular facial features, the same everything, only Roger had been marked by more decades.
This can't be real, she thought. She had to be on the plane, still asleep, her mind slipping from one nightmare to another, both of them starring Declan Bain.
He took a step toward her, and then another, his shoulders squaring off as if ready for a fight.
"You might have mentioned this earlier," he growled.
She shook her head, protesting. "I didn't
even know you existed until we pulled in the drive."
Realizing how stupid that sounded, she shook her head even harder. "I mean, no one told me about the wedding or that Roger is your father. I didn't even know they'd met."
Running a hand through his short cut hair, Declan glanced over his shoulder at Roger. "I think I'll take that drink now, Sir Roger."
Melanie stood numb as Declan shouldered his way past her. His father, her new stepfather, sidestepped her more carefully, his gaze on his son to the exclusion of everyone else. Her mom took Melanie's hand, a quiet apology shimmering in the older woman's brown gaze.
"I'm so sorry, honey, I remember him saying something about Declan working in the film industry...I didn't think you'd necessarily know one another."
A harsh laugh escaped Melanie. Her mother had no idea she had a blockbuster movie star in her living room about to drink the last of George Archer's scotch, the eighteen-year-old bottle of Macallan now four years older than the last time it had been poured.
"Don't worry, mom," she sniped, pushing on the swinging door. "Roger will eventually figure out that he needs to put anything he wants you to remember in a book."
Marching past Roger, Melanie headed straight for the liquor cabinet despite Declan standing next to it, his hip resting lightly against its side. She seldom drank and had never had alcohol in front of her mother, but there was a time for everything and tonight was one of those times.
She moved the bottles around, each one looking harsher and stronger than the one before it, until she landed on an unopened bottle of peppermint Schnapps. Breaking the seal, she poured herself two fingers. She wanted to slam the liquid down her throat, but she barely got the first sip past her lips without spluttering it back out.
"Bujo," she called loudly as she headed for the couch.
She had the feeling she would need an ally before the night was over. Declan and Roger certainly wouldn't fill that need and she assumed her mother's allegiance was pledged to her new husband, especially when her daughter was about to turn completely irrational.
"Here boy, c'mon. C'mon Bujo!"
Declan looked at her as if she had grown a second head. Ignoring him, she called again and finally heard a soft canine whine. She whistled then snicked a couple of times out the side of her mouth. A very fuzzy head appeared in the hallway, the coloring and size the black, tan and white of an adult Bernese Mountain Dog, but the texture and length of the fur that of a Chow Chow.
The presence of the men, or maybe just Declan's uptight, glacial attitude, was clearly stressing Bujo. His gaze darted around the assembled humans and he kept dipping his head.
Melanie patted the cushion next to her. "C'mon boy."
He barked once then bounded down the hall, leaping to land next to her. Schnapps sloshed inside her glass but didn't spill as the hundred pound dog began to slobber all over her face. Grimacing, she ordered him down, but not off, and used the sleeve of her hoodie to wipe away all the dog spit.
"That's a good boy," she said, petting him with one hand while the other hand lifted the glass to her lips and she drew a long sip of the Schnapps.
Ten minutes later, after listening to her mother try over and over again to draw Declan into conversation that consisted of more than one or two words, Melanie returned to the liquor cabinet. Seeing that no one else wanted the Schnapps, she skipped the polite two fingers measurement and filled the tumbler up to half an inch from the top edge then carefully picked her way back to the couch, careful to avoid the long legs of both men and the four furry ones of Bujo as he curled in an oversized ball next to where she was sitting.
Seeing her mother's disapproving gaze on the glass in her hand, Melanie lifted it high in a salute, gesturing first to her mother and Roger and then to Declan, whose gaze narrowed suspiciously.
"Here's to secret marriages," she toasted and swallowed down a mouthful. "And secret offspring."
Another mouthful followed the second toast, and then another.
An hour later, the bottle of Schnapps was disappointingly empty and Melanie was sliding toward the floor.
Chapter Six
With a wrecking ball swinging inside her head, Melanie peeled one eye open. She yawned as the eye slowly focused. A murky tattoo swam into view. She recognized the outline but had never been able to make sense of it.
Was it an octopus? It sort of looked like one, but some of the tentacles ended in spiky shapes. Maybe it was a warrior octopus?
The eye drifted shut and she yawned again. Pushing out a leg, she tried to get more comfortable so she could fall back asleep. Her foot came into contact with a leg, one with a light dusting of hair that was too silky to be her two-day-old stubble or that of any other woman.
Her eyes flew open, her pulse and breathing going from a rate a hibernating bear to that of a marathon runner with the finish line in sight.
Seeing the naked torso of Declan Bain, she shot straight up into a sitting position. Clutching the comforter to her chest, she unintentionally pulled it off his magnificent body.
To her relief, he had on silky blue boxers.
And nothing else.
The rest of his mouth watering form was exposed to her bleary eyed gaze. And what wasn't exposed was just barely concealed because a very large tent shaped the front panel of his boxers.
Emitting a small, surprised shriek, Melanie jumped up from the bed, the comforter still clutched to her chest. Her very first step landed on something hard, misshapen and slick. Her ankle twisted, turning her body with it. The bedding tangled around her legs and down she went.
Her shriek startled Declan awake. Seeing her on the floor, he slid to her side of the bed, stood and offered her a hand up, the dark gray gaze unreasonably alert for having just been jerked from a sleeping state.
Out of reflex, she reached for his hand. Then she saw the erection that still poked at the front of his boxers.
"For God's sake," she snapped, yanking her hand back to her chest. "Put that...thing...away."
She kicked at the comforter swaddling her feet to find whatever the hell it was that had made her fall. Seeing Bujo's chewed up rawhide, she exhaled a long groan.
Had she really just tripped over a bone while fleeing a boner?
How humiliating.
"There," Declan said, a fat dose of amusement lacing his voice.
Melanie risked a side glance to find that he had grabbed one of the stuffed animals that still decorated her childhood bedroom.
"Not with Koko!" She snatched the gorilla then dropped it with fresh dread. "Just turn around and stay like that until I leave the room."
He didn't comply, his body language communicating he'd reached his tolerance level for female morning hysteria by the way his legs moved into a spread stance and his hands braced against his hips.
Seeing that the offending member was continuing to salute the new day with unflagging enthusiasm, Melanie pressed a palm against the vein throbbing in her temple. She tried to remember anything that had happened last night after Bujo finally joined her on the couch, but everything after that point was one big, peppermint flavored haze.
"What the fuck were you doing in my bed?" she barked.
"Oh, Melalee, honey..."
Hearing Nancy's voice and finding her in the open doorway, Declan's bold stance crumbled and he quickly turned away. Snatching a pillow off the bed, he sat down so that his erection was fully concealed.
"Declan was going to go to a hotel, but he'd had a second scotch. Then he was going to take the couch after you, uhm..."
"Past out," Declan supplied.
Nancy winced but kept on trying to explain. "And, well, Bujo has been a little upset since I got back, what with the long trip and Roger here. And, well, he peed on the couch."
"Declan or Bujo?" Melanie snapped.
Her mother gasped. "Now, Melanie Lee Archer, that--"
"Stick with Melalee," she corrected. "You're still the one in trouble on this, not me. You don't know Declan and it doesn
't sound like his father does either."
"Don't flatter yourself, Melanie Lee," Declan growled from where he sat, the pillow resting on his lap.
Shooting a quick glare at the actor, Melanie stood up and threw the comforter on the bed then snatched her robe off the side chair. Shrugging it on, she passed her mom and offered a second hard stare before disappearing into the hall bathroom.
Opening the door five minutes later, she saw her rolling suitcase propped against the wall, its presence undoubtedly a small peace offering from her mother.
Hauling it into the bathroom, she did a more thorough cleansing of her face and brushed her teeth, the exhaust fan running to mute any sound from the outside world.
Her eyes were surprisingly clear, but her skin was dehydrated. She drank a couple handfuls of water from the sink then applied some moisturizer before looking at the clothes Cammie had packed.
Things were casual as directed, but Cammie had picked the newest and most feminine items in Melanie's closet. She layered a peach and white striped knit blouse over a long sleeve t-shirt, with pale blue jeans on the bottom and blue sneakers.
Turning to the cosmetics bag, she pouted. Cammie had kept it minimal as directed, but Melanie hadn't known she would be waking up next to Declan Bain, her new stepbrother, when she had told her roomie what to pack.
Her new stepbrother!
She closed her eyes and shook her head, setting the wrecking ball to swinging all over again.
Just how in the hell had all of this happened? Seriously, her mother had been gone six weeks and returned home with some Brit who just happened to be the secret dad of one of Hollywood's biggest stars.
And how could her mother not tell her!
She should have known something big was up, though. Nancy had been dropping a lot of "Melalee" in the few conversations they'd had between Nancy returning from England and picking Melanie up at the airport.
With a resigned sigh, she pulled out the small assortment of makeup and began applying it, hoping she could erase a night of too much alcohol with a few strokes of liquid magic.