by CC MacKenzie
She was footloose and fancy free and so was he.
He’d nothing to lose by taking her, making her his.
But not yet.
Now those violet eyes narrowed into his.
“You’re gorgeous,” he told her. “The way you look at me, as if you can’t decide whether to kiss or kill me, gets me every time. I find it incredibly sexy. But I’m not going to have sex with you because...” He paused for three beats. “You need to heal.”
And right on cue her chin tilted.
“I’m absolutely fine.”
“No. You’re not. Physically and emotionally you’re too delicate, too vulnerable. I’m a protector, always have been, always will be. So that means your fragility is pressing all my buttons.”
With an over-dramatised sigh, he gave her wide eyes.
“I’m a guy. Which means if a beautiful woman kisses me the way you did, believe me I can be up for sex anytime. But usually I like to have dinner, talk, find common ground, get to know her. You know, normal stuff like that.”
Now that delectable mouth pouted in a way that made him want to kiss her. “But, you do know me.”
He could tell by the way she frowned and bit her top lip that the lack of logic in their discussion, how it had turned on her, had struck home.
Now he slowly shook his head.
“Baby, you haven’t spoken a civil word to me in years. We’ve got sidetracked. Taking you to bed is not why you’re here.”
Coco didn’t know how to respond to the lethal combination of the jerk of her pulse, the liquid flutter of arousal deep in her belly and bitter disillusionment.
Stupid.
She was so stupid to believe he actually cared about her.
When would she ever learn not to challenge this man?
All he’d done was to show her who was in control, who was the boss.
“What do you want?” she demanded.
Now he straightened, leaned his elbows on his knees.
His eyes never left hers.
“Just call me the peacemaker.”
So dear daddy had sent him to build bridges, had he?
Typical.
If he told Rafe to jump, Rafe would ask how high.
Why couldn’t she be attracted to a person who had enough character with enough backbone to be his own man?
Battling with deep sense of bitter disappointment in him, in herself, Coco wondered why the hell she was surprised.
Sinking to the edge of a chair, she sipped her water.
“Between my father and you I’m being driven crazy.”
“What do you want, Coco?”
“Independence,” she shot back. “Look it up. It means liberty, freedom, self-determination.”
“I know what it means. Unfortunately, just at this moment, you can’t have it.”
She knew he was right. Even understood the reasoning behind it, but that didn’t mean she had to put up with him poking his nose into her business.
“Did you wheedle an invitation to this wedding?”
His cheeks went red.
Gotcha.
“I might have.”
“Why?”
“You’ve no protection. The place is crawling with paps, long lenses. Your father was concerned. I’m concerned. End of.”
“So I’m a part of your job description?”
That lethal smile flashed.
“If you like.”
“I don’t like,” she snapped.
“You didn’t bring a date.”
What the hell did that have to do with anything?
“I brought Louise. You didn’t bring a date.”
“I’m working. I never mix business with pleasure.”
How the hell did that make sense when he’d just kissed her senseless and played her body like a violin?
“You’re a walking cliché, Rafael.”
And in more ways than one.
‘Tall, dark and handsome’ could have been invented to describe the son-of-a-bitch.
His response was a small curve of that amazing mouth.
“Don’t you find it boring baby-sitting me?’
That smile went wide.
“No man in his right mind would find you boring, doll face. Fishing for compliments?”
Deciding not to lower herself to his level, Coco took a very deep breath.
“Do you really believe that cornering me at my friend’s wedding was a clever idea, Rafael?”
“You haven’t left us with a lot of choice.”
“Us?”
“Your father, your brother. And me. You can’t resign in a fit of pique. There are commitments to be honoured. You’re the face of the cosmetic line. Promotions have been lined up for weeks, months ahead. How is storming out of a meeting proving that you’re mature enough for a seat on the board?”
He was right.
Bastard.
In some ways, she regretted the way she’d handled it. A better idea might have been to let the dust settle and then calmly, and with dignity, resigned. In other ways she didn’t regret a damn thing. What about her father’s commitment to her? If she tried to explain herself, that she had a road map for her future and what that plan was, Rafe would never believe her. She’d covered her tracks too well.
However, plans were in place, actions taken.
She refused to change course now.
Getting Rafe off her back was key to the success of her long-term plans. And there was only way to do that, to hit him where it hurt, in his pride and in his ego.
Ignoring the jumpy nerves in her belly, Coco straightened her spine.
Her eyes met his.
She permitted her utter contempt for him as her father’s stooge to be crystal clear in her eyes and in her voice.
“I will honour any commitments for the length of a month’s notice as per the terms of my contract, which means there are three weeks left. I don’t need protection and I’m not changing my mind. You can tell the organ grinder that his pet monkey failed.”
The silence in the room was so loud she could have heard a butterfly breathe.
The way those dark eyes narrowed into icy slits, the way those fantastic cheekbones flushed told her she’d hit the bulls eye.
Very slowly, like a big black panther, Rafe stood.
His hands bunched into fists at his side.
How long he simply stood there and stared into her eyes, Coco had no idea but even though shame that she’d deliberately wounded him made her feel physically sick she would not back down.
Rafe simply turned and walked out.
The door snicked closed behind him.
Coco blew out a long, shaky breath.
She’d just burnt every single bridge with Rafael Cavendish.
Chapter Six
Three days later, Coco was of the opinion that being the daughter of one of the wealthiest men in the country seriously sucked.
For example take today’s tabloid headline, ‘Soap star and Coco in secret sex romp.’
Dating the soap star in question for three short weeks over a year ago had been a rare blunder. He’d slipped right under her sleaze ball detector. Coco always admitted her mistakes. And for the record, he’d never got past first base. The publicity had given him a short boost to his career and kept her father happy because she was in the headlines. All publicity was good publicity for the Monroe brand.
The sleaze ball had received a notice from her lawyers and was blaming the newspaper and the newspaper was blaming him. Yada, yada, yada.
The woman who wrote the piece was a queen bitch. Since Coco considered being a bitch was a personality flaw rather than a capital offense, it didn’t stop the warm fuzzy feeling in her belly knowing that Ms. Tabitha Crew’s editor and publisher of the newspaper were even now receiving a kicking from her father’s legal team.
A retraction and apology would be printed tomorrow, on page three, and a sum would be paid to the charity of Ms. Monroe’s choice, which was better than nothing. On the whole, Coco consider
ed she’d got off lightly. It could have been worse, much worse. It could have been three in a bed with her face photo-shopped on a nubile, and naked, torso.
But it sucked, because now Ms. Crew would be looking for any excuse to get her own back. Tit-for-tat was the name of the fame game.
Coco had had six months of relative peace and tranquillity. Okay, six weeks of that had been spent in hospital fighting a lingering infection and recuperating. But hey, every cloud had a silver lining.
She’d had a taste of anonymity, freedom, and wanted a hell of a lot more of it.
Recently, she’d noticed mention of her name in a couple of celebrity blogs, on twitter and Facebook groups.
The wild merry-go-round of her life was about to start-up again.
Now Coco sat at the kitchen table of her new house, eating a late breakfast of an egg white omelette and mulling over the situation.
She loved her home.
Hidden from long lenses of the paparazzi, no one outside her immediate circle knew it existed. It wasn’t a city apartment or one of the many homes owned by her father around the world.
Nope.
This was all hers.
A country retreat bought and paid for by one Coco Monroe.
And that’s how she liked it.
Yep, being the daughter of a self-made squillionaire seriously sucked.
But what sucked even more was having three older brothers who made it their mission in life to make hers a challenge. She gave as good as she got. Telling them that since they were getting old and decrepit - they were in their early thirties - it was more than time they settled down, found a good woman and added to the Monroe line. And if she really wanted to mix it up she said it in front of their father.
Hehehe.
Two of her brothers simply stated that since she was the one with the uterus, she should do her family duty. Bruce and Wallace Monroe fought for their country courtesy of Her Majesty’s armed forces in Afghanistan and other hot spots.
Coco sat back with her coffee, black no sugar, easing herself into the day by watching Jezebel and Honey play on the immaculate lawn. Vast folding glass doors to the garden were wide open and a balmy breeze of late summer carried the scent of full blown roses into the room. She grinned as the pug nipped the St. Bernard’s paws then leapt out of harm’s way. Jezebel was a little tease.
Wearing low slung yoga pants of light cotton, she propped her bare feet onto a chair, opened her laptop, switched it on.
Her emails lit up and she took a leisurely scan of her messages.
She straightened in her seat, frowning at the sender alert on the screen and the subject in shouty letters.
From Raphael Cavendish, DO NOT IGNORE THIS MESSAGE.
Poop.
She’d been ignoring him for three days.
What the hell did he want?
A picture of the Rafe the last time she’d seen him entered her mind.
She’d infuriated and frustrated him.
But most of all, she’d hurt him.
Coco told herself it was only human to feel regret, but he’d left her with no choice.
And it was all her own fault if her long lonely nights had been filled with memories of The Kiss, of that amazing face, of inky hair, of an outstanding butt on a superior body, of a stunning looking man with an air of danger.
He had fabulous eyes. Eyes a woman, if she was stupid enough, could drown in. And Coco Monroe was not stupid.
Her index finger hovered over the mouse.
Open or ignore, decisions, decisions.
She glanced at the time.
Hmm, he’d sent it at 6.00am.
That was typical of him, up and at ‘em.
And in many ways she liked that about Mr. Fix-It.
Or as Louise called him, ‘Mr. Fix-Coco.’
Louise reckoned Rafe Cavendish was a monk since he kept to himself in a way that made a recluse look like a party animal. But he received his fair share of press attention, too. Most of the celebrity scribblers described him as a loner, polite but aloof. Now Coco laughed out loud recalling a gossip article highlighting the top ten bachelors in the country, penned by Ms. Tabitha Crew.
Coco bet what had been written about him had put a hitch in Rafe’s long stride through life.
God, she’d give good money to be a fly on the wall when he read it.
As far as she could tell he wasn’t seriously dating.
No, Rafe remained determinedly single.
And Coco could respect that since she was determinedly single herself.
Wearing low-slung jeans and a vest the exact colour of her eyes, Louise swung through the garden doors, dumped brown paper sacks filled with what she termed real food on the table.
The dogs’ spooky radar told them there might be a treat in the shopping bags.
Sure enough, Louise held a couple of milk bones in her hand and raised her brows.
Immediately, Honey and Jezebel dropped their butts to the floor.
The St. Bernard’s whole body trembled as Louise gave Jezebel her treat before handing Honey hers.
“Good girls.”
With a frown Louise cocked her head to listen to the music thumping from the iPod deck. “Is that Justin Bieber?” she demanded in a tone dripping with disgust.
Coco hunched her shoulders. “Might be.”
“You’d think his fifteen minutes of fame would be up by now.”
“Girls love him.”
“Yep, if they’re twelve with broccoli for brains.”
“Be nice, Louise. Who was the one who loved the Backstreet Boys?”
Her friend glared. “Why throw it up in my face? What’ve I ever done to you?”
“You played a certain song on a loop for weeks. And severely tested my love for you.”
“I was twelve and had the brain of a turnip. Turnip brain is better than broccoli brain.”
She opened a cupboard, grabbed a mug and the pot. And turned to Coco.
“Want more coffee?”
“Thanks.”
Glowering at her screen, Coco drummed her fingernails on the table.
Louise frowned. “What’s up, grumpy face?” Not waiting for response, she peered at the laptop over Coco’s shoulder, spotted the email. “That explains it. Gonna open it?”
“I’m sort of thinking about it. Mulling over the pros and cons. Do I want the day to deteriorate further or do I remain in blissful ignorance?”
Louise gave a snort of laughter. “If you don’t respond, he’ll text.”
And right on cue Coco’s cell dinged.
They checked caller ID.
Coco gave her wide eyes. “You’re a witch.”
“Nothing magical about it. It’s called logic and an understanding of how his mind works.”
Coco picked up her cell, opened the message, showed it to Louise.
CALL ME.
“Short, sharp and to the point,” Louise said.
“It tells me nothing. Does it mean he’s still furious or does it mean it’s urgent?”
Louise gave her a friendly pat on the on the shoulder.
“Why don’t you put us both out of our misery.”
Coco jabbed call and waited.
“Why are you not opening your emails?” Rafe asked by way of a greeting.
The deep voice did wonderful things to parts of her that other voices didn’t reach.
So she sat back and prepared to enjoy herself.
“Good morning, Rafe dahling. How are you this fine, sunny day?”
Silence.
Annoyance fluttered in her belly along with the vivid memory of The Kiss.
Arousal flooded her system.
Oh God.
“You’re seriously pissing me off,” he said through gritted teeth. “I’ve been messaging you for three days.”
“Really? I’ve been very busy.” She eyed the bags Louise was unpacking. “Just back from the grocery store. Stocking up the vast larder in my new house.”
And she
almost cracked at her friend’s slack jaw and big eyes.
Anyone who knew her knew she didn’t know one end of a supermarket from the other. It wasn’t that she had anything against them. Why put herself through the stress of self-service checkouts when a person could shop online and have it delivered?
Silence.
Coco decided to nudge the conversation along. “What can I do for you?” she asked in a friendly voice.
“The opening of The Blue Lagoon Two is on Tuesday night. On Tuesday night Ethan is flying to the States. You’re on duty.”
Now she placed her feet on the floor, straightened in her chair.
“This Tuesday?” She couldn’t keep the alarm from her voice.
Her eyes flew to Louise who’d stopped dead and was staring at her with wide eyes.
Crap.
The deep voice at the other end of the line went all soft and silky.
“Got something more important to do? Nails, hair, facial perhaps?”
Son-of-a...
“What time?”
“Seven-thirty. Don’t be late,” he barked.
And hung up.
Coco simply stared at the phone.
“Tuesday?” Louise’s green eyes went dark with worry. “So Rafe’s still acting as the go-between you and your father? This is getting out of hand. I don’t think it’s a good idea to let Samson go.”
“We’ve been over all this. I can’t trust them with anyone else.”
“Yes, but it’ll leave you exposed, unprotected.”
Coco shook her head. “It will leave me free for the first time in years.”
Chapter Seven
Two weeks into his new role of running Ludlow Hall, the flagship of Ferranti Hotels & Spas, and Jacob Del Garda realised with something like surprise that for the first time in months he was enjoying himself.
He was a man who liked to keep busy, who liked his world well organised and running smoothly. And he was sleeping better here, which might have something to do with the English country air. Each morning at the crack of dawn he inhaled plenty of country air during his five-mile runs through the forest trails that surrounded the Hall. Then he beat the shit out of the punch bag in Nico’s amazing gym at The Dower House. The gym was set well back from the main property in a huge glass and oak building along with an indoor swimming pool and office, surrounded by stunning gardens. It was one of the best-equipped fitness spaces he’d ever seen. Rather than Jacob use the gym at Ludlow Hall, Nico had explained he preferred his general manager to keep business and his personal life separate. In the Bahamas Jacob usually worked, rested and played in the same environment so he was happy to jump onboard with the Italian’s idea.