by CC MacKenzie
Who had time for all this crap?
However, there was nothing she could do about the press. She'd deal with shit if and when it happened. There was no point in worrying about what ifs in life.
And as for Olivier himself?
Hadn't she known as soon as she'd set eyes on him that he was nothing but trouble?
How the hell had one lip-lock turned into this?
***
Nico Ferranti was sitting behind his huge desk at Ludlow Hall and mulling over the events of a very interesting day. He grinned as he recalled the frustrated irritation in Anastacia's voice before she'd put the phone down on him. Little witch. The woman was rabidly independent and determinedly single. It hadn't taken long for her name, where she worked, and even where she lived to turn up on Facebook and to trend on Twitter. There was a huge amount of speculation about her relationship with the soccer superstar Olivier Conti and the chatter, some of it not kind, on both social networks was going crazy. Anastacia had a notoriously short fuse and now he wondered how long it was going to take before she reacted. Or not. He hoped the latter.
He checked his watch and his brow creased.
At this time on a Friday he would normally be found relaxing at home with his wife and babies.
However, the call he'd received less than an hour ago delighted and intrigued him in equal measure.
He'd met his football hero Christopher Rucker many times. They supported the same charities. And since Christopher had retired from the game twelve years ago, he'd become a wealthy businessman with his fingers in many pies, not least of which was a manufacturing company which supplied most of the kit for professional football as well as other sports. Christopher also had a keen interest in a company that was developing goal line technology; a company which Nico had heavily invested in, too. The call to meet today with no notice had surprised him, but what had struck Nico more had been the sound of desperation in the other man's voice.
The sound of an approaching helicopter had him rise and move to the window to watch it land on the sprawling lawn in front of The Hall. As the rotator blades slowed and stopped, he watched Christopher Rucker step down and stride across the grass. A tall, good-looking man and still slim after leaving the game, he was dressed in a lightweight pale grey suit that hugged wide shoulders, a crisp white shirt and dark silk tie. His head was down and he moved fast. A man in a hurry.
Nico moved to open his office door and greet his friend.
He shook Christopher's hand.
"Can I get you a drink?"
"Please, two fingers of Scotch."
Nico raised a dark brow at the edgy tone shimmering with what sounded like nerves.
This was the first time he'd ever known the man to drink alcohol.
As he poured a drink and one for himself, he kept an eye on him and wondered what the hell was going on.
Face pale, Christopher sank to the edge of a fat leather club chair and accepted the heavy glass of cut crystal. "Thanks."
He took a sip and closed his eyes.
Rather than sit behind his desk, Nico took a seat next to him, leaned back and waited.
The man sitting just staring into space now was still handsome, the dark hair streaked with grey at the temples and probably somewhere in his mid-forties. Now he blinked and deep blue eyes met his.
"How can I be of assistance?" Nico asked.
Christopher gave a slightly twisted grin.
"I'm sorry to spring this meeting on you without any warning, Nico. But to be honest I think I'm in a state of shock." He shook his head, took another small sip of his whisky. "I really don't know where to start... When I saw Olivier Conti and that girl kissing... and then watched the social media storm..."
He seemed unable to go on and just sat there staring down into his glass.
Bewildered and bemused, Nico ran his teeth over his top lip.
"Why not start at the beginning," he suggested softly.
Taking a deep breath as if he was about to dive off the end of a cliff, Christopher placed the glass on Nico's desk, rested his elbows on his knees and clasped his hands so tight the knuckles were white.
"I was eighteen when I met Alicia. She was seventeen and the most gorgeous girl I'd ever seen. Hair black as night, dark eyes. A tiny little thing. The life and soul of the party. We fell in love. One thing led to another and she got pregnant. My parents were beyond angry. Their son, they said, was destined for the big time in football. I was too young to marry. I didn't need to be tied down to a wife and a child. We fought and I walked out of the family home swearing never to return. As soon as Alicia turned eighteen we married. She had no parents, only her grandmother. The old girl was glad to see the back of her grand-daughter and I couldn't understand why. Later I learned why, but by then it was too late."
Christopher stood and walked over to the window to stare unseeing into the rose garden.
"We had a baby girl. Beautiful little thing. Big blue eyes, dark curly hair. During the day I was training hard and on weekends I had to travel to games. I was earning good money and was too young and too damn stupid to see what was staring me right in the face." He turned to Nico, his blue eyes bleak. "Alicia was a drunk. A bad drunk. I came home late one afternoon to find our baby alone in the house screaming in her cot, her nappy heavy and her little bottom bleeding from sores. Her mother had gone out and just left her like that. I took the baby and left the house that day. I went to my parents. They welcomed us with open arms. And then I filed for divorce."
Now Christopher ran his hands through his hair, down his face.
Nico had a very good idea where all this was going and now his heart beat faster against his ribs. But he kept silent and waited for the rest of the story.
"The divorce was filthy. I won't bore you with gory details. She got lawyers, good lawyers, and managed to gain custody of our daughter. No matter how badly a mother behaves, when they're that young there's no way any court will give custody of a baby to the father. I'll never forget the triumphant look on Alicia's face when she took my daughter from my mother and just walked away. Both of them vanished, never to be seen again. That's the last time I saw my baby girl, until today."
"Anastacia?"
Christopher closed his eyes and nodded once.
"Anastacia. That's what we called her. Alicia took my baby, walked away from the house, from her friends, from anyone who knew her. I've spent the last twenty-two years hunting for my ex-wife and my daughter. It was as if they just dropped off the face of the earth. When I saw the picture today it was like looking at Alicia. I knew it was my daughter and when I saw her first name I was certain. Then I found out she worked for you... And here I am."
Heart heavy, Nico shook his head.
"Are you sure it is her?"
Christopher whipped out a couple of crushed photographs, handed them to Nico.
He blinked.
Good God, the woman holding the baby was the spitting image of Ana, right down to the eyes, the mouth, the hair and the slight build.
He returned the photographs to Christopher.
"You would not have found her, mi amigo. Her mother died when Ana was ten and she entered the care system."
The man went a paler shade of grey as he swayed on his feet.
Nico moved fast to support him into the chair and thrust the glass of whisky in his hand.
"Good God, Nico. How am I going to approach her? What the hell am I going to do?"
Nico had no idea.
However, he did know quite a bit about Christopher's daughter's past. (If Anastacia was indeed his daughter and that would have to be verified.) A past that had shaped her into the ferociously independent woman she was today. A past that had made her mercilessly stubborn. A past that had her view the world at large in black and white. And a past that made her guard her heart too well. How was he going to tell Christopher that Ana believed her father had abandoned her and destroyed her mother?
Nico shoved his hand through his hair.
Dio, what a mess.
And he was slap bang in the middle of that mess.
Chapter Seven
She was late.
Very late.
While Christopher Rucker was meeting with Nico at Ludlow Hall, Anastacia, still in her little shift dress, was doing her level best to totter in her ridiculous high heels down a smart London street. With great difficulty she attempted a sort of mincing run. If she wasn't careful, she'd break her neck, or at the very least her ankle.
Today was Friday and she had a happy hour bar date with her besties Danni and T.C.
Due to all the crap she'd had to deal with all day, especially from three over-curious tabloid hacks (who shamed the journalistic profession) and two sports writers (why on earth would sports commenter's be interested in who Olivier Conti kissed? The mind boggled.) Anastacia had forgotten all about her date with her besties. And Danni, who ran her life to a schedule that would make an army general weep, was going to murder her for being late.
Girlie night was sacrosanct.
And T.C. was bound to give her mucho verbal abuse.
Anastacia wasn’t a drinker, unlike some she could mention, but she never, ever missed a happy hour girl date, which just went to show how screwed up she was over the hot mess she'd made over a certain man.
Plus, she hadn't responded to either of her friend's text messages about what was being said about her on bloody Twitter and bloody Facebook. Her best friend's messages had ranged from shouty, WTF? to CALL ME BACK NOW! Since she hadn't responded Anastacia knew her friends were going to give her an incredibly hard time. In fact, as of now, her life as she knew it wasn’t worth living.
They'd arranged to meet at a brand-new bar, The Down and Dirty.
A venue that was all glass and shiny and fast becoming a favourite among the money set.
As Anastacia shoved through the heavy glass door of the bar a wall of sound hit her.
David Guetta was rocking Dangerous through the sound system. Spotting the frantic waves of her girls, Anastacia did a little bum-boogie as she clacked in her heels to their table.
“Where the fecking hell have you been, Banana?” T.C. yelled at the top of her voice.
Anastacia slid into the booth, nodded her thanks to Danni who poured her a glass of Pinot Noir, and turned her attention to the blonde bombshell with the potty mouth who was T.C., aka Teresa Catliff.
“You know the rules, Banana,” T.C. roared above the music. “You blow us off, or late, you pay the bar bill.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” huffed Anastacia taking her licks on the chin. “Unlike some of us I could mention, I don’t spend all day in my pj’s surfing through cyberspace. I work for a living.”
T.C. was a beauty blogger.
A hugely successful beauty blogger, which meant she was also influential and powerful. When multi-national cosmetic houses launched a new product they fell to their knees begging for T.C's product endorsement. T.C.'s YouTube channel had zillions of hits because girls world-wide followed her skin cleansing regime and funky make-up tips. Her recent post on a new hair product was such a huge success, that T.C.'s stunning face was plastered across beauty magazines and billboards. All little girls wanted to be T.C. when they grew up.
“You’re a workaholic,” T.C. tossed back, the dozens of skinny silver bracelets on her slim wrists jangling as she picked the wine bottle and glass. “And it has to stop. You live to work rather than work to live.”
“Shut-up, mom,” said Anastacia refusing to remind her friend that her comments were a case of the pot calling the kettle black.
"Okay, spit it out. Why were you late?"
The thought of Olivier Conti and The Kiss brought a wave of heat to Anastacia's neck, her face.
Her friend's eyes went wide when they spotted her blush.
Anastacia Morgan never blushed.
Silence.
“Spill it,” the girls chorused.
That was the trouble with best friends, they knew a girl like no other.
“Jeez, who the hell are you two? The fricking Bobbsey twins?”
“Spill,” her friends cried.
Anastacia just stared at them.
It would take too long to explain that the whole kiss thing was no big deal and her brain was mashed after the day from hell dealing with the press and working hard to get all her ducks in a row for the Boutique Hotels campaign.
“Forget it.”
Baby blue eyes, eyes that totally belied the outrageous personality that was T.C. stared deep into hers.
T.C’s full mouth, painted baby pink, pouted.
“Christ, we’ve got the bitchy bitch tonight. I’ll have you know I was called Europe’s most influential beauty guru by Vogue this month. So suck that up, Sista. Who shat on your parade?”
“I know. I know who shat on her parade,” piped up Danni who was bouncing on her seat waving her cell phone in the air.
Danni used to do the bouncing thing at university, too.
It was just as irritating then as it was now.
Anastacia turned to Danni, caught the wicked the I-know-your-secret look in her friend’s hazel eyes.
And her heart fell.
“Have you been speaking to Linda?” demanded Anastacia.
Her besties were as close to Linda as Anastacia.
Danni’s turbo-charged lashes fluttered like a meerkat's in a sandstorm.
“No. But since you've mentioned her I most certainly will be speaking to her very soon. What’s up?”
Big mouth, Anastacia, big mouth.
“It’s nothing. Just a new client.”
“Uh huh,” said Danni, and started to thumb through her cell phone. It should be said that Danni's cell phone was a permanent appendage to the end of her arm.
Danni Pebbles (and yes, that was her real name) was also a blogger. A style super-blogger. The jammy cow was flown first class all over the world to blog about new fashion trends in Paris, New York, London and Rome. And all this from a marketing and social networking degree at Uni. Purely by accident, Danni's adoration of all things couture had become a stellar career. It had been Danni who’d steered Anastacia towards VB’s style and designs.
Basically, Anastacia had two friends who spent twenty hours a day in their panties and T-shirts while they ruled cyber-space. And she loved and adored them with her whole heart.
Danni was a true red-head with eyes that went from gold to hazel. Her hair was styled in a sleek bob that skimmed narrow shoulders. Unlike most red-heads her skin didn’t freckle in the sun, it was a beautiful pale gold. Today she wore delicate pointy-toed heels the color of fresh lavender, a pink and white chequered skirt that sat at mid-thigh, a Welcome To New York light-weight cashmere sweater the color of cool peppermint and she carried a huge leather clutch of black and white polka dots. For some reason the whole ensemble worked. She looked fabulous.
T.C. on the other hand had issues. Body issues. She hated her thirty-four double D bra cups and she hated her butt. It didn’t matter which diet she tried or how many miles she ran or how many squats or arm presses she did, she was a gloriously beautiful woman not happy in her own skin. All T.C. saw when she looked in the mirror were her perceived flaws. Anastacia and Danni were well used to T.C.'s Dolly Downer days. As far as Anastacia was concerned T.C., at five foot eleven inches (lucky cow) would give Lucy Lawless a run for her money. Some people were never satisfied with how the good Lord had blessed them.
Danni gave a happy little yip that denoted she’d found what she was looking for on the ‘Net. T.C and Anastacia’s cells pinged with incoming.
They both opened their messages on the pic on Instagram and there was one Anastacia Morgan's tongue plumbing Olivier Conti’s tonsils. This time there were about ten pics. The one where she had her fingers gripping his hair and he had his hands on her butt was the worst of a bad bunch.
Omigod.
Anastacia's whole body went radioactive with a hot flash.
Buggering hell.
“Well, well, well. Looky looky lookit you,” Danni drawled, grinning from ear to ear. “You’ve even got a Facebook page dedicated to you and Olivier Conti. Olivier Conti! Go Ana Banana!”
“Hold it just a minute there, bitches.” T.C. held up her hand and waved it in a stop-the-crap sign. Blue eyes, cool eyes, stared into Anastacia’s. “Why the big secret? You know the rules. No secrets between besties... unless... he's off limits.”
The heat that ran up Anastacia’s neck, scorched her cheeks was all the answer T.C. needed.
"See that? Do you see that? That is guilty face."
“Oh, Anastacia,” Danni’s face went pale and her hazel eyes went huge. “Is he married?”
Danni was super-sensitive to married people straying from the straight and narrow, and for a very good reason. Danni’s parents were more than divorced, they conducted life in an eternal war zone, with poor Danni stuck right in the middle.
The girl's rules were as follows:
Married men were a big no-no.
Engaged men, too.
But if a man wasn't committed to a steady girl-friend all bets were off.
“No,” said Anastacia.
Now two women who knew everything about her past, her present and probably her future, were staring at her as if she was crazy.
Maybe she was crazy.
After the day she'd had, explaining herself to her friends like this was all she needed.
“He grabbed me. Without warning. It was just a kiss,” she assured them in a whiney voice.
T.C. leaned in with a do-not-mess-with-me-pal look on her stunning face.
She growled, “If he just grabbed you, without warning, why the hell isn’t he in hospital with his dick in a splint?”
It was a perfectly reasonable question.
Shame she didn't have a perfectly reasonable answer.
“Okay. Okay. I’m sorry I didn't tell you guys this morning. It was just that...”
T.C. arrowed an accusing finger into Anastacia’s flushed face.
“Oh. My. God. You kissed him back!” she screeched. “Did you do the bump and grind with Olivier Conti? Did you? And you didn’t tell us?”