His Rules: Ludlow Nights - Book1 (A Ludlow Nights Romance)

by CC MacKenzie

  "I suppose she was capable," said an Anastacia with a heart heavy with guilt she was speaking and thinking ill of the dead. "She was a woman who found it hard to cope with life. Life was always too hard for her to deal with."

  Bronte rose to pour Anastacia a black coffee and placed it on the desk. "What did she tell you about your biological father?"

  Her mind focusing on the many challenges of her past, Anastacia lifted her head to find Nico watching her like a hawk. She read anxiety and an unwavering support in those dark eyes. A support that made her own eyes sting.

  "That my parent's separated and divorced when I was a baby. That my father was a first division footballer, that he didn't want her or me. That he died in the coach crash disaster of 1990. She told me how hard it was for her to cope alone, eighteen and a single parent. And then she met my step-father and he took care of both of us..."

  Nico cleared his throat.

  "Six of Christopher's team mates perished in a fireball that day. He was in bed with a particularly nasty bout of flu. She never told you his name?"

  "Of course she told me his name. Tom Morgan. Tom Morgan was an orphan who died that day..."

  "What about your birth certificate. It must have the name of your father registered."

  Anastacia rubbed the ache that was brewing above her left eyebrow.

  "My original birth certificate was lost. And when I needed a replacement when I turned sixteen it took months for me to receive the short version of my birth certificate, which states that my step-father adopted me and I have his name, which happens to be Morgan, too."

  "Ana, your father has your original birth certificate. The date and place you were born, the name of your mother. You were named Anastacia Felicity Rucker."

  Her heart was beating too hard against her ribs and her palms were sweaty.

  Emotions, too many and too mixed, swirled in her head, in her heart, and churned horribly in her gut.

  Struggling to grasp the possibility of the reality of her situation was... a crazy nightmare.

  But all she could whisper was, "Felicity?"

  "After your paternal grandmother."

  She had a grandmother?

  The unopened letter with her name on it lay on her desk like a grenade with the pin pulled. Her trembling hand reached out to touch it and then she pulled her hand back as if she'd been stung.

  "Oh, God. I don't know what to do. I don't know what to think."

  Bronte rose and crossed to her to hold her tight and Anastacia buried her face in her belly.

  "Then do nothing until you can get your head around it. Do you want me to stay with you tonight?"

  Anastacia lifted her head.

  The room swam sickly and she told herself to get a grip.

  She shook her head.

  "No. No. You have the kids. I'll be fine. Go home. Both of you go home... and thank you."

  "Ana, cara mia, we cannot leave you like this. At least let us stay while you read Christopher's letter."

  Again, Anastacia shook her head.

  No way.

  "No. Please. I don't want to read it. Not right now. Please don't be offended, but I want to be alone when I read it. To tell you the truth, I still think a horrible mistake has been made."

  It was clear that Nico and Bronte were far from happy, but after receiving a firm promise that she would call them immediately if she needed someone to talk to, they did as she asked and let her be.

  For a long time, Anastacia simply stood at the window and stared unseeing down at the busy river, Tower Bridge, and the cars and people who were going about their normal day to day business. At one point she felt as if she was having an out-of-body experience.

  Like an automaton, she packed up, locked the office, and slowly walked home.

  She didn't question her need to go to him first. Didn't think it at all strange to go to him for support, to tell Olivier about the letter and talk it through with him.

  After all, he'd been the first man to share her bed, so it seemed perfectly logical to share her shocking news with him, too.

  She trusted him, she realized, and felt her heart lighten.

  As she crossed the road and approached her apartment Anastacia stopped dead.

  Olivier exited the apartment block.

  And he was not alone.

  His arm was around the waist of a very tall and slim and spectacularly beautiful young girl.

  Stunned, as if the world was now moving in slow motion, Anastacia took everything in.

  The girl was dressed in skinny black jeans, Marc Jacob's black pumps and an off the shoulder white top that showcased a fabulous tan and perky breasts. The waterfall of straight hair was black and shiny as a raven's wing and fell to her butt. She had Bambi eyes, thick lashes and a seductive mouth painted a screaming red that matched the varnish on her nails. Her bracelets and hooped earrings were a slim rose gold.

  She looked absolutely fabulous.

  And she was crying.

  And the body language, the way they touched each other, said it all.

  They were more than friends, much more.

  They were intimate.

  The pair got into a waiting cab and sped away.

  Logic told her what she'd witnessed might be a totally innocent rendezvous, but the sting behind her eyes told her that was a load of crap. It appeared Olivier hadn't let the grass grow under his feet. And why was she so stupidly devastated and terribly upset? Hadn't she said again and again that she didn't want a relationship? The man was free to date. Free to do whatever the hell he liked and with whom.

  The thought of entering her empty apartment to read a letter from a perfect stranger felt wrong.

  All wrong.

  She didn't want to be alone, not tonight.

  Flagging down a cab, Anastacia jumped in and headed for the place she should have gone first. The place where people lived who had never let her down. Heart pounding in her ears, against her ribs, she slumped back in the seat at what she'd witnessed again spun in her head.

  Well, so much for trust.

  Hadn't she known that Olivier had an active love life?

  Her only surprise was that the girl wasn't a blonde.

  Blondes were more his style.

  The scene kept replaying in a loop in her mind.

  It was obvious the young girl, and she was young, had been desperately upset. Now Anastacia wondered what Olivier had done to her? Maybe he'd made her too many promises and hadn't kept them? Maybe they'd had a bad break-up? Maybe she wanted him back? Maybe he wanted her back? Maybe Anastacia was a head case?

  She heaved out a deep sigh and refused to acknowledge the burn in her throat, the way her eyes went blurry. There was no way she was going to shed a single tear over the likes of him. But through the ache in her throat, and even though she didn't quite understand it, Anastacia knew that she'd given Olivier the gift of more than simply her body when they'd made love, something more complicated than just sex, more complicated than passion. Unsure of what that gift was, she acknowledged now that she'd wanted him to reciprocate.

  Now she remembered the way his strong body had moved over hers, the way his lips had locked hungrily on hers. How fabulous his mouth had tasted, ambrosia with a dark, mysterious flavour. She remembered the way she'd savoured that flavor on her tongue, the way that taste had intensified to build that liquefying pleasure between her legs. Remembered, too, the way she'd lost control, the way she tore her mouth from his to bury it at the hectic pulse beating at his throat. And felt the vibration of his deep moan against her seeking lips. And then he was inside her and she was struggling just to breathe, struggling just to hang on to her sense of self. And Anastacia knew, as she shuddered in the back of the taxi that in making love to Olivier she'd found a release, a joy and a happiness that now appeared lost to her forever. Her emotions were all over the place. And for the first time in her life, Anastacia Morgan had no idea what the hell to do.

  Rummaging in her bag for her cell, she sw
itched it on and noticed four missed calls and messages from Olivier. She ignored them and pressed a number.

  "T.C." she closed stinging eyes and willed herself not to cry.

  But her friend heard the wobble in her voice.

  "Ana? What's the matter?"

  "I need you."

  Chapter Twenty

  Anastacia didn't remember paying the taxi driver.

  A taxi driver who'd anxiously asked her if she was 'Okay, Luv?'

  She didn't remember hurrying up the steps to the converted mansion house and frantically ringing T.C.'s bell. She didn't remember her friend running down the stairs to let her in after Anastacia had wept into the intercom. And she certainly didn't remember T.C. phoning Danni and telling her that it was a 'fucking emergency' or T.C. placing a large glass of wine in one hand and a tissue in the other as her besties listened to every bewildering and confuddled utterance Anastacia had to say.

  Except she still hadn't told them about the letter, supposedly from her father, burning a hole in her bag. She just couldn't seem to find the words. She just couldn't seem to stop crying.

  "You're much better at dealing with all this shit than I am," a desperate T.C. said to a pale Danni. "This relationshippy stuff is too fucking heavy for me."

  Danni moved to sit beside Anastacia and gave her a hug.

  "It sounds to me as if you've just realized that you have deep feelings for Olivier and you thought he cared for you. And I think that scared you, but that you were moving past fear and in your head you were giving him a chance. And then when you saw him with this other woman, you panicked and ran here. At least, I think that's what I heard you say."

  Anastacia sniffed pitifully as her eyes filled in a way that seriously pissed her off. What the hell was she doing sitting here weeping over a man? What was wrong with her? She hardly knew the guy. Let's face it, she had more important things to worry about.

  T.C. poured herself a large glass of Pinot Noir, moved to a huge beanbag made of fluffy white sheepskin and made herself comfortable.

  "Basically," she said. "He fucked your brains out the other night and you did him, too. After your experience with Jake that was a big step forward for you. I'm proud to know you, Ana Banana. Plus, it was supersonic sex, which I'm insanely jealous about by the way. He wants more than you think you're prepared to give. And if you say that he and this little beeeeeitch have the hots for each other, then I believe you believe what you thought you saw."

  When Anastacia opened her mouth, T.C. took a breath and held up a finger for silence as she gulped her wine before continuing,

  "However, you are not dealing with the facts, Missy. You're dealing with your feeeeeeelings and with what you thought you saw. This is not good juju, Banana. You need to talk to him and find out what the fuck is going on before you decide to put him in hospital for treating you and your feeeeeeelings with disrespect."

  The remarks about her feelings hit the spot and for a split second Anastacia wondered if perhaps she'd overreacted? But then she remembered the look on Olivier's face and that same look in his companion's face, too. She'd made a hugely successful career out of reading people and she trusted and went with her gut on this one.

  Anastacia shook her head.

  "I know what I saw. On both sides there was love, T.C. A whole lotta love."

  T.C. nodded.

  "Okay. Whatyagonnado?"

  Good question.

  What was she going to do?

  "Can I stay here tonight?"

  "Sure you can. What about work clothes and stuff?"

  Danni leaped to her feet.

  "I'll sort that. I've taken delivery of a couple of pieces from the legend that is VB. They'll be perfect for a shoot. And you can show Olivier that you are absolutely fine with whomever he has in his life and that the show will go on and that it's business as usual. A cliché is a cliché for a reason. If you need to, you can fall apart later."

  Anastacia dropped her head in her hands, grabbed her hair and pulled.

  "God, I'm already falling apart." She lifted her head and stared with genuine bewilderment at her best friends. "How is it possible that I care so much for someone I hardly know? How?"

  T.C. shrugged, took another belt of her wine.

  "How the hell should I know? I don't believe in all that love-at-first-sight shit."

  Anastacia's face went too pale, she actually felt the blood drain from her head.

  "Who said anything about love?"

  Danni patted her hand in a there-there gesture.

  "Honey, you've not been the same since you set eyes on him. And I'd put real money on it that he's in the same state."

  Love?

  Not possible.

  No way.

  Panic licked up her spine, made her voice high.

  "That's just crazy talk. And anyway, I'd never fall in love with a footballer."

  T.C. gave her the stink eye.

  "I'd be very careful bandying about the 'never' word, Banana. The Universe is always listening. As soon as we say never about anything, we're basically screwed, babe. Screwed."

  Ain't that the truth?

  Talking about footballers, Anastacia bit her lip as she reached for her bag and brought out the lawyer's letter and handed it to T.C.

  "What's that?" asked Danni.

  "A letter from a dead man."

  ***

  After Anastacia had told her story, T.C. raced across the room to a huge desk that held a PC and her laptop.

  "Talk about burying the fucking lead, Banana!"

  "What are you doing?" asked Anastacia.

  T.C.'s fingers flew over the keys.

  "Googling Christopher Rucker. We need to know what he looks like and everything about him." She stared hard at the screen and then at Anastacia. "Here he is."

  She brought the laptop to the sofa.

  Heart beating too fast in her throat, Anastacia laid her eyes for the first time on the man who said he was her father.

  The man on the screen was good looking, mid-forties, with black hair sprinkled with grey. He had a long and lean face with razor sharp cheekbones, a long nose and a firm mouth, a strong jaw. But it was the eyes that held hers.

  "We don't know for certain that he is my father. This whole thing could be a terrible misunderstanding."

  "He has your eyes, Banana," whispered a tearful Danni.

  While Anastacia and Danni simply stared at the face on the screen, T.C. was busy at her desktop PC.

  "He's been married for twenty-two years. Wife's name is Maria. Two daughters, Chloe, 20, and Tanith, 19. God, Banana, you've got half -sisters."

  Danni sprang up to look over T.C.'s shoulder.

  "What do they look like?"

  Anastacia just sat on the sofa, torn between shock, excitement, and a bone-deep fear. Her life was good. Her life, until Olivier Conti had entered it, had had zero complications. A father, a step-mother and two half-sisters sound pretty complicated to her.

  "I don't know what to do. And I don't want to be alone. Thank you for letting me stay."

  T.C.'s baby blue eyes went wide.

  "My pleasure. What about Olivier?"

  "What about Olivier?"

  "Come on, Ana, you did the dirty deed with him and he slept over. It's serious."

  "Tonight he's out with a beautiful brunette."

  "He adores you," said Danni, giving the Devil his due. "Have a little faith. I bet there's a simple and logical explanation."

  Her friend was right.

  "Maybe there is. But I'm not up to hearing it tonight. I don't need any more bloody drama."

  "Okay, we hear you," agreed T.C. "We need food. Chinese or Indian. Choose. Then you need a nice long bath and bed. You'll feel much better tomorrow."

  At one-thirty in the morning, Anastacia was wide awake and her brain was spinning.

  Everything she'd learned about Christopher Rucker was all positive. He was a well-respected businessman. And he'd been a well-respected footballer, too. He wasn
't a sociopath. He was a loving husband and father. More importantly, Nico Ferranti vouched for him. So far, so good.

  She just wished the jumpy nerves tap-dancing in stomach would give her a break.

  Again, she read the letter clutched in her fist.

  Dear Anastacia: I understand that you will be shocked to hear from me.

  The hand holding the letter trembled and so did her heart, her belly.

  It has taken me many days of soul-searching to work out the best way to approach you. A telephone call may have been wiser, but I was advised by Nico and by my wife, Maria, that you would need time. Writing you a letter will give you a choice and time to weigh up your decisions.

  Your mother told you I was dead. I wish I could have spared you the pain of knowing that she lied. I'm not going to speak ill of the dead. What is done is done and cannot be undone. Please know that I never stopped searching for you. Never. The last time I saw you, you were nine months old. Over twenty-two years have passed, and you are a grown woman and no longer a baby. It's my belief that you have a right to know your father is still alive. I can only pray that you welcome the news. No matter the outcome, I will never regret contacting you.

  If you want to meet me, if only to have many questions that need answers, please be certain in the knowledge that you are welcome in my home and in my family. I live at The Manor, outside of the town of Old Ludlow in Suffolk. The invitation does not have a time limit or conditions attached to it. If you decide to accept I want you to know that myself and my family would be pleased to have you stay as long as you need to.

  If you do not contact me, I cannot deny that the decision would be a blow, but I will understand that you do not wish to engage in a relationship. But I hope that the willingness to right a terrible wrong done to both of us may persuade you to pick up the phone and talk to me.