His Rules: Ludlow Nights - Book1 (A Ludlow Nights Romance) (18 page)

His words seemed to reach right into those dark little places where she didn't let anyone touch her. She was so focused on the impact of those words, of the way he said them, as if he'd already decided that their relationship had a future, that she didn't take care with her own words to him.

"I cannot permit myself to get in too deep with you."

A funny way to put it, Olivier mused as he continued to play with a glossy black curl. He wondered why she refused to admit to the truth that they were already in too deep. The girl was incredibly wary and untrusting of her own feelings. The fact that she didn't trust him, his motives, was a new and unwelcome experience for him. He was a man who was used to receiving high levels of respect, used to people (especially those closest to him) trusting him implicitly. Now, Olivier tried very hard not to take her lack of trust personally.

"More rules, Anastacia?" he drawled. "You must make me a list of these rules. Give me half a chance to follow them. I imagine it is a long one."

Her punch on the shoulder didn't hurt.

It was the hint of fear in her blue eyes that hurt.

To hide the hurt and before she could respond, he moved in fast to take her mouth with his. His kiss held a desperate edge that worried him, made him pull back, made him gentle the kiss. The woman was tying him up in knots.

"You're making me sound like an idiot," she muttered against his mouth.

"I live for the day you learn to believe in me." And learn to believe in yourself he nearly added, but didn't.

"You're moving too fast for me, Olivier. Please stop pushing me."

Well now, he'd asked for trust and she'd told him exactly what she was thinking, feeling.

He should be delighted.

Instead, he felt something like despair that she seemed to be slipping through his fingers no matter how hard he tried to hang on to her. Anastacia Morgan was resisting every single step he took to bring them together.

He closed his eyes, rested his forehead on hers and prayed to God for patience and decided to lighten the mood.

"This acting gig takes a lot of energy. I am exhausted," he lied.

Her throaty chuckle and the way her hand stroked his cheek, with tenderness, made him smile.

"Poor baby. Maybe you need a drink of hot milk and an early night?"

"I will if you will."

He smiled into her eyes, told himself he was over thinking.

And watched her walk away.

"Hi guys!" Anastacia sang as she tripped into her office to find Nico and Bronte helping themselves to coffee. "You were bang on the money with Olivier, Boss. He did
great
! And Mimi loves him, they worked soooooo well together." As she chatted, she unpacked her laptop, her cell, her notebook and placed the hand-delivered letter on her desk. It didn't occur to her that her boss and his wife were too quiet, and she missed the swift worried look Bronte sent her husband, too.

"I am pleased the day went well. Sit down, Ana," said Nico.

Now she looked at Nico and Bronte properly for the first time and the look on their faces made her stomach clench. The atmosphere in the room was... strained.

Anastacia sank into the chair behind her desk.

"What is it? What's happened? Are the kids okay?"

"
Si
, they are fine. Ana, did you receive a letter today?"

Her brows shot into her hairline as she stared at Nico.

She blinked as the tension in the room rose.

Baffled, she said, "Sure."

Now she picked up the letter and looked at it properly.

The large envelope was crisp, expensive, with the name of a London law firm stamped in the corner. For some reason, her hand shook as she opened it to find a covering letter and another, smaller, envelope. An envelope with her name on it and written by hand.

The silence in the room was too loud as she read the lawyer's letter precisely three times before the facts written sank into her stunned brain.

Face white, she shook her head.

"This... this is not possible. My biological father is dead..." Her eyes jumped between Nico and Bronte and what she saw there brought a hot, hard, lump to her throat. "You
knew
about this?"

"Christopher approached me after photographs of you and Olivier appeared on social media. He was in a state of shock. He's been looking for you for twenty-two years."

Again, Anastacia shook her head.

This was simply not possible.

This Christopher Rucker, whoever the hell he was, was barking up the wrong tree.

Somebody had messed up.

Big time.

"Look, this whole thing is wrong. All wrong. Someone's made a big mistake, Nico. My father is dead."

Nico shook his head.

"Ana, is it possible... was your mother capable of lying?"

Anastacia opened her mouth to hotly refute such a suggestion. But her brow creased as she bit down hard on her bottom lip, and forced herself to face facts. She remembered how up and down her mother had been. Her daughter might receive a hug one minute and the back of a hand the next. Alicia Morgan was not a woman who'd spared the rod either. Then she remembered how her mother had fallen apart after the death of her step-father. How she'd lied about her drinking.

"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 switched 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."