Stealing Gold (The Logan Series Book 4) (7 page)

“I
recited the bible, the book of Stacy.” Her mouth twisted with the bitter words.
“Lester called the script he wrote about my background that—the book of Stacy.”
She swallowed another mouthful of the rum and Coke, feeling the ice clink
against her teeth. “It’s all fiction, every single word.”

Anger
flashed in Adam’s eyes. His teeth clenched so tight, a muscle jumped in the
corner of his jaw. “You didn’t trust me enough to tell me this?”

“I
never told anyone.” She forced emphasis into the last word. “Anyone. It was a
secret between me, Lester, and them. He paid them for me. He bought me when I
was fourteen, and kept paying to ensure my parents’ silence ever since.”

“So
what about now? I’m presuming Lester is no longer paying.” He crossed his arms.
His expression shuttered. There was no trace of compassion, no understanding,
in his tone or on his face.

Shocked
fear thundered through Stacy like a lightning bolt. She hadn’t even considered
what they might do now the money had stopped coming. She didn’t even know the
arrangement, how to pay, Lester’d dealt with all that. She sank her head into
her hands and groaned. “I don’t know.”

She
hadn’t seen them in ten years. Where to even start?

“Oh,
Christ, Stacy.” He shifted his chair closer, and pulled her into his arms. “Let’s
go home.”

In
the car, she sat in a trancelike state. There was no feeling of relief at
revealing the secret, only bone-deep exhaustion. She wanted to crawl into bed, hide
under the covers, and sleep until she couldn’t sleep any longer.

Reading
her mood perfectly, Adam drove in silence, staring at the road. When they
reached the cottage, he walked ahead to unlock the front door, leaving her
trailing in his wake.

At
the threshold, he reached for her hand. “Come and talk.”

She
shook her head. Stumbled on the step, and almost fell into his arms. “I can’t.”

“Bed,
then.” He snaked an arm around her waist. “Come to bed.”

She
glanced at him. He couldn’t want sex?

“You
should have told me sooner, but you’ve told me now,” he whispered. “I want to
lie next to you.”

Relief
weakened her legs. She swayed to rest against his chest, then gasped when he
bent to sweep her into his arms.

He
kicked the door closed, then carried her into his bedroom.

Chapter Eight

She
was whiter than he’d ever seen her. Lethargic and depleted, as though the confession
had taken everything from her and left her drained.

Leaving
her alone wasn’t an option. If he did, she’d regroup, rebuild the walls, and
drip out information instead of letting the whole story escape in a flood.

He
needed the flood.

He
placed her on his bed, and removed her shoes. “Take your jeans off.” He walked
to the window and jerked the drapes closed, cutting out the sun that blazed
into the room. When he turned she hadn’t moved. “Do it, Stacy. You’ll be more
comfortable.”

Her
fingers went to the button of her jeans. He stripped to boxers and T-shirt, pulled
back the cover, and climbed in. Sure, he looked at her butt covered in pale
pink silk—he was a man not a robot. As his body was more than ready to tell
him.

He
drew the covers over them. Wrapped his arm around the upper curve of her
breasts, but angled the lower part of his body away from her.

“Tell
me.”

“We
lived in a run-down apartment. My parents had the bedroom, and I slept on the
couch. When I was a kid, I never understood why so many people were always
visiting my house. I used to think it was because we were really popular.” She
laughed, a bitter, hollow sound. “They’d come all hours of the night. Pa’d take
them into the kitchen, and there’d be raised voices, sometimes laughter. My
mother was always either drunk or asleep. I got up every morning, dressed, and
walked to school. There was never any breakfast in the house—one of my teachers
used to bring me in a sandwich and leave it in my desk.”

“They
knew you were neglected? And did nothing?” His arm tightened around her.

“My
father wasn’t the sort of guy you’d want to cross. I was just a kid. I didn’t
understand for years what was going on in that house, until I was thirteen and
a boy I recognized from school arrived at my house in the middle of the night.
I was leaving the bathroom and Pa was taking him into the kitchen. I was so
surprised, I blurted out ‘what are you doing here?’

“‘Getting
ready to get high.’ That’s what he said. That was the moment I discovered my
dad was a dealer. Before then, they’d made feeble efforts to keep it from me,
but after that night, neither of them even bothered to hide it. My ma was
always one of three things: drunk, stoned, or passed out.”

“Have
you brothers or sisters?”

Her
head moved gently against his. “There was only me.”

“What
about social services?”

“They
came around sometimes, but we’d lie on the floor to hide, and pretend we were
out. The teacher who gave me the sandwiches—she taught me how to play the
guitar, and encouraged me to enter a singing competition. I didn’t win, I came
second, but Lester was there, and he recorded me from the audience and wanted
to be my manager.” Her voice was scratchy, hoarse.

“He
got the record label interested, but as I was underage, I had to have one of my
parents sign it, or give Lester authority to act for me. I remember the shock
on his face when they brazenly asked him what it was worth. What he’d pay for
their signatures.”

He
couldn’t stop himself holding her closer. Laying his head against the back of
hers, and breathing in the scent of her hair. “They signed.”

“He
drew up an agreement. I wanted to just get emancipation. I was old enough to make
my own deals—I didn’t need them—but Lester had bigger plans. Being the
fourteen-year-old who had cut herself away from her loser family would affect the
way the record label saw me. Might cause trouble in the future. So he insisted
we work with my parents.

He
suggested a deal where he  could represent me and effectively become my
guardian, in exchange for an initial lump sum, and a payment to them every
year. He also wanted them to stay away and never refer to me as their daughter.”

“They
were okay with this?” He tried to keep the anger banked. It was difficult to
avoid comparing her background to his.

“It
was as though they’d won the lottery.” She wrapped her hand around his wrist. “They
signed the agreement, and I left. I haven’t seen or heard from them in a
decade. My real name is Stacy Harmon.” She laughed, but there was no joy in the
sound. “I haven’t spoken my own name in ten years either.” She glanced back at
him. “Do you hate me now?”

He
couldn’t hate her if he tried. Hell, he was finding it difficult not to love
her. He stroked her cheekbone. “Why would I hate you?” he whispered.

“Because
I lied. Because I’m not who you think I am.” Her gaze dropped to his mouth,
then flicked to his eyes again. The look in them, so raw, so exposed, stole his
breath.

“You
lied. But you’re who I think you are. You’re who I’ve always known you were.”

Adam
pushed the hair from her shoulder. Stroked it away to leave her neck exposed.
He propped himself on his elbow, and pressed his mouth to the vertebrae bump on
the top of her spine, feeling her shiver.

Her
scent filled his senses. Every taste of her was intoxicating. In one fluid
movement, he kissed open mouthed the long, creamy column of her neck, teasing
her earlobe between his teeth, then continuing down the corded muscles to lick
her clavicle.

Her
hand gripped his wrist, and she forced her head back with a sound half sigh,
half moan.

She
was wearing a jersey top that crossed over at her breasts. He pushed the
clinging fabric from her shoulder along with the pale pink silk bra strap, and
curved his hand around her shoulder as he continued to kiss every newly exposed
inch.

She
twisted in his arm, until they were chest to chest. Eye to eye. Mouth to mouth.

Her
hands moved to his neck, and then she was kissing him back. Passionately,
desperate and fevered. There was no stopping, no putting this genie back into
the bottle. With a groan, Adam stripped off her top and unhooked her bra, then
tore off his T-shirt so they were skin to skin.

God,
he’d missed her so much.

“I
missed you.” Her murmured words fanned the flames, and when he cupped her
breasts, she arched her back and pressed them harder into his hands.

He
rolled her stiffened nipples between his fingers, bent his head to suck one
into his mouth, flicking his tongue over the peak then sucking strongly. She
was talking, urging him on, shifting on the sheets, unable to keep still.

He
stroked from upper arms to wrists, loving the small sounds she made in
response. and focused on tasting every single inch of her.

*****

She
was a coward. There was more to tell, but with Adam’s mouth tracing a line
across her ribcage and stomach, talking was well and truly off the agenda. The
rest of the story didn’t matter anyway—she’d signed away her old life when she’d
changed her name—had become reborn that day. She was Stacy Gold now, nothing in
her past could touch her anymore.

She
wanted to spear her fingers through Adam’s hair, to caress the dark strands,
but his hold on her wrists was absolute. Dominant. Hot as hell.

No-one
made her feel like this. His head edged lower, and she parted her legs to allow
him access to her core. His hot breath feathered over her as he pressed his mouth
to the silk covering her.

“That
feels incredible.”

He
released her wrists, and moved her thighs even further apart. Looked up, with a
smile on his face at odds with the dark intensity in his eyes.

She
arched her back. His smile widened—turned wicked. Then he peeled off her
panties, and settled between her thighs.

He
blew across her fevered skin. Touched her with his fingers and his tongue. Made
her desperate for more. By the time he sheathed himself and entered her, her
hands were gripping his torso tight, and her face was buried in his neck.

Her
legs wound around him—her pelvis tilted to bring him deeper.

“Kiss
me.”

She
obeyed his hoarse command, loving the feel of his raspy chin against her own.
Their eyes were open as they started to move in perfect synchronicity. This.
This was what was missing from her life. This man.

With
darkened eyes and a forehead creased in concentration, his body tensed.

Her
heart hammered with every rapid breath. Deep inside, internal muscles clenched
as the shivers began, then spread outward diffusing her entire body. Her nails
dug into his back as the delicious waves of orgasm washed over them both.

How
had she ever thought they were over?

*****

Stacy
woke at five-thirty. The sky was washed pink. A new day. A new beginning. Could
it be a new life?

Adam
was facing away from her.

The
sheet skimmed over the curve of his butt, revealing his beautiful back. If she gave
in to impulse and let her fingers play over that muscled skin, he’d wake and
pull her close. But he needed rest. They’d made love three times over the
course of the night, and every time her heart had lifted, and flooded with joy.
For now, it was enough to appreciate the view.

With
a satisfied exhale, she examined further. Dark hair, curling at his nape. Wide
shoulders. With a frown, she noticed imperfections. Small crescent marks. Heat
flooded her face at the memory of her desperate passion the previous night
which had left evidence on his skin.
Scratches on your skin.

A
melody wound through her mind, unexpected and unbidden. She scooted backwards,
and crept out of bed, careful not to wake him. Grabbed his robe from the chair,
wrapped herself in it, and went in search of her guitar.

The
cottage was tranquil. Far enough from the road that there were no traffic
sounds.

She
opened the back door and took a step outside, but the early morning air held a
trace of chill, so she retreated back into the cottage.
The sofa was a
perfect place to work. She wrapped a rug around her knees, and picked up her
guitar.
After an
hour or so her neck began to ache. She rocked her head side to side, then stood
to bend and stretch muscles knotted from staying too long in the same position.

It
was still early; Adam had yet to wake. She measured grounds into the coffeemaker
and went to take a quick shower.

On
tour, assistants dealt with trivial things like laundry, but here at the
cottage there were no such luxuries. Adam had given her basic instructions on
the working of the washing machine, followed by apologies for the lack of
tumble-drier.

The
sky was cloudless—perfect drying weather.

She
rounded up her dirty clothes and put on a wash. Then rewarded herself by
pouring a giant cup of coffee to take outside.

The
song was good. She’d written well when on tour, but since the matter with
Lester she had been blocked—secretly fearing her muse had left forever.

But
now that buzz she’d adored her whole life seemed to be back.

“Hey.”
Adam walked outside, bare chested with a pair of jeans riding low on his hips. Bare
feet and rumpled hair looked good on him. “Have you been awake long?”

She
glanced at her watch. “A couple of hours.” She walked to him and wrapped her
arms around his waist. “I wrote a song.”

“Yeah?”
His hand stroked the back of her hair.

“It’s
a great day so far.” She gazed at him with a smile. “There’s coffee if you want
some.”

His
quick kiss left her wanting more. “I’ll take some upstairs with me.” He stepped
away.

There
was something off. She wandered after him into the kitchen, unable to put her
finger on what exactly bothered her. He filled a mug with coffee, added milk
and three spoonsfuls of sugar, and rubbed a hand through his hair.

“I’ll
shower, change, and see you in a couple of minutes.”

He
made no move to touch her, and his smile seemed a little forced.

Shit.
He regrets last night.
Last night had been so good for her she hadn’t even considered the possibility
he might not feel the same.

But
there was no mistaking the shift in the atmosphere. It was definite morning
after blues. Rather than just stand there worrying the problem in her mind she
scooped wet clothes from the machine, slipped on her sandals, and went to hang
them on the line outside.