Stealing Rose

  “I’ll fight it. That’s the most ridiculous thing ever. I can’t help it if they place their hydrants in ridiculous places where any car could come along and destroy one.”

  I’m not even touching that statement. “Listen, I’ll come home in a few days, okay? In the meanwhile, direct all calls from the insurance company or anyone else to me, got it?”

  “They won’t talk to you, Caden. They want to talk to me. I’m the one who caused the accident,” she points out.

  “I’m trying to help you, Mom. Okay? So give them my number. At the very least, stop answering the damn phone unless it’s me.”

  “And how am I supposed to know if it’s you calling?” she asks, sounding well and truly puzzled. She’s older than most of my friends’ moms, close to seventy, since she and my father had me late in life. I was one of those cherished babies after they tried so hard for so many years to become pregnant. The prized baby boy, the son they indulged and spoiled, turning me into an utter brat. Until I had to straighten up and become a man when I was only a teen after my father jumped off a building and ended it.

  Fucker.

  “You have caller ID, Mom. Remember?”

  The conversation goes on like this for a few more minutes, me trying to calm her down, Mom trying to tell me story after story that I couldn’t give two shits about. I let her ramble on, the familiar guilt that washes over me expected. I’m all she has. She doesn’t have many friends, because all of her supposed dear friends ditched her after Dad jumped to his death and we lost most of our money. What the bank didn’t take, we sold, and I managed to somehow move Mom into a small condo in Miami once I graduated high school.

  I finally end the call with Mom and immediately call Cash, tapping my foot against the floor as I wait for him to pick up. Cash isn’t his real name, because come on, life isn’t that funny, but he’s the man we all go to in order to turn our loot into cash, and so it’s a nickname he picked up ages ago. Way before my time. The old geezer is close to Mom’s age and as slick as anything you’ve ever seen. Smart, too. He’s been doing this for years and took me under his wing when I first came to him.

  I owe him lots of things, but mostly my sanity.

  “Caden Kingsley. Where the hell are you, son?” Cash greets me in his familiar gravelly voice.

  “Still in London, old chap,” I say, making him laugh at my horrible attempt at an English accent. “Where are you?”

  He travels around as much as we all do, though he’s based out of Miami most of the time. He’s checked in on Mom more than once and I appreciate that, and so does she, since she flirts with him every chance she can get. Plus, he looks like a typical lounge lizard. Slicked-back silver hair, overly tanned skin, shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest to reveal the gold medallion as big as his fist hanging from a thick gold chain.

  Yeah. Cheesy. But the man is worth a load of cash and has no problems flaunting it.

  “I’m in New York, motherfucker,” he says in a tough-guy New York accent before he bursts into laughter that turns into wheezing. I let him ride it out. “I’ve missed you.”

  “I saw you a month ago.”

  “And it’s been three weeks too long. You’ve been coming to me so much these last few months it seems odd, not seeing your handsome mug,” Cash says.

  “Yeah, well, you’ll see me soon. Gotta get home so I can take care of Mom. When are you headed back to Miami?” I tell him briefly what she did, which only makes him laugh harder. He’s always had a thing for my mom. Sometimes I wish I could hook the two of them up so they could fall madly in love and he’ll take care of her for the rest of her life, not me.

  But that’ll never happen. She refuses to let anyone in after what Dad did to her. Not that I can blame her.

  “You know what your mom needs?” Cash asks once I finish the story.

  “To be institutionalized?” I wish. And then I immediately don’t wish, because what kind of shitty son am I? “Hell, I’m kidding. You know I am. I’m the one who should be institutionalized.”

  “Naw. You’re fine. Though you do need to straighten up your act. But your pretty mama? She needs a good man to keep her straight. And I could be that man, you know.” He’s always making statements like that. Maybe I should take him up on it. But I figure that as usual, he’s joking.

  “Right, right, in my dreams you’ll become my stepfather, Cash.”

  He laughs. Wheezes some more. The man needs to lay off the cancer sticks. “It could happen. You’re the one who throws the roadblocks.”

  “Uh-huh. Look, I’m going to grab a few things over the next few days. Nothing too big, but I’ll need fast cash.” I clear my throat, fighting off the guilt that threatens. Guilt that I haven’t felt in a long-ass time because damn it, I do this to survive. I shouldn’t care what other people think of me, especially Rose. “Will you still be in the city next week?”

  “Yeah, though listen. There’s a little something I want to discuss with you. Hold on.” I can hear him as he exits his office and I assume he’s just walked outside. “I have a proposition for you.”

  “What sort of proposition?” It better not be some crazy scheme. The man used to come up with some outrageous shit, especially when I was younger and more daring—or stupid, take your pick—but he’s laid off that stuff, thank God.

  “Nothing bad, son. I swear. This is actually legit. Like a real job—no criminal activity involved.”

  Now that piques my interest. If I want Rose to take me seriously—and holy shit, I’m pretty sure I do—I need to go straight.

  I need to leave my past behind.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Caden

  “They should be here any minute, mate,” Nigel says, glancing at his iPhone. He’s texting some female who’s clearly not interested, since he keeps muttering under his breath every time he gets a reply he’s not happy with.

  “No problem.” Rose had called me and asked that I meet them at the White Swan since it’s so close to the hotel, and I agreed. When I arrived, though, only Nigel was waiting for me, with a half-empty beer in front of him and a morose expression on his face.

  Woman problems, I learned once I settled in and ordered my own beer. I let him ramble on, griping about a certain Clare who works at Fleur. A woman he’s had a crush on for far too long and she knows it but doesn’t seem to fancy him, and now she’s just turned into this enormous tease and good God, all his chatter is exhausting.

  Considering I’ve dealt with Mom’s constant chatter and Cash all in one day, poor Nigel is not gaining my full attention. I’m like the beautiful, aloof Clare at Fleur. She’s not giving him his full attention, either.

  Jesus, I feel like a prick.

  I rub my hands over my face and drain my beer, the alcohol flowing through my veins easily since I never really ate lunch. I still can’t wrap my head around what Cash offered me. I think I’m going to take him up on it. And if I do, there won’t be any need for me to cash in the Poppy Necklace to Dexter. He’s going to be furious, but … fuck it.

  I can make my own money—legitimately. I have no idea what that’s like, but I’m willing to give it a try.

  Especially if Rose is willing to give me a try.

  But I can’t talk about my potential new career with anyone. I have no friends. Mitchell knows what I’m all about, but that fucker doesn’t know shit about having a career. He’s never had to work a day in his life. Neither have I. Not a real job, at least.

  “So what exactly do you do anyway?” Nigel the mind reader asks, slurring his words a bit. Sounds like someone’s already had too much to drink.

  “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” I say, deciding to fuck with him. The guy needs to loosen up a little. Constantly sending the noncaring Clare texts is probably annoying the shit out of her. He needs to focus on something else.

  “Ah, you can’t say something like that and not expect a demand that you tell me exactly what it is you do.” Nigel lifts his hand, garnering the attentio
n of the barmaid. “Two more for us,” he calls.

  “Make it four,” I say after him, earning a strange look from Nigel. I shrug. “May as well be prepared for the next one, right?”

  “Right. Bloody good call.” He nods in affirmation. “So tell me. Are you a spy?”

  “Yes. I am,” I answer, my tone grave. “My secret spy number is double-O-five. Or Hawaii Five-O.”

  Nigel laughs. “Don’t you Americans have a show called that?”

  “Yep.” A spy. Ha. I wish.

  “So you’re definitely not a spy. How unfortunate.” He shakes his head. “An actor?”

  Sometimes. When need be. “Can you imagine? But no.”

  Nigel wags his brows like an exaggerated cartoon character. “Rose’s butler?”

  “Well, I am servicing her.” We both crack up over that just as the barmaid brings us our four mugs of beer, the tiny round table we’re sitting at now crowded with them, though at least she takes away the empties. Hell, by the time the working stiffs show up, I’m afraid Nigel and I will be good and drunk.

  So that’s what we do. We drink and I let Nigel continue guessing, which helps distract him from his texting Clare, not that I point out that little fact to him. His guesses at my profession get more and more ridiculous until … he finally fucking nails it. After my third beer and God knows how many he’s had, he gets it right.

  “You’re a thief.”

  I go completely still and unfortunately, become completely sober just with those three words. “What makes you say that?”

  “You’re a sly motherfucker, that’s why. Fucking wanker, distracting me from texting the most impossible girl on the planet so you can get me drunk.” Nigel shakes his head and smiles. He saw right through my plan. “I bet that’s how you trick all the defenseless people you steal from.” He laughs hysterically and I know I should join right in with him.

  But I don’t. I feel like absolute shit. Nigel’s right. I’m a sly motherfucker who tricks defenseless people and then I steal from them. I’m a terrible person, a terrible fucking man. I don’t deserve Rose. Not at all.

  It’s at that particular self-loathing moment when I see her. Rose. She’s just entered the pub, Violet by her side, Ryder right behind them and accompanied by another man. I don’t know who the man is, but I know in a second I can’t stand him. He has his hand on Rose’s shoulder, his fingers pressing into the skin of her upper arm since the dress she’s wearing is sleeveless and jealousy fills me, blocking everything out until all I can see is that asshole’s hand on my woman’s arm.

  She laughs at something he says, glancing over her shoulder at him, and he gives her arm a squeeze—fuck me—and she’s never looked more beautiful. The white dress fits her to perfection, showing off her every curve, and I can see why that dick has his hands on her because right about now I’d have my hands all over her too.

  Hell. I need another beer.

  “Jeeves. I do believe you’ve been replaced,” Nigel says, his English accent becoming more pronounced. He chuckles and shakes his head.

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Uh … looks like Watson has his hands all over Rose. I thought you were the one who serviced her.” At my blank look, Nigel continues. “You’re her butler, right? Servicing her? That’s why I called you Jeeves. Get it? Huh. Well, it appears you have some competition from Hugh. He can’t seem to stop touching her.”

  “Who the fuck is Hugh?” I can’t tear my gaze off of them. They’re making their way toward our table and the smile on Rose’s face is aimed right at me. But is it really for me? Or was it spurred on by whatever Hugh-the-fucker-Watson said?

  “He works at Fleur. Right arrogant bastard, too. The women love him,” Nigel mutters. “Probably even Clare.”

  “If she does then she’s not worthy, Nigel. Don’t forget that,” I say, putting on my best phony smile for the group of four that approaches our table. Rose stops right in front of me, her eyes clouded as she stares at my face. Am I scowling? Hell, I hope not.

  “Are you okay?” she asks.

  I up the watts on my fake smile and take her hand, pulling her close so I can kiss her cheek. “I’m great,” I whisper close to her ear. I glance to my right, see that Hugh is watching our every move, and I want to kick his face in. “Who’s this?” I ask casually.

  “Oh, Caden, this is Hugh Watson. He works in marketing at Fleur. Hugh, this is my—friend Caden.” She smiles toward Hugh, who takes a step forward so he’s standing right next to her. Like he belongs at her side. I must admit they look good together. They look right. Two young professionals, dressed expensively and working their way rightfully up the career ladder.

  Shit.

  “Great meeting you.” He reaches out a hand and I take it, the both of us in a who-can-give-the-firmest-handshake standoff.

  “A friend of Rose’s, eh?” He gives me a grim smile as he releases my hand. I have a feeling he believed he was going to be Rose’s special friend this evening. “Nice meeting you as well.”

  More rounds are ordered—though Rose chooses a mixed drink because she is not much of a beer drinker after all—and chairs are taken, Hugh making sure he’s sitting on the other side of Rose when she scoots her chair close to mine.

  Fucking great.

  “How was the meeting?” I ask her, keeping my voice low, wanting our conversation to be just between us. Having her gone even for a few hours … I missed her. Sappy but true.

  Missed her after going through her stuff and stealing the most valuable piece of jewelry she owns? Nice, asshole. Real nice.

  I ignore the mean-ass voice in my head.

  “It went really well. My father was a part of it via Skype and it was … good to talk to him.” She smiles and nods, but that pretty smile doesn’t quite meet her eyes and I know she’s not telling me everything.

  Which is fine. Really. I’m not telling her everything, either. How can I? My life is fucking chaos at the moment. I should be home, back in the States. I should be cleaning up the mess Mom made, I should be meeting with Cash so he can give me the lowdown on the interview he’s setting up for me, but no. I’m in London, because I don’t want to leave this beautiful woman sitting by my side.

  My priorities are all fucked up. I want what I can’t have, the story of my life.

  “How many beers have you had anyway?” she asks when I make a quick grab for the fresh one the barmaid delivers.

  “Too many.” I point at Nigel, who’s laughing hysterically at something Ryder is telling him. “It’s all his fault.”

  “Nigel?” She sounds surprised. “He’s harmless.”

  “Not really. Wait until you have to hear him drone on about a certain Clare. Then you won’t think he’s so harmless,” I mutter against the rim of my glass before I take a swig.

  “Ah, Clare. Really? He’s still talking about her?” She shakes her head with a sad smile. “She likes this one.” She points at Hugh.

  Asshole. Stealing my friend’s woman. Shit. Maybe I am drunk. “I think that one likes you.” I tilt my head in Hugh’s direction, thankful he’s talking to Violet and not making eyes at my girl.

  Rose blushes. She actually fucking blushes. Christ, she’s cute. “He does not.”

  I crane my neck to check him out. He’s still chatting with Violet, but I see the way his gaze slides to Rose every few seconds, lingering on her face, her chest, her whatever he finds particularly appealing.

  Can’t help but wonder if he would find my fist connecting with his nose appealing? Probably not.

  “Yeah. I think he does.” I can grudgingly admit he’s a good-looking fucker with the dark hair styled in an expensive cut, the high-end suit he’s wearing, and that gleaming smile that probably cost a fortune.

  I hate him.

  “Well, it doesn’t matter, because I’m here with you.” She leans into me, her mouth right at my ear, her lips moving against it when she speaks and making me shiver. “I missed you.”

  Her co
nfession pleases me more than I care to admit. “Yeah?” I tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, my gaze roaming over her pretty face. “Did it really go okay? The meeting?”

  She shrugs and pulls away from me, reaching out to grab her drink and take a sip. “It went as well as I expected.”

  “And that means?” I press. I’m not one to push. If she doesn’t want to share details of her personal life, I can deal with that. I’m sharing the most intimate experience with this woman two people can have. I know her body inside and out. But we don’t talk about personal things. Our private lives. She mentioned she gave notice at Fleur and that surprised me, but she never went into detail and I didn’t push. We told each other that first night, lying in bed together in the hushed quiet of the hotel suite, that we wouldn’t push. We wouldn’t ask too many questions.

  I regret making that promise. More and more as each day passes by.

  It’s stupid. How can we ever turn this into something more if we don’t really talk? Does she want to turn this into more? Do I?

  I go back and forth. Having Hugh Watson show up is not helping my case, either. He’s the type of man she should be with. One who’s her equal, not a criminal who’s faked through most of his life and doesn’t know how to let a woman get close.

  “It means that my relationship with my father is what I would call strained at best.” She looks sad. I hate it. I want to chase away her sadness and make her feel good. Help her forget.

  “My relationship with my father sucked too,” I admit, feeling the need to share something. A bit of my life I’ve never really talked about with anyone. Mitchell knows what happened to my dad and so does Whitney, but we’ve never really spoken of it. No one talks about suicide.

  No one.

  “Really?” She sounds curious but she says nothing more. Probably doesn’t want to press for more.

  I nod and draw my finger through the ring of condensation my glass left on the dark table. “I was a shit growing up.”

  “Nooo,” she drawls with a little laugh, making me chuckle.

  “It’s true. I was spoiled rotten. He created the monster and then I think he regretted it.” I know he did. He created a monster out of all of us, including himself. Spending money like it was nothing, buying us whatever we wanted. Eventually, all that cash he spent became money he obtained illegally. Money he stole from clients. Investors who had faith he would do them right. Instead he did them wrong.