Wycked Rumors (Wycked Obsession Book 2) Read online

  Wycked Rumors

  Wycked Obsession – Book 2

  Wynne Roman

  WYCKED RUMORS

  Wycked Obsession Series — Book 2

  Copyright ©2018 by Wendy Ferguson

  All Rights Reserved

  Edited by Loredana Elsberry Schwartz

  Proofreading by Kathy Hafer

  Cover Design by Tatiana Vila, Vila Design

  No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system—without prior written consent from the author, except in the instance of quotes for reviews. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded, or distributed via the internet without the permission of the author, which is a violation of the international copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines and imprisonment.

  This is a work of fiction. The names, characters, incidents and places are products of the author’s imagination, and are not to be construed as real, except where noted and authorized. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or actual events, is entirely coincidental. Any trademarks, service marks, product names, or names featured are assumed to be the property of their respective owners and are used only for reference. There is no implied endorsement by the use of any of these terms.

  Dedication

  For the Head Gypsy, JoAnne Mandel,

  and the Worker Bee, Karen Henderson.

  May we all do Grandma Grape proud.

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Epilogue

  Playlist

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Books by Wynne Roman

  Sneak Peaks

  PROLOGUE

  London

  The restaurant is quiet and dignified, everything I would expect from the finest French establishment in my namesake city. The table is covered with sparkling white linen and set with fine china, silver, and crystal. An elegant silver candlestick holds a flickering white taper, and the mood is perfect.

  Colin has already ordered his choice of wine, it’s poured and waiting, and so I take a sip. Anything to calm my nerves. They’ve put me on edge since he picked me up. Something in his voice, his demeanor, his choice of restaurant—everything—tells me he’s up to something.

  It must be something special, I think to myself. Colin Gilbert is somewhat stoic and unemotional—typically British, he always says—and romantic gestures aren’t his style. Could tonight be the night he pops the question?

  Do I even want him to? And if he does, how will I answer?

  “Have you decided?”

  I blink. I haven’t looked at the menu.

  “No.” I shake my head as the waiter approaches. “You order for me. You know what I like.”

  Colin nods smoothly. He likes it when I defer to him, and in this case, I don’t mind. I’ve been back in England for three days, and this is the first time we’ve seen each other. I’m hoping our latest separation might drag out of him whatever trace of romance he might have buried deep in his soul.

  I can’t help watching as he orders. He’s slender, not soft but definitely not muscular. The perfect body for an English gentleman, he claims. I don’t know if that’s true, but I accept it if he’s happy with himself. His hair is dark brown, curly on top and short on the sides, and his eyes are a shade lighter than his hair. He’s maybe five inches taller than my 5’5”, which seems comfortable enough, and dressed in a navy-blue-almost-black suit and coordinating tie.

  We’re a nice match, he says, although he does complain about my hair being too red. I laughed the first time he said it. Maybe I do have auburn highlights in my hair—they’re natural—but it’s just as much brown as it is red. My eyes are brown, too—hazel, they’re probably called—but Colin says they’re too gold. They make me stand out, and he’d rather I not draw too much attention.

  He isn’t the first one to wish that.

  For myself, I’m through with that kind of thinking. I’ve lived most of my life under that pressure, and I’m done with it. Forever. I made myself a promise the day I turned eighteen. By the time I graduated from college, I’d no longer be the shy, innocent girl who faded into the background. I’d be strong and independent, a woman defined by nothing and no one except being my absolute and authentic self.

  The time has come. I graduated with my degree in Communications a week ago.

  Colin sends the waiter off and looks at me with a distant smile. Is it my imagination, or has he been preoccupied since he picked me up?

  “Is everything all right?” I try to smile in an easy, understanding way.

  “Yes. Why do you ask?”

  “You seem…distracted.” He’s an attorney—a solicitor, I remind myself—and work frequently concerns him.

  “No. Although I do want to have a word.”

  “All right.” It’s the British way of saying, we need to talk. Uneasiness snakes through me. That’s not usually a sign of anything good, is it? On the other hand, maybe non-romantic Colin doesn’t understand the usual clues. I learned long ago that he sees things much differently than I do.

  “What is it?” I ask when he doesn’t continue.

  He shakes his head. “We’ll save that for later. How was your trip?”

  “Fine.”

  “Did you travel with your parents?”

  “My mother. Dad…went ahead without us.” I don’t explain—again—that my father never goes out in public with us. Colin knows the situation. We’ve talked about the realities of my family dynamic more than once.

  “Yes, of course. And your graduation?”

  “Uneventful.” I swallow the words that I really want to say, mostly because I’ve already said them and it was a waste of breath. I asked Colin to attend the ceremony, and he begged off. Too busy. Too far. Too expensive.

  It’s always too much something.

  “And your plans now?”

  I delay my answer while our waiter places an artfully-arranged vinaigrette salad before each of us. Colin begins eating immediately, while I wait.

  “I’ve submitted a number of resumes, both here and in the States.”

  “The States?” He looks up. “Southern California?” He says it like he means the very pit of hell. The garbage dump of all humanity. I suppose, to Colin, that’s the case.

  “It’s home,” I remind him mildly. “Where I grew up.”

  “Yes, well…” His nose wrinkles up like he’s just noticed a bad smell. It makes me want to push him a little.

  “I’ve had some very promising interest from a record company in L.A. I interned there last summer.”

  “I thought you were staying in England permanently now.”

  “That depends.”

  “On what?”

  I rest a flat gaze on his face. He ought to know; we’ve been seeing each
other for months now. But I also recognize his unemotional reserve. Colin Gilbert never assumes anything.

  “It depends on the job offers.” I try to keep my tone patient. How difficult can it be to understand? “And how…fulfilling my life here can be. You know, because of my father.”

  “Right.” He nods and returns his attention to his salad. “Have you thought about not working?”

  “Not working?” I pick up my salad fork but then drop it back to the tabletop before I take a bite. “Why wouldn’t I work? I worked hard for my degree! What would I do instead?”

  He finishes his salad calmly and sits back in his chair. He looks at me after a moment, tilting his head as though he wants to see me from a different angle. “I’d like to set you up in a flat. Keep your time available for me.”

  “I…” The words fall away. “Keep my time available for you?” I blink and pull my head back. “What the bloody hell does that mean?”

  His expression tightens, and I know it’s my language. Colin doesn’t like ladies to curse. Right now, I really don’t give a good goddamn.

  “Exactly what it sounds like. I want to be your priority.”

  “My priority?” I have to repeat it, hear it again, to believe it. “My priority?” I say once more. “Do you mean my priority, or my only concern?”

  He narrows his eyes. “London…”

  Why doesn’t he finish?

  “What about me, Colin?” I ask stiffly. “Am I your priority?”

  “London,” he says again, and this time he shakes his head.

  “What? We aren’t engaged. Why should—”

  “Engaged?” He frowns. “What do you mean?”

  I blink and imitate his expression. “Engaged. As in we’ve made a commitment to each other. That we will have a future together. Why would I make you the priority in my life if I’m not one in yours?”

  He stares at me long enough to make me uncomfortable, and then finally he sighs. “London, you must realize the impossibility of what you’re suggesting.”

  “The impossibility of what? My being a priority in your life?”

  “Of our becoming engaged.”

  An odd feeling races through me, like an electric shock sent straight through to my nervous system. I’m hot, then cold, then hot again. “What do you mean, Colin?”

  He scowls and shakes his head. “Do I really have to say it?”

  “Yes.” I nod emphatically. “You do. Absolutely.”

  “It can’t come as a surprise to you that a man in my position can’t consider marriage to…Hugh Kennedy’s illegitimate daughter.”

  “Hugh Kennedy’s illegitimate daughter?” I repeat carefully, my throat suddenly dry. “And a man in your position?”

  He tries to hold my gaze, but he can’t do it. Brown eyes that suddenly appear weak and untrustworthy slide away.

  “You know my goals,” he finally says. “I have grander plans than to remain a simple solicitor for the rest of my life. With the right connections, the right wife, I can—”

  “The right wife,” I repeat. I don’t give a damn if I interrupt him. “And that couldn’t possibly be Hugh Kennedy’s illegitimate daughter. So that must mean you’re asking me to become—what? Your mistress?”

  “London…”

  I nod as though things suddenly make sense. And they do. They fucking do. “Your mistress,” I say again. “You want to set me up in a flat where I can wait for you to have time to come round for a quick fuck.”

  He flinches but says nothing. I press on.

  “This might come as something of a shock to you, Colin, but you overestimate the attraction of your cock, you asshole.”

  “London!”

  His voice is strangled, his voice horrified, and I really don’t give a damn. I rise from my chair with every bit of elegance my mother instilled in me, reach for my purse, and drop my napkin on top of my untouched salad. “I’ll find my own way home, you wanker.”

  I don’t turn back. Why would I? I may not have an undying love for this man, but my emotions are involved. I trusted him to believe that he at least cared enough to treat me decently. Hugh Kennedy’s illegitimate daughter deserves some reasonable consideration. Some respect. Doesn’t she?

  Don’t I?

  It doesn’t matter. I step out onto the street and look for a taxi. Quickly and oh-so-efficiently, Colin has destroyed whatever there might once have been between us. Shattered any hope that this time—this man—would be different.

  I should have known better by now. Men want one thing, and women want another. Sex for security and commitment. Isn’t that the exchange?

  Maybe for others. Not for Hugh Kennedy’s illegitimate daughter. Born on the wrong side of the sheets, as I’ve heard it whispered, means never aspiring to a real relationship apparently.

  A man to love me for who I am, and no other reason.

  Tears shock me when they begin to prickle behind my eyelids. I haven’t cried in years, and I know instantly I’m not emotional over Colin fucking Gilbert. It’s the reminder that the accident of my birth makes me…dirty. Not good enough. Someone to be hidden away or embarrassed over.

  So maybe London Kennedy, embarrassment to her family and friends, ought to start thinking about herself, suggests a fierce voice from deep inside me.

  I choke back a laugh, or is it more tears? Yeah, maybe I should. Instead of looking for trust, romance, or even respect, why not accept the obvious that life has laid out for me?

  Work hard. Earn respect. Protect yourself, and forget about relationships. For that kind of thing, sex is the answer. Sex doesn’t waste its time with love and happily ever after. Sex doesn’t take your feelings and smash them into smithereens. Sex fills a physical need. The big O is the reward.

  Isn’t that how guys look at it? I know it is, so why waste my time expecting anything else? I ought to be thanking Colin! He did me a big bloody favor. Reordered my priorities.

  Relationships? They aren’t bloody worth it. I’ve seen what a mess they cause.

  “Fuck love,” I mutter as a cab pulls up to the curb. “Who needs it?”

  Who, indeed? That’s going to be my new motto, and if I do it right, it’ll see me through anything.

  CHAPTER 1

  London

  The photographer’s studio buzzes with activity. I stop just inside the entrance, keeping well out of the way, and look for a familiar face. I recognize the guys from Wycked Obsession, of course; anybody in the music industry, or who hasn’t been living under a rock for the last six months, would know them. They came out of nowhere, a sudden phenom from Austin, and now they’re on tour with Edge of Return, the biggest band since Coldplay.

  Not bad for a band with only two albums out.

  I straighten my spine and resist the urge to adjust my hemline or tug at the fit of my shirt. I’ll admit it: I dressed to impress. I’m wearing a white pencil skirt and a teal blue sleeveless blouse, with coordinating jewelry and three-inch blue heels. I don’t expect Knox Gallagher, Wycked Obsession’s lead guitarist and my contact within the band, to give a damn what I look like…or even notice anything about me. But Baz Calhoun, the band’s manager, might, and I’m not taking any chances.

  I want this job.

  The photo shoot seems to be breaking up. I recognize every one of the band members: Ajia Stone, lead singer; Noah Dexter, drummer; Zayne Prescott, bassist; Rylan Myles, keyboardist…and Knox. I’d recognize him anywhere. He’s one of the best guitarists playing right now, and, writing with Ajia, the creative geniuses of Wycked Obsession’s biggest hits. He’s also the best-looking guy in a band made up of some of the hottest men on the freaking planet.

  The other band members disappear, while Knox continues to talk to the photographer. Baz explained that Knox acts as the band’s unofficial leader, and I can see that must be true. From photo shoots to meeting with me about the band’s marketing and PR needs, Knox exudes an element of control.

  So, where’s Baz?

  I look around but
don’t see anyone who has that harried, I’m-so-busy-I’m-going-to-tear-my-hair-out look I’ve seen on other band managers. That leaves me to stare at Knox some more.

  He’s tall, maybe 6’2”, and muscular. His arms and chest are tattooed, revealed because he’s not wearing a shirt. The meaning and placement of his tattoos are of great interest to his female fans. I did a little on-line research before our meeting, and it left me both amused and alarmed at the information and speculation out there.

  None of what I read about Knox seems to have done him justice. His hair is long, to his shoulders, and a deep sable color that looks so much richer in person. It’s like strands of brown, black and ginger all tangled together, and some perfectly decadent part of me wants to discover for myself how soft it is. His lower face is covered with the scruff of a few days worth of whiskers, darker than his hair, and I have to admit it looks totally freaking hot.

  His facial features are nicely proportioned. His nose is maybe a little wide, but his bottom lip is perfectly bitable, according to one online fan site. His eyes are lighter colored than I would have expected, sometimes gray and sometimes green, according to his fans. I can’t tell the shade today, not from where I stand, and a part of me wants to move forward to see for myself. I almost take a step forward—and then I realize that he’s staring back at me.

  I can feel my reaction: my eyes widen and my cheeks flush. Damn. I’ve changed in so many ways from the shy, embarrassed girl I used to be, but I’ve never quite learned how to control that damned blush.

  Knox grins, but it’s more of an I-know-you-want-me smile than a friendly expression. Asshole. So he’s like all rock stars. Sure of himself and his appeal, and not afraid to take advantage of it.

  And why not? an impatient voice snaps inside of me. He can get by with it. Every girl in America wants him—and if you had the chance, you wouldn’t turn him down, either.

  Bloody hell.