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  Her Rules

  A Ludlow Nights Romance- Book Two

  By CC MacKenzie

  Introduction - Her Rules

  A Ludlow Nights Romance – Book Two

  “When I saw you I fell in love, and you smiled because you knew.”

  Shakespeare

  Once soccer star Olivier Conti fixes his mind on something he sets about getting it. As soon as he spots Anastacia Morgan, he knows she is the perfect woman for him. Winning her heart is a hard-won battle but he's fallen hard for Anastacia and she's fallen for him. They are madly in love, so what on earth can possibly go wrong?

  Since pitching head first into crazy love Anastacia's life has been an emotional rollercoaster. In the space of a day she's met her father for the first time, discovers she has a family and - one day in the dim and distant future - agreed to marry Olivier Conti.

  However, as the song says, the course of true love never runs smoothly. As Olivier and Anastacia move their advertising shoot for the Ferranti Boutique hotel campaign to Paris, a couple of unwelcome blasts from their romantic pasts plunge them into the first real test of their love. Can their fragile relationship survive?

  And Anastacia's not the only one having trouble with a man, style guru Danni Pebbles has joined her best friend in Paris and discovers that the powerful and wealthy Pascal Wolfe is determined to give her a run for her money - but that just makes Danni even more determined to keep him at arm’s length.

  However, they quickly find, they are an equal match in terms of sheer stubbornness and an attraction that will not be denied. But when an old enemy from Pascal's past begins stalking Danni, Anastacia, Olivier and Pascal combine forces to keep her safe...

  Copyright - Her Rules

  By CC MacKenzie

  Copyright © C C MacKenzie 2015

  CC MacKenzie has asserted her right to be identified

  as the author of this work.

  All rights reserved. No part of the publication may be reproduced, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, imaging, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

  ISBN 9781909331235

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organisations, places and events other than those clearly in the public domain, are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Published by More Press

  Cover Design by Gabrielle Prendergast

  About the Author

  CC MacKenzie is a USA Today Bestselling Author of contemporary and paranormal romance. She loves to hear from her readers; you can find her at:

  Website

  http://ccmackenzie.com/

  Click here for CC’s Amazon Author Page

  Facebook

  http://www.facebook.com/CCMzie

  Twitter

  https://twitter.com/CCMacKenzie1

  Email

  [email protected]

  Pinterest: http://pinterest.com/christineauthor

  Click here for CC’s Amazon Author Page

  Table of Contents

  Her Rules

  Introduction - Her Rules

  Copyright - Her Rules

  About the Author

  Table of Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Epilogue

  Keep in Touch

  Other Books Available by CC MacKenzie

  Excerpt - Break The Rules: Book 3 in Ludlow Nights Series

  CHAPTER ONE

  Olivier Conti battled open a bleary eyelid as the sound of a ring tone sucked him out of a dream featuring hot sex with his woman and a pint of Ben & Jerry's Tutti Fock'in Fruitti.

  His hand slipped south to adjust the heavy ache in his groin when Frankie and the boys sang out again as they went to war with two tribes. WTH? He was rock hard and hadn't even got to the good bit yet.

  Fumbling for his cell, he dimly remembered showing four year old Luca Ferranti how to choose a ring tone for his daddy, Nico. The image of the love of his life, Anastacia, licking Ben & Jerry from a certain part of his anatomy faded away along with his stunning erection.

  He grabbed the cell. "Hey, Nico."

  "You still in bed?"

  Of course he was still in bed. It was holiday season, which meant no soccer training and no matches. He'd made hot love with his woman all night long. Where the hell else would he be?

  "Resting my eyes," he said.

  The silence in response told him Nico was probably rolling his.

  "You still on for lunch?"

  Was he?

  "What day is it?"

  "Friday."

  "Si."

  "Do not be late," said Nico and hung up.

  With a heartfelt groan, Olivier rolled to sit naked on the edge of the bed, yawned wide enough to crack his jaw and stretched hugely. Cristo, he was exhausted, in a good way. He ran his tongue over his teeth and decided coffee first, then a shower. He stood and gave-in to the impulse to scratch his flat belly. He turned to gaze at the huge bed with a longing for more shut-eye and a lingering affection for what had happened in that bed last night. The dent of her head on the pillow next to his made him rub the tiny ache over his heart. Dio, he loved her so much. He couldn't miss the big, bright pink sticky note stuck to pillow.

  As he scooped it up, his grin was wide as he read:

  Hey, sleepy head. Some of us have work to do. Since you're a sex machine who never sleeps, and I'm a woman who needs her sleep to function on any level, we need to have a long talk about separate bedrooms or single beds. And, no, I am not joking. Don't forget to tidy the place. And for God's sake sort out the laundry. Unless disaster strikes I should be home at five-thirty. Make sure you are naked, willing and able and holding a large glass of white wine. Ana. X.

  At the thought of her request regarding his lack of clothes and wine, his dick stirred. Then he frowned over the laundry instruction. He was an Italian sporting superstar. He had other people who did laundry. He struggled to remember if he had ever done laundry himself? Didn't the penthouse come with a cleaning crew? He gazed around at a chair groaning under the weight of the ever increasing piles of clothes, his and hers. He tried to remember if he had ever met a domestic in this apartment and for the life of him nothing dinged. So he picked up his cell to talk to the man who would know.

  "Hey, Nico. Does this place have a maid service?"

  Cue a stony silence.

  "How long have you lived there?" came the silky response.

  Olivier absently scratched his belly, tried to think with his head instead of his...

  "Um, six weeks, off and on."

  "Si. And it is only now you have thought to
ask me this? My wife is very proud of, and spent months decorating, our London penthouse, Oli."

  Now Oli winced at the dark warning in his best friend and mentor's tone.

  Fuck.

  He looked around and really saw the place for the first time. There was a fine film of dust on the mahogany headboard. A heavy plate-glass coffee table, the size of a family car, was growing a beard. Dust bunnies were breeding like rabbits on cat-nip in the four corners of the room on the creamy stone floor. Then he remembered the state of the vast sitting room, the dirty dishes piling up in the kitchen sink. Anastacia had been working long hours all week as she prepared for their Paris trip, not rolling in until after nine in the evening. Had he really expected her to turn into a maid service just because she was a woman? Had he? Shame made his cheeks heat. Maybe he had. No wonder she preferred to sleep in her own beautifully kept apartment, five floors below his, in her lavender scented Egyptian cotton sheets. No wonder he'd had to use sex to force her to stay with him last night.

  If Bronte saw the appalling condition of her pride and joy, she'd beat him black and blue. And who the hell would blame her? His friends had been kind enough to offer him the place while he was in London, and look at how he was repaying that kindness? Again, shame slapped him hard. Well, he would just have to knuckle down and clean the apartment and do the laundry. He was a modern man. Independent. Successful. Intelligent. He had a business degree, for God's sake. How hard could it be to operate a washing machine?

  These thoughts and more raced through his brain before he realized his good pal was still waiting for an answer.

  "Nessum problema, Nico," he said in an upbeat and very cheery voice.

  When there was no response to his assurance, Olivier wondered if maybe he'd been too upbeat, too cheery? Nico Ferranti never missed a trick.

  "I will send in a team to do a deep clean of the penthouse while you are in Paris and make sure a housekeeper sees to your needs every day."

  Stung not only at the lethal tone, but at the implication he lived like a pig and couldn't take care of his environment, Olivier fired up.

  "How hard can it be to run a vacuum cleaner, a dishwasher or a washing machine? I am more than capable."

  "Take my advice and leave such things to the experts. I will see you at one-thirty. Do not be late."

  Olivier glared at his cell as a very male huff escaped from his throat.

  Leave it to the experts?

  He tossed the cell onto the unmade bed, grabbed a pair of worn grey sweatpants, marched into the sitting room and stopped dead. Where had that mountain of newspapers, sports magazines, the beer bottles lined up like soldiers on the side table, the take-away pizza boxes and all the rest of the detritus come from? Beautiful silk cushions, in jewelled colors, were heaped on the floor. Hell, the gauzy curtains were a mess and not tied back properly. And dust ruled. He lazily rubbed his belly as the full implication of the amount of blood, sweat and tears needed to bring the whole apartment up to Nico and Bronte's high standards finally sank into his thick skull. Now two hands scrubbed that skull to kick-start his sluggish brain.

  Cristo.

  He had no idea where to start.

  Then he had a brain wave.

  Coffee.

  He'd start with coffee.

  A man determined, a man on a mission. On bare feet, Olivier Conti marched into the kitchen and nearly marched right back out again.

  Two hours later.

  "You do realize you will owe me fucking big time for this, Conti? Especially if you want me to keep it our leeetle seeeeekrit," said T.C., aka Teresa Catliff, one of Anastacia Morgan's besties. The girl might be a stunning blonde with curves and the face of a Botticelli angel, but she had a potty mouth that would make a sweaty road crew blush.

  Olivier caught her hand, brought it to his mouth. "Grazie, T.C. I do not know what I would have done without your help."

  "I promised them triple pay, cash up front," a relentless T.C. reminded him, all the while giving him the stink eye. The cleaning crew she used for her apartment, three women, had arrived an hour ago, armed to the teeth with equipment he couldn't even put a name to. Already the place was looking better. Whatever he had to pay would be money well spent.

  "I'll work on my laptop from here and keep an eye on them," she said. When his brows rose in surprise, she rolled her baby blue eyes and spoke to him as if he was a few cents short of a full dollar. "I trust them in my place. But I don't trust one of them not to pocket Olivier Conti's unwashed Calvin's and flog them on EBay or keep them under their pillow. No point in asking for trouble."

  He couldn't imagine anyone considering such a thing, but then T.C. was a beauty blogger par excellence and a social networking queen. She knew what she was talking about. And to put it bluntly, he was more than happy to leave and her amazing team to it.

  It was a contented man who considered that everything was all right with his world when he drove his fabulous black and shiny Range Rover SVAutobiography out of his underground parking space. Even rammed London traffic couldn't break his sunny disposition. Singing along in a fine baritone to his favourite tune by Elbow, he pressed the pedal to metal as he hit the highway on the way to the five star Ferranti Hotel and Spa, Ludlow Hall. Happy as a clam, he relaxed and let his mind spin back to the time, six short weeks ago, when he'd first met the love of his life.

  The moment he'd seen Anastacia Morgan, Olivier Conti's life had changed forever. She stood, absolutely still, in the Royal box at Wembley football stadium at the end of the semi-final (he'd scored the winning goal) and simply observed him. She'd worn an ivory suit that only highlighted the river of dark curls streaming down her back to her waist, reed slender, a sexy, gorgeous fairy with a pale and luminous skin that he now knew was as soft and gorgeous under his mouth as it was under his hands. A fairy who'd watched him through fiercely intelligent eyes the color of the bluest sea. Unblinking, those eyes had stared right through him. His mouth kicked as he also remembered how she'd frustrated the hell out of him. He grinned, she still did.

  Yes, the instant he'd seen her, he knew he had to have her. Who would have thought he'd fall madly in love so fast or so hard? He hadn't seen that coming. Her face was amazing. She had a bone structure that was timeless in its beauty, a full mouth that went sulky when she was irritated or, he grinned, not getting her own way. She looked a lot younger than her twenty-four years, a lot younger. But she had the heart of a lion, as well as a bloody-minded pride and a need for self-reliance that he could get right behind.

  Six hectic and emotional weeks had passed since that first contact and he was falling more and more in love with her spunky and no-nonsense attitude to life, with the core of a stubborn independence that had made her one of the top experts in her chosen field and head of Ferranti Communications.

  Okay, he might have a couple of niggling concerns regarding her attitude to his career, professional soccer. Anastacia regarded top soccer players as nothing more than flashy playboys with flashy cars and even flashier woman. He'd proved to her that he didn't have a foot in those camps, except for an abiding love of fast cars. Deep down he might like her to respect those who worked hard and loved the beautiful game, but a man couldn't have everything he wanted in life. It was more than enough for him that he had captured her carefully guarded heart. Christ, the way she loved him and the way he loved her, in bed and out of it, was incredible. He was learning something new about her complicated personality every single day.

  On the way to Ludlow Hall and winding the Rover through stunning tree dappled narrow roads, Olivier thought of the way Nico loved his wife, Bronte. Their happiness was a thing to be treasured. Something deep down inside himself knew that if a man was lucky he loved that way only once. And as Bronte was it for Nico, Anastacia was it for him. It would always be Anastacia.

  He eased the car through the gates of the Hall admiring the tall trees lining the long tarmacked drive like sentinels standing to attention. The rolling landscape was an immaculate
and spectacular emerald green. Gorgeous. Enjoying the moment of an English countryside basking and shimmering in the heat of a fine summer's day, he idly wondered if it was possible for a man to love a woman too much? He'd no idea, but the very thought both excited and scared the crap out of him, too.

  Olivier strolled through the wide double doors into Ludlow Hall and was immediately welcomed by a tall and striking woman dressed in a sleeveless silk sheath the color of pewter. She smiled and her face immediately transformed from attractive to gorgeous.

  "Ciao, Elena. Beautiful day."

  Elena Kennedy, head of reception and admin at the Hall and engaged to the head of security for Ferranti Enterprises, Mark Atelier, took his outstretched hand in hers and blushed like a girl when he took her hand to his mouth and pressed a soft kiss to her fingers.

  "Ciao, yourself, it is indeed a beautiful day," she said and muttered something about 'Italian men are lethal.' She turned to lead the way through the wide oak door next to reception. "Nico said to go right through."

  Olivier did as he was told and as he entered Nico's huge office, he stopped dead and simply grinned like a fool.

  His friend had Bronte in a clinch that made it clear to Olivier that after nearly five years of wedded bliss and three children, Nico Ferranti simply couldn't keep his hands off his beautiful wife.

  As Nico's hand slowly slid down her back and cupped Bronte's tight little butt, Olivier cleared his throat.

  The couple didn't move, didn't jump apart.

  Instead, Nico's hands rose to frame Bronte's cheeks before he shifted to stare into her face, then he closed his eyes and pressed his lips to her forehead and stepped back.