Rage (2 page)

the squawking newborn in Cedric’s arms. Phillip had felt just a

tad bit guilty about that.

Steph’s brother was currently on a flight to Ireland where

he’d planned to meet up with Steph’s dad, the owner of the mu-

sic magazine,
The Sound Wave.
Asking Steph’s dad for her hand had been terrifying. It was no exaggeration to say that he’d had to throw out the suit jacket he’d been wearing, since his profuse perspiring had utterly ruined it. Though Adam Brier was only 5’

5”, he was as commanding as Napoléon. After several veiled

threats to Phillip’s manhood should he ever hurt “his little girl”

and many compulsory shots of whisky, Phillip stumbled away

from
The Sound Wave
corporate offices with the permission he required.

Unfortunately, Stephanie had thrown the biggest wrench in-

to his orchestrations. She was so caught up in Cheyenne and

Scot’s new son, Liam, that he was afraid they’d never make their flight from London to Dublin. He’d already had to reschedule it

once. She’d planted herself in their room at the hospital, obnox-4

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iously riding the nursing staff and monopolizing the infant. Just before his pilot filed a new flight plan to Ireland, Steph had been contacted by
Donna Moderna
, an Italian fashion magazine, to do a spread in preparation for Milan Fall Fashion Week. She’d ne-gotiated to have two solid weeks with him, but now she’d only

be here for 10 days. He knew that her agent had already booked

her in Paris for a photo shoot for
La Femme Actualle
immediately after that. He chose not to brood about it, but couldn’t wait until the proposal was over with. When they were married, all

this incessant traveling would settle down, and they could finally be together on a regular basis.

None of this scheduling madness was new. Steph’s photog-

raphy career made his songwriting sessions with Bret and the

recording schedule for Fury’s latest album appear as if he were

in retirement. Since leaving
The Sound Wave
and going free-lance, her calendar had been booked solid. The band agreed to

assemble later this week so that she could shoot them for the new album cover. Only half the songs were written, but they all

agreed they wanted Steph to do the photo, and they had to take

advantage of the break in her schedule. Most bands would’ve

killed for Stephanie Brier to photograph them, but few could af-

ford her. Steph’s fee for Fury’s shoot was a six pack of Guinness and a mixed CD from their drummer, David. (She was still a big

fan of good old DJ Dave’s remixes). And bragging rights, of

course. Their albums had gone triple platinum, and even Stepha-

nie, who was born rock n’ roll royalty, had been impressed with

their sweep at the Grammys and VMA’s this year. And she was

rarely impressed by anything; it would be nice to have her attention, if only from the other side of the camera lens.

This visit would be the first time he’d had more than three

days alone with her since they’d barricaded themselves in his

hotel suite in New York all those months ago. They’d ditched the party thrown in the band’s honor by her father’s magazine less

than an hour after he’d arrived. His manager still hadn’t forgiven 5

TAMMY COONS & MICHELLE PACE

him for that! But, blimey! What followed had been 72 hours of

perfection. He closed his eyes and daydreamed about how crack-

ing her ivory skin and fiery hair looked draped across that bed

with her gorgeous gown crumpled in a heap on the floor. He

tapped the velvet ring box with his fingertips, as if to confirm it was still there. It suddenly seemed to burn a hole in his pocket.

Truthfully, he was incredibly nervous about introducing

Steph to his parents and sisters. He was confident his dad would think she was hysterical, but the females of the Kersey clan?

That was…uncertain. As well traveled as she was, Steph could

be the epitome of an “ugly American.” He took comfort from the

fact that his grandparents were so taken with her and hoped the

rest of his family would soon feel the same. He also was hopeful that Steph would like them. She didn’t have any women in her

life (except Cheyenne), as far as he could tell. Her mom was

dead, and she had no sisters or close cousins. She got on well

enough with the girlfriends and wife of his band mates, but they seemed mostly like casual friendships of convenience. All that

would change after she said yes. He smiled at the thought of

Nanna, Mum, and the girls helping her plan her dream wedding.

“Hey, big boy. Can I hitch a ride?” Steph’s raspy American

accent had a Pavlovian effect on him, and he felt instantly

aroused. He forced himself to turn slowly, and the sight of her

knocked the wind out of him. Her blue green eyes were slightly

blood shot, but happy. She’d caught the red eye from Chicago

when Cheyenne’s water broke, so she hadn’t slept much in the

past two days. Steph was even more pale than usual and had lost

more unnecessary weight in the few weeks since he’d last seen

her in The States. Her usually baby doll features appeared angu-

lar and harsh. She rushed to him, and her red wavy hair bounced

wildly as she flung herself into his arms. He could feel her ribs when he gripped onto her and as she wrapped her legs around

him. She weighed no more than a child. He silently cursed the

fashion folk she worked with. Their unwelcome impact on her

6

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self-image was one more reason to marry her and get her away

from that industry. His worry dissipated when he felt her warm

breath in his ear and her fingers gripping his hair.

“Pattinson can suck it. You still have ‘the hottest hair in the

UK’.” She locked eyes with him. Something on his face must

have betrayed his inner conflict, because she looked at him as if he’d slapped her. She pulled away from him, seemingly dejected

and tried to wriggle out of his grasp, but he tightened his hold on her. She stopped struggling and met his eyes reluctantly.

“Did you miss me?” She seemed suddenly shy.

“Always.” He replied and softly grazed her pouty lips with

his. The taste of her hadn’t changed one bit, and he allowed himself thirty heavenly seconds of her sweetness before he untan-

gled himself and placed her unceremoniously on her feet. He

needed to put space between them before he lost control. The

Atlantic Ocean had served as a significant hurdle for their ro-

mance. This not-so-tiny stumbling block had prolonged their

honeymoon phase to the point of agony. With the bloody tab-

loids always hounding him, they desperately needed privacy.

“Let’s get the hell out of here.”

They managed to get as far as the front seat of the car be-

fore they were all over each other again. Steph reached for his

zipper when he clasped her wrist tightly.

“There are cameras everywhere, love.”

“Ugh, what the hell else is new? Bastards. Get a real job.”

She growled and reluctantly removed her delightful hands. He

couldn’t help but snort at her remark since she was a profession-al photographer. She sighed melodramatically and flopped back

against the headrest. “Can we at least…stop somewhere before

we get to your grandparents?”

“What? Like a bed and breakfast that rents rooms by the

hour?” He retorted. She tried to shoot him a dirty look, but a wry smile won out.

“I missed you, Phillip. If I molest you in front of your

7

TAMMY COONS & MICHELLE PACE

grandparents at tea, you’ll have only yourself to blame.” She was watching traffic as she said this, always the backseat driver. Phillip bit his lip to keep from smiling. He was taking her directly to their cottage where he would have his dirty way with her, but

tomorrow he would take her to Nana and Grandad’s estate. He

hoped his family was hitting it off with Cedric and Adam by

then. Considering the astounding charm that the priest possessed, he had no real concerns regarding Cedric. Adam? It was anyone’s guess. He and Steph were two of a kind. Reality hit him

like a wall of rabid fans attacking Fury’s limo: this time tomorrow, Stephanie would be his fiancée. No more Skype dating. Her

falling asleep in his arms
every night
…no more bloody flights back and forth across the pond.

“I’m sure we can find a quiet back road to park on,” he said

in a conciliatory tone.

“Ooooo. Dirty.” Her husky murmur quickened his pulse.

They made it to the private jet just five minutes before they

were scheduled for takeoff. Stephanie shot him a lascivious

smile before sliding out of the car. Considering that their first kiss had been in an airplane restroom, the private jet rental was somewhat sentimental.

“Ya know, I’m not typically much of a joiner, but the Mile

High Club? Sign me up!” Steph chirped, pushing past the crew-

members as if they were part of the furnishings. Phillip gave

them a sheepish shrug, but they appeared professional and com-

pletely unconcerned. He proceeded to the back of the plane,

where Steph stood on her tiptoes stowing her purse and camera

bag. She plopped down in the middle of the bench style seat and

when he took the seat next to her, she surprised him by grabbing him by his shirt and pulling him down on top of her. He made a

half-hearted effort to pull away, knowing they needed to fasten

their seatbelts for takeoff. But she tasted so bloody delicious, his instinct was to strip her down and take her, privacy or not. When he heard the flight attendant clearing her throat, he was neither 8

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surprised, nor overjoyed.

“Seatbelt, Mr. Kersey.” The flight attendant insisted, her

whimsical Irish accent matching the amused twinkle in her eye.

“Yeah. Seatbelt, Phillip. Gosh.” Steph chimed in, acting

frigid and proper, as if she weren’t the instigating vixen. He

cocked an eyebrow at her, but she merely blinked her blue eyes

innocently. Cedric’s ability to lie like James Bond shouldn’t

have been all that surprising to him, in retrospect.

Sadly, they had zero privacy on the plane so they spent the

flight catching up on band happenings, who and what she’d been

photographing, and trying to cram a month’s worth of “Honey,

how was your day,” moments into about an hour. He talked at

length about the new songs he and Bret had written since they’d

last seen one another. When she asked to hear them, he promised

he’d play them for her when they reached their destination. Since she’d been the inspiration for his lyrics, having her be the first to hear them had been part of his plan all along.

Steph launched into a recap of her schedule and mentioned

that after Paris, she planned to slow
way
down. Her agent had thrown a fit when she heard the news, so Steph had responded in

typical Steph fashion: She immediately sacked the agent and

hired a new one. One whom she felt really had her best interests in mind. A
British
agent. This seemed like a sign that they had similar paths in mind and were moving in the same direction. He

smiled slyly to himself.

When they landed, his Aston Martin was full of petrol and

waiting curbside. They’d had to be escorted by airport security

when some Furies spotted them and got a bit unruly, but it was

very minor scene in the grand scheme of things. That’s what the

media had taken to calling Fury fans. Furies. The fact that the

term represented terrible winged goddesses with serpentine hair

who pursue and punish people was most likely a coincidence.

Since midway through the American tour, every member of the

band had been forced to hire around-the-clock security. He’d had 9

TAMMY COONS & MICHELLE PACE

a vicious row with the head of his team about going to Ireland

unescorted. The paparazzi made Steph livid. The entire debacle

with her movie star ex-boyfriend Kevin had had long-lasting re-

percussions. Strangers in their car and zero privacy had been the status quo for months. He just wanted this trip with her to be as normal and stress free as possible.

Minutes later, they were on their way out of Dublin in the

direction of their love nest. With her again as a captive audience, he pressed her about what she planned to do with all her upcoming down time. But before she could answer, her damn phone

rang.

“Uncle Keith! You never call, you never write. How the

hell are ya?” She answered, rolling down her window and snap-

ping a quick picture of a shepherd and his sheep. She nodded and responded with unintelligible monosyllables and seemed to be

continuously cut off when she tried to speak. She turned to Phillip and made an obscene gesture, implying that the person on the other end liked the sound of his own voice.

“I’m sorry, what? Can you tell Mick to shut the hell up? I

can barely hear myself think.” Phillip gaped at her and nearly

swerved into oncoming traffic. World famous lead singer or not,

Steph’s contacts still made him feel like a pimply faced fanboy

playing in his parent’s garage.

“Yes, Uncle Keith. No. Tell him to call my new agent in

London, Christopher Hoult. And tell Mick to keep his belt on.”

She practically threw her phone back into her purse and

groaned. “Ugh! Getting a new agent is like creating a new email

address. Such a pain in the ass!”

When she mentioned wanting to see his pictures of her and