Breaking the Rules Read online

  Breaking

  the

  Rules

  ALSO BY BARBARA TAYLOR BRADFORD

  Series

  THE RAVENSCAR TRILOGY

  The Ravenscar Dynasty

  The Heir

  Being Elizabeth

  THE EMMA HARTE SAGA

  A Woman of Substance

  Hold the Dream

  To Be the Best

  Emma’s Secret

  Unexpected Blessings

  Just Rewards

  OTHERS

  Voice of the Heart

  Act of Will

  The Women in His Life

  Remember

  Angel

  Everything to Gain

  Dangerous to Know

  Love in Another Town

  Her Own Rules

  A Secret Affair

  Power of a Woman

  A Sudden Change of Heart

  Where You Belong

  The Triumph of Katie Byrne

  Three Weeks in Paris

  BARBARA TAYLOR

  BRADFORD

  Breaking

  the

  Rules

  ST. MARTIN’S PRESS

  New York

  This is a work of fiction.

  All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel

  are either products of the author’s imagination

  or are used fictitiously.

  s

  BREAKING THE RULES. Copyright © 2009 by Beaji Enterprises, Inc.

  All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America.

  For information, address St. Martin’s Press,

  175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Bradford, Barbara Taylor.

  Breaking the rules / Barbara Taylor Bradford.—1st ed.

  p. cm.

  ISBN 978-0-312-57806-0

  1. Models (Persons)—Fiction. 2. Celebrities—Fiction. 3. Stalkers—Fiction. 4. Domestic

  fiction. I. Title.

  PS3552.R2147B74 2009

  813'.54—dc22

  2009028679

  First Edition: October 2009

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  This book is for my husband, Bob,

  who knows the many reasons why,

  with my dearest and abiding love.

  Contents

  PROLOGUE

  March 2006

  PART ONE

  Falling in Love: August–December 2006

  PART TWO

  Dodging the Enemy: January–April 2007

  PART THREE

  Winning the Game: April–August 2007

  EPILOGUE

  September 2007

  Prologue

  March

  2006

  He was a stocky, slightly rotund man, in his thirties or thereabouts, and he leaned against the van, looking perturbed. He took a long drag on his cigarette, wondering why Bart was taking so long. To his way of thinking, Bart should have done the job and been back before now. And they should have been speeding away from the scene of the crime. He glanced at his watch; it was just a few minutes past four. They needed to be on their way. Heading back to London.

  Wondering whether to go looking for Bart, he suddenly tensed, leaned forward, squinting in the sunlight coming through the trees. He listened acutely, frowning, wondering exactly what it was he had just heard. Scuffling? Branches breaking? Yes, that was it. And also a muffled scream? He wasn’t sure there had been a scream . . . but maybe there had.

  He hoped to God that Bart wasn’t up to his old tricks. They’d be in the shit if he was. Really and truly in it. Like dead.

  His impatience spiraled up, dragging with it sudden apprehension. Sam, for that was his name, made an instant decision. He dropped his cigarette on the dirt path, grinding it under his foot. Pulling the key out of the ignition, he shut the door of the van and hurried down the path into the woods. It grew dimmer, sky and sunlight obscured by the density of the trees which formed a dark canopy above him.

  Within a couple of minutes Sam was close to the clearing; sounds became more distinct. Bart cursing and hissing and breathing heavily . . . and then a female scream cut short by Bart. And more scuffling.

  Sam cursed under his breath, began to run, shouting, “Bart! Bart! For Christ’s sake, stop it!”

  Startled, Bart swung his head sharply, turned his body toward Sam, and in so doing left himself vulnerable.

  The young woman pinned under him seized her opportunity. Bringing her right hand up, she bashed Bart hard on the side of his head with a rock with unusual force. Dropping the rock, she pushed him hard with both hands. Blood spurting, Bart fell backward.

  Scrambling to her feet, pulling up her jeans, the girl ran away, sped deeper into the woods, shouting, “Gypo! Gypo! Come on, boy!”

  Sam was still frozen to the spot, filled with shock at their failure. A horse whinnying, hooves thudding along the path told him the girl had escaped. They’d never catch her now.

  Rousing himself, Sam ran over to Bart, who lay on his back, his eyes closed, his head and face covered in blood. Sam bent over him, found a faint pulse, heard even fainter breathing. Bart was alive. Well, for the moment. Stupid bastard he was, trying to screw her. Served him right, it did.

  Getting hold of Bart under the arms, Sam dragged him along the dirt path, pausing from time to time to catch his breath. He was sweating profusely. It was unusually warm for March. When he finally got him to the van, he opened the back doors, managed to drag Bart inside. He hid him under a blanket, closed the doors, raced around to the driver’s seat, then backed the van along the dirt path until he came to the incline. Making a U-turn, he headed onto the main road, began driving south. He didn’t know whether Bart was now dead or not. All he knew was that he had to get away from this area as fast as possible, before the girl raised the alarm.

  His body was taut, his expression grim as he pushed ahead; after a while he began to slow his speed. All he needed was a local traffic cop on his arse.

  Bloody hell, this was a disaster. Sam grimaced. The boss would have their guts for garters for messing up the way they had, for failing to eliminate the girl. No, hang on, it was Bart who’d failed. Not him. But understanding the way the boss operated, he was certain they’d both end up dead as doornails.

  Not if I can help it, not me, Sam muttered. But what to do with an injured Bart or Bart’s body? Dump it outside a hospital in another town? Leave it by the side of the road? He didn’t know. All he knew was that he had to save himself from the boss’s wrath. . . .

  Part One

  FALLING IN LOVE

  August–December

  2006

  Come live with me, and be my love,

  And we will some new pleasures prove

  Of golden sands, and crystal brooks,

  With silken lines, and silver hooks.

  John Donne (1572–1631)

  One

  The young woman who hurried down Fifth Avenue was unaware of the stares as she plunged determinedly through the downpour as though oblivious to it. She was, in fact, too consumed by her thoughts to notice passersby.

  They noticed her. They stared, nodded approvingly, or smiled with admiration. She drew attention for a number of reasons. She was rather exotic-looking, with high cheekbones, black eyebrows beautifully arched on her broad brow above large dark eyes. Her jet-black hair was pulled back into a sleek ponytail, which fell almost to her waist. Though not beautiful in the classical sense, she was arresting and had a unique look about her.

  Tall, slender, lithe, she moved with grace and had an inbred elegance. Her clothes were simple; she was wearing a sleeveless black cotton shift and ballet sli
ppers, her only jewelry large pearl earrings and a watch. She carried a battered old black Hermès Kelly bag, well polished, which had obviously seen better days but looked just right on her arm.

  The rain was coming down in torrents and she was already drenched, but she no longer bothered to look for a cab. There was no point; they were all taken. She was heading home, and much to her relief she wasn’t very far now. Two blocks down, three avenues to cross and she would be at West Twenty-second Street and Ninth Avenue.

  A month ago, through her only friend in New York, a young man called Dax, she had found the perfect place: a comfortable room with two good-size closets and its own bath in a brownstone on this rather lovely old street. Chelsea reminded her of London, gave her a sense of well-being, and she felt at home here.

  When she had left London, she had left behind her name; now she was known as M, and M did not mind the rain today. It was cooling on this blistering August afternoon. Earlier, around lunchtime, it had been at least a hundred and one in the shade. Leni, the young receptionist at the Blane Model Agency, had announced with a big grin, “Betcha we could fry eggs on the sidewalk today, M. How about giving it a try?”

  M had laughed with her, wanting to be nice. Leni had endeavored to be helpful since the day they had met. M had gone to Blane’s within days of arriving in Manhattan, two months ago now. Although the agency had not found work for her so far, they had been encouraging, and Leni’s friendliness had helped. M knew she was going to make it as a model. She had to, she had no choice. Not only had she something to prove to her family but she had something to prove to herself as well, and nothing was going to stop her.

  Glancing at her watch, M winced. It was already four o’clock, nine at night in London, and she usually called her sister on Fridays around this time. Although M was in her early twenties and considered herself very capable, her elder sister worried about her being alone in New York. But then she worried about everything; that was her nature. M loved her, missed her, but making it on her own had been too compelling to ignore. So here she was trying to become another Kate Moss. She smiled inwardly at that idea. If only, she thought. Increasing her pace, she crossed Seventh Avenue, striding out toward Eighth, in a bigger hurry now.

  The brownstone was on Twenty-second halfway between Ninth and Tenth, and as she drew closer, she saw somebody huddled on the top step, leaning against the front door. At once she realized it was her friend Dax. Dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, he was protecting himself with a newspaper, which he held over his head. He was as drenched as she was, and the minute she ran up the steps, she saw he was shivering, looked pale and pinched.

  “Dax, what are you doing here?” she exclaimed, pulling the door key out of her bag.

  “Getting decidedly wet,” he shot back, grinning at her.

  “So I see. Let’s get you inside. You’re shivering. . . . Are you sick?”

  “I’ve got a bit of a cold,” he answered, “that’s all,” and standing up, he followed her inside.

  The two of them stood dripping water in the tiled entrance for a moment, until M took hold of his arm and led him into the small cloakroom, reminding him that Geo, from whom she rented her room, insisted her house be kept pristine. “Get undressed in here and dry yourself, Dax. There’re towels in the cupboard next to the coatrack. I’ll be back with something dry for you in a minute.”

  “Thanks,” he answered, still shivering, offering her a wan smile.

  M went out, took off her wet ballet shoes, and ran upstairs to her room. Within seconds she had shed her soaking dress and underwear, thrown them in the tub, rubbed herself dry, and put on cotton pants, a cotton T-shirt, and dry shoes. Taking a large terry-cloth robe out of the closet, she went downstairs, knocked on the door of the cloakroom, and when it opened put the robe over Dax’s outstretched arm. “That should fit you, Dax. You’ll find me in the kitchen. . . . I’m going to make us a pot of really hot tea.”

  “The English cure-all for everything,” he muttered.

  “Don’t knock it,” M said, hurrying into the kitchen. Once the kettle was on the stove, she pulled her cell phone out of her pants pocket and dialed her sister in London. “Hi, it’s me!” she exclaimed when the phone was answered. “I’m alive and well and kicking! How are you, Birdie?”

  “I’m fine, darling, very okay this week, and listen to me. You know I hate that nickname you gave me when you were little. Let’s forget it, shall we?”

  Hearing the laughter in her voice, M chuckled, then went on, “How’s business? Has everything been going well?”

  “Yes, it has, and I heard from Mummy and Dad. They send their love. So does Gran.”

  “How is Gran? Is she feeling better?”

  “Loads, yes, and I’m sure it’s because Mummy and Dad are in Australia. You know how our mother cheers everyone up, makes them instantly feel better. And Gran’s no exception, she responds immediately to her much-loved daughter.”

  “I’m glad to hear Gran’s better. I’ll give her a call over the weekend. Any other news?”

  “Not really . . .”

  The sisters talked for a few minutes longer, then said their good-byes. Putting her cell phone on the countertop, M opened the cupboard and took out her large brown teapot, which she had bought when she moved into the brownstone.

  After putting six English Breakfast tea bags into the pot, she poured the boiling water over them. Her thoughts remained with her sister; she was concerned about her constantly now that she was on her own, a widow. Tragically, her husband had died of a heart attack two years ago, and M was well aware she was still grieving. But that was natural. They had been so very much in love, joined at the hip to M’s way of thinking. Then suddenly, he was gone . . . just like that, in the flicker of an eyelash. He had been only thirty-three, far too young.

  At the time, her elder brother had said life was full of surprises, seventy-five percent of them bad. She had disagreed with him, calling him a cynic, but now she wasn’t so sure that he was wrong. Life did have a way of coming up to hit you in the face. Her father’s comment during this conversation had been typical. He had reminded her, and her brother, that what was meant to be would be, and that life had its own rules, rules no one could change. M sighed, stood with her hand on the teapot, thinking about her sister, missing her more than ever. They had always been close, best friends.

  “Did I offend you? About the tea, I mean.”

  M jumped and swung around to face Dax. She exclaimed, “I didn’t hear you come into the kitchen. You startled me.”

  “Sorry.”

  M grinned at him. “Of course you didn’t upset me, Dax. I’m not so easily offended, you know.” She frowned at him, added, “You still look chilled to the bone. This hot tea will help.” She reached into the cupboard as she spoke, took out two mugs, poured the tea, and added milk. Carrying the mugs to the table under the window, she went on, “Come along, Dax, come and sit with me here.”

  Tightening the belt of the robe, shrugging into it for warmth, he sat down opposite her and put his hands around the mug. “I came looking for Geo,” he volunteered after a few seconds. “But I’m glad she’s not here. I realize it’s you I want to talk to. . . . I feel more comfortable with you when I need to discuss my problems.”

  “You know I’ll help if I can,” M murmured, eyeing him carefully, thinking that perhaps it was Geo he wanted to talk about. She couldn’t imagine why he said he felt more comfortable discussing his problems with her, when he had never done such a thing in the past. It’s just his way of getting around his awkwardness, she decided and said, “Go on, then, Dax, tell me what’s wrong.”

  “Everything,” he answered after a moment of thought. “And because nothing is going right for me here, I’m seriously considering going to L.A.”

  “Do you mean permanently, or simply for a visit?” she asked.

  “Permanently. You know I want to be an actor, not a male model, and I think the only way I’m going to make it is by moving to L.A.,
taking a chance out there.”

  M’s dark eyes narrowed, and she said, very slowly, “But, Dax, you’d just be changing one city for another. You’ll take your problems along with you.”

  “Not all of them. If I do move, I will be leaving Geo behind, and that will certainly solve one problem.”

  “It will? Which one?”

  “My muddled love life.”

  “Is it muddled? Really and truly?” She sat back, took a sip of tea, and looked at Dax over the rim of her mug, waiting for a response.

  “I think it is. Look, my relationship with Geo has stalled. Actually, if you want the truth, it’s stagnant. I do care about her, and I thought I’d connected with the love of my life when we first got involved. But it’s just not going smoothly, and I think she’s lost interest in me . . . and I’ve got to confess my passion for her has been diluted.” He sat back in the chair and took a long swallow of the tea, relieved to unburden himself.

  “Perhaps that’s because you think she’s lost interest in you, and I’m certain she hasn’t. . . . She’s always happy when you call her, I can attest to that. I live here, remember.”

  “There’s another problem, actually,” Dax volunteered, and leaning closer across the table, he whispered, “I’ve fallen for someone else. . . . Geo’s been away a lot lately, and I’ve been on my own, and well, look, I met someone who really turns me on, and who’s crazy about me.”

  “Oh.” M stared at him, at a loss for words.

  Dax said, “He’s just great, really special.”

  “Oh, I see,” M muttered and put down her mug.

  “Don’t look so upset.” Dax drew closer once more as he added, “I’m a member of both churches, if you know what I mean. And I’m quite happy in her church. And also in his.” He smiled suddenly, his face lighting up. “But I don’t want to get too deeply involved with him, and so I think I should go to L.A. Follow my lifelong dream, so to speak, try to make it as an actor, and put my love life/sex life on hold, if you get my drift.”