by Cris Anson
“Rolf dear, come here.”
The man set the damn cat down. It stalked to Pearce, sniffed at his trouser cuffs, then flicked its fat tail up in a curl and yowled like a banshee. Damn, he hated that cat, wished he could stuff his shoe in its mouth. Or up its ass.
“Hercules, stop it,” said Rosalie. “It’s only Pearce.”
The cat blinked once and strolled out of the sunroom as if he owned it.
The man she called Rolf walked up to Rosalie, bent forward, and had the temerity to kiss her on a cheek that looked like crumpled parchment. Pearce pegged him as late twenties, strongly built, a couple of inches taller than himself, with thick black hair and the look of a womanizer about him. Rosalie reached up and gave him a hearty hug.
Pearce didn’t like that at all.
“Pearce, meet Rolf Thorvald. Rolf, this is my dear nephew, Pearce Kelleher.”
The stranger, whose eyes were dark brown like his own but whose head of dark hair probably had four times as many follicles, reached across the table to shake hands. Not deigning to stand, Pearce managed a brief clasp before letting go. His gaze moved to Rosalie with unspoken question, aware that the young man’s eyes stayed on him.
“He’s your uncle,” she said to Rolf. And to Pearce, “He’s my grandson.”
Pearce couldn’t have been more thunderstruck if a nuclear bomb had been detonated in the kitchen. His heart thudded harshly beneath his rib cage as he felt himself go lightheaded. Grandson? Rosalie had another heir? One with a straighter bloodline than his own? How could that be?
“Oh, come on, Rosalie. It’s too early in the morning for that kind of a joke.”
“It’s no joke. This young man is Randolph’s son with a woman named Alana Thorvald. Randolph died in that plane crash before they could be married.”
Pearce narrowed his gaze on the interloper. “He doesn’t look much like Randolph. What proof does he have?”
At that moment Fantine entered the morning room and placed a big platter of blueberry pancakes on the table. “Dig in, everyone. Fresh pork roll will be coming right up.” She spun around and returned with another platter full of crisp round slices. No one had spoken in the interim.
She poured herself some coffee from the carafe on the sideboard and slid into the fourth chair at the table. “Isn’t it exciting, Uncle Pearce? To know that at long last, Nonie found her grandson?”
He snapped an irate glare at Fantine. “You’re not taking his word for it, I hope. He looks like a gigolo. He needs to show unassailable proof before she can call him that.”
“I’ve already asked him for a DNA sample,” Rosalie said with equanimity as she placed two pancakes on her plate. “He’s willing to do so as soon as we can set up an appointment.”
Pearce thought she was out of her mind to take even the suggestion of a blood heir seriously, but he was smart enough not to voice his opinion of her diminishing brain capacity. “How did this—this pretender decide you were his grandmother in the first place?”
“Oh, Rolf didn’t know anything about it until Fantine came up with his name.” She turned her gaze to the big-mouth sitting to his left. “God bless her, she was a terrific sleuth. Kept looking for a birth notice for a baby named Rolf whose mother and father were named Alana and Erik whose last name began with a T.”
“Erik? I thought he’s pretending to be Randolph’s son.”
“I know it sounds a little complicated. Fantine, dear, would you mind getting that copy of the letter that we made for Pearce?”
Without a word, Fantine left the table, returning to hand a piece of paper to him.
Pearce stared at it, a photocopy of a smaller, scalloped sheet of writing paper with words in a rounded feminine hand. He read it. And read it again. His stomach roiled like it was on a roller coaster. There was just enough innuendo to make her believe it. He had to make her see it as the scam it was.
“This is your proof? Rosalie, you must be out of your mind!”
“It was enough to start the ball rolling,” the old woman said, unperturbed. “That’s why I asked for DNA testing.”
Zeroing in on Rolf, he sneered, “Grandson, phooey. What you are is a predator, preying on wealthy older women. She’s grasping at straws and you’re playing right into her hands.”
“Wait a minute,” the con artist said. “I didn’t initiate the search, and I’m not preying on this sweet old lady. Fantine told me it started when Nonie found that letter in a box of Rand—of my father’s belongings. Once she had the correct names, Fantine tracked me through my brothers. One is a sculptor who was written up in art newspapers and the other owns a pub in eastern Pennsylvania.”
“And what about you? Or haven’t you done anything with your life to have so much as a single mention in any of the seventy trillion bits of information on the Internet?”
He could tell he’d hit a bull’s-eye. The guy was a con artist looking for a free ride. Probably didn’t even have a full-time job. Rolf flinched but staunchly continued, “She brought one of Nonie’s photo albums in the RV with her. In it we found a photograph of my mother. She was standing next to Randolph. They had their arms around each other and looked very happy together.”
“And what about this woman who was so happy with Randolph? How come she never mentioned it?”
Rolf’s expression darkened. “After a vicious quarrel, she left her husband—Erik—to go to Alaska to meet up with my father.” His Adam’s apple bobbed. “We never heard from her again.”
“Don’t you see how sad that is, Pearce? Randolph died in that plane crash before they could get married and come back for their son.”
“This is all so much bullshit.” Pearce scraped his chair backward with an angry thrust and shot to his feet. “If you want to be conned by a load of crap, Rosalie, that’s your business. But I thought you had more sense than that.”
And Pearce had to get out of there before he lost his temper and said something that would come back to haunt him.
Because she was toast. He’d see to it.
Otherwise, he’d be the one who was toasted. The thought made him shiver again.
* * * * *
“You’re sure you’ll be okay by yourself?”
“I’m sure,” Nonie said, giving Fantine a last hug before they set out. “I’ve lived alone for ten years, ever since my Michael died, and I haven’t had any problems. Besides,” she said, turning to Rolf and opening her arms. “I have so much to live for now, with my grandson so close and so wonderful.”
Rolf stooped to give her the hug she demanded. “I still can’t believe it. To find out I have a grandmother, to learn about my real father. It’s like a stone has been lifted off my chest. I didn’t know how much it hurt until the hurt was gone.”
“We’ll be back tomorrow by dinnertime,” Fantine said. They had all agreed that Rolf should spend a few weeks with Nonie so they could get to know each other. Fantine was driving him back to pack a suitcase and he’d follow her back up to New Jersey in his Mustang.
“If I were you, I wouldn’t call on Uncle Pearce to help you while we’re away,” Fantine said, “seeing as how he thought you were being taken in by a con man. He looked like he might go ballistic. I’ve never seen his face so red.”
She smiled at Rolf. “He’s shocked to discover that he’s not Nonie’s only heir, so he’s in denial. But before we set out for your place, we’ll stop at the lab downtown and start the ball rolling on the proof he thinks you won’t be able to provide.”
“You sure you don’t want to come with us, Nonie? I just found you, and already we’re being separated. I don’t like that.”
Nonie laughed, the wrinkles at her eyes creasing more deeply. “The last time she took me for a ride in that boat of an RV, I got seasick. And that little car of hers, it’s a little too small for me. I don’t care how many stars it gets for safety, or how many miles it gets to a gallon, I like a big car like my Michael used to drive.”
She sighed. “Let’s face it, I think I’m just a lit
tle too old to be traveling, and I like my own bed too much. I’ll find any excuse not to go somewhere. When you get back, we’ll have all the time in the world to enjoy each other’s company.”
After another round of goodbye hugs and kisses, Fantine slid behind the wheel of her everyday vehicle, a hybrid Prius. “Balances out my carbon footprint from using the RV,” she explained to Rolf as he buckled his seat belt.
Because the car was so much more maneuverable than the RV, they made great time, even with the stop at the lab, arriving at Rolf’s apartment in midafternoon. During the drive down, they discovered they had a love of old movies in common and made up questions for each other. In over two dozen attempts, Fantine stumped Rolf only once—with the name of a 1940 Bette Davis-Charles Boyer movie about a duke who kills his wife for love of his governess, All This and Heaven Too. Rolf stumped Fantine, who didn’t remember Christopher Plummer was the narrator and voice of Rudyard Kipling in the 1975 John Huston movie starring Sean Connery and Michael Caine, The Man Who Would Be King.
It wasn’t until they neared his apartment that he worried about what she would think of it. He hadn’t seen her home, but it had to be a palace compared to the three-room dump he lived in.
He’d almost asked her to drop him off at Soren’s, but where would she have stayed? And why should he deprive himself of her company in his bed?
Shit. When was the last time he’d changed the sheets?
He really had to get his act together and start behaving like a mature, responsible adult.
After directing Fantine to a parking spot near his building, Rolf took a deep breath and decided to tough it out. “Here we are.”
Tossing a “Hi, Mrs. M” to the old woman who sat on the front steps taking in some sun, he led Fantine up a flight of stairs to a second-floor hallway with the musty smell of enclosed spaces then unlocked one of the two doors on that floor. “It’s not much,” he warned as he entered ahead of her. “And the air conditioner only works some of the time.”
He looked around the living room in disgust. Her RV had looked better, homier, than his own digs. Always confident that his sex appeal trumped his surroundings, he’d considered it merely a place to lay his head and a few dozen females. Now he wondered what kind of impression it made on anyone stepping into what was definitely Salvation Army-style bachelor’s quarters, a hodgepodge of mismatched pieces.
The temperature was tolerable, if a bit warm. The kitchen sink, which he could see from the center of the living room, held a few days’ worth of breakfast and coffee crockery, but wasn’t so obscenely stuffed as to be embarrassing. After taking a deep sniff, he was relieved to discover the scraps in the trash from TV dinners hadn’t yet made a dent in the smell of the place.
He gave her an apologetic look. “Have a seat. It won’t take long to pack. And then we’ll decide—” He didn’t even try to assess the expression on her face. She’d probably decide to run back home tonight. He may have just found his Nonie, but he’d no doubt lost a bed partner.
With a silent curse he strode into the bedroom. The king-size mattress on the floor was the only piece that he’d invested in—hey, it was his playpen. The rest of the furniture sucked. Vertical blinds on uncurtained windows, scratched dresser, hell, everything was rented. Even the damn knives and forks in the kitchen belonged to the landlord. If he ever wanted to move in with Nonie for good, it probably wouldn’t take more than a couple dozen boxes to pack everything.
He yanked his suitcase out from a corner of his closet. When he rose, Fantine stood before him. “You’re angry. Why?”
Rolf pursed his lips and let out a long breath, flinging the luggage onto the mattress. “This is no place for a lady. I can’t imagine asking you to stay here tonight.”
The expression on her face softened. “Thank you for the thought.” She raised a hand to cup his cheek. “Before getting the RV, I camped rougher than this. Some of the national parks have no amenities except outhouses. If you have running water and clean sheets, we’ll manage. We’ll just look on this as another adventure.”
He looked down into her vivid green eyes. No condemnation, no disapproval resided there. He turned his head to place a soft kiss on her palm. “You’re good for me, Fantine. You make me want to be a better man.”
A throaty laugh greeted that statement. “If you were much more of a man, I’d be too weak to be standing here.”
Heat surged into his groin. His eyes flared.
“Oh no you don’t, not until you find those clean sheets. And remember, Soren invited us to dinner tonight.”
“I can’t imagine him taking an evening off. Crystal’s certainly changed him. In the five years he’s owned Thor’s Hammer, I can only remember one or two days he wasn’t there.”
“And well he should take time off to celebrate the discovery of a family you never knew existed.”
“If they invited us, I guess maybe they’re not too upset that I’m…”
He trailed off. Different. How would he have felt if one of his brothers had just had their lives turned upside down like his had been? Soren and Magnus were still his brothers, no matter who their fathers were.
But it wasn’t them. It was Rolf himself who was different. The threat of tears prickled the back of his throat. Would they understand when Rolf started talking enthusiastically about Nonie, when he and Grandma Ingrid had shown so much less warmth to each other? Had she suspected he wasn’t of her son Erik’s lineage? Had Rolf picked up on her subconscious rejection and rejected his own upbringing?
A grunt startled him out of his musings. “What are you doing?”
“I found some folded-up sheets in your closet. I’m assuming they’re clean, so I’m pulling off the old ones. We might be too emotionally exhausted to do chores when we get back tonight.”
Seeing Fantine on her knees, leaning over the mattress to spread the brown and white striped fabric, fired ammunition into Rolf’s cock, but for once, he chided himself, he’d better behave like an adult. Stoically he walked to the other side, and in no time, they had remade the bed with almost military precision.
With both of them still on their knees, Rolf watched Fantine take a last sweeping stroke of her palm to smooth the top sheet. She looked up. Their gazes connected.
“What time are we expected?” she asked, a little catch in her voice.
He glanced at the clock on the floor in the corner. Four thirty. “We have a couple of hours. Do you, uh, want me to give you a tour of the area?”
“What I want is to make my mark on this mattress.”
Something inside Rolf eased, melted. With a quick mental check as to how handy his stash of condoms was, he knee-walked to the center of the mattress and spread his arms. “Then come here.”
A predatory look washed over her face and she crouched on hands and knees to—the only word that came to mind was—stalk him. He stayed motionless as she came within touching distance then bent forward to rub her cheek against the ridge of his jeans.
“Mmm,” she said. “I know I said roughing it isn’t a problem for me, but this fabric is, well, too rough for me.”
With a hoot of laughter, Rolf flopped onto his back, lifted his hips and shucked his jeans in record time. Without giving him time to rip off his T-shirt, she let out a mock growl and pounced on his almost fully erect Magnum.
“Damn, woman, look what you do to me.”
“I am woman, hear me roar.” Her mouth closed on his cock and she began a loud purring that vibrated down to every synapse he had. She licked and sucked and stroked until he was writhing. His hands burrowed into her hair as he curled his fingers around her head, loving the sight of his cock disappearing into that voracious mouth then slowly reappearing all wet and shiny from her saliva.
“Christ, that feels like heaven.”
“I agree,” she said, her mouth still partway around his cock. “Hot and hard and smooth. Heaven.”
Soon she had him worked into a frenzy, but her words kept replaying in his min
d. With a prodigious effort he marshaled his wits, pulled her up over his body and flipped so she was beneath him. “If you’re going to mark this mattress, it should be a full-body press, not just your knees.”
He eased back to divest her of her own jeans and panties. Rearing up to grab a condom from a dresser drawer, he covered himself then returned his attention to the wanton woman sprawled before him.
He dipped one finger, then two, into her pussy and growled, “You’re ready for me, aren’t you.” It wasn’t a question. She was wet, she was ripe, she was wriggling impatiently.
And he couldn’t wait a second longer. He plunged into her, deep, so deep he thought he’d never want to come up for air. She took greedily but gave generously, her stamina and enthusiasm matching his, and when he finally had a coherent thought in his head, he was grateful to all the bimbos who had passed through his apartment for showing him how shallow they’d been, how shallow he’d been, before Fantine came into his life.
* * * * *
“So, Fantine, did Rolf tell you that he has a side job posing nude for my art classes?”
With a deliberately slow movement, Fantine dropped the blob of peach salsa she’d been scooping from the bowl to her plate and took a moment to study Magnus’ wife Kat across the dinner table. She didn’t look nasty or vindictive. In fact, Fantine had gotten the impression the woman adored her youngest brother-in-law.
And yeah, Fantine had already deduced the fact that Rolf was a walking sex-bomb, and wouldn’t have been surprised to hear anything concerning his extracurricular activities. She’d also picked up the fact that sex was not only alive but roaringly healthy all around the table—Magnus and his wife Kat, Soren and his fiancée Crystal, her and Rolf. The conversation had been laden with sexual innuendos and double entendres and secret looks. Fantine could easily see herself as part of this group.
“I’ve had overflow classes ever since he started posing. The local society women are lining up in droves to learn more about fine art.”
Fantine took a surreptitious breath and let it out quietly. Was she being baited? She decided to accept the gauntlet being thrown at her.
