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  “Nicky, I mean it. You find out what time they go to bed, what time they get up. Haul your sexy little arse down to the pool and see who is lounging around, what color trunks they’re wearing, what they’re reading and what brand of sun lotion they use.”

  “But do you really think Kick readers want—”

  “Yes, I bloody well do. And we’ve had this discussion before, Nicky. Kick readers want all the juicy details on and off the pitch.”

  I pressed several biscuit crumbs with the pad of my thumb, squashing them into the table.

  “And you,” he said, his tone low and menacing, “are going to damn well get those details for me.”

  “But—”

  “I mean it. There will be no more Mr. Nice Guy if you don’t get me reports with facts no one else has. Got it?”

  I sucked in a deep breath and looked at Phil. He was still frowning, his arms crossed tight over his chest.

  “Nicky,” Reg said, “I swear, I will make sure you never bloody go on another trip away. Not only that, you’ll never cover another premiership game, even if its only fucking QPR.”

  Reg hated Queens Park Rangers. Mainly because that’s who Fellows had played for many years ago. Personally, I rated them. They were playing well this season. They looked likely to finish in the top five of the table.

  “Nicky, did you hear me?” There was a threatening tone in his voice that I didn’t fancy hearing more of.

  “Yes, yes of course. Gossip, facts. I’ll do my best. Can’t guarantee, of course, but I will keep my eyes peeled at all times.”

  “Too damn right you will. I’ll expect your first report at nine tonight so I can prepare it.”

  “Absolutely.” The line went dead and I dropped my mobile into my handbag.

  “Well you’ve landed on your feet,” Phil said, raising his brows.

  “Yeah, I guess.”

  “Talk about getting the inside scoop.”

  I sighed and drained the last drip of my coffee. “Trouble is, I spend my whole time trying to prove that I’m a sports journalist and not a tabloid reporter and then Reg puts this kind of pressure on me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Get the gossip, Nicky. Find out this and that. I’m not interested what the players do off the pitch. My focus is the game.”

  Phil nodded and I was relieved when the creases in his forehead melted away and he unfolded his arms and reached for his coffee. “Yep, me too, but there are plenty of guys here who wouldn’t sleep for the next two weeks just so they could stay awake and stalk around the hotel, looking for information to sell on.”

  “Yeah, well, three years at Uni studying journalism didn’t include a module on stalking.”

  He grinned. “Where did you study?”

  “Leeds.”

  “Ah, yeah, I had a mate who studied there, several years ago now. Great place.”

  “Yes, it was good. I have fond memories. But Kick is my first big job since leaving and I really don’t want to mess it up.”

  “How long have you been there?”

  “Two years. I figured three would show commitment and look good on my CV. Maybe then I’ll move on to some of the bigger papers, perhaps even break into TV.”

  “Why not, you have the credentials, the knowledge and certainly.” He paused. “The good looks for TV.”

  “Thank you.”

  He shrugged and grinned. “You’re welcome. Maybe I could come over and see you at the Donbass.”

  “Um, yeah, sure.”

  I studied his face, his big brown eyes and heavy brows, his charming smile and neat white teeth, the front top two fractionally crossed. He was cute, charming, but did he want to see me or was he hoping for some of the details I would have access to? That was the damn trouble with reporters, they could charm the pants of a nun to get a story and were equally happy to bite the hand that fed them to get what they wanted. You just couldn’t trust them any further than you could throw them.

  “Anyway,” Phil said, when I didn’t reply. “Chances are you won’t see the players at the hotel. I’d heard that they’ve been given the entire top two floors. No one but staff will be allowed up there.”

  “Well that will suit me just fine,” I said, standing and reaching for the handle on my case. “Thanks for the coffee, Phil, and it was great to meet you. But I ought to get going. I’m beat.”

  He stood also. “I’m glad you’re sorted now for somewhere to stay, though I wouldn’t have complained if you’d had to sleep in my room.”

  “Has anyone ever told you you’re a terrible flirt?”

  “As a matter of fact they have.”

  Grinning, I stepped away, toward the cathedral.

  “Where are you going? I saw a taxi rank that way,” he said.

  “I just want to check out the cathedral first. It looks beautiful.”

  “Oh, okay. See you around then.”

  “Yep, see you.”

  Carefully crossing the wide road, I headed toward the flight of steps that led to the impressive building.

  As I stepped inside, cool darkness wrapped around me like a gossamer shawl. The scent of incense seeped up my nostrils and laced my tongue. I stood still and looked around the vacuous space, feasting on the grace and beauty.

  Rows of pale wooden pews filed before me, and several individuals were dotted about, heads low, utterly silent. A couple stood to my left, leafing through pamphlets.

  The ornate ceiling was stunning and I gazed upward as I walked down the aisle, my heels and holdall thankfully not attracting attention because of a ribbon of dark red carpet down the center.

  The altar was draped with flowers, and fat, creamy candles, unlit, were set amongst them. A large effigy of Christ on the cross was hanging over a gilded table and an open Bible had been set on a stand.

  I took a seat halfway to the front, happy to let the calmness seep into my pores and soothe my soul. The air was still, the atmosphere reverent—the hush of respect a very real, very powerful force that was a balm to my fractious nerves.

  A giant organ with brass pipes caught my eye and as I admired the gleaming metal I sent a few prayers of thanks heavenward. I was happy to be safely in Donetsk. Thrilled to be doing what I’d wanted to do all of my life, sports reporting, and grateful that I’d made a friend in Phil. The next few weeks were going to be a roller-coaster of fun and opportunity, hard work and goals, and I was very much looking forward to it.

  Someone shifting ahead caught my eye. It was a man. Tall, six feet at least. He wore a black hoodie and his hands were shoved deep into his jeans pockets. There was something about his broad shoulders and the way he moved that screamed power and control.

  I suddenly became aware I was a little vulnerable in the practically deserted cathedral; a female tourist, with all my belongings, passport and money on me. I glanced around. There was only one other person in the pews now—an old lady with a red-dotted headscarf. The couple near the entrance had disappeared.

  The man was heading toward me, or perhaps the exit, I couldn’t be sure. His head was low, his footsteps heavy.

  I swallowed tightly and gripped the handle of my case as he drew closer. Watched his progress, hoping he would keep going and I’d hear his shoes bang into the distance and fade.

  The hoody was practically covering his face, making him even more sinister, as though he didn’t want to be seen.

  As he came level with my pew he turned to me.

  Shock blasted through my veins. I would recognize that dented chin and those ocean-blue eyes anywhere.

  Lewis Tate paused, as if as surprised to see me as I was to see him.

  Our gaze connected and stuck like magnets attracting. But only for the briefest of seconds because then I dropped my head down. Stared at my clasped hands and squeezed my lips together.

  Sweet Jesus, he was beautiful. He should come with some kind of warning because seeing him, when I wasn’t expecting to, was like a nuclear bomb going off inside me. Exploding all
kinds of emotions, from lust and admiration, to mortification and star-struck stupor. It just wasn’t safe to have that kind of shock without any notice. My system couldn’t take it.

  His footsteps paused for a heartbeat then continued. Heat rose on my chest and spread up to my cheeks. A flashing memory of the elevator stormed into my mind and I forced it away. Lewis Tate reduced me to a bundle of lusty hormones and quivering desire whenever I saw him, and why was this the second time I’d seen him when Big Ben was with me?

  Another thirty seconds and his footsteps melted into the distance. I left it a whole minute before turning around.

  He’d gone. In fact, I was now completely alone in the enormous building.

  I reached for my holdall and stood. Nodded at the altar then headed back up the aisle and into the sunshine.

  I needed to get myself safely ensconced in my hotel room. Put my professional reporter’s head on and stop running into Lewis Tate at odd moments and when I least expected it.

  He was seriously messing with my mind at a time in my career when I needed my wits about me.

  Chapter Three

  The Donbass was a huge modern hotel that boasted acres of marble flooring, magnificent pillars and a lavish reception area.

  I checked in, was given my room key by an efficient and polite young lady wearing the reddest lipstick I’d ever seen. Then, pulling my holdall behind me, I walked past a white grand piano with a man in a tuxedo playing a beautiful melancholy tune. I paused for a moment to listen and admire a decadent flower display set on a round oak table.

  This hotel was definitely going to suit me. My nerves were feeling less tattered already.

  After alighting the elevator at level three, I headed down a long, lean corridor. It had a startling bottle-green carpet and portraits of kings and queens hanging between every door. I found room three-sixty and slotted in the keycard.

  Nothing.

  The little red light stayed red.

  I tried it again.

  Still nothing.

  “Bugger,” I muttered, setting my holdall to one side so I could concentrate on the job at hand. I eased the keycard in slower, making sure it was the right way round and had time to be read by whatever obstinate scanner lurked inside the lock.

  Still nothing.

  My nerves were stretching thin again. All I wanted to do was get in my room, have a shower and flop.

  Repeating the whole process with painstaking precision, I glared at the small rectangle light, willing it to turn green. It didn’t. Damn, I’d have to traipse all the way back down to reception and have a member of staff come and fiddle with it.

  I heard a sound behind me. A door opening. Good, perhaps it was someone who’d be able to help. I spun around. “Excuse me, do you think you could…” My next words grounded to a halt in my throat, cut off by my startled intake of breath.

  Standing just an arm’s length from me was Lewis Tate. He’d removed his hoody and now wore a plain white T-shirt with his jeans. He had a blue and white pair of what looked like swim trunks in his left hand and black goggles in the right.

  Once again, I struggled to contain myself at having his devastating good looks dropped on me without warning. I clutched the keycard and pressed down a wave of shock that threatened to weaken my knees and flip my heart into some weird and probably fatal rhythm.

  “Are you okay?” he asked.

  “Yes, it’s just this damn keycard won’t work.” I swallowed a lump the size of a football down the tight channel of my throat and prayed my cheeks weren’t flaring to some unflattering, crushed-strawberry shade.

  He switched his goggles into the same hand as his trunks, stepped forward and plucked the little bit of plastic from my hand. “Let me try. Mine was stubborn too.”

  I smoothed my hair, wondering how crazy my chestnut curls looked at this moment. It had been a while since I’d dragged a brush through my mop. “Is that your room?” I asked, nodding toward the door that had just shut behind him with a resounding bang.

  “Yeah.”

  “I thought players had a level all to themselves.”

  “They do.” He rubbed the back of the keycard on his T-shirt, smoothing it up and down the material covering his perfectly flat abdomen.

  Lucky keycard.

  “So why aren’t you—?”

  “Flood. My room had a burst pipe. Whole place is sodden. I’m down here until it dries out or they sort me out another suite.”

  “Oh, sorry about that. Bad luck.”

  “Bad luck. Nah, this room is great. It’s kinda nice to be away from everyone.”

  I raised my brows. “Really.”

  “Yeah, you know, a bit of time out.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  He raised his brows. “Is that why you’re here and not staying with the rest of the official press gang?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Time out. Escaping all those burly, pushy guys.” He reached past me, toward my door.

  “I’m the victim of a hotel room mix-up.” I caught a whiff of his delicious cologne again and just when I thought my heart might survive this encounter it went into overdrive, tripping and trapping against my ribs. “Though of course I’m not complaining about the mix-up, not now,” I managed.

  He paused and looked at me with narrowed eyes, studied me with a sharp intensity that made me feel like I was laid wide open for his scrutiny.

  Damn, he thought I’d meant because of him. Because he was here. Might be true, but not what I was going to say. Far too uncool.

  “What I mean is the Donbass, it’s stunning. Much nicer than where I was supposed to be staying. I don’t mind the mix-up at all, because of the lovely hotel.”

  He paused then nodded. “Mmm, yeah. Now the trick with these things is to do it fast and snappy. Give it just enough time to read the code and then pluck it out. If you do it too slowly it seems to confuse the system.” He jabbed the keycard in and out of the slot with a quick flick of his wrist.

  The light switched to green.

  “You’re in,” he said, pressing down the handle and revealing the first inch of my room.

  “Great, thanks.” I reached for my holdall and placed my hand on the door near to his.

  “You’re welcome.” He curled his mouth at either end and smiled down at me.

  His smiles were rare and it was just as well, because if I’d felt bamboozled by his presence before, now I was totally blown away. His whole face softened, his eyes lit, and small creases formed at their edges.

  A knot tightened in my belly and I couldn’t help but grin back. For a moment time stood still. I just lost myself in his smile, in the blue depths of his eyes and the closeness of his big body looming over mine in the quiet corridor.

  Then I shook myself back to reality. What the hell was I doing? As if Lewis Tate needed another fan. Another smitten girl ogling him. He was here to do a job. A damn important job. He didn’t need hangers-on or admirers while he was trying to get his head into the zone and preparing to be the best of the best on the pitch.

  I tore my gaze from his, shoved the door open and stepped past him with a sudden efficiency to my movements. “Thanks again,” I said, allowing the heavy door to begin falling shut behind me.

  “Wait.” He rammed his shoe into the base of the door and stopped it connecting with the frame.

  I gasped and grabbed the handle, opening it fully again. “Bloody hell, are you crazy? Be careful with that foot, an entire nation is depending on it.”

  He looked shocked for a moment at my outburst but then pulled his foot away. “You really are a footy fan as well as reporter, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, it’s all about the game. That’s why I’m here.”

  He cocked his head. “You ever worked for a tabloid?”

  “No, and I don’t intend to, thank you very much.”

  “Mmm, I thought that must be the case.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, any other journ
alist that I’ve ever met in an elevator has quizzed me about my personal life. But you didn’t.”

  Oh, damn, that flush was returning. “Well, no. The press conference was over. That was your free time, why should you have that intruded upon? You’d answered my formation question.”

  “It was a good question and certainly one I’d asked myself.” He paused. “Plus, in the elevator there was that problem with your toothbrush.”

  I was still looking for that black hole. Damn its inherent invisibility. “The toothbrush is fixed,” I said, tightening my mouth into a pursed pucker.

  “Glad to hear it.” He smiled again, the corners of his eyes crinkling in that soul-achingly sexy way.

  Damn it, my heart was thumping so hard I could hear the blood whooshing in my ears. “I really have to go. I need to shower, get changed. It’s been a long journey.”

  “Of course.” He stepped out of the entrance, back into the corridor. “But before you disappear, I just want to say thanks for earlier, at the cathedral.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I appreciated you not identifying me. I’d gone to sit quietly for a while. The last thing I needed was to be recognized, hassled or photographed.”

  “Absolutely, I was there for the same thing, a few minutes of peace and tranquility, and I certainly wouldn’t be bad mannered enough to disturb someone praying.”

  “You wouldn’t?”

  “No, of course not.” I placed my hand on my hip. “Some things are sacred. Alone time with God is definitely one of them.”

  He nodded. “Like I said, thanks, I appreciated it.” He lifted his trunks and goggles. “I’ll see you around then.”

  “Yes, probably, now we’re neighbors.” I pointed at his door and laughed.

  He dropped his gaze down my body, swept his tongue over his bottom lip and frowned. “Yeah, that does seem to be the case.”

  He turned and disappeared.

  Quickly, I shut up my door. Oh, dear Lord. Had I really just said something stupid and girly to Lewis Tate about being his neighbor? Poor guy was probably heading to reception right now to demand to be moved into another room. Not to mention what a fucking state I must look. Like some mad Fatal Attraction stalker, no doubt.