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  “Of course.” I glanced around and located a small white kettle on a shelf beneath the desk. “I’ll go and get some water. Please, er make yourself at home.” I gestured around the room.

  After grabbing the kettle, I nipped into the lavish bathroom, filled it from the sink and glanced in the mirror. I was make-up-less, and my cheeks, as I’d suspected, had a little rise of color on them. From the sunshine or nerves I wasn’t sure. My hair looked good. I’d taken the time to blow-dry it into large curls that fell over my shoulders and down my back after I’d returned from my disastrous dip in the pool.

  “What are you writing?” Lewis asked when I walked back into the room.

  “A report about the hotel for my editor at Kick.”

  “Can I read it?”

  “Be my guest.”

  I plugged the kettle in and flicked it on, set about laying out cups and saucers and opening teabags. I tore the top off a sachet of sugar for myself and peeled the lids off the milks.

  Finally, the kettle boiled and I poured the bubbling water.

  “It’s good,” Lewis said, moving away from my laptop and folding his long frame into one of the armchairs by the window. He crossed his legs and rested his elbows and hands along the arms, his fingers curling over the ends.

  “Thank you.” I held up a white packet of sugar.

  “No, I’m good,” he said. “You hardly mention the England team, though.”

  I squeezed out the teabags. “Well there’s nothing to report since you haven’t played any matches yet.”

  He nodded. “Ah, yes, and you’re only interested in the game.”

  I handed him his tea and sat opposite, cradling my cup in my hands. “Yes, I told you that already.”

  “Just checking.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I would hate to read in Kick that you entertained me in your room. I would have to deny it and set my lawyers on you, and believe you me, they’re an aggressive bunch of suits, they’d eat you for breakfast.”

  Irritation nipped at my chest and tingled down my arms. “You certainly know how to charm a girl.” I couldn’t help a frown.

  He shrugged. “I’ve had loads of crap written about me. Of course I’m wary. It comes with the territory of being famous.”

  “Well there’s wary and then there’s rude. I’ve already told you several times I write about team choices, formations, penalties, bad referee decisions and final scores, not what players are up to in their private time. That doesn’t interest me in the slightest.”

  He sipped his tea and studied me over the rim.

  “What?” I asked, trying and failing to release the frown I knew was still creasing my forehead.

  “Not interested in the slightest?”

  “Nope.” I pursed my lips.

  “And here was me thinking we were going to have a cup of tea and a chat like two normal people getting to know each other, but if you’re not interested in me in the slightest then there isn’t much point.”

  “That’s not what I meant,” I said far too quickly then sighed. “I just hate being tarred with the kiss-and-tell brush. It’s not me and definitely not what I trained to do.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.” He leaned forward and set his cup on a small round table that sat between us. “But just so we’re clear on the kiss-and-tell rule,” his voice dropped to a whisper, “I haven’t kissed you.”

  Oh, if only he would. I would surely die and go to Heaven. His mouth looked so damn edible. More kissable than any mouth I’d ever seen. It had the perfect amount of plumpness, a shadow of scratchy stubble over his top lip that now shone, just a little, from his tea.

  I leaned forward, put my cup next to his and felt my heart speed up. “Of course you haven’t kissed me or indeed would because Naomi George would be a very unhappy super-model if you did.”

  He sat back abruptly and crossed his arms over his chest. “Naomi George.” He gave one long nod. “Mmm, now there’s a name that gets hooked up with mine an awful lot.”

  Lifting my legs and tucking them beneath myself, I too sat back. “Of course it does, you’re dating, you’re an item. People are wondering when you’ll pop the question.”

  “Seriously?” For the first time since I’d met Lewis he looked genuinely perplexed. “They’re saying that in the tabloids?”

  “Of course, that’s what happens when two stars are going out. When is the wedding and how extravagant and zany will it be? How many kids will they have and what mad names will they give them? That’s all the celebrity magazines are talking about.”

  “Blimey, it just goes to show how wrong they can be, doesn’t it?”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “We’re not even dating much less about to tie the knot.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  He shoved his fingers through his hair then rubbed the nape of his neck. “Naomi and I had two dates, well over a month ago, and we haven’t seen each other since.”

  “Oh, but I thought…”

  “You thought wrong, as did everyone else.”

  “But she’s so gorgeous, stunning, in fact. How could you not want to make something of it?”

  “The dates were a disaster.” He paused. “This is just between me and you, isn’t it?”

  I held up my palms. “What do you want me to do, write you a gagging contract in blood? Everything is just between us unless you want to share something specific about the championship and give me permission to report it.” I sighed. “I write about sport, nothing else.”

  “Okay, I’m sorry, and no, I definitely wouldn’t like the thought of you writing anything in your blood.”

  “Me neither actually.” I pulled a face. “So why were the dates a disaster?” I maybe wasn’t interested from a journalistic capacity, but as a woman, by God, curiosity was gnawing at me like a rabid dog.

  “She talked constantly about herself. Not once did she ask me even the most basic question about my life.”

  “She didn’t?” How could she not? I would like to know every tiny detail from what his childhood was like to the exact shade of blond of his pubic hair.

  “No, she wasn’t interested in how my day had been, if a match had gone well, and she didn’t mention my hat-trick against West Ham the day before.” He gave a humorless grunt. “So she certainly wasn’t bothered about learning my taste in books or movies, or where my favorite city to spend a weekend is.”

  “Barcelona?” I said with a grin.

  “Venice, so romantic.” He reached for his tea again. “It was all about her, her, her. I’m an expert now on Naomi George’s favorite shades of lipstick and all the names she put in a hat before deciding on Flowery Fauna for the yappy little handbag dog she has. Which by the way she insisted on taking to The Ivy and then was rude to the maître de when he asked her not to let it run under the table collecting the scraps of fillet she was dropping.”

  “Oh, God, really? She let her dog run around The Ivy? I’ve never been but I’m sure it would be frowned on.”

  He rolled his eyes. “It was but because she’s Naomi George they tolerated her. Plus, she has a reputation for losing her temper quite spectacularly. I don’t think anyone, including me, wanted to witness that.”

  “So why did you go out the second time? If it was so awful.”

  “That was the second time, but the first wasn’t really a date. We’d done a photo shoot for Gucci together and grabbed something to eat on the way back to our hotels. She was tired that night and not quite as hyper, plus she didn’t have the damn dog with her.” He shrugged. “We’d got on okay and it seemed polite to invite her to dinner again since she was in London for the week.”

  “But you gave up on politeness after The Ivy experience?”

  “I most certainly did. I put her in a taxi and said I’d call. I never did.”

  “Ouch.” I pulled a face. “That must have smarted.”

  “She could have called me. She didn’t and now I presume she’s b
ack in LA living her crazy me-me-me life.”

  “And you’ve just let the papers think that you’re carrying on a long-distance relationship with her.”

  “I haven’t let them do anything, but if that’s what they think, that’s what they think.”

  “It definitely is.”

  “I know that we’re not an item and that’s what counts. I’m a single guy, have been for a few years now. My job is to play football, not pander to the press.”

  “So you’re married to the game,” I said with a smile. I couldn’t deny that I felt happy-dance-happy he wasn’t seeing a super-model. So would half the female population of the world, come to that. But they wouldn’t find out from me.

  “I’m living my dream career, so to say I absolutely love it would be a bit of an understatement,” he said.

  “I love my job too. I know it’s unusual for a girl to be quite so passionate about football, but really, I’ve always been to every game I ever had the opportunity to, and when I was growing up I always had a kit on my Christmas list. Still do if I’m honest.”

  He laughed, a lovely rumbling sound that warmed the room and settled in my chest.

  “What’s so funny?”

  I couldn’t help but stare at the way his face softened when he laughed. It was like all the creases dissolved and in their place laughter lines tugged at his lips and cheeks. It made him even more appealing if that was possible. Like someone to really spend time with and get to know. It was a dip into Lewis Tate the man, not the star.

  “You in a football kit,” he said. “I bet the top would come down to your knees. You’re so little.”

  I grinned and nodded. “Yep, they do, I look, well, ridiculous.”

  His smile dropped and he tipped his head. “So what about you?”

  “What about me?”

  “You got a husband, boyfriend, hot journalist type waiting back home for you?”

  I thought of Big Ben singing his song in the elevator. Surely it was obvious I was alone. Though I suppose my rampant rabbit could have been a present from a lover who knew I’d be missing bedroom action for a few weeks. Sadly that wasn’t the case. Big Ben really was the one and only cock in my life. “No, I’m young, free and single. Concentrating on my career at the moment.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “That I am concentrating on my career or that I’m young, free and single?”

  “The single bit.”

  I held up my left hand and wriggled my empty ring finger. “I think the fact that I can be a bit accident prone and have a tendency to be mouthy puts guys off.”

  “Ah, the sexist pig comment.”

  I frowned and dropped my hand. “Mmm, I was wondering when that would come up.”

  “It was funny. Fellows’ face was a picture.”

  “But I shouldn’t have said it, it really wasn’t very professional.”

  “What wasn’t professional was the fact that every other reporter in the room had been given a chance to ask their question and you hadn’t. That was unprofessional.”

  “I suppose, but it’s no secret Fellows doesn’t like women around the beautiful game.”

  “Well he’s going to have to snap out of it. Because not only are a huge percentage of our fans female, the guys, as I think today at the pool proved, are very appreciative of the opposite sex.”

  I narrowed my eyes. “Is it absolutely necessary to keep bringing up that mortifying moment? Every time I manage to stop withering in shame it seems to get mentioned again. By you.”

  A flash of humor lit his eyes. “What can I say, I may have bought you a new non-see-through bikini, but that’s not to say I didn’t like you in the white one.”

  Dropping my head into my palms, I groaned. “Please, no more talk of it.”

  He chuckled and I heard him place his cup down on the table. “I’d best get going. I need to start on the required eight hours sleep insisted upon by Fellows.”

  I looked up. Lewis was standing, towering tall and wide over me. “Yes, you should, you have a big day tomorrow. I’d hate to be responsible for you not getting your rest and performing badly against France.”

  “They’ll be a piece of cake.”

  I stood, expecting him to move toward the door. But he didn’t—he stayed stock still, looking down at me.

  “You’re feeling confident then,” I asked, noticing my line of sight was only just level with the dip of his throat.

  “About France?”

  “Yes.”

  “France I have figured out. If only everything in life was so simple.”

  “As simple as a game? Sure if everything we did had rules and teams and winners and losers then perhaps the world would run more smoothly.”

  “Trouble is, everyone wants to be on the winning team, and that can’t be the case.”

  “I guess not.” I smiled and reached down for the two cups. His closeness was sending darts of heat to my nipples and the last thing I wanted was for him to spot them straining against my pajama top. “And talking of winning, you have a hell of a lot on your shoulders over the next few weeks.” I looked up at him, thought what fine shoulders he had to cope with the strain, but still, the eyes of England were on him. “How do you cope? I mean, if we win then you’ll be a hero, or rather, more of a hero than you already are. But if it all goes horribly wrong you’ll be named and shamed, criticized with no mercy. They’ll need someone to blame and to jab with voodoo needles.”

  He frowned. “It’s not the first time I’ve captained the country in a major tournament. Sometimes we win, sometimes we don’t get the scores we hoped for.”

  “I know you’re hardly a novice, I’m just curious how you cope. Not as a great captain or a fine addition to the team, but you, Lewis Tate. What runs through your head at night before you go to sleep? What thoughts help you through it?”

  He stuck out the tip of his tongue and stroked the seam of his lips. “Mmm…okay.” He sucked in a breath. “When I was first given the captaincy, for the World Cup six years ago, I will confess I was jittery, but my grandfather sat me down and put things into perspective.”

  “How did he do that?” I was itching to know. I couldn’t imagine myself in Lewis’ shoes even for a second. He had not just the physical challenges of the game but also mental ones.

  “He told me to think about leaders in history and who had truly got things accomplished. Eventually I came to a few conclusions.”

  “Which were?”

  “People don’t always notice the best leaders and that to lead my team I had to walk beside them not ahead of them.”

  “An interesting concept.”

  “Yeah, I wanted to be part of the team, not a captain who was disliked or dictatorial or thought myself more important than everyone else. In fact, my grandfather always said no truly great man ever thought of himself so. And that is what I’ve tried to stick by.”

  “You mean you’re humble and great?”

  “Probably neither, just trying to be the best that I can and remember my place in the bigger world.” He finally moved away and walked toward the door.

  Again, I admired the grace of his steps and the way he carried himself with such controlled finesse.

  “Well, Mr. Tate, it seems you’re not just a top-class footballer but also quite a philosopher too.”

  He turned, his hand poised to open the door. “Ahh, you see, Nicky, now you know one thing about me the rest of the world doesn’t and that most definitely includes Naomi George.”

  A lovely warm feeling, like hot chocolate and marshmallows, settled in my tummy. “I’m glad I know that about you.”

  “And I am glad I know you adore Barcelona.” He glanced through the spy hole then turned back to me. “Thanks, for the tea and the chat. I appreciate it.”

  “My pleasure. Any time, neighbor.”

  He twitched one side of his mouth into a half smile then, between one heartbeat and the next, he was gone.

  I was left staring at the
white polished wood of the shut door and wondering if I’d dreamed the whole incident. Had Lewis Tate really been in my room? Drinking tea and chatting as though we were old friends? I glanced down at the two teacups I was holding, gave the handles a little squeeze. They were definitely real. Lewis had been here.

  Quickly, I set them on the tray then moved over to the door and attached the security chain. There was only one thing for it. Big Ben would have to have his batteries re-inserted.

  My body was tingling, my nipples hard and my pussy had a familiar ache that I knew wouldn’t go away until an orgasm was had. And whose name would be on my lips as I brought myself to climax?

  Lewis Tate, the philosophizing footballer who had my hormones skittering this way and that and my heart dangerously close to beating for him.

  Chapter Four

  The roar of the crowd blasted through my ears and vibrated in my chest, chants and songs I knew well from the English fans and unfamiliar ones from the French. Anticipation was running hotly through my veins and my nerves were stretched. We had to win this match.

  The players looked colorful against the bright green of the pitch. England in red and white and France in blue. From the press box, I could make out Lewis standing in the center with the captain of the French team and the referee. Probably discussing who wanted heads or tails of the coin. He looked cool and calm, but underneath that façade I knew, as did the opposition, he was like a snake about to strike, a missile ready to launch. If he got the ball he would be dangerously fast and the other team would have to hold it together to stop him scoring.

  “So how is the Donbass?” Phil asked, handing me bottle of water.

  “Great.”

  “I just bet it is. Who would have thought Kick would stretch their budget like that.”

  “Well if you remember it was that or sleep on the streets.”

  “Or my room.” He winked.

  I rolled my eyes.

  He grinned. “So have you seen anything of the players?”

  I hesitated. Something told me not to tell Phil about my time with Lewis. Sure my colleague seemed a nice enough guy, but at the end of the day he was a reporter and gossip was pound signs to him.

  Damn, is that what Lewis thinks of me? No, we’d discussed it several times. He seemed to trust me, which was lucky; well, either that or he had his lawyers on speed dial in case I did decide to blab. “No, not really. I’ve pretty much hibernated in my room. I was tired after traveling and wanted to be fresh for today.” I took a sip of water. “Oh, look, the whistle has gone.”