Scored Page 6

  Phil snapped his attention away from me and pulled a pencil from behind his ear. He wrote down the exact time on a notepad. “How long till England scores?”

  “Ten minutes, and I bet it will be Tate.”

  “Ah, you girls are all the same, you see a pretty face and that’s it, hero worship.”

  “He’s a top-rate player, you can’t deny that.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it. The guy is the team’s savior. I hope. Look, he’s got the ball now.”

  Lewis was steaming down the left wing right in front of us. The ball appeared to be magically tapping along in front of him. He wasn’t even looking at it; instead, he was searching for an opening, an unmarked player to pass it to.

  My heart fluttered and my body tensed. The eyes of a stadium were on that amazingly talented guy down there, but last night, for a few sweeter than sweet minutes, I’d felt like he was mine. I wasn’t sharing him with thousands, and what was even better was that his eyes had seemed very much on me.

  The French put up a good resistance throughout the match but the final score was two-one to England. Lewis hadn’t scored but he’d been instrumental in setting up both goals.

  The pressroom was a barrage of activity. The victory over France had given everyone hope that England could go the distance.

  As usual, Fellows presided over the meeting, supping on a can of cola and answering the questions he wanted to and ignoring the ones he didn’t.

  Another reporter beat me to it and asked about the line-up for the Swedish game in four days time so I didn’t bother to push to the front. Plus Lewis kept looking at me. He didn’t smile, his expression was just surly. It made me a little uncomfortable.

  When the questions came to an end, the players and Fellows stood.

  “Hey, Nicky baby, you want to come for something to eat with me, Ted and James?” Phil asked, throwing his arm around my shoulder.

  “Actually I might, I’m starving.”

  “Great. A foursome sounds the perfect end to the day.”

  “Put her down,” Ted said, stepping over with a grin.

  “Why, she’s so damn huggable.” Phil squeezed me tighter and my face got lost in his chest.

  I pushed him away. “Hey,” I said with a grin. “You trying to knock the breath from me?”

  “Nope, just sweep you off your feet.”

  I laughed and glanced at the doorway.

  Lewis stood there. Broad shoulders filling the frame. If he’d looked surly before, now he looked positively boorish. His brows were pulled low and his lips were a straight slash of irritation.

  I turned away. The look didn’t suit his handsome features and I had no idea what had brought it on.

  England had just won, for heaven’s sake.

  It was dark when a cab dropped me off at the entrance to the Donbass, and after showing my identification to security I wandered inside. Cool air-conditioning rained down into the foyer and I pulled in the perfumed scent of the flowers dotted about, glad to be back in peaceful luxury after the frenetic atmosphere of the stadium and the raucous pizza restaurant.

  As I made my way to the elevator my head was buzzing with the report I was about to write. There was certainly lots of great stuff to talk about. The goals had been seamless, the England possession dominating, and young Taylor had proved his maturity when it came to defense.

  I glanced to the right.

  Fellows was talking to a receptionist. His meaty fists were clenched on the desktop and he was still chewing rapidly on his gum. “What do you mean the room isn’t dried out? This is the captain of England, for crying out loud, find him another suite.”

  “I’m really sorry, sir. The Presidential Suite will be ready for Mr. Tate to move into tomorrow. In the meantime, unless one of the other members of the team is willing to give up their suite for him, or indeed yourself, then we have nothing to offer him.”

  “It’s not good enough. It really isn’t.”

  “Our sincere apologies, the room he is presently in is, of course, not being charged to the bill. Mr. Tate has been offered champagne and flowers and a fruit basket but has declined them all.”

  “Well of course he has, what does he need any of that shit for?” Fellows huffed and stepped away.

  His gaze settled on me.

  For a moment he froze, then his brow furrowed and his eyes narrowed.

  I kept on walking, quickly. If looks could kill I would be stone cold and six feet under from that one. A shiver wound up my spine as I jabbed the button on the elevator. Clearly Fellows hadn’t been filled in that the female reporter he considered to be like a hex around the team’s neck was staying at the Donbass.

  Well, it was tough. I’d hardly been bad luck in the first game. England were flying high despite the fact I was breathing the same air as the players. Fellows would just have to cope. I existed. I was here and that was the end of it.

  I stepped into the elevator feeling full after the pizzas I’d just shared with Phil, Ted and James. They’d been good company. Phil flirty, Ted keen to show me pictures of the wife and baby he’d left in Birmingham, and James, well, I think James had a boyfriend. When he flipped his wallet to settle his portion of the bill, there was a picture of a cute guy, his age, wearing a military uniform. In the corner was a small love heart drawn in biro. He saw me looking and I smiled and hoped he realized that for me love was love and everyone deserved to be with the person who made them happy. If he’d found someone that was great. More than great—it was what life was all about.

  I glanced at the elevator screen. Damn, I was going down, to the spa instead of up. Oh well. I’d had to get out of the lobby before Medusa-Fellows solidified me anyway.

  The doors opened and the chlorinated air from the pool seeped in. But that barely registered in my mind, because standing in red trunks with a white towel slung around his neck was Lewis. His wet hair was mussed up and his skin dewy and damp. Fuck, the guy just got more gorgeous every time I saw him. It wasn’t a case of getting used to his stunning looks, they just bowled me over anew.

  “Hello, Nicky,” he said, stepping in next to me.

  “Hi.” Seriously, how could he act so cool? How could I be expected to act cool when he looked like every dirty dream and carnal fantasy rolled into one?

  The doors slid shut and I pressed the button for level three. “I presume you’re going to your room and not to the lobby dressed like that?”

  “Yep.”

  I glanced up at him. He was gnawing at the inside of his cheek. His shoulders were raised and tense and he was staring straight at me with a sharp glint in his eye.

  “Great game, congratulations.”

  “Thank you.” His words were short and clipped.

  “What?” I asked, feeling unaccountably off-kilter. Was he angry with me? What had I done? I hadn’t told anyone he’d been in my room for tea. I hadn’t even told anyone we’d ever spoken outside of the press conferences.

  “You told me…” he said, “that…”

  Okay, now I was really nervous. His eyes were thin slits; I could only just make out that perfect shade of deep-ocean blue through his lashes. “What did I tell you?”

  “That you weren’t seeing anyone.”

  “I’m not.”

  He stepped toward me, big and brooding. His sudden indomitable expression was more than a little disturbing.

  I backed up and my shoulders hit the cool mirrored wall.

  He followed, penning me in. He was all acres of perfect flesh, toned muscles and steely determination. My stomach somersaulted, my heart rate rocketed and I gripped the brass bar that lined the elevator. I’d never felt so physically small in my life.

  “So who was the guy who thought it was okay to wrap his arms around you at the press conference?”

  “That was just Phil.” My voice was a little squeaky, but I wasn’t complaining, I was surprised I could even speak. Why the hell would Phil matter to Lewis?

  “Just Phil?”

  I
nodded. “Yes, just Phil.” I could smell Lewis now, a combination of chlorine, soap and raw maleness. As he spoke his sweet breath breezed warm onto my cheek and sent a sizzle of awareness shooting down my middle, tickling my nipples and creating a buzz in my clitoris. This man did seriously dangerous things to my body, like letting it think it was in charge of my brain.

  “So he’s not your boyfriend?”

  “No, definitely not. Phil is a work colleague who gets a bit flirty now and then. But I hardly know him really.”

  I wasn’t sure if I’d said the right thing because a small muscle flexed and un-flexed in Lewis’ cheek and his nostrils flared.

  “Really, there’s nothing between us,” I said. “I’m free as a bird, no one to answer to, no one to—”

  “Stop talking.” He glanced at the elevator dashboard then turned his attention back to me.

  “Why.”

  “Because I want to test a theory.” He nipped my chin between his thumb and index finger, tilted my head and dropped his face until his lips were just a hair’s-breadth from mine.

  “What theory would that be?” I whispered, wondering if my knees would continue to hold me up for more than another few seconds. Damn, he was so close. I felt completely consumed by him.

  “The kiss-and-tell theory.”

  “Oh, well I—”

  My words were cut short as his mouth connected with mine. Smooth, pliant lips and a softly probing tongue taking possession, owning and controlling.

  A small whimper mewed up from my throat. Fuck. Lewis Tate was kissing me. And not only that he was one hell of a kisser. Gentle but firm, and he tasted delicious; fresh and sexy and perhaps a tang of mint.

  I opened up and let him in. Searched for his tongue with mine and allowed him to set the pace and depth. Surely I was in the middle of a fantastic dream. How had I got so lucky to have such an incredible man kissing me?

  He kept a tight hold of my chin as he pulled away. “You’re so sweet,” he murmured, his downcast gaze searching my face. “So please don’t prove my instincts wrong.”

  “What instincts?” I was struggling to catch my breath, control the tremble in my belly.

  There was a sudden ping, the elevator jolted to a stop, and the doors slid open.

  Lewis backed up rapidly, gripped the ends of the towel that was still around his neck, and squared his stance.

  A waiter holding an ice bucket stared in at us.

  “Good evening,” Lewis said, stepping past him.

  I followed, tightening my purse over my shoulder and avoiding the waiter’s curious stare. Surely he hadn’t seen the captain of the England football team pressing me against the wall and kissing me into oblivion. He’d stepped away by the time the doors had slid open.

  Hadn’t he?

  I couldn’t ask Lewis because our corridor was not deserted. Two maids were re-stocking trolleys, and as we walked past them a guy in an England tracksuit bolted out of a room.

  “Ah, there you are, Tate. I was just coming to look for you. Do you want me to do those Achilles stretches now?”

  “Yeah, that would be great. I’ve just had that post-match swim you suggested.”

  “I thought that’s where you were. Come on, let’s go in my room and get it done while the tendons are still loose and before it gets any later than it already is.”

  He re-opened his door and ushered Lewis in.

  Lewis didn’t give me a backward glance.

  I hunted for my keycard and let myself into my own room. My mind was spinning, my lips tingling. Lewis and his theory testing had thrown me into such a state of confusion I hardly knew which way was up and which way was down.

  I dumped my purse, flicked on the shower and stripped naked. I needed to think.

  Because one thing was for sure, although I’d admired Lewis Tate as a footballer for many years, Lewis Tate the man, the guy who didn’t believe he was great even though he was, had crawled under my skin and was owning not just every waking thought but all of my dreams too.

  Chapter Five

  Even though my mind was spinning, just after ten I sent a report of the game to Reg. By ten-thirty he’d emailed me back to say he was thrilled with the article but what was going on at the Donbass? Surely I must have some gossip for him.

  I replied I hadn’t. The players were in a different section of the hotel, being bussed to and from the training ground and stadium, and there was no sign of them in public areas. I hoped Reg wouldn’t find out this wasn’t strictly true, but hell, he wasn’t here so hopefully he wouldn’t learn any different?

  His response was predictable—get yourself out of your room and down to the hotel bar. There’s no matches for three days so if any of the players are going to live it up a little, break the rules, it will be over the next few nights and I want to know all about it.

  Sighing, I responded that I would.

  But I wouldn’t. Not tonight anyway. I was completely whacked, not to mention still dizzy with emotions after that kiss. I needed to digest what it meant. Re-live what was one of the most intense, seductive, wonderful moments of my life over and over and over.

  The next day I slept until midday and felt groggy and sluggish when I woke. The evening’s excitement had clearly taken its toll on me physically as well as emotionally, and dreams full of Lewis had barely given me a break from my turmoil.

  But by the time I’d showered, snacked on fresh fruit and downed two coffees I had energy that needed using. I could have headed out with Phil and the others who were going on a sightseeing tour, no doubt of the local watering holes, but I wanted to be alone. Remember that moment in the elevator and figure out, in the light of day, what the hell was going on between me and Lewis Tate.

  The concierge gave me a map and I set off on a walk through a nearby park. The sun dappled through the trees and warmed my shoulders. The paths were winding and quiet. Perfect for my needs.

  After a few hours of strolling, I spotted a small café with bandstand windows, and treated myself to a pot of tea and a soft dough cake filled with honey.

  I finally returned to my room a little after eight in the evening, no wiser and no more enlightened about the kiss. Marching around philosophizing hadn’t brought me any nearer to understanding Lewis’ words and actions, or why I was being crazy enough to think there was anything more to it than post-match euphoria.

  Sitting on my bed, however, the instruction Reg had given me nagged my conscience—get yourself out of your room and down to the hotel bar.

  But could I? Should I?

  Apart from the trip to the park, every other time I’d ventured out of my room ridiculous situations had occurred. In fact, hadn’t I told myself I was safest staying in for the entire two weeks?

  I stared around the silent space. Although it was decadent and beautiful, it wasn’t home and the evening stretched before me like a long, empty road. Despite walking all day my lie-in meant I wasn’t tired enough to settle down for sleep.

  The longer I sat there thinking, the stronger the lure of leaving my room and seeing Lewis burned. Because one thing I did know was since that kiss I’d been humming all over. Every time I closed my eyes, even just blinked, an image of him towering over me then dipping his head low swam before me.

  I beat down a wave of lust rolling through my system. It seared my nerve endings and caused my belly to quiver with hope. Maybe I should go down to the bar. I could nurse a martini for an hour and people-watch. Chances are there’d only be regular guests there anyway and it would be a waste of time. But at least I’d be doing what Reg had told me to. I couldn’t be a completely disobedient employee, could I? Not when he was paying for me to stay in such luxury.

  Decision made, I slid into my black dress, poked my toes into silver sandals and strung a length of beads around my neck. My hair still held the soft curls I’d teased into it the day before so I fluffed it and applied a spritz of spray. A quick flick of face powder, a slick of gloss and a sweep of mascara and I was good to go. />
  Quickly, I grabbed my Kindle and purse, and as a last preparation squirted Mademoiselle onto my inner wrists. I glanced in the mirror. Not bad for a five-minute effort, although there were bound to be much more glamorous ladies in the hotel with perfectly coifed locks, long, artificial fingernails and carefully sprayed-on tans.

  After finding myself a seat in the Terrace Bar, I placed an order for a martini and reached for my Kindle. The place was quiet, the lights subdued, and the gentle lull of piano music streaming in from the lobby was a real treat.

  I crossed my legs, sat back and checked out the other patrons. Several couples were sitting cozily on big sofas chatting and sipping drinks. Three business-type men were hunched over a laptop; one was scribbling on a large notepad. There were a few individuals reading books or newspapers, but, as I’d thought would be the case, there were no England players lurking around.

  A waiter in a smart white suit brought over my drink. I signed for it and settled back in the plush chair to read. I only hoped I’d be able to concentrate on the words. My thoughts kept drifting back to one thing—the kiss that had just about wiped the floor with my sanity and set my body to combusting temperature.

  I must have been able to lose myself in Paul Gascoigne’s biography for a while because it wasn’t until I heard a deep laugh that I realized a group of players, several coaches and Fellows, had wandered into the bar and sat in the far corner.

  I tried and failed to control the fluttering in my chest when I spotted Lewis between Fellows and Taylor, resting forward with his elbows on his knees and nodding at something someone was saying. Wearing black jeans and a red-and-grey checked shirt he looked utterly divine, as always, only now I knew first-hand what he smelled like, tasted of. I knew the exact heat of his body radiating toward mine and how he filled my senses when he loomed over me, close and tight.