Scored (10 page)

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.

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.

He shoved his hand through his hair, said something, then his attention settled my way.

For a moment we were alone in the room. No one else existed. Just him and me and the very real, very alive memory of our kiss. The piano music faded into a muted tinkle, my peripheral vision blurred and I forgot to even breathe.

I was completely captivated by his heated gaze. It was like he was seeing into me, right down to my core. Damn, did he know how much I wanted him? Did he want me?

Finally, I remembered to breathe and quickly returned my concentration to my Kindle. I could barely trust myself not to smile or acknowledge him in some way. How could I? We were in public. Fellows was sitting next to him, for heaven’s sake. The shit would really hit the fan.

But all I really wanted to do was rush to him. Beg him to kiss me like he had in the elevator. It didn’t matter what his reasons were, I just wanted to feel his mouth on mine all over again. His tongue probing and exploring, the heat and scent of his body wrapping around me.

I squirmed on my seat. God, the thought of more than a kiss with Lewis Tate. If he was such an expert kisser then goodness only knew what he would be like between the sheets. I noticed I was jiggling my foot and balancing my sandal on the end of my toes. Hurriedly I stopped. What was I doing?

Thinking about sex, that was what. And not any old sex. Sex with the England captain who was sitting on the other side of the room and looking like a goddamn invitation to sin on the grandest scale imaginable.

I risked another glance at him.

Fuck, he was still staring at me. I tried to tear my eyes from his. But it was hard. So hard. I had to ignore my hedonistic self and resist the temptation to sin.

And that is exactly what it would be. A sin. Lewis Tate was not supposed to be thinking of anything other than hitting the back of the net. How could I be letting myself get carried away with thoughts of distracting him? I was truly terrible. Surely kissing him in the elevator would be considered an act of treason or first-degree sabotage by the majority of England fans.

I reached for my drink. There was no way I would look at him again. I’d quickly finish the martini and hotfoot it back to my room. Lock and bolt the door then ram a chair up against the handle so I couldn’t go out until the next match.

That would be the safest thing to do.

There was movement amongst the players. Taylor got up and wandered past the bar. He glanced my way and nodded a hello.

I smiled back and popped an olive into my mouth. Dropped the stick into the now empty glass and chewed slowly.

Fellows was on the move also.

My way.

Fuck.

He was giving me that Medusa-stare again. I could feel my feet chilling already.

He stopped right in front of me.

“I don’t believe we’ve been officially introduced,” he said, his lips barely moving as he spoke.

“Nicky Thomas,” I said. “Kick Magazine.”

“I’m sure you know who I am?”

“Of course, Mr. Fellows. It’s very nice to meet you.”

He sat in the chair opposite, folded his arms and surveyed me from the top of my head to the tips of my toes. He took his time, not in an appreciative way but in a disdainful, irritated way.

I swallowed. The bitter taste of anger was already lacing my mouth. Who the hell did he think he was giving me the once-over like that?

“Well, Nicky. I’m only going to say this once.” He leaned forward, giving the impression of friendliness or perhaps even intimacy.

I lifted my left eyebrow. “Go on.”

“I don’t know what the hell you’re doing in this hotel and even less why you’re in this bar. But I suggest you get the hell out and then stay the hell away from my players.” He paused, sucked in a deep breath and appeared to be harnessing self-control. “Do your job, if that is what you feel you must do. But do not, I repeat, do not make yourself available for conversations with the England team. They are here to relax between matches not be harassed by press.”

“Mr. Fellows, I can assure you I too am here to relax between matches and write up my reports—
on the games
. I have no idea what makes you think I’m making myself available for conversations with your players.”

“I’ll tell you why.” His nostrils flared and I noticed an icky blob of saliva in the corner of his mouth. “Because several of my guy’s have allowed their attention to drift your way since we came in here. Not only that, I heard all about your transparent bikini. Seemed you made quite an impression on young Taylor and that…” he waved his hand toward me, as if outlining my body, “is most definitely not what I want my youngest defender thinking about.”