Scored (7 page)

“Nicky,” he said, his voice echoing in the quiet corridor.

“Hi.”

“Can I come in?” He glanced to the right again, toward the elevator.

“Er, sure.”

He stepped in holding a shiny gold bag with the hotel crest printed on the front.

“Best close that.” He nodded at the door. “Fellows will have my guts for garters if he finds out that I’ve been in a young lady’s room.”

I did as he’d asked and clicked the door shut. “But what are you doing here?”

He looked divine in black shoes, black jeans and a black T-shirt that hugged his pecs beautifully.

“I’ve got you something.” He offered me the bag.

“You have?”

“Yeah, I think it is pretty essential to the sanity and continued focus of my team.”

The carrier bag was light. Whatever was in it was small. I delved in and pulled out a hanger holding two scraps of black material.

“It’s a new bikini,” he said, shoving his hands into the front pockets of his jeans. “The woman at the counter assured me it would maintain modesty even when wet.”

I hoped my cheeks weren’t staining pink as I tried to force down a renewed wave of embarrassment. “Well that’s very kind of you,” I said, rubbing my fingers over one of the silky cups. “But really you shouldn’t have—”

“Trust me, I needed to.” He shifted from foot to foot.

“But I would have got a new one tomorrow or something. Really, this looks very expensive.”

“The price doesn’t matter. Besides, it’s bought now. All I ask is when you go down to the pool again you wear that one and not the tiny white number.”

“Actually, that won’t be an issue because I wasn’t planning on leaving my room for the rest of the tournament.” I put the bikini back into the bag and rested it on the dresser. “Except to go and report on the matches, that is.”

“Why on earth not?”

 “Every time I go out something goes horribly wrong.” I paused. “And you always seem to be there to witness my ridiculousness.”

He tugged on his bottom lip with his teeth and narrowed his eyes at me.

If I knew Lewis better I would say he was trying not to smile. But I didn’t really know him other than what I’d read about him being serious and a little surly. But no, now the corners of his mouth were definitely twitching and his eyes held that sparkle in their depths again. “What do you mean?” he asked eventually, mashing his lips together as he waited for my answer.

“I don’t think I need to spell it out,” I said, folding my arms and suddenly remembering that I was standing in my pink, girly pajamas.

Oh, for God’s sake.

“I think you do,” he said.

“Like now.” I sighed wearily. “Here you are, captain of the England football team, the man an entire nation is pinning their hopes on, a football legend, and you’re here, standing next to me while I’m wearing my pajamas. If I’d thought for a moment I was going to see you I would at least be in normal clothes. It is, for want of a better word, ridiculous.”

His gaze dipped, traveled down over the hollow of my throat, my chest—braless—my hips, legs and to my pink toenails. He then slowly lifted his attention right the way up again.

Suddenly I felt naked. Bare right down to my bones. How the hell could this guy have such an effect on me? It was like my clothes had caught alight and sizzled off me, turned into a pile of ash on the carpet leaving me standing in birthday-suit-glory.

“I think you look lovely in pink,” he said, “and I’m sorry if you feel things haven’t gone so well between us.”

“There isn’t anything between us.”

He folded his arms. “You’re right, of course there’s nothing between us. How could there be?”

I opened my mouth. Shut it. What the hell was the answer to that question?

“But,” he said, “we’re both away from home, it’s only ten o’clock, so perhaps you could put the kettle on and we could start again. See if you can avoid any outbursts of ridiculousness.”

“Are you serious?”

He shrugged. “Why not. I’m sick to death of male company, for today at least.”

“You want to sit here, with me, and have a cup of tea?” I could hardly believe my ears. If it wouldn’t have looked too obvious I’d have pinched my arm to make sure I wasn’t dreaming.

“Well I’m already committing a cardinal sin by being with you, so hitting the minibar instead of putting the kettle on might just send a fork of lightning searing down from the sky. We’d best stick to tea.”

I stared up at him, at the way the amber glow of the bedside lamps shone on the side of his face, catching in his sprinkle of evening stubble. His lips looked so soft and sensual and his gaze was soft and relaxed.

Was I really going to kick him out?

Hell no.

“Okay, I’ll ring down for a pot.”

“No, just make it in the room, that way the hotel staff won’t see me in here. I can’t be bothered worrying if word will get back to Fellows.”

“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.”