His Rules: Ludlow Nights - Book1 (A Ludlow Nights Romance) (2 page)

Later, Anastacia studied her PA's hurriedly cobbled together file on the footballer. According to Nico, Olivier Conti's good looks, charisma, work ethic and skills on and off the field were going to make working with him a breeze.

Yeah, right.

Easy for him to say.

Anastacia glared and glowered at the glossy ten-by-twelve publicity pic.

Almond shaped eyes the color of bitter chocolate twinkled into hers.

She sniffed.

He looked... charming.

Anastacia didn't trust charming.

He also had an in-your-face confidence.

Anastacia didn't trust a man who was over-confident.

His thick black hair had been styled. Not too much.

She
loathed
too much hair product on a man.

Good bone structure. Strong jaw. Smoothly curved mouth. Kissable. A straight nose, sharp black brows and a taut smooth skin combined to produce a face that women all over the world (according to the gushing blurb) dreamed about.

Anastacia's PA, Linda, was a blood-hound when it came to digging up the juicy stuff in a client's private life. So far she hadn't found too much juice on Olivier. However, from the photographs and gossip pages it appeared he was fond of leggy blondes. A lot of leggy blondes, which was pretty representative of his type of breed.

Footballers.

Men who were too young to deal with too much money and the pulling power that money brought them.

Men who were notoriously fickle when it came to commitment.

Men who walked away from their responsibilities.

Even if that responsibility was a child.

She'd avoided the sport and the people in it like the plague.

And she had a very good reason.

A reason which was no one's business except her own.

Now she tossed the photograph on her desk, and spun her chair to stare broodingly out over the city.

She could smell it a mile away.

Trouble.

Olivier Conti was trouble with a capital T.

While Anastacia was nose deep in everything Olivier, the man himself was giving Nico Ferranti plenty of grief.

Olivier dragged his hands through short black hair. He was six foot two inches, tall for a footballer, and as lean and fast as a greyhound.

"Nico, I cannot believe that a casual conversation about an investment has led to this."

Nico sent him a big grin. A grin that a killer whale might have been proud of.

"In five years, or less, you will be burned out.
Finito.
It is time you learned the hotel business."

"I do not know what my agent is going to say about this. He knows I cannot act. I am not doing any of that modelling shit in my underwear, showing the world the size of my fucking package, either."

"You would probably need to fill out your package with a pair of socks."

Nico's droll response had Olivier wiggle dark brows and toss him an evil grin.

"I do not like to boast, but..."

Nico threw back his head and roared with laughter.

Once he'd found his equilibrium again, he shook his head.

"Your personal business has nothing to do with your agent. No one has asked you to strip. And, there will be no modelling your impressive package. It is small scenes in three cities, endorsing hotels in which you have invested a large sum of money." Nico decided not to mention a certain bathroom scene, which was pencilled in for Rome. He’d let Anastacia deal with it.

Olivier swore, paced to the hotel suite's floor to ceiling window and back again.

"This is not the same thing. I am not endorsing a watch or a car. This is acting,
per amor di Dio!
I am going to make an ass of myself."

He might feel like one, but he wouldn't look like one, Nico decided, as he sipped his espresso. He studied Olivier over the rim of the tiny cup.

The boy was tall, hard muscled, lean and wore clothes with a style and flair that was perfect for the Ferranti brand. Olivier's tanned, chiselled face, the drop-your-panties-eyes, had women all over the world drooling, while his skill and sportsmanlike play on the soccer field had won over male fans of the beautiful game. Olivier was highly intelligent, easy-going, good-looking and charismatic. And Nico reckoned he'd be a natural in front of the camera.

Plus, the boy had good instincts. He was no fool.

"You will not make an ass of yourself," Nico said in a reassuring tone. "And I can guarantee that I have the best person in the business who is going to see to it."

Olivier looked less than impressed as he flopped into a chair and stretched long legs clad in black designer jeans.

"I do not need a babysitter," he growled.

The thought of Anastacia Morgan babysitting anyone flashed into Nico's brain. Somehow, he couldn't quite see it. But he ignored Olivier's sulky comment and changed tack.

"What if you get injured again? What if this time there is no going back?"

Olivier sent him a black look of disbelief.

But Nico knew how much Olivier had panicked last year when an injury had put him out of the game for three months.

"I am one hundred per cent fit."

He was indeed.

And he was scoring goals.

"
Si
. But how many footballers, the best, disappear into depression, and worse, after they have played their last game?"

"I am not my father..."

"
Si
. I know this. But... it is never too early to plan for the future. You have a responsibility to your
madre
, your
sorelle
."

"I have planned for the future and I understand my responsibilities to
mia famiglia
. I can go into coaching..."

Nico raised his hand to brush away that bright idea.

"It is always wise to spread our skill base. What good is a business degree if you do not use it?"

"So, instead of chilling out in a hot tub with hot women in Las Vegas, this summer I will be cooped up in hotel rooms?"

"Think of it as investing in your future," Nico said in a cheery voice, tossing in a big smile for good measure. "Plus, having a work ethic instead of partying will set a good example to young players who look up to you. And it will be good for the image of the sport."

Silence.

"I need to prepare for the game," Olivier said as he stood. When he reached the door, he turned and beaned Nico with a dark look. "And if I end up flat on my face in this advertising campaign, I promise to tell Bronte about you and four showgirls in Vegas.”

Nico felt the blood drain from his face.

"What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas. Anyway, that happened long before I met my wife. I am a changed man."

Olivier gave him a hard stare. "
Si
," he said, sounding like his mentor. "Do not say I did not warn you."

As the door closed behind Olivier, Nico tipped back his chair and finished his coffee.

Ah, he loved it when a plan came together.

Anastacia met Nico at the entrance to Wembley football stadium. She'd been to the Wembley Arena lots of times for pop concerts and other, cultural, entertainment. Nico took her arm as she clicked along in heels not designed for clambering down wide stone steps at a football match. Her eyes looked to the heavens, to a sky so blue it hurt the eye. Christ, ninety minutes of utter boredom watching twenty-two men, men who had nothing better to do with their lives, run around on a bit of grass chasing a ball. She turned a steely eye on the thronging crowd surrounding them. Everyone was casually dressed in T-shirts and jeans. There was a lot of rubber-necking in their general direction because Nico and Anastacia looked a pair of peacocks tossed into the middle of a chicken farm.

Nico glanced down at her set face, grinned, gave her arm a friendly squeeze.

He caught her eye. "You will enjoy the game."

She most certainly would
not
.

"I'm only here out of duress," she responded, not giving an inch.

"
Si
, I am the boss."

Since he was most definitely was the boss, Anastacia held her peace.

After a swift journey in an elevator, they surfaced high above the stadium to find the sun shining and the place jam-packed with fans wearing team colors. There was the persistent hum of the voices of tens of thousands of spectators blowing horns, banging drums, and doing Mexican waves. Speakers blared hard rock around the stadium, Queen belting out
We Are The Champions
. She smelled hot dogs, fries, spilled soda, coffee and beer. She was surprised to see quite a few girls and women of all ages. Although the fans consisted mainly of men, there were families, too. Over stimulated little kids, boys and girls of about eight years old and up, their faces flushed with joy and anticipation. Some had team colors painted on their cheeks. And loved-up couples. Her gaze lingered on a guy whispering to his girl who was grinning from ear to ear. A hot date at a football match? Who'd have thought it?

Anastacia was a woman who was very sensitive to her environment and now she became aware of something else, something that ran its fingers over her skin.

Fever pitch excitement.

She could feel ripples of it like rolling waves of static electricity.

Now, her own indifference fell away to be substituted by a grudging fascination. People watching, their myriad of facial expressions, their body language, was a big part of Anastacia's business. But more importantly, it was so much part and parcel of her open personality.

"Wow, Nico. I can't believe how many normal people are here. The atmosphere, the buzz, is amazing. Who's playing again?"

"
Si
, there is a reason why soccer is called the beautiful game. United are two goals ahead at the top of the Premier League, with three games to play, two at home. Milan will win the Italian league. This is the semi-final of the European Champions League." He gave her a bland look. "Which you would know if you had done your homework."

Anastacia ignored the dig.

Her eyes, her ears, were too busy just absorbing the vibe.

Absorbing the fact she was shocked to the core she was having the time of her life.

However, business opportunities were never far from her mind.

"Who handles the promotional material for the Italian team?"

Nico slanted her a that's-my-girl look, but since her eyes were on the crowd, she missed it.

"If I were you," he advised. "I would focus on getting through your first ever live game of footie."

With an annoyed huff, Anastacia sat back in her seat, but her eyes lingered on the crowd below.

"It looks a lot more fun down there than it is up here. Why aren't we sitting in the stands surrounded by thousands of sweating, screaming fans?"

Again Nico slid her a look, studied the sulky face, the sulky mouth, and prayed for patience. "Because we are sitting in the royal box where we can see all the action and I can explain to the uninitiated what a throw-in, a corner-kick, and a foul is. Plus, something called a set-piece."

The sulky mouth pouted.

"Do they serve food up here among the Gods, or are we too posh to eat?" asked an Anastacia who'd skipped lunch and dinner.

"
Si
." Nico gestured to a large picnic hamper that had materialized behind them. He opened the lid. "A wide selection of exclusive sandwiches created by Oscar. He sends his love, by the way. Spelt bread wraps, with a variety of cold cuts, cheeses, hummus and salad. Help yourself."

Anastacia fell on the feast, piling food high on a white plate of delicate china. Typical Nico Ferranti. The man liked to travel in style. She grabbed a napkin, heavy cutlery, a bottle of spring water. And didn't speak until she'd wolfed down her third sandwich. God, Oscar Zamani was
the
best chef in the entire world.

All the while Nico simply watched her with wide eyes.

Catching the look, she gave him a slightly embarrassed smile.

"Sorry. Missed lunch. Starving. These are really, really good."

"I have never seen someone so tiny eat so much."

She finished guzzling the water, sent him a cheeky grin.

"Something to do with my metabolism. Food doesn't stick."

"It will do when you are thirty," Nico muttered.

"Then I'll worry about it when I'm thirty then, won’t I?" Anastacia replied.

The roar of cheers from the crowd drew Anastacia's attention to a football ground with immaculately cut grass as green as the Emerald Isle. Two teams, one in red, and one in white, were strolling onto the pitch. Each team had eleven players. Each player held the hand of an over-awed or utterly thrilled young boy or girl wearing team colors. Cute. Then the players lined up to sing The UEFA Champions League Anthem. When the singing finished, the roar of the crowd was deafening as the two captains stood on either side of the referee. They exchanged team pennants then the ref tossed a coin. The red side took the first kick of the ball.

What surprised her was how slim and fast and
skilled
the players were. Each team appeared to have an eclectic mix of nationalities, like a mini United Nations, kicking a ball.

Leaning forward, she rested her elbows on the stainless steel ledge. Her focus, however, was on one man only. Olivier Conti. He was playing for the away team, in white, with the red number 9 on his back. Hmm, he was taller than she'd expected. Not as skinny as she'd thought. Toned legs, tight butt. He'd look good in a black plastic bin liner, never mind a suit or jeans or sweats.

Her heart did a funny little flutter in her chest that she immediately put down to indigestion.

It soon became clear to her that Olivier was the spearhead for his team. The man was versatile, swift, and light, incredibly light, on his feet, with superb balance and centre of gravity. He moved... no, danced... quite beautifully. He flew over the grass effortlessly, feinted to the right, to the left, dodging numerous attempts to foul him. All fluid action. There was something of a big cat about the way he used his body; landing on his feet, running with the ball, the way he used his hips, shoulders, head.

Hmm, he might just work after all, Anastacia mused as her eyes measured the length of a torso that showcased lean muscle, studied his wide shoulders, the strength in his thighs.

"He's able to read exactly what his opponents are going to do before they do it. He's got a spooky radar, knows where players of both teams are at any given moment," she murmured.

Since Anastacia never took her eyes from Olivier, she missed Nico's appreciative grin.

As a marketing and communications professional, Anastacia loathed using descriptions like drop-dead-gorgeous or sex-on-legs. Although she had to admit Olivier had superb legs. She studied him as she would a bronze sculpture of sheer male perfection by Auguste Rodin at the Victoria and Albert museum. Lean. Long. Muscled. Okay, so he looked good. What else did Olivier Conti have going for him? He was incredibly wealthy. He was talented. And, she admitted, stunningly sexy.

Sexy was absolutely fine as far as Anastacia was concerned, because as anyone in the advertising game knew well, sex sells.

Her attention was drawn again to Olivier. During a short break in the fast moving action, a player for the opposition was being given a yellow card for some weird violation of the rules that Anastacia didn't understand (and didn't want to understand), Olivier started doing a series of stretches that made his white shorts strain across a very tight butt. Anastacia's brows rose into her hairline. Hmm. Oh, yeah, sex most definitely sells.

The tickle low down in her belly not only surprised her, but it annoyed her, too.

That tickle made her frown.

She was a professional. This was strictly business, nothing else. She didn't have time for anything else.

"He's probably got the brain capacity of a root vegetable," she muttered under her breath. She sniffed. In her line of work she met lots of gorgeous men. Men who were powerful, wealthy, talented and attractive. However, most of them had one important element missing... kindness. Although she had to admit she'd never met one who ticked all of those boxes. Actually, she had. Nico Ferranti. She slid a long look to the man at her side who was one hundred per cent focused on the game.

Anastacia admired her boss on so many levels, not least of which was because Nico was very easy on the eye. She was only human. It was a simple pleasure to look at him. But Nico was strictly business. She'd never lusted after him. Plus, he was blissfully married to the equally stunning Bronte. The couple had three gorgeous children. They all lived in a house that had stepped right out of a fairy tale. As far as Anastacia was concerned Nico Ferranti had it all. And since he was a wonderful human being, Nico deserved it.

Again she became engrossed on studying the man on the field who was running rings around the opposition and had just missed kicking a screamer into the net by a whisker.

Bad luck.

Then her eyes narrowed when Olivier was fouled, a stomp of studs on the instep, a sneaky elbow jab to the jaw. She sat up. Ouch, that must have hurt. She was surprised when Olivier didn't complain or whine to the referee. He might have done a little hop and limped a bit, but he rose above it and within seconds was back in the game. Interesting. The man could take his licks.

Anastacia wondered if he'd be able to take direction from a woman with the same fortitude.

Interesting times, she decided, lay ahead.

Then Olivier spun around.

And she knew she'd never forget the first time she saw his face. Golden skin was pulled tight across sharp plains and angles. His eyes were dark, almost brooding, totally centred on the ball, on the game. His mouth, that full passionate mouth, was hard. He looked fierce. He looked dark. He looked dangerous. Anastacia had been expecting a pampered pretty boy. She certainly hadn't been expecting the strong, irresistibly sexy face of a warrior.

Bloody hell.