His Rules: Ludlow Nights - Book1 (A Ludlow Nights Romance) (3 page)

The half-time whistle blew.

Nil-nil.

The teams sauntered off the pitch to a rousing chorus of catcalls, cheers and applause.

Some fans who were feeling friendly called out Olivier's name from the crowd. His grin flashed, sharp and fast, changing him from a warrior into an openly warm and approachable man with a captivating charm.

Anastacia let out a breath she hadn't been aware of holding.

"The verdict?" Nico asked.

Her head was spinning.

She put it down to dehydration.

Anastacia grabbed a bottle of water, twisted the cap, took a sip.

Feeling steadier, she leaned back in her chair.

"He looks good, Nico. You were right about that. Moves well, great posture. But I'd need to hear him speak. If his English is passable and he doesn't have a squeaky voice and can take direction, then we'll see."

"Bronte says he sounds just like me, only younger," Nico boasted without a blush.

The pride in his voice nearly had Anastacia laugh out loud.

Dark brows flew into her hairline as she gave him big eyes.

"Seriously? Maybe if we tone down the
Italiano
it might work. Of course, we could always dub him."

The way her boss looked at her, shocked speechless, cracked Anastacia's shaky composure.

Nico shook his head as she roared with laughter.

"Devil," he said with feeling.

"You're too easy," she gasped.

"I have a feeling Olivier will surprise you."

Feeling mellow now, Anastacia decided to keep it quiet that Olivier had already surprised her. She was over the shock of seeing Olivier Conti in the flesh and now Anastacia began to work out a plan of action. If his voice was indeed as deep and sexy as Nico's, and... that remained to be seen... then he just might work. As she wolfed down a melt-in-the-mouth fresh strawberry torte made of light crisp pastry, she accepted a paper napkin from Nico and settled back to watch the second half.

Twelve yards from the goal the air on the penalty spot was blistering and becalmed.

In the third minute of extra time, ninety thousand people held their collective breaths.

The score was still nil-nil. If this ball went in the net it was a win for Milan.

Olivier felt sweat trickle down his back as he waited for the referee's whistle to take one of the most important penalties of his career. If it went in the net then his team were in the European finals, to be played in Rome in ten days. Anatoly Jara, the goalkeeper for United, was a big bastard with long arms. Anatoly was one of the best goalies in the world, but he tended to pull to the left. No jogging or dancing on the spot to distract the penalty taker for him. Anatoly's speciality was mind games. Olivier knew better than to catch his eye.

The whistle blew.

In one millisecond, without hesitation, Olivier took his run, twisted his shoulder to feint to the left, but his hips swivelled at the last second and the ball connected with the instep of his right foot. The ball shot into the right hand corner of the net.

Yep, Anatoly went left.

Olivier couldn't help his quick whoop of joy. He'd never lost the adolescent thrill in scoring a goal.

The referee's final whistle blew and the roar of the crowd rising chanting Conti! Conti! was a wave of sound that nearly took him from his feet. His team mates were kissing him on the mouth, giving him a group hug before lifting him from his feet.

Once the celebrations on the pitch had calmed, Olivier stripped his shirt, swapped it for a red number 9, before he let his eyes drift up to the royal box where he knew he'd find Nico.

Instead, his gaze fastened on Anastacia's.

And held.

In a purely instinctive reflex, Olivier fell back from his teammates.
Molto bella
, he thought. With the wild curls of her dark hair and a creamy skin that could only be British, she looked like a gloriously sexy fairy. The immediate tightening in his belly, in his thighs, didn't fill Olivier with dismay. Anything but. She had the most amazing face. A cool and sulky and sexy face. But it was the eyes that held... trapped... his. And without blinking they held until he approached the tunnel. Those eyes were dark blue, brilliant, with a stare that verged on impudent. Olivier had no idea why, but he had the strangest feeling he'd annoyed her. He tried the smile that had charmed the panties off many a woman. Her response was bold, not shy at all. Without a flicker, she didn't smile back. She simply stared at him as if he was a smear on a Petri dish.

Interested, and more than a little... irritated, Olivier broke eye contact and stepped into the tunnel.

The fairy's face lingered in his mind as Olivier sat in an ice bath with five other players. There was no conversation. They were too busy breathing through the pain, the atmosphere subdued as their coach labored the point that it was crucial for them to maintain their form if they were going to win the European Championship. The relentless pressure was part of the job, and Olivier worked hard not to let it get to him. Especially pressure from a fanatical football press who constantly reminded him that he was one goal away from being hailed the top scorer of the year once more. He listened with half an ear to the team manager and thought of the sexy brunette sharing the box with Nico.

Who was she?

He hadn't tagged her as an average football groupie. God knew they came in all shapes and sizes. But average was the wrong word to describe such a fabulous face, those blue eyes, that sulky mouth. Then he remembered the way she'd stared at him and that irked feeling rose again.

What the hell was wrong with her?

What the hell was wrong with him? he demanded as he hit the showers.

Still, in his mind, her vividly blue eyes seemed to burn a hole right through him.

Why had she stared at him like that?

As if she was analysing him.

New-sprung irritation battled through bemusement. Unlike some of his teammates, Olivier didn't primp and preen his hair or his face. A quick rub with a towel was all the styling he needed.

He pulled on black jeans by Armani, tugged a T-shirt the color of gunmetal over his head. Thrust his feet into black sneakers given by his sponsors and strapped on a twenty thousand dollar watch by another sponsor, TAG. Stuck buds in his ears, selected the Arctic Monkeys, hefted his bag and strolled out the door and through the waiting throng of a passionate press.

He headed for the elevator instead of the team bus because he was staying at Ludlow Hall for a few days to spend down time with Nico and Bronte before joining the team in Rome for five days of pre-match conditioning.

Due to
I Bet You Look Good On The Dance floor
pounding in his ears, he didn't hear the crowd screaming his name, or the press demanding attention, before he walked into the elevator and pressed the button for the top floor.

Coolly, he stepped out of the elevator, ear buds now dangling around his neck. With a grin, he acknowledged the slap on the back from his club chairman. Then he automatically looked for Nico. Instead his eyes found hers. She was dressed in an expensive trouser suit. The color looked good on her, set off all that fabulous hair. The height of her shoes were insane as she stood with her back to the rail, just watching him, while he pressed the flesh of the great and the good. It struck him forcibly that for such a little thing, she appeared to have a huge presence. And there was that same look in her eye for him, an intensity level that not only seriously unnerved him, but seriously pissed him off, too. There was not one sign of approval, not one sign of enjoyment of the game. Olivier knew it was juvenile, but as she stared at him he was absolutely determined not to blink first, to win. Not once did her eyes waver as he took a step towards her.

Nico stepped into his line of vision. His face split wide in a huge grin.

"Magnifico! Magnifico!"
His mentor and friend grabbed his head, kissed him twice on each cheek, scrubbed his hair, slapped him on the back, and finished the dance with a bear hug.

Watching her over his friend's shoulder, Oliver slapped Nico's back. And for the first time in his life experienced the odd sensation of being both thrilled with the show of affection from a man who meant the world to him, and the overwhelming desire to strangle a perfect stranger.

Before he could take another step, the Chairman and Chief Executive of the home club took Olivier aside to offer their congratulations.

"How was that for your very first game of football?" Nico wanted to know grinning down into Anastacia's flushed face.

"It was... interesting."

"He will be European player of the year," he said, sounding like a very proud papa. He caught the eye of a hovering waiter and scooped up two glasses of champagne, handed one to her and clinked their glasses.

Taking a careful sip of her wine, Anastacia and alcohol were not friends, she watched Nico join Olivier. With lots of charm and tact, Olivier untangled himself from the VIP's and headed straight for her.

Anastacia refused to admit that her blood pressure had risen with every single eye contact. She refused to admit it was on the rise now, too. She reminded herself that in her line of work she met famous men, smooth talking men, charming men, every single day. This one was no different than the rest.

But then Anastacia found herself face to face with an Olivier Conti who wasn't smiling now. She didn't like that she had to tip her head back to retain eye contact. Having him this up close and personal was quite different to seeing him from a distance. For one thing he smelled of a clean male, the tang of his cologne spun around her, mingling with the heat of his body. There was something burning deep in his eyes, something that a sixth sense was warning her was primitive, dangerous. His eyes were dark, edged with a tawny ring she found absolutely fascinating. And how fair was it that his black eyelashes were obscenely long and thick?

"
Qual e il suo nome
?"

The request was a snapped command.

Anastacia knew enough Italian to understand,
What is your name?

Her heart did that fluttering thing against her ribs again and this time she felt it in her belly, too.

She swallowed, determined not to show weakness.

"Anastacia."

"
Piccola strega
," he muttered. She frowned since she'd no idea what he'd called her, but by the tone it didn't sound very... nice. She'd need to look it up. His eyes narrowed. "Is that all of it?"

His voice was indeed like Nico's, deep and growly.

And because it annoyed her that his English was eloquent and smoothly spoken, her chin tilted.

"Anastacia Morgan," she said in a very cool voice. And added in the same tone, "Good game."

She watched him frown both at her tone and the delivery.

Those dark eyes searched her face, scanned her hair.

"I want to see you."

Silence.

She was about to ask him if she'd suddenly become invisible, when the penny dropped.

My God, he was hitting on her.

A laugh gurgled into her throat so she coughed to clear it.

Gave him big eyes.

"Oh, you can count on it, boyo," she said. Then a thought hit her. "What else do you do... apart from playing football?"

"
Mi scuse?
" The way his face was a picture of bafflement made her bite down hard on the tip of her tongue.

"Like, for example, can you abseil?"

He blinked.

And she realized he was not keeping up with the speed of her brain.

Maybe his English wasn’t as good as she’d thought?

Anastacia suppressed a niggle of disappointment, a sigh. Ah well, he looked pretty, but apparently no Einstein. On the plus side, a lack of working neurons should make him easy to handle.

"Rappel down a cliff-face," she told him helpfully.

"
Si
, I know what abseiling is. It is against my contract, like white-water rafting or bull riding.
Perche?
"

"Just a thought. Don't worry about it."

Still looking confused Olivier opened his mouth, but Nico beat him to it.

"
Molto bene
, I see you are getting to know each other," He beamed benevolently as he wrapped an arm around them and squeezed. "You are going to make a great team."

Olivier frowned. "We are?"

"
Si
, Anastacia is the expert I mentioned. She will oversee all the arrangements, the filming, and she will travel with you to all three cities. You can place yourself entirely in her capable hands."

Olivier shook his head, took a step back.

Anastacia watched his reaction with interest.

She recognized fear when she saw it, when she smelled it.