Scored (9 page)

I rolled my eyes.

He grinned. “So have you seen anything of the players?”

I hesitated. Something told me not to tell Phil about my time with Lewis. Sure my colleague seemed a nice enough guy, but at the end of the day he was a reporter and gossip was pound signs to him.

Damn, is that what Lewis thinks of me?
No, we’d discussed it several times. He seemed to trust me, which was lucky; well, either that or he had his lawyers on speed dial in case I did decide to blab. “No, not really. I’ve pretty much hibernated in my room. I was tired after traveling and wanted to be fresh for today.” I took a sip of water. “Oh, look, the whistle has gone.”

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.