Kick It Up

by Carol Ericson

  Kick It Up

  Carol Ericson

  Copyright 2011 Carol Ericson

  License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only.

  This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Chapter One

  Simon, The Boss, Bosford flew across the pond, drinking courage and plotting to conquer the Yanks. He squinted at the blurry, orange words floating above him.

  Time to fasten seatbelts already? Bloody hell, time flew at warp speed when you had a beer in one hand and a battle plan in the other.

  He shoved that battle plan, a sticky copy of Chatter magazine, into the seat pocket in front of him. On the flight from London to L.A., he’d studied several issues of the magazine as closely as he used to study his coach’s football playbook. Soccer. Had to nail down the lingo if he planned to embrace America and all her billions.

  A flight attendant in a smart blue cap sashayed down the aisle, swinging a plastic bag, and stopped next to his seat. Her fingers danced up his arm, sending a clear signal, one he never missed. “Time to buckle up, Simon.” He scooped in a deep breath of stale airplane air.

  Time to slap on the playboy persona. He snapped the seatbelt around his waist and gave her a grin, the one that prompted women across Europe to fling off their clothes.

  “Do you want to make sure it’s secure, luv?” American birds loved that accent. They found it cute.

  Could he ever show them a whole lot of cute. But he’d spent a lifetime and several thousand dollars on elocution lessons losing his working-class Yorkshire accent and he didn’t plan on sliding back now.

  She shot a quick look across the first class cabin and slid her hand down the front of his shirt, resting it on the buckle just above his crotch. Curling her fingers around the strap, she yanked the belt. “Looks tight to me.”

  “The belt or my jeans?” He grabbed her wrist and pulled her down until he could look her in the eye and smell her cherry lip gloss. Working the grin so hard it hurt his face, Simon hoped the boredom in his gut didn’t reflect in his eyes.

  She smirked as the plane dipped, and then playfully slapped his hand. “That kind of talk just might earn you a smack across your handsome face, Simon. You’re in the U.S of A. now, and you’ll find the women here a lot more independent and a lot less likely to put up with your chauvinistic behavior.”

  It worked. Never too early to stoke that bad boy image.

  That image played well in Europe and after reading several of those celebrity rags, he knew it would play well in the States too.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to follow me around and show me the ropes?”

  “I’m certain you’ll have plenty of people willing to do that...ropes and all.”

  He laughed and dropped his empty cup in the trash bag dangling from her manicured fingertips. He didn’t need any guidance. He had it all figured out – make as much money as possible and establish himself as an A-list celebrity.

  After a smooth descent over the sprawling City of Angels, lit up like a million candles in the purple dusk, the plane came to a halt. When the seatbelt sign dinged off, he jumped out of his seat and popped the overhead bin. He shook out his Dolce and Gabbana blazer and slipped it over his silk jacquard shirt. Slinging his bag on his shoulder, he jostled into the aisle, eager to take on the Yanks.

  “Good luck with that soccer team.” His friendly flight attendant smiled and touched his arm.

  Why’d the Yanks call it soccer anyway? Always had to be different, superior, but hell they could call it anything they wanted as long as they kept shoveling the big bucks his way.

  His critics had charged him with jumping to U.S.

  football – soccer – just for the money. Claimed he’d passed his prime a few years ago, and Coach Heinrich had verified that by refusing to start him for the two years he’d played for the German club team, Mannschaft Munich. Cooling his heels on the bench had thrown him off his stride, but he’d discovered he could make more money pitching products than playing soccer anyway. He garnered more recognition smiling in front of a camera than he ever did on the soccer pitch. He knew he had to grab for the gusto before the gusto grabbed him and threw him down for the count.

  He figured the L.A. Waves, the most dismal team in Major League Soccer, had offered him the contract more for his high profile than his skill on the pitch, and he could live with that even though the thought caused the flame in his belly to flicker and falter. Hell, he didn’t even know if he still possessed that skill.

  Shelving that depressing thought, he straightened his shoulders and strutted into the boarding area, his gaze picking out two photographers hunched by a potted plant.

  He ran a hand over his hair, wishing he’d spruced up on the plane. He slowed his gait to give them time to catch up, get his good side.

  They clicked away behind him. The ladies loved his ass, but he’d hardly call that his good side. He jerked his head around. A woman with an ample chest, a short dress, and a little dog tucked into her handbag, posed and pouted for the camera. Talk about a nice ass. Who the hell was she, and how’d he miss her on the plane?

  The snap-fest held up the other passengers disembarking, and a few grumbled at the obstacle while others gawked. Simon snapped his mouth shut. He gawked for no one, not even hotties in short skirts.

  Scowling, he turned away. Where was this bloody gofer anyway?

  A young, dark-haired woman, clutching a clipboard to her chest, stepped in front of him. “Mr. Bosford?” Things just looked up. Of course, he’d never had a fan address him as “Mr. Bosford” before, especially a female fan, but he could get on more intimate footing with her with the flash of a smile. He did a quick, expert assessment, and this slim, leggy brunette with the collagen-pumped lips and the wide, green eyes deserved his best grin. “Yeah, I’m The Boss. Do you want me to autograph something?”

  “You’re the b-boss?” The woman’s sculpted eyebrows shot up, and she hugged the clipboard tighter against her chest, flattening two perfect breasts.

  He held out his hand. Was he going to have to pry that thing out of her arms? He really wanted to give her the autograph since those paparazzi seemed to have missed his entrance in favor of the bimbo with the pooch. He raised his voice. “Yeah, I’m Simon Bosford. Do you have a pen?” The green eyes narrowed, and then crinkled at the corners looking ten kinds of cute. “I’m sorry, Mr. Bosford. I don’t want your autograph. I’m Jessica Jones.” She held out her hand, long fingers wiggling impatiently.

  As he glanced down at her hand, he heard a male voice behind him. “Hey, isn’t that Simon Bosford, the English soccer star?”

  Another man called, “Simon, Simon.”

  He winked at the brunette and grinned. That’s more like it. As the photographers raised their cameras for a shot, Simon reached back to grab the woman’s arm. With the conservative pantsuit draping her long, lean lines, his newest fan could be a model for the cover of Business Weekly, and it never hurt to share tabloid space with a little arm candy.

  Apparently, the woman was no bon bon. She squirmed out of his grasp and ducked to the side like a boxer dodging a left hook. Simon shrugged and flashed his white smile, making it clear to the Yanks that not all Brits had teeth resembling a dilapidated picket fence.

  After a few shots, the photographers took off, presumably in search of other celebrities. This airport must be crawling with them. He’d have a lot of competition here in L.A., but nobody could out drink, out w
omanize, or out party The Boss. He’d make sure of it. His success depended on it.

  “As I was saying...” The woman behind him cleared her throat. “I’m Jessica Jones.”

  If he upset her by trying to drag her in front of the cameras, her eyes alight with humor didn’t show it, but that clipboard seemed just about nailed to her chest. He had no idea who she was or what she wanted, so he grinned again. That always seemed to get him out of tight spots with attractive women. “Congratulations, luv, but I have to find my gofer, Brian something.”

  She choked, and her cheeks bloomed pinker than the English roses in Mum’s garden, the only bright spot in his childhood home. “Evan didn’t tell you?” His manager, Evan Chase, didn’t tell him lots of things, but he always got the money part right and that’s all that mattered. “Didn’t tell me what?”

  “Brian left Chase Sports Management…something to do with selling autographed items on eBay.” She clamped her hand over those luscious lips, her green eyes widening.

  Leaning toward him, she whispered, “You didn’t hear that from me.”

  An uneasy feeling stirred in his gut. “And you’re…?” She peeled the clipboard from her chest and spread her arms. “I’m you’re new go...personal assistant.” He groaned. Why’d Brian have to go mucking about on eBay anyway? And why’d Evan have to go and assign him a female personal assistant, and a hot one at that? He didn’t need the distraction, and he never mixed business with pleasure, well almost never. He’d have to dump her and preserve his sanity.

  But right now she had his life in her slender hands, so he’d better cap the libido and make the best of it. If she kept wearing outfits like the one she sported today, he’d have an easy time of it. A woman in a pantsuit with her hair pulled back did little to spark his desire, although this woman with her slim body, sparkling green eyes, and lush lips would look good in a feed bag.

  “Sorry, Jessica, is it? Nice to meet you.” She gave his hand a firm shake and consulted her clipboard. “Now, we rented a condo for you in Beverly Hills, but if you prefer a different area once you get to know the city a little, or you want to rent a hotel suite instead, we can arrange that. I’m tasked with helping you house hunt. Right now we have a driver for you. If you want to buy a car and drive yourself we can arrange that too.” She glanced up from her notes, the rosy color ebbing into her cheeks again. “Uh, Evan suggested the driver, since our laws against drunk driving are quite stringent here in the States.”

  So his reputation as a hard partier had preceded him, even though he’d never gotten behind the wheel of a car drunk and never would. He’d already lost too much to drinking and driving.

  He raised a brow in his best imitation of James Bond and drawled. “I see Evan has painted a pretty picture of me.

  The laws against drunk driving are quite stringent in the U.K. too.”

  Isn’t that pretty picture what he wanted? The press loved bad boys, and while normally he exaggerated his exploits, he didn’t want his assistant thinking the worst of him. Or maybe he did.

  He had a sneaking suspicion this might be her first job babysitting a celebrity. If he made it particularly rough on her, maybe Evan would assign him some grandmotherly sort and remove the danger of sexual chemistry from the mix.

  She caught her full lower lip between her teeth, her eyes crinkling at the corners again, and cute just turned to sexy. “He did give me a heads-up,” she admitted.

  Ignoring the lust that speared his belly, he resettled the bag on his other shoulder and said, “We don’t have to discuss all the details in the middle of the airport, do we?” She gasped and grabbed the strap of his suitcase. “Of course not. You must be exhausted after that long flight. You should get right home.”

  “Hold on.” He held onto the strap, and a tug-of-war ensued. “You may be my gofer, but I’m not going to let a woman carry my bag for me.”

  At least not this one. Now even chivalry was mucking things up between them, and he usually kept his shining armor hidden in the closet…except when he needed it for his sister, Gemma.

  Shrugging a shoulder, she stepped back. “Okay, we’ll get a luggage cart at the baggage claim anyway. The driver is waiting for us there too.”

  “And the paparazzi?”

  “Paparazzi?”

  “You did notify the press that I’d be arriving today, didn’t you?” He’d expected more savvy behavior from the Yanks than this. Evan promised he’d see to everything. “I figured they might have trouble getting through to the boarding gates, but I expect there will be more by the baggage claim area.”

  As she shook her head, a wisp of dark hair slipped out of her chignon and brushed her cheek. He’d like to pluck that clip right out of her hair and loosen all those silky strands, and then let his fingers dance through them.

  Yep, he’d have to dump her and her slightly amused eyes that sparkled with intelligence. Give him an emptyheaded, busty little bimbo any day. At least he didn’t have to prove anything to the groupies...well, nothing beyond his physical prowess and a loaded bank account, and he had both to spare.

  “Oh no, don’t worry about that, Mr. Bosford. We kept your arrival hush-hush. There are always a few paparazzi who stalk the airport, like those two at the arrival gate, but I can assure you we’ll protect your privacy as much as possible.” The corners of her mouth lifted in a smile, and she tucked the errant strand behind her ear.

  It’s a good thing they’d just stepped onto the escalator, or her words would’ve brought him to a dead halt and caused a pile-up. If he wanted his agent to protect his privacy, he would’ve signed a contract to play in Papua New Guinea, not in the celebrity mecca of L.A. “I think Evan and I need to discuss strategy here. I want the publicity. I want the paparazzi. I don’t need privacy.” She glanced over her shoulder, her face scrunched up like one of those Cabbage Patch dolls his sisters used to play with...a hot Cabbage Patch doll. “Evan didn’t mention anything about that, although he did say you’d be doing lots of endorsements.”

  He had millions of dollars in endorsements lined up, but he needed more. He had to create a sensation off the pitch, since he didn’t seem to be able to create one on the pitch anymore. Had to cushion his inevitable fall from popularity with lots of cash. “We’ll get Evan on the phone when we get to the car.”

  “Can’t do that. Evan’s on vacation with his family and doesn’t want to be disturbed, but you’ll have plenty of time to straighten that out with him. It’s best to get you acclimated and settled right now.” She waved her long, tapered fingers in dismissal.

  “I can’t believe Evan timed his vacation to coincide with the arrival of his most important client,” Simon mumbled over the top of her head. Despite Jessica’s subtle sex appeal, her attitude was beginning to border on the annoying. Evan had hired her to buy his groceries, not give him career advice. Or toy with his lust-o-meter.

  Stepping off the escalator, she pivoted at the bottom.

  “Evan figured you’d need some downtime. You don’t start practicing with the team for another six weeks.” Plenty of time to raise his profile in this city...and raise some hell. Playing well didn’t seem to be an option anymore. He had to have name recognition and notoriety. It had worked in Germany. The higher he ascended, the further he got away from his working-class roots in Yorkshire and Dad’s dire predictions of failure. And right now, with an assistant, a limo, and a condo in Beverly Hills awaiting him, those roots were disappearing faster than bubbles popping in a champagne glass.

  ***

  Simon Bosford epitomized everything she detested in these so-called celebrities – vain, arrogant, and desperate for publicity. And Evan expected her to keep this puffed-up specimen of gorgeous manhood out of trouble for the next six weeks? That grin alone weakened even her knees.

  Jessica crossed her arms on the baggage cart and hunched over, burying her chin in the crook of her elbow.

  She eyed the golden boy now, surrounded by three women and someone’s boyfriend. Simon might
be a little over the top, but his blue eyes like deep pools in a wishing pond, promised everything while giving nothing away.

  He didn’t act like a conceited celebrity with his fans.

  Talking and laughing with them, he could be their friend, their ride home from the airport. Just another English tourist.

  Then he turned and smiled at Jessica, and she caught her breath. No famous grin, no wink, just a pure smile that reached those inscrutable eyes and gooed up her insides like one of those decadent English trifles.

  Simon’s white teeth gleamed against his bronzed skin as he finished signing autographs and shaking hands all around. How’d he get that tan in Germany? Even though he hailed from England, he’d played for a German club team and lived in Munich. She’d heard of Simon Bosford before, he’d even done a milk print ad in the States, but before Evan filled her in for this job, she had no idea he’d played soccer in Germany.

  She couldn’t believe her good luck when Evan dropped this choice assignment in her lap. She’d been with Chase Sports Management just four months, and her previous duties consisted of making travel arrangements, doing research on the Internet, and acting as a courier between Evan and his clients. The job didn’t quite match the excitement she’d envisioned, until now, but at least she chose it and got it herself without her parents’ interference.

  Chalk up one for Jessica on the imaginary score sheet that floated in her head.

  She yanked at the hem of her jacket and ran her fingers along the inside of her waistband, tucking in her blouse.

  The clothes sucked. She’d never gone for the tailored look, but most of the women in Evan’s office dressed as if auditioning for a spot with the Pussycat Dolls. She had no interest in climbing any ladder that allowed her boss to look up her skirt. Circumstances had shoved so many silver spoons in her mouth already, she didn’t want to skate by on anything but brains and ability.

  She sucked in her lower lip and chewed on it. The pantsuits must’ve done a good job conning Evan. He not only expected her to get Simon Bosford settled, he’d asked her to make sure he stayed out of trouble until practice with the L.A. Waves started. Anyone who knew her would find the idea of her keeping anyone out of trouble preposterous, but she had a job to do and this job just might be her path to freedom.