by Lily Harlem
I spun around and scrutinized myself in a full-length mirror. My hair wasn’t as bad as I’d thought, which was a relief. My trousers were a little creased, but they were a nice pair that fitted well. My pale blue T-shirt was thankfully clean despite the airplane breakfast eaten during a sudden swirl of turbulence, and my brown leather boots were un-scuffed even if a little wintery for the Ukrainian sunshine.
I stepped closer, examining my face and make-up. All was in order, no smudges of mascara, no bulging zits straining toward the surface. A coat of gloss on my lips wouldn’t have gone amiss, neither would a flick of powder on my nose, but it was what it was. Me.
Had I planned on seeing Lewis Tate at such close proximity, preparations would have started several days before. Exfoliating, hydrating, a good night’s sleep. But that hadn’t been the case. It had just happened. Some weird twist of fate had landed him outside my hotel room door just when I needed him. This was how I looked and he would just have to cope. Not everyone could look like Naomi George. Some of us were mere mortals.
My room was lovely. Spacious and opulent with a great big bed, flamboyant furniture and decorated in rich creams, golds and a splash of purple
I unpacked my minimalist wardrobe of jeans, T-shirts, a couple of fleeces in case the weather turned, and one pretty dress, a standard little black number that hugged my hips and waist and had a clever internal support that boosted my cleavage and made it possible to go without a bra.
Sipping on a cup of tea, I flicked through the hotel brochure. The restaurant menus looked divine, as did the treatments on offer at the spa. Perhaps I should treat myself to a facial or a massage, or better still put one down to expenses. I scanned the price list. Okay, maybe not.
But they did have a pool. A very luxurious-looking pool with hydrotherapy jets, large loungers around the edge and a jungle of potted ferns and palms that led out onto a terrace. I could go for a swim; that was free for hotel guests.
I dragged a white bikini from a side pocket in my case. It was a designer brand, bought in a retail outlet for the fraction of the price it would have been sold for originally at some swanky London store. I’d been waiting for an opportunity to wear it for the first time.
I nipped into the bathroom, freshened up using the complimentary lemon and neroli fragranced toiletries, then slipped into my bikini. Pulled a big, fluffy robe around myself and checked the hotel map in the information booklet. I only had to get to the elevator and head down to the basement and I’d be at the spa. I was sure plenty of people just wore robes when moving between their rooms and the pool.
I was just about to leave when a thought hit me. Damn. How could I go to the pool now? Lewis had been holding trunks and goggles when I’d seen him. If I showed up for a dip he would definitely think I was tailing him. I clicked my tongue on the roof of my mouth in irritation. I’d been looking forward to stretching out in the water after my long day. Letting those nice hydro-jets pound onto my aching shoulders.
A sudden noise in the hall outside caught my attention. Footsteps, a door being opened. A few seconds later the loud thud of it shutting.
Great. That sounded directly opposite. Lewis had obviously finished his swim and gone back to his room. That would leave the pool free for me to use, and of course, anyone else in the hotel, but as long as it wasn’t him that was fine. The last thing I needed was to bump into him for a fourth time in less than twenty-four hours. A restricting order would be knocking at my door faster than I could say penalty shoot-out.
After dropping my robe onto a wicker lounger with deep cream cushions, I waded down the steps into the pool. Cool water wrapped around me, caressing my aching limbs like soothing hands. Bliss. Even more blissful because I had the place all to myself.
There were voices coming from the terrace. Three double doors were flung open to the sunshine and the breeze. I couldn’t hear what was being said, just the low hum of conversation.
Kicking out, I swam on my back toward a large silver tap-like jet and watched the shimmering reflections on the roof. They shivered and shook, the sunlight rippling across the ceiling in sparkling waves. Sighing, I moved beneath the jet, let the blasting water jostle and jolt me, bash against my travel-weary shoulders.
I shut my eyes. The heavy pounding was heavenly, massaging away several days of stress and strain. I tipped my head back, smoothed my hair from my face and allowed the water drag the sodden strands over my scalp and down my back. Later I would use the luxurious-smelling shampoo and conditioner in my hotel bathroom and tame my curls ready for tomorrow’s match. I was bound to see Phil there. I hoped he wouldn’t ask me too much about the Donbass and the players. Likewise, I hoped Reg wouldn’t give me a hard time later when I just did a report about the architecture and history of the hotel rather than a detailed account of my meeting with the team captain.
Just the thought of Lewis conjured an image of him in my head. His smile had had a devastating effect on my lusty hormones, sending them skittering this way and that. Prodding and poking me, and reminding me that it had been just over a year since I’d taken a man to my bed. How blessed was Naomi to get her hands on his hot body? She must know she was the luckiest woman on the planet.
I rubbed my fingertips over my shoulders and chest, blindly making sure my bikini was still covering my modesty. Sure Lewis was drop-dead gorgeous, but he was also a really nice guy. He’d been kind enough to make sure the press conference was fair, polite enough not to use the word vibrator in the elevator, and then more than happy to help out a stranger struggling with a keycard. And to top it all, he went to church like a good boy. He was perfect, there was no other way to describe him. I wondered what he saw in Naomi, whose reputation as a diva preceded her. Perhaps it was all for show and beneath the veneer she was a sweetheart.
Somehow I couldn’t imagine it.
I sighed and decided to relax on one of the soft loungers and let the breeze tickle over me as I dried.
Opening my eyes, I stepped out of the blasting jet.
Fuck!
Standing at the side of the pool were four England players staring straight at me.
Suddenly I was glad of the extra support the water gave me. My knees felt weak, and my stomach turned a cartwheel.
What the hell?
Neil Bryers stood at the far left, his dark skin gleaming and a wide, white grin on his face. Next to him was the goalie, Ted Hatton—he was tall and skinny, famed for his big hands, and right now he also had big eyes. Then came Liam Taylor; the baby of the team at only nineteen, he wore bright orange flowery swim trunks and was gripping a towel at crotch level, twirling it around his fingers. Finally, Lewis stood with his hands on his hips and his mouth slightly parted. He didn’t have the soft, smiley expression he’d had in the mental image I’d been enjoying. In fact, he looked beyond pissed off.
Damn, I really should have stayed in my room. I could hear that restricting order winging its way toward me.
But what could I do? I was here now, in the water, and they were there, waiting to get in.
I took a deep breath and waded toward the steps, wishing there was a little more support in my bikini top. I could feel my breasts shifting as I moved. With each step they bounced and jiggled. There wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it.
The players stayed stock still and continued to stare. I wondered about flashing them a smile then decided against it. That would just make me look like a footy groupie. And I certainly didn’t fall into a WAG-wannabe category. I was a serious reporter, here for the game, not the players.
Gripping a steel bar, I exited the pool, the water splashing away from my body as I rose. Typical that was where they were standing and I had to walk right past Lewis to reach my robe. I caught his eye briefly. He’d pulled down his brows, narrowed his eyes and was gnawing at the inside of his cheek. I dropped my gaze and admired, for the shortest pocket of time, his broad chest and the scribble of blond hair at the center that led a tantalizing trail downward, past his naval t
o the waistband of his shorts.
I reached my robe and used it to dab against my face, wiping away the drips. Thankfully, I heard the shuffle of feet, someone mentioned the sunshine outside, and I was aware of the players moving out of the pool area.
Dropping the robe onto the lounger, I took a deep breath and sagged my shoulders.
“It’s see-through, you know.”
Standing directly in front of me was Lewis.
I was shocked to see him when I thought I was alone again. “What?”
“Your bikini, it’s completely see-through.”
I pulled in a sharp intake of breath and glanced down.
Oh fuck! He was right. My white bikini was opaque. My nipples were dark and erect, poking at the pathetically thin material, and my little strip of pubic hair…fuck, you could make out every strand and the first indent of my labia.
“Shit.” I scrabbled for my robe, but Lewis was already holding it open for me.
“Here,” he said.
“I, er, thanks.” I shoved my arms in and pulled it tight around my body. Every millimeter of my flesh prickled with embarrassment. “Shit, I didn’t know, it’s new, I—”
“Hey, these things happen. Trouble is, these guys are all on enforced celibacy. Seeing a beautiful woman standing in a see-through bikini underneath flowing water might just tip them over the edge, if you know what I mean.”
Oh my God. Had I heard him right? Had Lewis Tate just called me beautiful?
“I’m really sorry,” I gabbled. “I didn’t know. I’ll just go and…and…” And what, get dressed, curl up under a stone and die?
He cocked his head and studied me. “I’m not complaining on my behalf, but Liam’s just a baby. He barely has the self-control needed to cope with Fellows’ damn rules.”
I gripped my hair into a ponytail and squeezed it to wring out the pool water. “Like I said, I’m sorry.”
“No apologies.” He was watching me fiddle with my hair. “But if I catch him trying to bed some Ukrainian chick later then I’ll know who to blame.”
“Well, I’m sure it won’t come to that.” Words and thoughts were tumbling in my head. Was I really having a conversation with Lewis about his team’s struggle with celibacy?
“You’d better hope it doesn’t.” He twitched his mouth into a half smile. “Perhaps I’ll go and order him to have some quality alone time. Take the edge of it. That usually helps, doesn’t it?”
My intestines knotted. “I don’t know what you mean.”
He shoved a hand through his hair and it flopped messily around his face and temples. “Sure you do.”
He turned and walked away, in the direction of the terrace. His movements were so easy and graceful he almost glided, his body under absolute control. If I hadn’t been so ruffled at the bizarre conversation we’d just had and his parting comment, I would have enjoyed seeing the way the sinewy muscles in his back sat taut beneath the skin, shifting ever so slightly with each step.
But I was seriously ruffled. My cheeks were burning and the traitorous bikini felt cold and sticky against my skin. There was no way I could chill out by the pool now. The relaxed state of a few minutes ago had evaporated and in its place sat yet another dagger of mortification.
There was only one thing for it. Clearly, I couldn’t be trusted out of my hotel room, because each time I did venture out some humiliating incident occurred with Lewis. I would shower and change and order room service. In fact, I would only come out for matches over the next few weeks. That would be the best thing. I would live there, it was certainly sumptuous enough. Perhaps then I’d be able to avoid any more toe-curling episodes of shame.
Room service was served on a silver trolley laid with a white linen tablecloth and set with polished cutlery and gold-rimmed china. Wearing a pair of pink cotton pajamas printed with tiny love hearts, I sat on the edge of the bed and enjoyed sea bass coated in a lemon and herb sauce on a stack of creamy slices of potato. For pudding there was a chocolate torte, which I ate when the sun had slipped from the sky and I’d settled down to write a report for Reg.
As planned, I described the history of the hotel and the facilities then grabbed a few pictures off the official website to add to the document. The only reference to the team I made was that it would be an excellent base providing comfort, privacy and a spa to enhance relaxation between games. Rest and pampering in a stress-free environment should equal goals, which would mean a trip to the quarters, semis, and the finals. The grand plan was, after all, to bring the cup home.
I hit save and was just about to read the document through one last time when there was a knock at my door.
Glancing at the room service trolley, I presumed staff had come to take away my dishes. I lowered the volume on MTV then peered through the spy hole.
Holy cow.
Lewis was standing at my door, his mouth set in a tight line as he glanced left and right.
A rush of both anxiety and delight shot through me. I fiddled with the lock and chain and opened the door.
“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.”
