“You’d rather spend Christmas by yourself than with me?”
“Yes.”
A flicker of pain flashed across her face at his curt response before she hid it behind an impassive stare. “Whatever you wish.” She turned to leave and then paused and glanced over her shoulder. “I’ll call you on Boxing Day to confirm everything’s set for Brisbane.”
“Fine.” He walked on ahead and opened the door, waving for her to go. When she drew level with him, she hesitated, but Kinga wasn’t stupid. She kept her mouth shut, and as soon as she’d walked through the door, he closed it behind her and picked up the house phone to dial Isaac’s room.
“Good morning, sir.”
“Morning, Isaac. Change of plan. Call City Airport, and get the jet ready. I’m heading back to Belfast today.”
There was a pause on the end of the phone before Isaac spoke. “Haven’t you looked outside today?”
“No, why?” Cash picked up the base unit and carried it over to the window. He opened the blinds. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
A thick blanket of snow had replaced Hyde Park’s vast green space. It must have been over a foot deep, and England wasn’t known for its ability to handle extreme weather. There’d be travel chaos everywhere.
“I’ll call the airport anyway, sir.” Isaac’s voice drifted down the phone, barely breaking through the fog in Cash’s head. “And I’ll also check if any commercial jets are flying today.”
“Thanks.” Cash dropped the handset back into the cradle and sank into a nearby chair. He covered his face with his hands and scrubbed hard. Now that he’d made the decision to go home, the driving need to be there was crushing him from the inside. He didn’t need an insurmountable obstacle to be shoved in his way.
Ten minutes later, Cash answered a knock at the door, and Isaac greeted him with a grimace and a shake of his head. “We may be able to fly tomorrow, but nothing’s going out today.”
Cash expelled a harsh breath. “Fucking brilliant.”
“I’ll call them back first thing in the morning. Have you eaten?”
“Not yet.”
“I’ll order something. You look terrible.”
Despite his annoyance, he grinned. I can always rely on Isaac to give it to me straight. “Thanks. Hey, Isaac?”
“Sir?”
“Has Kinga checked out yet?”
“Um, I’m not sure. Would you like me to ask reception?”
“No. Just… keep her away from me today, okay?”
Isaac gave an understanding nod. He’d been part of Cash’s team long enough to witness Kinga’s games. All Cash could hope was that his earlier tongue-lashing would make her think about laying off the juice a bit more.
* * *
The following morning, Cash sprang out of bed—a stark contrast to the previous day—and opened the blinds. The snow was still covering most surfaces, but it had thawed a little, and with no new snowfall overnight, he was upbeat about his chances of flying out that day. He rang Isaac. The efficient little bugger had already called the airport, and they were scheduled to take off at one that afternoon.
He ordered breakfast from room service and switched on his iPad, settling into a comfy chair to read the news. BBC’s headline was about a plane that had crashed on take-off in bad weather in Russia with no survivors. Not exactly a story he wanted to read a few hours before a flight. He closed the app and opened up a national newspaper one instead. The headline that greeted him was worse than the BBC.
Much, much worse.
He read the article once, twice, a third time. His eyes settled on the byline as cold fury simmered beneath his skin. He stormed out of the hotel suite, almost knocking over the waiter bringing his breakfast, and pounded on Isaac’s door.
“Isaac, open up.”
A couple of seconds later, Isaac answered, his face covered in shaving foam and a towel wrapped around his waist. Cash thrust the iPad at him and paced the hallway as Isaac read the article. Cash’s blood froze in his veins. If there was one thing he hated more than journalists, it was liars. And a lying journalist was on a par with the filthiest of scum who walked the earth.
Isaac met Cash’s cold stare. He was blinking furiously. “How… what…?”
“Cancel the flight,” Cash said. “And get the car outside in ten minutes.”
FIVE
Quietly seething, Cash left Isaac to fetch the car while he grabbed his wallet and phone. He flew down nine flights of stairs rather than take the lift, but the exertion didn’t calm his mood one iota. He wasn’t sure who he was more pissed off with—her for lying, or himself for putting aside his curiosity. He should have questioned her more. His instinct had told him there was something fishy about her, but was too busy listening to his cock and eyeing up her rack instead of taking the opportunity to grill her harder about what the fuck she’d been doing at the event.
A journalist. A goddamn journalist. He’d spent his whole career keeping reporters at arm’s length, being careful to reveal only what he wanted them to know, and giving them no reason to dig beneath the carefully constructed veneer of his life, and then a pretty face and a curvaceous body had made him pay more attention to his dick than his brain.
Fuck, fuck, fuck! If other journalists started digging because of this article, he could lose everything. His sponsors wouldn’t be able to drop him quick enough. Image was paramount when it came to brand protection. No one would want to be associated with him if the truth came out.
“Where are we going, sir?” Isaac asked as Cash climbed into the back seat.
“Let’s start at that rag she works for.”
Isaac met his gaze in the rear-view mirror. “Try not to make a scene.”
Cash ignored him and turned to look out of the window. He hadn’t quite worked out his plan yet. Did he storm inside and demand to see her? He could just bide his time and wait for her to appear. After all, she had to leave the building sometime. Yes, that was the best idea. Causing a scene would only create more column inches.
As they turned into the street the newspaper offices were located on, Cash leaned forward and peered through the windshield. “Pull up on the left in front of that white van.”
“It’s double yellow lines, sir.”
“I don’t care.”
Isaac stopped the car but left the engine running, no doubt so he could pull away quickly if any traffic wardens started sniffing around. Cash checked the time. Eleven fifteen. He unlocked his phone and began another read-through of that damned article.
* * *
Tally’s stomach rumbled, and she glanced at the clock. Eleven thirty. A bit early for lunch, but she’d skipped breakfast, and if she ducked out now, she’d beat the lunchtime queues.
She grabbed her purse and headed downstairs and out of the building. The temperature outside couldn’t have been much above freezing, and an arctic wind whipped leaves and debris off the street. Snowfall from the previous day still lay on the ground, but with the overnight temperatures staying below freezing, the snow had turned to ice. Tally pulled her collar up, tugged her bobble hat low over her ears, and tentatively stepped onto the pavement. It would be just her luck to slip and break a leg right before Christmas.
She was standing at the kerb, waiting for a gap in the traffic, when a sleek black Mercedes decided to stop directly in front of her.
“Well done, idiot,” she muttered, shifting to the right so she could walk around the rear of the car. As she did so, the back door opened, and she almost bumped into the alighting passenger.
She peeked up from under her hat. “Oh, shit.”
“Indeed,” Cash Gallagher replied, his gaze raking over her, contempt bubbling to the surface of his slate-grey eyes.
Tally pasted on an innocent look. “Can I help you?” she said smoothly.
“I think you’ve helped me enough, sweetness.” He waved his arm at the car. “Get in. I want to talk to you.”
“I’m working.”
“Like you were working
on Sunday night?”
A slug of guilt made it difficult to breathe. Or it could have been the freezing temperatures. Whatever the reason, her lungs burned from lack of oxygen.
“Hey, look. It’s Cash Gallagher.” A girl no older than eighteen appeared from nowhere. She jostled Tally out of the way as she pointed her phone at Cash.
“Can I have a selfie?” she said, not waiting for an answer as she nestled into Cash’s side and held her phone at arm’s length. Cash’s whole body stiffened, and although he tried to play the part, the weak smile he managed told Tally he was not enjoying the experience. Within seconds, more people arrived. Cash’s driver jumped out of the car, bracing himself between Cash and the gaggle of overexcited girls. And just when things couldn’t get any worse, a member of the paparazzi turned up.
“Cash, over here,” the pap shouted.
Lights flashed, almost blinding Tally in the dim light of a winter’s day. Surrounded by all the commotion, she had a thought: this was her chance to escape, to avoid having what would undoubtedly be a difficult conversation. She took one step back and then another. Her gaze fell on Cash.
“Get in. Please,” he said, his tone almost begging her to comply as more camera flashes popped and the crowd grew, curious about all the fuss.
Dammit. She did owe him an explanation, and maybe by talking, she could stave off a possible complaint against her less-than-forthright approach.
With a resigned sigh, she muscled her way through the crowd, helped along by Cash’s driver. As she climbed inside, Cash followed, slamming the door behind him. The noise from the street instantly abated, although camera flashes still leaked through the heavily tinted windows.
“You okay?” he asked, although his cold tone didn’t match the concern of his words.
“Yes.”
Cash tapped a button on the centre armrest. The doors locked, and a divider appeared between the front and back seats. He leaned across and clipped her seatbelt into place. As his body skimmed hers, she trembled.
“You and I, Natalia McKenzie, are going somewhere private so we can have a little chat about that article.”
His breath might have been warm as he spoke into her ear, but his voice was bitterly cold, his earlier concern for her fading away like the voices of the screaming fans outside. Her skin prickled. Cash Gallagher was powerful enough to ruin both her and Pete—plus anyone else he deemed a suitable candidate—to pay her back for what she’d done.
“Where are you taking me?”
Cash ignored her. He twisted so his back was facing her and stared out of the window. Guilt chewed at Tally’s insides, turning her stomach, and she breathed slowly in through her nose and out through her mouth. After a few seconds, the nausea retreated, but regrets about the article came roaring back. Cash was clearly a man who valued his privacy above all else, and he’d been damn good at protecting it until he blurted out about his mother teaching him to dance and made that weird comment about his father, giving her the perfect nucleus to build her article around. Readers loved a bit of mystery and intrigue, and the man who never gave anything personal away had suddenly dropped a clanger. She still had no idea why he’d chosen to tell her those private things, but she’d taken the trust he’d shown and plastered it all over a national newspaper. She’d put her ambition above his feelings, and there was no taking that back, no matter what she said or did.
She kept her head centred, stealing the occasional sideways glance. Cash had been her idol for as long as she could remember. She’d followed his career since he first burst onto the seniors’ tour when he was eighteen. He beat David Müller, world number one at the time, in the first round at Wimbledon on her very first visit to the tournament. Cash’s success had caused a huge stir, and he’d gone on to make the quarter-finals that year.
She could still recall the first teenage stirrings of lust when he walked onto the court. He’d been just a boy in those days—extremely good-looking and alluring but immature. The man sitting on her left in the Mercedes was much edgier. His square jaw and defined cheekbones gave him a handsome, rather than pretty, face, and his body was masculine and toned from all those hours spent on court.
Despite the predicament she found herself in—and the small problem of him hating her guts—she itched to touch him. His skin was smooth and tanned, his hair wavy and thick. What she wouldn’t give to bury her hands in those soft curls.
Except she never would—and the article wasn’t the only reason. Tally leaned back against the headrest and closed her eyes. However he chose to deal with her, she probably deserved it.
When the car stopped, she lifted her head and turned to face him. Cash had unclipped his belt and was staring at her. “We’re here.”
SIX
Tally glanced out of the window. The car had stopped outside a large country house covered in ivy. The place appeared deserted. Her hands trembled, and annoyed with herself, she clenched them into fists.
“Where’s here?”
Cash climbed out and walked around the back of the car before opening her door. He reached inside, unclipped her belt, and then held out his hand. “Let’s go.”
She hesitated, and he sighed. “You’re perfectly safe, sweetness. I have a reputation to protect.” He laughed then, but the sound was hollow, mirthless. “Although you’re doing your best to change that.”
She swung her legs out of the car. Her foot slipped on the gravel, and Cash grabbed her elbow to steady her. He propelled her towards a solid oak door. Keys jangled, and he cursed when the first one didn’t fit the lock.
She frowned. “Isn’t this your place?”
He shook his head. On the second attempt, the door opened, and with his hand in the small of her back, he nudged her through.
“In there.” He pointed straight ahead. Tally followed his directions and found herself in an enormous farmhouse-style kitchen with a large centre island that had stainless steel pots and pans hanging overhead.
She hovered just inside the doorway as Cash crossed the room and opened the large American-style fridge. He pulled out a bottle of wine and waved it in her direction.
“Drink?” he said as if they were simply on a date.
“No. I don’t want a drink. Look. I’m sorry about the article. Really, I am. I should have told you I was a journalist when you asked.”
Without saying a word, he poured two glasses of wine, despite her refusal, and pushed one towards her. He took a sip and pointed his chin at her glass. “Have a drink. It might help you relax and remove your shoulders from their new home around your ears.”
She made a concerted effort to lower her hunched shoulders. “I told you I’m working. I don’t drink on duty.”
The beginnings of a smile tugged at one corner of his mouth, but it quickly disappeared. He leaned back against the kitchen worktop, crossed his ankles and, without taking his eyes off her, sipped his own drink. Not once did he make any move to speak. After a few seconds of painful silence, she dropped her gaze to the floor. His flat, emotionless eyes made her blood run cold. She chewed at the inside of her cheek, a habit she always turned to when feeling uncertain or out of control.
His trainers squeaked on the tile. She lifted her chin. Cash had his back to her. He threw the remains of his wine in the sink and settled the palm of his hands on the worktop. Tally stood frozen, unsure what to say or do.
After a minute or so, he turned around. “Why did you lie when I asked you if you were a journalist?”
He spoke softly, almost kindly, and she blinked several times. Angry Cash was easier to deal with. Hurt and resigned Cash made her guilt rear its head once more.
Waves of remorse washed over her. Whatever kudos she’d gained from that article did not give her the right to cause someone else pain and anguish. There had to be more to this than the superficiality of his mother teaching him to dance and the fact that his father didn’t like making apologies. The journalist in her was yelling dig, but the fifteen-year-old who’d developed a
crush on that eighteen-year-old boy ten years back had an overwhelming desire to protect him.
“I’m sorry. I should have been honest with you, but you so rarely give anything personal away that when you told me how you learnt to dance so well, it was an opportunity I couldn’t pass up.”
He sighed heavily. “So my mother taught me to dance. Big deal. Hold the fucking front page. You lied to me. I despise being lied to even more than I despise your beloved profession.”
Tally shook her head. This man was full of contradictions. “I’m sorry, but what choice did I have? If I’d told you I was a journalist, you’d have clammed up, wouldn’t you?”
His lips pressed together in a slight grimace. “Probably.”
“Well, there you are, then. Like you said, no big deal.”
Cash stared at his feet. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. And then he muttered, “Screw it” under his breath.
He strode across the kitchen and captured her face between his hands. His mouth crushed down on hers. This was no slow approach. Cash devoured her. He nipped at her bottom lip, and on reflex, she opened her mouth, allowing his tongue to dart inside. The kiss happened so quickly she struggled to process it. When her brain caught up, a thrill of ecstasy rushed through her. This wasn’t a dream, nor was it some fifteen-year-old girl full of hormones, pressing her lips against the centrefold of a teen magazine, hoping it would spring to life and kiss her back.
With desire surging through her body, her knees buckled, and she sank a couple of inches before a strong arm wrapped around her waist, supporting her. Just as she was about to run out of air, Cash tore his mouth away, and his lips feathered across her cheek, her ear, her neck as she gasped for breath.
“What’s happening to me?” he muttered, his teeth nipping at her earlobe.
Her stomach convulsed with need. “Cash, I––”
He cut her off as his mouth consumed hers once again. She entwined her fingers in his hair because if she didn’t anchor them, they could end up anywhere. Cash didn’t merely kiss. He possessed. His hands burrowed beneath her shirt, and with a flick of his fingers, he unhooked her bra. But when his palm moulded to her breast, a wave of panic hit her. This was moving too fast. Way too fast.
Winning Ace: A Winning Ace Novel (Book 1) Page 4
