by Rachel Lyndhurst; Carmen Falcone; Ros Clarke; Annie Seaton; Christine Bell
Going home was like traveling to a foreign country now. One where the locals were welcoming but their lives were shaped by a different mindset. They even ate different food, for God’s sake. Her father thought Italian food meant macaroni and cheese. They both looked at the takeaway menus from the local Chinese and Indian restaurants with a sort of fascinated suspicion. Meat and two veg, that’s what they liked. Proper English food, perhaps with a little twist suggested by a TV chef, to make them feel they were being adventurous.
They’d like a proper English son-in-law, too. A respectable one with a job as a doctor or an accountant, even another lawyer. But a footballer and a foreigner? No, Emile wasn’t going to fit in at all.
“Yes, we’re very different,” she said. “You’ll see.”
He settled his hand on her knee and squeezed gently. “You love her.”
She sighed. “Of course I love her. I just don’t understand her. At all.”
Emile shot her a half-smile. “I don’t suppose she understands you, either.”
Theresa gave a laugh. “No, I’m sure she doesn’t. Where are we going?”
He named the top Michelin-starred restaurant in London. She raised her eyebrows at him. “I hope you’re taking me home to change first.”
“No need, chérie. I have clothes for you.” He indicated the bags stuffed behind their seats, glossy bags with labels that even Theresa recognized. Bags that had come from the most exclusive and expensive designers in London. “We will be photographed, so I thought you’d prefer something new.”
For half a second, she considered letting it go. This was supposed to be their wedding night, after all, and she wanted to enjoy it. But she couldn’t let him think it was okay.
“I won’t wear them. I told you before, you don’t get to make those choices for me. Either you take me home, or I’ll wear this.” She gestured to the jeans and sweater she’d worn for the match.
“They won’t let you in wearing that.”
She shrugged. “Not my problem.”
“We haven’t time for you to go home and change.”
“Where did you suppose I’d be putting those on?” She jerked her thumb in the direction of the designer bags. “In the ladies’ loos? Or perhaps wriggling into them in the car?”
“My flat. It’s on the way, unlike yours.”
“You know, if you’d told me beforehand, I could have brought a dress with me.”
“If I’d told you beforehand, it wouldn’t have been a surprise.”
“Well, here’s a surprise, I’m not wearing those.”
“You haven’t even seen them yet.”
“You don’t even know my size,” she said.
He gave her a look that told her he remembered exactly what size she was. All over.
She shook her head in despair. “I can’t believe I’m with a man who understands women’s dress sizes.”
He laughed. “I’ve had some practice, chérie.”
“That’s not something to boast about.”
“Come.” He slid his car deftly into the parking space and reached behind to pick up the bags. “At least look, hm?”
She followed him up to the flat, trying not to think about what had happened the last time they’d been in that lift together. This time she would not be ripping off his clothes the instant the door was shut.
He let her in and she stalked past him. She set her handbag on the coffee table and folded her arms defiantly.
“I won’t wear it.”
He dropped the bags and came towards her. “You know, Thérèse,” he whispered with his mouth close to her ear, “right now, I don’t care if you don’t wear anything at all.”
She shivered. Not with cold. And she knew he felt it, damn him.
Then he kissed her, just a press of his lips at the corner of her mouth, while his hands slid upward under her thick sweater.
“I don’t think, uh, they’ll let me in to the restaurant if I’m not wearing anything at all.”
“Good point.” He kissed her again, and this time his hands were on the button of her jeans, and she was pushing them down over her hips and then pulling him back to press against him hard. He broke away to lift her sweater over her head and kick his shoes off. She grabbed handfuls of his shirt and tugged hard until she’d dragged it over his head and caught his arms in the cuffs. She reached up and pressed his wrists against the wall, trapping him with her body.
“I’m still angry.” And she didn’t want to let him off the hook just because of his self-deprecating smile and the sexy little gleam in his eyes.
“Because I bought you clothes that most women would kill for?” Every line of his finely muscled body showed that his own anger was barely repressed. Theresa leaned even closer in.
“Because you didn’t listen to me.”
His eyes narrowed. “I’m listening now.”
“I’m not Prada. Or any of the other women you’ve had before who you could seduce with a simple equation of designer dress plus top restaurant.”
Something flashed across his eyes, and she knew she’d scored a hit. “I’ve never met a woman like you,” he said.
“No, I don’t suppose you have.”
He tilted his head slightly and gave a twisted smile. “I think I could get to like it.”
Theresa relaxed her grip on his wrists slightly and leaned back. “I think I could get to like you, too.”
Emile pulled his hands down effortlessly. He could overpower her in a second, but he’d let her take control when she’d needed it. She helped him free his hands from the shirtsleeves and then she found herself with her back against the wall. Emile rested one arm over her head and bent to kiss her.
Anger dissipated into desire at the feel of his lips against hers. He invaded her mouth, and she wanted more. Her hands roved over his gloriously formed body, all hard muscle and dark tattoo, clenched nipple and soft hair. Oh God, he had his hand down her knickers.
And there, quite unmistakably, the metal of his wedding band was rubbing against her clit, and it was possibly the most erotic thing that had ever happened to her. She bit her lip and gripped the remnants of his shirt. She needed something to cling on to while her body went spinning into orbit. But he wouldn’t let her. His hand came down to grasp one of hers and bring it towards him, so that she was stroking him through the soft canvas of his trousers, matching her rhythm to his. Her breath, her heartbeat, the pulse that throbbed under his touch, the caress of his tongue inside her mouth…the whole world hit its resonant frequency and then, when the pressure reached some invisible threshold, collapsed and shattered. She fell against Emile, letting the shocks run through her, take her, break her.
“God, that was good,” she told him, when she finally managed to articulate words out of the mess he’d made of her mind.
He grinned. “My pleasure, chérie.”
“But not yours.” Her hand was still over his crotch and she could feel him, rock hard, through the thick fabric.
“There’s still time.”
“Didn’t you mention something about dinner?” She was supposed to be angry with him about that, but it was hard when her mind was still blown and his hand was still rubbing soft circles against the skin just above her waistband.
“I’ll call for something to be delivered,” he muttered.
“I like that plan.” She slid her hand down his chest until her fingers brushed against his fly. “But not just yet, hmm?”
“We should talk about how this is going to work.”
“A year of great sex, I think we said.” Emile winked at her. She was fun to tease, especially when she was doing her lawyer thing. And especially when she was doing her lawyer thing lounging semi-naked on the soft rugs in his sitting room.
She gave him a stern look. “I don’t normally sleep with the same guy for more than a few weeks.”
“Why not?” He offered her the red curry with prawns, but she shook her head and indicated he should have it.
“
I get bored. And I’m not interested in any of the emotional baggage.”
Was she for real? “That makes it hard to have a relationship.”
“Right. I don’t have relationships.”
He caught her wrist as she reached past him for the pad thai. “Are you scared?”
She stared at him in shock. “Am I scared? Of men?”
“Of the emotional baggage.”
“No!” Well, that was about as defensive as it got. Definitely scared.
“You are.” He reached out a finger to trace along the line where her hair met her forehead. “I wonder why.” Hurt by an old boyfriend, maybe? Or something deeper than that?
“It doesn’t matter why.” She pulled her wrist free and batted his hand away. “And I’m not scared. I just prefer not to clutter things up with feelings.”
“This is why you are a lawyer, hm?” He’d noticed that she was more comfortable when they were discussing contracts and negotiating boundaries.
“Corporate law.” She shrugged. “It suits me.”
“But this, between us—” He gestured towards her with his chopsticks. “This is not a corporation.”
“We signed a contract.”
So they had. It was necessary, given the circumstances of their marriage. “Contracts can be ended.”
Theresa’s jaw dropped in utter horror. Emile laughed. “You are not good for my ego, Thérèse. Would it be so very terrible if we found we had feelings for each other?”
“It would be better if we kept our feelings out of it.” Her voice was tight and strained. She had some feelings hidden away behind that lawyer facade. It might be fun to see what could make the mask crack.
“We can’t always control what we feel.”
She looked up at him sharply. “I’m serious, Emile. This isn’t going to work if you start falling for me.”
“I might not be the one falling.”
She bent over her plate, pretending to concentrate on picking up a piece of chicken with her chopsticks. “I think I can manage not to fall in love with you this year.”
“That sounds like a challenge.”
“It isn’t.” She waved toward the pile of bags near the door. “I never said thank you for those.”
Apparently, they were done talking about emotions. “That’s because you didn’t want them.”
“I don’t, but I think you probably meant well. So thanks.”
“My pleasure,” he said wryly.
“You’ll arrange for the clothes to be returned, right?”
“My housekeeper can have them.”
“But you must have spent a fortune. Is your housekeeper the right size?”
Emile laughed and leaned over to kiss her briefly. “She’s fifty and at least twice as round as you. She’ll sell them.”
“Huh. Good for her, I guess. But it seems pretty wasteful for you.”
“I told you before, chérie, I have enough money. Are you finished eating?”
“Is there any more rice? Right, I forgot. Premiership footballer on ludicrously high salary. Exactly how much money is Woolwich paying you?”
“About one hundred and fifty thousand.”
“That’s all?”
He smiled and added, “A week.”
“A week?” she repeated. “One hundred and fifty thousand pounds a week? What on earth do you do with it all?”
“Mostly I give it to my financial advisor and tell him to make it grow. He’s pretty good at that.” And it saved Emile from having to think about it. He hadn’t become a footballer for the money.
“Then what? Emile, you can’t just keep making more money for no reason.” Theresa seemed genuinely upset about it. Most women he knew loved the idea of a credit card with virtually no limit. They didn’t have trouble imagining how they’d spend a hundred and fifty grand every week. He smiled to himself. She really wasn’t like the others.
“It is not the reason I play football.” He spread his hands, trying to explain. “But if they want to pay me the money to do it, why shouldn’t I keep taking it?”
“Because…” Theresa shook her head. “I don’t know why. It just seems wrong if you’re not even going to use it.”
“I have everything I need. If I want something, I buy it. But otherwise… It’s just money, Thérèse.” And, when you’d grown up without much of it, it was good to know that you’d never have to worry about it again.
“To you it’s just money, but it could be so much more than that. You could, I don’t know, be saving lives in Africa or helping sick children. Don’t you want to do something worthwhile with it?”
He blinked. He’d never really thought about his money as a way to do something like that. “I guess. I do give some of it away. I do charity things with the club.”
“But you’re still building up a fortune that you don’t need and won’t spend?”
Dieu, he could see why she’d make a good lawyer. She never gave up on an argument. “I suppose so, if you put it like that.”
“But why? What is it for?”
He didn’t know what she wanted to hear. It was just what he earned. “I used to give half of everything I earned to my mother. It seemed fair. She gave most of what she earned to support me when I was in the junior teams.” At the beginning, that had been almost more important than anything. He’d wanted to pay her back for everything she’d done for him. When he’d got his first professional contract, she’d been so proud of him. She’d always believed he could make his dreams come true.
“Do you still miss her?” Theresa asked softly.
“Every day.” It didn’t hurt like it had at first, but the empty loneliness hadn’t gone away.
“I’m sorry.” She rested her hand on his arm and stroked her thumb gently across the skin. He put his hand over hers, holding it there, grateful for her silent sympathy.
Her silence helped him to say more. “For so long, it was just the two of us. Even after I moved to London, we talked every day. I wanted her to move here but she didn’t speak English and she was nervous of a foreign country.”
“What about your father?”
Way to break the mood. Emile sat up, pushing Theresa away with a derisive snort. “I have no father. Whoever got my mother pregnant does not deserve that name.”
He started to clear up the empty cartons, shoving them back into the flimsy plastic bag. Theresa stacked their plates.
“So now you’re on your own?” she said.
“I’m an adult. I manage.” He had friends, teammates, women. He was fine.
She nodded. “Still. Would you like a family of your own?”
His brain instantly conjured up an image of Theresa holding an infant out at arm’s length, telling it she didn’t need any emotions cluttering up their relationship. He couldn’t help the smile that sprang to his lips. “Are you offering?”
Instantly, she held up her hands in defense. “Idle curiosity. Nothing more.”
“Relax. I wasn’t planning to chuck out the condoms just yet. But one day, yes, I’d like a family. Children. A future.”
“So, what did you think of the match?” He took the remains of the takeaway through to the kitchen. He didn’t want her to think he cared about her answer.
“I wasn’t as bored as I thought I might be,” she called after him.
Huh. He pulled out another bottle of the Château Latour they were drinking and located the corkscrew. “That bad?”
“No, not bad.” She’d followed him into the kitchen and leaned against the counter, watching him. “I was surprised how much I enjoyed it, to be honest. I didn’t expect to get caught up in it at all.”
“But you did?”
She paused, forehead wrinkled in thought. “Yes. I don’t know why.”
“The crowds.” It was overwhelming if you weren’t used to it. Impossible to stay disinterested amongst all that partisan enthusiasm and despair.
“I was pleased you won.”
“Good.” He handed her a glass of
wine and sipped his own.
“I mean, I don’t care whether Woolwich win. But I wanted you to win.”
“Thank you.” He leaned over to brush a kiss on her lips.
“Your goals were good.”
He smiled. “Goals are always good.”
“I suppose so. But some are more impressive than others.”
“You were impressed, chérie?”
“Yes, all right. I was impressed. You were very good.”
He put down his glass and removed hers from her hands. Then he pulled her towards him, securing her with his arms around her waist.
“Say that again.”
She sighed. “I didn’t have you down as the insecure type who needs an ego-stroking.”
He laughed. “I didn’t, either, but I find I like it when you compliment me.”
“On your ball skills?”
He caught her eye, and they both collapsed with laughter. Emile pulled her against him, leaning his arm around her shoulders and dropping a kiss on her cheek.
Funny, clever, and sexy.
He wasn’t at all sure he could spend the next year with her and not lose at least a little bit of his heart to her.
Chapter Six
She’d expected to enjoy this moment, but she hadn’t realized just how glorious it would be. Emile had gone all out, with tight, ripped jeans, a white t-shirt that clung softly to his chest, and a battered, black leather jacket. His hair was rumpled around his collar and his unshaven jaw gave his uncivilized appearance a decidedly dangerous edge. Theresa was having trouble keeping her hands off him.
Her mother didn’t know where to look.
Melanie had offered to take his coat. Theresa watched him shrug it off his shoulders and let it slowly slide down. He’d winked at her mother as he hung the jacket from one finger and held it out for her to take. Which she did, flushing bright red. And then Emile leaned forward, bent his head, and deliberately pressed a kiss on each cheek.
“Pleased to meet you,” he murmured in that husky voice of his. “Maman.”
Theresa smothered her laugh.
“Yes. Well, you’d better come through.”
Melanie led the way through to the sitting room. Emile hooked an arm around Theresa’s waist to hold her back in the hall. She looked up at him, wondering what he wanted to say. He grinned, took her face in his hands, and kissed her until she’d forgotten that she was in her parents’ house, with her parents in the next room. Her hands slid into his waistband and she pulled him closer, loving the feel of his stubbled jaw against her skin.
