As to Simon Wood funding 20 percent himself… well, that was a surprise also. Yes, he had been one of the top-earning footballers in the world until his retirement, with endorsement deals aplenty also, but to be able to put up that kind of cash money, he must have an excellent financial manager.
Lucien thanked Paul and ended the call, reading the provided information again and making notes for himself. He pushed down the thrill of excitement that crept through him. This program was the kind of thing he’d always wanted to get started but hadn’t because of time constraints and parental expectations. He’d always been a huge football fan, went to as many matches as he could and watched the rest on TV, but aside from casual matches with friends as a teenager or school sports, he’d never played. His father hadn’t approved, insisting he had other responsibilities.
The last page of Paul’s notes was a profile of Simon Wood, and this time Lucien couldn’t stop the zing that shot through him. Simon Wood, age thirty-four, retired championship footballer. There was a list of his charitable endeavors, and a paragraph about his schooling—apparently the man had found time somewhere in his career to get an MBA—but nowhere had Paul included one very important fact: Simon Wood was hot.
Ridiculously hot.
So hot that he’d consistently made hottest bachelor lists around the world over the last decade.
He was also rumored to be bisexual. There had never been any confirmation, not even a tell-all tabloid story, but the gossip mill murmured that while Simon publicly only had girlfriends, his bed was not restricted to a single gender. When Lucien had been a horny fourteen-year-old struggling to understand his own sexuality, the rumors about then-nineteen-year-old football sensation Simon Wood had grounded him and helped him get his head around exactly why he could be turned on by both Jennifer Lopez and Hugh Jackman.
Not to mention, the man himself had played a starring role in many of Lucien’s teenage fantasies.
Just the sound of his name was sexy… Sigh-mon. And he was so utterly sigh-worthy.
His phone dinged, saving him from what had the potential to become a very uncomfortable moment, what with his driver being in the car. He glanced at the screen and smiled.
Are you still coming for a long weekend? Léo suggested dinner at Le Louis XV, and I need to make a reservation.
Ben’s obsession with reservations was a hangover from the days before he’d inherited millions and moved to Monaco to live with his French billionaire boyfriend—and something that still vaguely puzzled Lucien. He’d never really thought about letting a restaurant know he was coming before Ben had made a big deal about it. He wanted to eat, he picked a place, they found a table for him. Admittedly it would be terrible if people had been inconvenienced for his sake, but that probably didn’t happen. Or the restaurant would make it worth their while if it did.
Right?
He texted back in French, confirming his plans and adding that he might arrive that evening. After a lot of humorous and sometimes ridiculous miscommunication, he and Ben had agreed that Ben would send texts written only in English, and Lucien would send texts written only in French. Although they were both fairly fluent speakers of each language, their literacy was not so good. No text-speak was to be used, only proper words and sentences. That way, they could both practice reading each other’s language. Léo, Ben’s boyfriend and one of Lucien’s best friends, who had often been called on to decipher or interpret their texts before the agreement, had opened a bottle of champagne to celebrate when he heard.
Awesome. Let us know when you get in.
Deciding that there was no reason to spend the night in Paris, Lucien texted his pilot with his amended destination. He was still smiling at the thought of seeing his friends and getting out of London when the car finally pulled up in front of the Morel Corporation London building. He slipped the laptop back into its bag as his driver got out and opened the door for him.
“Thank you,” he murmured. He wasn’t sure what the driver—or any of his drivers, for that matter—did while he was in meetings, but the man was always waiting for him when he was done. Probably some secretary called him and told him Lucien was on the way. As he strode into the building, Lucien wondered vaguely if the secretary would include that as a skill on their résumé: punctually informs drivers of—
He shook his head, inwardly cursing Ben. He’d never used to think about things like that. Before he met Ben, drivers could have appeared by magic for all he knew and cared.
He was met at the elevator by Margot, the senior assistant to the Director of UK Operations, who was usually seconded to him when he was in London.
“Traffic?” she asked briskly, hitting the call button for the elevator. She was an extremely efficient, no-nonsense woman in her forties, and Lucien had the impression that if she had been in the car with him, the traffic would not have dared delay them. She reminded him somewhat of his mother, only her suit wasn’t high-end designer.
“Yes” was all he responded. She wouldn’t have tolerated chitchat.
“Your meeting is here already. He has coffee and hasn’t complained about the delay.”
Lucien shot her a surprised glance as they stepped into the elevator and she pressed the button for the top floor. He was Lucien Morel. People waited for him, and if they complained, they were shown the door. Most didn’t use it, because he was Lucien Morel and an appointment with him was hard to get and not taken lightly.
Margot’s cheeks were slightly pink, and she carefully studied the floor. Lucien grinned. “Are you a football fan, Margot?” he asked, breaking the unspoken business-only policy between them.
The pink darkened. “Not really,” she said stiffly, and Lucien laughed.
“Ah, a footballer fan, then.” The outraged look she shot him was tinged with embarrassment. “Don’t worry, you are not the only one.”
The elevator doors opened, and he walked out wondering if he’d regret that comment.
WHEN Lucien entered the meeting room that had been allocated for his use while he was in London, he found Simon Wood sitting at the table working on a laptop. The man was so involved in what he was doing that he didn’t look up, and Lucien took the opportunity to study him.
Lust kicked in his gut.
He’d never met Wood in person before, and that was a damn shame, because television and photos didn’t do him justice. The black hair was cut short, but still thick and silky-looking. His jaw and cheekbones could have been chiseled by a master sculptor, and his skin lacked the pallor many of the English had—probably due to hours spent outside on the football pitch. He was wearing a tailored shirt, open at the collar, and Lucien’s gaze followed the line of that throat down to where a light smattering of hair was visible….
He swallowed. Focus, Lucien! He could not allow himself to be distracted. A project like this was something he’d always dreamed of, and if he wanted to convince his father to support similar ones in the future, it had to be a runaway success.
He cleared his throat and closed the door behind him. Wood looked up and smiled, and Lucien was glad he still had his hand on the doorknob, because his knees may have gone a little weak.
“Lucien Morel?” Wood asked, standing, and Lucien let go of the doorknob and crossed to the table, reaching out to shake the other man’s hand.
“Yes. A pleasure, Mr. Wood. I’m a big fan.” He forced the words through his suddenly too-narrow throat and wondered what the hell was wrong with him. Even as a teenager, he’d always been confident.
“Simon, please. We’re probably going to be spending a lot of time on this, and I’m not really good with formality.”
“Lucien,” Lucien offered, convinced he must be going insane because for some reason Simon Wood’s accent was turning him on.
Turning.
Him.
On.
He pulled out a chair and sat a bit hurriedly. A British accent, turning him on. He needed to get the hell out of England.
Wood—Simon—resumed
his seat. “So, Lucien, what do you think of this project? Your father gave me the impression that you were pretty excited about it. I know I am. I’m looking forward to hearing your thoughts on the plan—you have so much more experience in this than I do.”
Damn. Lucien inwardly cursed his father. He hated looking foolish.
“My father was right—I’m definitely excited.” He forced himself to ignore the unintended double entendre. “This is the kind of project I’ve been wanting to be part of for a long time.” There, that was safe. “But my father neglected to pass on a copy of the business plan. Do you have one here? We should go through it together.” That was reasonable, and no need to mention that he’d had no idea about the program until half an hour ago.
Except the look Simon gave him was somehow both surprised and disappointed, and Lucien felt like a schoolboy being called on the carpet. Clearly Simon thought Lucien hadn’t been bothered to prepare for the meeting.
Simon opened a manila folder that was sitting next to his laptop and pulled out a bound document. He passed it across the table without comment.
“Thank you,” Lucien said, then in an attempt to regain control of the situation, and perhaps wipe that look from Simon’s face, he added, “Tell me, what inspired this program for you?” He flipped open the document and began to scan the summary. He knew, after years of experience reading such documents, exactly which sections he needed to look at for the kind of preliminary planning they would do today. He turned a page, and realized that Simon was silent.
Lucien glanced up. “You don’t want to tell me what inspired the program?” he asked, then wondered if that sounded snotty. Ben had told him that sometimes he came across as autocratic. Lucien had initially taken it as a compliment until Ben and a wincing Léo had explained it was not.
From the expression on Simon’s face, he agreed with Ben.
“You’re busy reading” was all he said, and his tone was no longer friendly. Lucien wished for what seemed like the millionth time that he was away from London. How could meeting a man who had always been an idol to him for the purpose of establishing a charity to assist underprivileged children to play football have become such a disaster?
He sighed. His hand itched to rub his forehead, but that type of gesture had been groomed out of him by first his nanny and then the teachers at the exclusive private schools he’d attended.
Lucien decided that blunt honesty was probably a better option than business diplomacy. Simon Wood had always been fairly forthright in media interviews, and if they were going to be working on this program together for at least five years, they definitely didn’t want to start on the wrong foot.
“Simon, I’m sorry. The truth is, my father neglected to tell me about this program. I am not sure why; perhaps he just overlooked it. I first heard about it in the car on the way here. I am excited about it, though. It is the sort of project I have always wanted to be part of, and I am eager to see what you have in mind.” He smiled the social, charming smile that had served him so well over the years, and was heartened when the set look on Simon’s face softened a little, even if he didn’t smile back. “Please tell me what inspired this program. I promise, I can listen and read. I have had a lot of practice.” He increased the sincerity behind his smile.
Simon snorted. “All right, mate, ease up. I get it, you care, even if you’ve got no idea what’s happening. Go on, start reading.”
For a moment, Lucien floundered, taken aback. Then Simon grinned at him, and he tightened his grip on the business plan.
He smiled back weakly, and dropped his gaze to the page he’d been reading.
“So, I started playing football when I was a kid. Always loved it, always knew I was good at it,” Simon said, not boastfully, just factually. “And I was lucky because my parents could manage the cost of all the gear and the club fees. Football kept me busy, and it kept me out of trouble. But I had this mate who played with me for years. He was good too, and it was pretty much known that the two of us were probably going to go on to play professionally.” He paused as Lucien turned a page, and when Lucien glanced up, he continued. “When we were about thirteen, his parents split up. Well, his dad just split, really, took off and was never heard from again. His mum had only ever been a housewife, and suddenly she had to go out and find a job to support herself and three kids. She wasn’t qualified for much, so money got tight, and they had to cut back on luxuries—like football.”
Lucien winced even as he skimmed another page. He’d never had to worry about money, but it was obvious where this story was going.
“Jack—my mate—had a lot of trouble adjusting. They had to move to a council estate, he changed schools, and the only time he got to play football was at his new school, with kids he didn’t know, who weren’t serious about it. He got caught up in a new crowd, a rough crowd, stopped answering when I called. About six months after I saw him last, just a few days after he would have turned fifteen, there was an article in the local paper about him. He died of a heroin overdose.”
Lucien put the business plan down. “I’m so sorry,” he said softly. He’d seen the damage drugs could do in any social circle.
Simon shrugged. “It was rough. He’d been so dedicated to his sport, and he was a good mate. I couldn’t help thinking that if he’d been able to keep playing, it might have been different. Even at a different school, he’d still have had all his football mates, and a lot of his time would have been taken with training. Maybe things would still have turned out the way they did, but….” He shrugged again. “Who knows? It just made me think about how unfair it is that so many kids have the ability and the drive, but are held back because of money, especially in some of the poorer countries.”
Looking back at the plan, Lucien turned that over in his head. Yes, nobody could know whether Jack would have gotten into drugs or not if he’d still been playing football, but the truth was, it could be an expensive game. Not for kids playing in the park, but any who wanted to forge a career in it needed to consider club fees, gear, training camps… and the costs could be prohibitive for low- or even middle-income families. It was one of the reasons he’d always wanted to start a program like this.
He pulled out his laptop and logged in. “This is what I am thinking,” he said, and Simon smiled.
TWO hours later, Lucien stretched. His back had been screaming for attention for far too long, but he hadn’t wanted to break the flow of progress to move. He looked at his watch and winced. “I’ve kept you far longer than I should have,” he apologized to Simon, who shook his head.
“Nah, it’s not a problem. This program is my life priority right now.” The man was keenly intelligent, and had eaten up everything Lucien had to say, often taking information and coming up with new ideas on the spot. They had pages of notes, and a rough plan for moving forward.
“If you don’t have any other appointments to go to, perhaps we can continue. I’d like to finish drafting the—” Lucien broke off as someone knocked. “Enter.”
The door opened, and Margot stuck her head in. “Apologies, but your pilot has called. With the weather worsening, he’s afraid they may close the executive airport later today. He’s managed to secure a departure slot for ninety minutes from now, but if you’re going to make it, you’ll need to leave soon.” Lucien looked at his watch again. He really did not want to be stuck in London another night, but he would have liked to continue for at least a few more hours.
He looked at Simon speculatively. “How serious were you about this program being your ‘life priority’?” he asked. Simon raised an eyebrow.
“Completely,” he assured, and Lucien smiled.
“Excellent. Why don’t you come with me? We can get quite a bit more done in transit, and then this evening.”
Simon shrugged. “Sure. I can come back in the morning, I guess. It’s not like Paris to London is a long flight.”
Lucien, midway through packing up his laptop, stopped as he remembered. “Oh—I�
��m not going to Paris. I’m going to Monaco. Is that all right?”
“Monaco?” Simon shrugged again. “Sure. Haven’t been there for a while. Maybe I’ll stay the weekend. The weather’s better than here.”
“The weather is better than here anywhere,” Lucien said, then paused. “Except Helsinki in February. I would prefer London at any time to Helsinki in February.”
Simon quirked an eyebrow. “Sounds like there’s a story there.”
Slinging his laptop bag over his shoulder, Lucien led the way out the door and toward the elevator. “Not a story. A February in Helsinki.”
With a snort Simon jabbed the call button for the elevator as Margot glided over. “Your car is downstairs,” she informed Lucien, “and the pilot is standing by. He’s filed a flight plan for Nice, and a car will meet you at the airport. I let Paul know you weren’t coming back to Paris, and he said he’s emailed you a list of things that need your attention today. Is there anything else I can do for you?”
“Nothing, thank you— Oh.” Lucien turned to Simon. “Do you mind staying at my apartment this evening? There are rooms to choose from, but if you prefer a hotel—”
Simon was already shaking his head. “Your place is fine. Thanks for the offer.” He smiled warmly, and for a moment, Lucien forgot where he was.
“Yes. Fine. Thank you, Margot. Would you please call the concierge at my apartment building in Monaco and have him arrange for some overnight things for Mr. Wood?”
The Athlete and the Aristocrat Page 2
