The Athlete and the Aristocrat

by Louisa Masters

  “Oh, that’s not necessary,” Simon protested, but Margot just smiled and said, “Of course. Do you have any preferences, Mr. Wood?”

  The elevator doors opened just then, and Lucien stepped inside as Simon insisted he could make do. Margot nodded and kept smiling, and Simon seemed to come to the realization that he wasn’t going to win. “Thank you,” he told her, and got in the elevator.

  Lucien hit the button for the lobby and nodded to Margot as the doors closed.

  “It really isn’t necessary, you know,” Simon said stubbornly. “It’s only one night. I could have made do.”

  Lucien looked at him in surprise. “But why should you have to?” he asked, genuinely confused. Was this a British thing? “You are my guest, and I would be a very bad host if I didn’t see to your needs.” He jerked his gaze away as he realized what he’d said, and hoped Simon didn’t think he’d meant the double entendre. This is ridiculous, he thought. Why am I acting like a scared virgin?

  As the elevator doors opened, he directed the conversation back to the program, and soon they were ensconced in the back of his car, only slightly damp from their dash through the rain, discussing the pros and cons of various selection criteria as they were whisked to the executive airport.

  Chapter Three

  SI settled into the plush seat on the private plane, drink in hand, and tried not to be impressed. He wasn’t exactly hurting for cash himself, but the level of wealth Lucien Morel treated so casually was on a completely different playing field.

  Fancy sending the concierge out for “overnight things”—what were “overnight things,” anyway?—when he’d only be there one night. He could’ve slept starkers—he did most of the time anyway except for the winter—and his clothes would’ve been fine for tomorrow. It wasn’t like he’d worked up a sweat today, sitting in a posh conference room talking.

  Unbidden, the image of working up a sweat with Lucien popped into his mind, and he enjoyed it only for a moment before firmly pushing it aside. As delicious as Lucien was—he’d always liked blond men—there was no way he’d risk this program, not after Édouard Morel’s initial skepticism about supporting a charity for “games.” Si had at first considered the insistence that so important a personage as the Morel heir be attached to the project meant that Morel was serious in his backing, but then Lucien hadn’t known anything about it.

  Still, he knew now, and he’d been very enthusiastic. It was a blessing to have somebody with so much business experience to lend a hand, because while Si knew he was no dunce, he’d been focused on football for most of his life, and the theory involved in his degrees plus the limited experience he had looking after his own interests wouldn’t get him far with this project.

  Lucien came back from conferring with the pilot, and sank into the seat beside him. “It won’t be long,” he assured, and Si let the accented words wash over him. Lucien spoke great English, and was very easy to understand, which was a relief, because Si’s French was truly limited. If he was going to be working with people all over Europe, he should probably look into learning at least a few key phrases from the most common languages.

  He turned to Lucien to ask if he thought it would be worth the time, and saw him smiling at his phone. “Good news?” he asked.

  Lucien looked up, still smiling, and he was so good-looking and charming that Si had to shift in his seat to ease a growing problem. “A friend,” Lucien said. “I texted to let them know I would be in Monaco for breakfast tomorrow, and now Ben is being….” He frowned. “Cheeky?”

  Was he asking if that was the right word? “That depends,” Si said, “on what he said.”

  Lucien offered the phone, and Si took it and glanced at the open text string on the screen. Of the most recent two, the one Lucien had sent was in French, which Si didn’t have a prayer of reading, but the last one was in English.

  You’re flying down before breakfast? That’s not like you. Oh—one-night stand whose bed you want to escape from? :-P

  Si grinned. “Definitely cheeky,” he affirmed. “You didn’t tell him you’re flying in tonight?” He passed back the phone, and Lucien glanced again at the screen and shook his head.

  “No. He will want me to join them this evening.” He began tapping at the screen, but Si reached out and stayed him.

  “Wait, I don’t want to disrupt an evening you were going to spend with friends,” he protested, but Lucien only smiled.

  “There was no plan to do so. I wasn’t supposed to fly in until tomorrow, so they were not even expecting me until late in the morning.” He looked up and met Si’s gaze. “Although, if you like I can tell them to join us later for a drink. I think you may even have met Malik once or twice before.”

  Malik? A jolt went through Si. “Malik al-Saud?” he asked. He was pretty sure that was the only Malik he’d ever met, back in his younger—and wilder—party days. The days he sometimes wished he could forget. The gleam in Lucien’s eyes indicated this was probably one of those times.

  “Yes, Malik al-Saud,” he confirmed, and Si fought down panic as he remembered some of the very irresponsible things he’d done at a party where Malik had been in attendance.

  “We’ve met,” he said weakly. “Er—Lucien, I know you and your father are putting a lot of trust in me with this program, and I want you to know—”

  “Relax.” Lucien was outright grinning now, and once again it completely changed his handsome face. Where before he’d looked very autocratic, he now had a fun-loving air that made him all the more appealing. “I would never judge your current capacity for responsibility on past misdeeds. Malik himself no longer behaves in that way either. We must all grow up, yes?”

  Relief made him laugh. “Yes,” he agreed. “And yes, I remember Malik. We even had a few sober conversations. Sure, I’d like to see him again, and meet your cheeky friend.”

  Lucien went back to texting. “Ben—my cheeky friend—lives with Malik’s cousin Léo. That’s how I met him.” He put his phone away as the plane jolted. “Now, you realize we will have to name this program?”

  SI heard the front door buzzer go just as he finished washing his hands, and he braced himself to meet Lucien’s friends. The afternoon and evening had been mentally exhausting, and he wished he hadn’t encouraged Lucien to invite his friends around. He’d much prefer an early night. And a couple more hours chatting with a sexy blond. Who’re you kidding, old man? You just don’t want to share.

  Shaking the thought away, Si examined himself in the mirror. He looked a bit tired, but considering he’d hardly slept for nerves last night, that was no surprise. And hadn’t he felt like a right twat about that, considering he’d played hundreds of football matches in front of packed stadiums, some of them for championships, and not felt nervous about it since he was a teenager. But this program was important to him, and he’d been worried that the Morel heir would try to shunt him into a minor role. That seemed a stupid thought now—Lucien had made it very clear in his planning that Si would be taking on the lion’s share of work, which made sense, really, since Lucien himself had a full-time job doing… whatever he did at the Morel Corporation.

  Through the flight, the chauffeur-driven journey from Nice airport to the Morel family apartment on Avenue Princesse Grace, and the catered dinner Lucien had ordered, they’d worked. Si had vague memories of Malik al-Saud being a shiftless trust-fund baby, wandering from party to party, but that didn’t seem to be the case with Lucien. The man had fielded emails and text messages while speaking to Si and fleshing the business plan out into a concrete step-by-step to-do list, complete with names of people to contact who might be able to assist. The only thing he hadn’t done was take phone calls—every time the phone had rung, he’d sent it to voicemail. When Si had mentioned he didn’t mind if Lucien took some calls, the blond had shaken his head. “Most of the time, it only needs to be a message, anyway,” he’d said. “Anything urgent would be directed to my assistant, and I always answer his calls.”


  As a result, Si’s dream of a football scholarship program to span Europe now had a solid foundation. He couldn’t wait for Monday morning, when he could start setting their plans into motion. With luck, they’d be able to start sponsoring for next season.

  First, though, he had to leave the bathroom and be social for a while. Come to think, wasn’t Malik al-Saud the son of a royal? And his cousin, who was reportedly attached to him at the hip but whom Si had never met, was the son of another wealthy old French family. Contacts like that could only be good, right?

  Mind made up, he left the bathroom and walked down the hall to the lavish living room they’d been working in. He heard voices, cheerful ones, babbling away in French, and grimaced. Must learn language, he reminded himself. If his association with the Morel Corporation was going to be a long and fruitful one, he should show that he valued it.

  He walked into the living room, and conversation stopped. The three newcomers stared at him, two with surprise, but the gangly younger one looked more curious than anything else. Lucien wore a smug little smile.

  “Hello,” Si said, putting on his sponsorship smile. “I’m—”

  “Simon Wood,” Malik al-Saud said, coming forward with his hand outstretched and a wicked grin. “We’ve met before.”

  “I remember,” Si said ruefully, shaking his hand. “Although I was almost hoping you’d forgotten.”

  Malik laughed. “We’ve all felt that way about something,” he said. “Let’s just leave the past alone, shall we?”

  “Good plan,” Si agreed, and even though Lucien had already said he wouldn’t blame Si for his past peccadilloes, he felt immense relief.

  “Simon Wood?” the gangly man said. “That sounds familiar.” Si was surprised to note that the man spoke with an Australian accent. He studied Si, and then looked at Lucien. “I should recognize that name, shouldn’t I? Have you told me about Simon before?”

  The other three men shouted with laughter, and the Aussie flushed. “Crap, what have I said now?” He grimaced apologetically at Si. “If I’ve offended you, I’m really sorry.”

  “No offense, mate,” Si assured him, wondering who this guy was, exactly. Possibly the Ben Lucien had spoken of earlier?

  “Ben,” the third man, tall, dark, and definitely worth a second look, said, confirming Si’s guess, “Simon Wood is one of England’s most successful football players.”

  “Was,” Si corrected. He’d retired, hadn’t he, and as much as he loved the sport, it had been a relief to pass the torch to the younger players.

  “Football?” Ben asked. “Oh, right—soccer. Well, sorry, I might have heard your name somewhere, but that’s about all I know about the sport. Congratulations on being so good?”

  “Thanks,” Si said, grinning. “Sorry, you’re…?”

  “Right, sorry.” Ben shook his head and stepped forward, offering a hand. “Ben Adams.” Si shook his hand, a little surprised by how firm his grip was. Looking at the man more closely, he saw that despite the gangly appearance, Ben actually had quite a lot of muscle.

  “Nice to meet you,” Si told him, genuinely meaning it. As the other man, the only one Si hadn’t been introduced to, but who was presumably Malik’s cousin, came forward, Ben turned his head and said, “You’re supposed to keep me from making an idiot of myself, remember? That was the deal.”

  The man smiled, slid one arm around Ben’s waist, and offered Si his other hand. “Léo Artois,” he introduced himself. “A pleasure to meet you at last. I always regretted not going with Malik on that trip, but family….” He grimaced and shrugged, and Si laughed.

  “If you’d been there too, I’d really be sweating now,” he admitted, lulled by everyone’s genuine friendliness. “I’m trying to be responsible these days.”

  “Yes, Lucien was just telling us about the program,” Léo said, drawing Ben over to one of the sofas and sitting. Simon followed, and settled in a chair. “But he didn’t mention that you were the person he was working with, or that you were here.”

  Si felt a sudden stab of alarm. Crap, was he intruding? “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to crash your—”

  “You’re not,” Ben interrupted forcefully. “He meant that literally, that we didn’t know you were here, not that we thought you shouldn’t be.” He jabbed his boyfriend in the ribs with an elbow.

  “Indeed,” Léo said, rubbing his side. “I misspoke. I am actually very pleased you are here. I have been a fan for years, though perhaps not so big a one as Lucien.”

  Lucien, in the process of pouring martinis, clanked the pitcher loudly against a glass, and all heads turned in his direction. Si was glad of the sudden reprieve. Lucien was a fan? Now that Si thought about it, both Lucien and his father had mentioned that, and it had been clear while they were working that Lucien followed football, knew the game well and many of the major stakeholders, but Si had somehow equated that to him being a football fan, not a fan of him, personally.

  The idea made him feel… funny. Good funny.

  Who was he kidding? It turned him way the hell on.

  “Simon and I have been working on the program,” Lucien said, and he sounded a little stiff. “He is staying here tonight and going back to London tomorrow. Unless….” He looked at Si, who felt the impact of that blue gaze like a punch to the gut. He’s a fan. Of me. “You mentioned you might stay the weekend?”

  Si forced himself to pull it together. “Er, I hadn’t decided. It’d be nice to escape London and the rain for a bit, but I suppose it also depends if I can get a hotel—I forgot that it was so close to the Grand Prix, and hotels usually book up around now, don’t they?” There, that was a fairly sensible answer. It in no way implied that he wanted Lucien to be one of the fanboys who’d slipped phone numbers to him, willing to sneak around for a night with a famous footballer.

  Even if the idea was appealing.

  “You are most welcome to stay here,” Lucien said. “I would not dream of making you find a hotel.”

  “Oh, I couldn’t—” Si began, because if one night in the man’s apartment was already stirring up naughty thoughts, how much worse would two be?

  “Don’t be silly,” Ben broke in. Si looked his way, and saw that Malik was leaning over the back of the sofa, grinning smugly. “He’s got way too much space here anyway. Did you happen to count the bedrooms? Besides, Léo and I were in London last week, and the weather’s total shit right now. You should definitely stay and enjoy the sunshine while you can. You’ll probably be really busy with this program soon, right?”

  “And this would give you the opportunity to do some more work,” Malik interjected smoothly. “Lucien doesn’t get to London often because he considers it akin to hell, so either you’ll travel a lot yourself, video conference, or you could take advantage of the fact that his bedroom is right down the hall from yours.”

  Léo coughed, and Ben went red, and Si got the sneaking suspicion that while he and Lucien had been talking, the three of them had hatched some sort of nefarious plan. A quick glance at Lucien’s set face seemed to indicate that he wasn’t wrong. Since he wasn’t averse to the idea of sneaking into Lucien’s room, he pretended he’d missed the giant hint. “Perhaps Lucien doesn’t want to spend the weekend working,” he protested. “After all, he’s here to visit with you.”

  Malik waved a hand and straightened. “So you come along, and we all talk business together. He was going to bring Léo into it all, anyway. I like football, and Ben likes meeting new people”—Léo choked on his martini—“and he’s a nurse, so he can probably advise on injury management.” Ben shot Malik a doubting look, but the other man had picked up his own glass and was taking a healthy swig.

  “I was going to ask Léo to get involved,” Lucien admitted, handing Si a glass. Si lifted it to his mouth, trying not to look like he was as desperate for the alcohol as he was. Seriously, he needed to get a grip. “He’s the financial advisor I mentioned earlier today.”

  Si regarded Léo with new interest. Altho
ugh they’d never met, the tales of the two cousins, Malik and Léo, were rather legendary on the party circuit. He’d never heard anything to indicate that Léo Artois was actually a genius financial advisor of the standard Lucien had spoken of.

  “And it’s right up his alley. He mostly does work for charities,” Ben added. Léo shrugged.

  “Well, maybe I will stay,” Si said, trying to sound like he was conceding and not like he wanted to jump Lucien at the earliest opportunity. He didn’t even know that the man was gay, although based on the heavy-handed hints his friends were dropping, it seemed likely. Plus, that zing every time they accidentally touched couldn’t be just on his side, could it?

  “Excellent,” Malik pronounced. “We’ll have plenty of time to talk business, I assure you. Our plans are quite loose—drinks tonight, breakfast and dinner tomorrow—”

  “Dinner!” Ben exclaimed. “I should call and adjust the reservation.”

  Lucien laughed, Malik groaned, and Léo put his arm around Ben. Si frowned. “I don’t want to cause any hassle—”

  “Don’t worry, Simon,” Lucien said, “you won’t be causing any hassle.”

  “Ben.” Léo leaned toward his boyfriend, who was tapping the screen of his phone. “We’ve been through this before. Do you really think the restaurant is going to mind if we arrive with one extra person? They already know we’re coming, thanks to your reservation.” Ben had a particularly stubborn look on his face, and he slid out from under Léo’s arm and stood.

  “It will only take me a moment to call them,” he insisted, and lifted his phone to his ear as he walked toward through french doors to the balcony. Léo sighed and leaned back.

  “I feel as though I’ve missed something,” Si admitted.

  “Ben feels strongly that reservations are always required,” Malik said, refilling his glass from the pitcher. “He gets… er, annoyed when we don’t plan ahead.”

  Si nodded. Over the years, he’d taken advantage of the fact that his fame opened all manner of doors for him, which meant he could walk into almost any restaurant at any time and get a table. While he’d enjoyed it at first, it had made him rather uncomfortable after a while, especially when he remembered how long people waited for reservations at some of those restaurants. In the end, he’d compromised by calling ahead for a reservation if he knew what his plans were going to be, giving the restaurant time to rearrange things if necessary.