Box of 1Night Stands: 21 Sizzling Nights

by Anthology

  To his surprise, the woman who had provided him with the tent pole in his sweatpants appeared right in front of him, the toe of her black patent leather shoe tapping with impatience. He looked up, straight into a pair of the most beautiful deep green eyes he’d ever seen. But they weren’t happy to see him. She yanked the boy’s hand away and bent her knees to meet his eager face. He couldn’t help but grin as the kid kept staring, ignoring his mother in the way unique to small boys.

  “Harrison Joseph Winter, leave the guests alone.” She gave him a nudge then finally gripped his chin and pulled his face to hers. “How many times….” She sighed when he wiggled out of her grasp and sat back down, short legs swinging.

  When she drew up to her full height, the vision was stunning. He barely heard her speak at first, and had to consciously clamp his mouth shut. He hoped to hell he hadn’t drooled. The woman must be a former athlete of some sort. Easily six feet plus in four-inch heels, with a classically feminine shape, her toned legs, arms, and shoulders undisguised by the suit.

  “I’m sorry, can you hear me?” He realized he’d been ignoring her as blatantly as the kid, who at that moment had climbed up into his lap in excitement. He registered her tone as one usually reserved for small children or deaf uncles.

  “Uh, sorry.” He winced, trying to get to his feet and ease the boy off. “It’s okay. I, um, needed to rest a minute before….” She put a hand on his shoulder to indicate he should stay seated. The spark that flew from her touch made him blink. He sat quickly to hide the embarrassing bulge in his crotch.

  “Harrison, come here,” the lovely creature snapped. The boy jumped down. “Mr. Castillo, I am so sorry. I know you’re here to recuperate anonymously. He won’t bother you again. Please let me know if you need any help from our staff.” She tugged the boy beside her before he could get the, but mom…out, turned and gave him an incredible rear view. He groaned under his breath.

  Gillian punched in a phone number she’d memorized. Jackson Castillo managed the most exclusive resort casino on the Strip and had tried like hell to get her to come work for him, claiming she would be a real coup as an employee. Barring that, he tried even harder to get her to agree to one of Madame Eve’s dates. He’d struck out completely on both counts—more than once. He catered to millionaires and celebrities, but kept a low profile on the fact that prearranged trysts were consummated there almost daily.

  Jackson’s smooth voice filled her ear. “So, have you come to your senses? Have you decided to let Madame work her magic?”

  Her face flushed. Only very select circles could afford the high end dating service run by Madame Evangeline. Because she handled the catering and wedding services at one of the larger resorts, Gillian knew of Eve and had been a big fan of hers for a while. “No, you know better than that.” Her throat tightened at the thought of an actual date. Two years widowed at thirty-six, her nights were still tormented by dreams of Joe Winter, her husband, former coach and soul mate. “I saw your cousin at my place today. I, um, didn’t know he…well….” She trailed off, words failing her.

  Jackson chuckled, a musical sound that made her shiver with the memory of how incredibly hot and somehow vulnerable the young man had looked in her lobby a few moments ago.

  “Ah, Ramon, yes. He has been here nearly three months now. His leg is almost fully recovered. But he refuses to go out with any of the beautiful women Eve can line up for him. It’s all the time therapies, swimming, therapies and sleep. He needs someone to look at, talk to, think about other than his career.”

  Gillian gulped. She’d been annoyingly weak in the knees ever since walking away from Ramon. His dark chocolate eyes held a pain that went beyond the physical. And his body, hidden under a loose T-shirt and sweatpants, already seemed familiar to her. A former collegiate and pro star goalie herself, she had followed his quick rise to the top of men’s professional soccer. She admittedly nurtured a deep-seated resentment for Ramon Castillo and his ilk—the superboy stars who continued beyond college and actually made a living doing what they loved—playing the game she loved. But the man had been pure poetic beauty on the field.

  “Well, of course Harrison went ape shit when he saw the guy. And, well, I wondered…since he’s your cousin….” She let the comment trail away, unable to ask her real question: would the former world champion soccer player, celebrity playboy, sometime model, ruined in front of an international audience a year ago by a Dutch player with a grudge and good aim, come play soccer with her and her nine-year-old son? The very thought seemed ludicrous. She sighed, ready to put an end to the conversation.

  Jackson stopped her. “That’s brilliant!” His unusually eager tone should have been a dead giveaway that he was up to something.

  She frowned, pouring Harrison into the backseat of the car, ignoring his constant stream of consciousness about the soccer hero he’d just met. Since she could hardly ever sleep without waking, screaming in anguish at dreams of her late husband, she took a couple of night shifts in the wedding chapel at the MGM. The overnight sitter had dropped her son off an hour ago and she’d planned to spend the whole day with him at his favorite activity—soccer.

  She switched the phone to her other ear and slid behind the wheel.

  “Huh?”

  “That’s an amazing idea! He needs this. He’s resisted soccer, women, drinking, and has recently become overly fond of my high stakes blackjack table.”

  She took a deep breath, holding down her long held anger at male athletes like Castillo. But the sight of him close up, the honest smile he’d given her and the heat of his dark skin under her palm when she had impulsively touched his shoulder, made moisture pool somewhere in the vicinity of her panties.

  The whole thing suddenly seemed embarrassing—and unnecessary. If she could get the guy to pay a little attention to her boy for an hour or so, that would suffice.

  “Well, Harrison and I go to Soccer Plus three times a week now that his club is off for the summer. We’re headed there around noon today. Maybe, if you asked him.” She still couldn’t verbalize the thought.

  “Done.” Jackson declared. “He’ll be there.”

  “But—” she started to protest. She’d read all the gossip rags about how he’d sworn off soccer forever. His plans to finish his engineering degree. She didn’t believe it any more than those writers did. The man had been a dynamo on the soccer pitch—like a ballet dancer, all rippling thighs, strong body, concentration and talent, utterly breathtaking to watch. She gripped the steering wheel when Jackson cut her off.

  “Do not doubt me. But I will need your help convincing him to stay. He’s due back in St. Louis with his team in a couple of days. I want him to take over the Black Jacks—take our semi- pro team to the big time. He’ll never play at his old level again and we all know it. So I’m taking that in trade for me getting him over to you today.” Jackson hung up, leaving her staring out her minivan windshield, silent phone in hand.

  Stay? Take over the newly successful semi-pro soccer team out here? What the hell made Jackson think that would fly?

  “Mommy?” Harrison’s unhappy voice interrupted her daze. “It’s hot. Can we go? Hey, do ya think he’d play with me? He looked really hurt today, Mom. Mom?”

  Gillian sighed and drove out onto the Vegas Strip, pointed her car toward home, and let her son’s monologue continue, unabated and unanswered.

  Later, she crept into Harrison’s room as he napped. Watching the living result of the love she’d shared so intensely with Joe had a calming effect on her. She sipped her coffee, and put a hand on his small back.

  After about an hour, she rose and drifted into her room. Setting the coffee cup down on the bathroom counter, she appraised herself. Tall, still reasonably fit, although slipping into lazy habits, long red hair scraped back in a familiar ponytail. She had a body meant for sports, and for her husband. She sighed and let a tear slip down her cheek. The ding of a text startled her. Jackson.

  He will be at Soccer Plu
s at noon.

  Her face flushed at the thought. Thanks a lot. Harrison will be beside himself.

  A slight delay preceded the message that she would later realize signaled a life-changing moment.

  I think you and Ramon could heal together.

  Chapter Two

  “You told her what?” Ramon stared at his cousin in disbelief.

  “That you would be meeting her and her son at noon at Soccer Plus.”

  “And what the fuck am I supposed to do with them there?” He protested while his body began reacting to the thought of being that close to the gorgeous redhead from the MGM lobby. But Jackson had no right to do this. He’d sworn off soccer. All that ridiculous time, energy, money spent, only to get cut down in your prime by a random bullshit event. He turned and started to walk out of Jackson’s office. The hour-long massage had loosened his leg, but his head started to pound at the latest turn of events.

  “You will do this. Not because you owe me or anything. But because I’ve just made it a condition of your stay here.”

  He gripped the doorknob. Yes, he owed his entire life to the Castillo clan. Born to a drug-addicted prostitute and left to languish in a Cuban-American neighborhood welfare hospital, he’d been adopted by the Castillo family, and Jackson in particular had taken an early interest in his natural athletic abilities. He’d paid for early training in the lily-white suburbs, amongst the wealthy soccer moms with their shiny SUVs. The rest could be called soccer history, including this latest ignominious chapter.

  His shoulders slumped and he nodded, not turning back to face the man at the desk. “Okay—but just once. And I am not doing this for her or that kid. I’m doing it for you.”

  “That’s fine. But I assure you that you may have met your match with Gillian Winter.”

  Suddenly curious in spite of his irritation, he turned. Jackson leaned back in his chair, shiny dress shoes propped on the huge walnut expanse of a desk, one eyebrow cocked.

  “Gillian Winter….” He had a sudden flash of realization. She had been the goal keeper for the women’s national team back when he’d still been playing at the under-nineteen level. He’d quickly moved up. But she had left her gold-medal winning team after two brilliant seasons.

  “Christ.” He ran a hand over his face, yanked open the door and stomped out. First, the pressure to stay in Vegas to take over the semi-pro team Jackson had funded with several other successful resort owners. And now this?

  Back in his suite, resentment roiled in his gut at Jackson’s overt manipulation. The man would not give up trying to get him to admit he would never leave soccer. But he had to. He gulped down his second espresso, and made a halfhearted stab at some eggs for protein. His whole life had been regimented by his sport. Without the structure provided by the game he absolutely adored, he slipped, unmoored, aimless, through the days. The pain in his leg matched the excruciating pain in his chest at the thought of never playing again.

  Although claiming to himself he didn’t really care that much, he found pictures of her on the web. He leaned on his elbows and studied the laptop screen. Her intense gaze as she readied herself in goal struck him hard. He knew that feeling. The celebrations with her team, especially the one after the women’s World Cup gold medal victory made him smile. The one at a press conference, when she announced her retirement, pregnant by the coach of the team, showed her as tough, resolved and sad. Her husband had apparently died of a rare heart condition two years ago, keeled over on the sidelines one day while coaching a club team here in Vegas. And I thought my life was fucked up? He frowned and slammed the laptop closed.

  Might as well get it over with. He put on loose-fitting shorts and a T-shirt, flexed his knee a few times, and marveled at how it had healed. He recalled the utter torture of major surgery, a two week twilight of pain killers, four more in early therapy, trying to get the damn thing to bear his weight. The four months in intensive repair work with weights, swimming, yoga and some light running had been working. But his entire body tensed at the thought of donning shin guards and cleats. He simply could not do it. Choosing short socks and indoor turf shoes instead, he grabbed one of the soccer balls lying around his room and made for the front door and taxi stand.

  He’d do this thing. Kick a ball around with that kid. Try not to be a walking hard on in the presence of the woman he now knew equal to his own talent. And be done with it. His thoughts wandered to the blackjack tables where his night would end, comforted by the concept of winning a few bucks in solitude once again.

  The smells, sights and sounds of a busy indoor soccer arena made his throat close in panic. He realized he hadn’t darkened the door of any sort of pitch or venue for nearly a year, and now remembered why. In less than one week, he had to report back to his team in St. Louis to get evaluated by the trainers and team doctor. He’d avoided it for so long, hanging out like a loser at blackjack tables instead of readying himself for the inevitable. Lame. But he barely managed to drop into the nearest chair and ignore the frank stares of the kids and parents that swarmed the place without getting ill.

  Leaning over, elbows on knees, he fought with every ounce of his being not to run back out the door. His knee and shin started throbbing in sympathy. He clenched his eyes shut and tried to still the mantra: I can’t do this…I can’t do this…I can’t go back here…it’s too much work…it’s….

  A hand on his knee broke his concentration. He jerked his head up and stared straight into a set of deep green, worried eyes. The sudden urge to stand, take her with him and kiss her overwhelmed him until he had to grit his teeth against it. She smiled. The understanding in her gaze helped. His heart kept pounding, but he smiled back as he glimpsed Harrison’s bright hair and freckled face peeking around his mother’s long legs. They were both dressed to play.

  “Mom,” Harrison tugged at her shorts. “Is that really….” He pointed, his smile huge and infectious.

  “Ramon Castillo. I’m pleased to meet you.” The woman guided the boy from behind her and pushed him forward. The kid introduced himself, his face bright with awe. Ramon couldn’t help but grin at his enthusiasm. “Do me a favor, Harry.” Harrison looked up at his mom and she nodded. “Don’t make a big deal about it because I came here today to play with you.”

  The boy nodded and reached for his mother’s arm.

  “Oh, and with my mom. She’s a killer goalie, you know.”

  Ramon got to his feet, only somewhat confident his legs would hold him and he wouldn’t throw up.

  “Yeah, I’ve heard.” He extended a hand to her. She took it, and his entire body zinged at the connection. She gasped and stepped back, covering the awkward moment by kneeling down and talking to her son. Ramon froze in place, words caught in his throat, watching her strong body move under a tight T-shirt and soccer shorts. She finally stood back up and faced him.

  “So, no gloves?” He pointed at her hands, devoid of the protection goalkeepers usually wore.

  She gave him a challenging look. “You counting on me needing them?”

  He put a hand on her back, dying to touch her again, and using the excuse of getting them out of a growing crowd of gawkers to do so.

  “You might be surprised.” Some of his old confidence returned. The combination leather-sweat-turf odors of the place no longer made him nauseous, but became familiar and energizing. He hadn’t so much as passed a soccer ball since his accident. Something about the moment made him want that, if for no other reason than to divert the raging lust for the woman he followed onto the field.

  Gillian’s hands were on fire. But she had no complaints. The vision of Ramon Castillo, kicking a soccer ball around with her son, the beauty of his rippling muscles as they took turns hitting it toward her took her breath away. She never wanted it to stop.

  He’s leaving in two days, remember? Jesus, woman, get a grip.

  But finally, she had to hold up one stinging hand and take a break. She’d made some amazing saves; she knew it and the admiration in
the man’s mesmerizing dark eyes kept growing. They officially had a crowd and Harrison played it up like only he could. The kid had the attitude of a soccer stud—self-confident to a fault. And he showed signs of talent to match. She walked off toward the bathrooms to grab an ice pack from the first aid station, leaving the former star and her son in passing drills.

  Taking a minute to catch her breath, visions of Joe passed through her brain, as they always did when around their favorite game. She’d avoided any sort of serious soccer since his death. The two were so entwined, she couldn’t imagine enjoying it ever again without him. Watching Harrison’s games were hard enough. But today seemed like a turning point. She’d been in her element, in goal, her competitive nature winning out. She smiled, thinking of Jackson’s declaration about mutual healing.

  Ice packs clutched between aching palms, she turned and nearly plowed straight into him. He was so close she could smell him, feel the heat from his skin. He grabbed her arm to keep her upright.

  “Oh, um, sorry.” He pointed to the ice. “You okay?”

  “Yeah, sure. Don’t get cocky though. I just needed gloves. I can still stop you. You project you know, I can see it in your eyes every time you pull your leg back. And your favorite spot is upper right corner. I got it every time if I’m not mistaken.” She smiled, trying like hell to be calm.

  He shrugged and grinned. Her heart leapt at the sight. The silky-looking brown skin, raven’s-wing black hair and chocolate-colored eyes, and a boyish look of self-deprecation completely unlike his public persona nearly undid her. The man fucked supermodels—apparently two or three at a time, she’d read. And she believed it now that she’d been this close to him. He oozed sexuality and confidence in spite of himself—not hard to do if you were a millionaire twice over thanks to endorsements. She let resentment creep back in as a defensive mechanism. He ran a hand through his sweaty hair and shot her a sheepish look.