Playing House (Sydney Smoke Rugby)

by Amy Andrews

  Eleanor supposed someone who looked like Anna could do that with confidence. But Eleanor had marinated in romantic notions with every Heyer and Austen she’d read and she’d rather die a spinster than accept anything less than full fidelity and commitment.

  “She genuinely couldn’t see what the problem was. That my outrage at her betrayal was some kind of macho act that I’d get over. That I’d come to my senses when I saw the advantages of our union.”

  It sounded perfectly terrible to Eleanor.

  “She saw our union as something practical. A mutually beneficial partnership. I did not.”

  Eleanor’s heart just about swelled out of her mouth at Bodie’s rejection of such a calculated union. “So you split?”

  “Yes.”

  The definitive answer was pleasing. No wistful notes of what if or if only. But still…

  “It can’t have been easy.”

  “It hurt for a while, turned me into a bit of cynic.” He shrugged. “Your brother was right. I spent a while there trying to soothe my battered ego with some women who did want more from me than a plus one at social events. But that got old and I stopped, decided to put my all into rugby, and then—”

  Eleanor’s pulse leaped wildly as he reached for her hand and entwined his fingers with hers. Their surroundings melted away at his touch—there was no car cabin, no impatient traffic noises. Just him.

  They could have been in a spaceship for all she cared.

  “There was you. Talking about nineteenth-century hypnotists and looking like you wanted to melt into that potted palm.” He smiled. “You were so soft and warm and welcoming. Anna’s all hard edges and angles, her body and her personality. Her brain was always busy working out how to use situations and connections to her advantage. But you…” He kissed the back of her hand. “There was no agenda with you.”

  Eleanor tried not to let his words go to her head. Or her heart. God knew they’d already crawled straight between her legs. “To be fair, there was the whole deflowering thing.”

  He laughed. “Yes, but you didn’t go to the party specifically to lose your virginity, did you? You hadn’t checked out all our vital stats and our net worth and made a list of who to talk to and wrangled an introduction.”

  “Of course not.” Was he crazy? The thought of talking to any of the beautiful people had left her in knots.

  “No.” He nodded and smiled at her so gently it felt as if he was holding her heart in his hands. “You were just standing there and you were charming and captivating and the moment I saw you from across the room I knew I had to talk to you.”

  Eleanor’s ribs felt too big for her chest. Lordy—the man had a way with words, snaking inside her and going straight to her head. Maybe she should be worried that he’d somehow subconsciously chosen her because she was the opposite of his ex. But he sounded well and truly shod of her and hell if she didn’t want to throw her leg over him right now and thank him for making her feel like the only woman in the world.

  Who knew sincerity was such an aphrodisiac?

  “You want to hear about my underwear now?”

  He laughed. “You know I do.”

  “I bought them this morning. They’re Spider-Man inspired.”

  “Really?” Bodie’s voice dropped, as did his gaze, lingering on her cleavage.

  “The bra cups are like spider webs that stretch out over my boobs and just manage to hold everything in. Lotta skin on display. Maybe even some nipple.”

  “Jesus.”

  His nostrils flared and a corresponding flare zapped up Eleanor’s spine. “And the pants have a spider web on the front and bite me stamped across the back.”

  He swallowed. “Sounds like an invitation I don’t want to pass up.”

  “You really don’t. You should hurry.”

  Eleanor grinned as Bodie surveyed the traffic with a frustrated eye and beeped his horn. “Out of my way. Man trying to get laid, people.”

  Miraculously, a clearing opened in the traffic, and Bodie didn’t hesitate. Taking full advantage of the break, he accelerated away.

  …

  Eleanor had been nervous enough about meeting Bodie’s parents, but that increased a hundredfold as they sat on the deck of their harbourside mansion a week later. Sparkling water and the arch of the Sydney Harbour Bridge were just visible through the trees.

  They were seriously rich.

  Ryder had told her a long time ago that his bestie had come from a wealthy family. And she’d Googled Bodie the day after the engagement party to find out his father, Conrad Webb, owned a mega successful financial services company. But views-of-the-harbour-bridge rich she hadn’t expected.

  Never in her life had she felt more like a country hick.

  But it was his mother’s birthday, and his father was hosting a family lunch in her honour. Plus, she was officially twelve weeks pregnant tomorrow, and Bodie figured it was as good a time as any for her to meet his parents.

  Not to tell them about the baby—not just yet. They were telling her parents first, after the Smoke’s game tomorrow. Today was more an introduction than anything.

  And so here they were—all four of them—on a sunny Saturday, enduring a rather stilted affair, despite the stunning scenery. Bodie had never talked much about his parents and in this crushingly formal atmosphere she understood why. It was nothing like the raucous, talk-over-the-top-of-each-other carry on that generally punctuated a Davis family dinner.

  His mother, Pamela, seemed nice, if a little strained, and was making an effort to converse with Eleanor, but his father had spoken to her just enough to find out she was Ryder’s sister—a plus, she thought—and the daughter of a farmer.

  Not a plus.

  Conrad had said farmer in much the same way someone of his social standing might say Kardashian. Still, being dismissed was preferable to being hammered with questions like Bodie. About his investments and his endorsements and had he given any more thought to joining the company after his rugby career ended.

  Bodie was clearly not comfortable with any of the questions, blocking and avoiding at every turn.

  “Anna mentioned that she’d run into you at the Victorian fashion exhibition at the Mossman School of Design last week.”

  Eleanor stiffened at Pamela’s enquiry and what was remaining of her appetite deserted her. She was sure his mother had only mentioned it to try and change the subject, but Eleanor already felt inferior enough in this company without bringing Anna into it.

  “Yes,” Bodie said, his jaw tight.

  Conrad gave a harsh laugh, obviously finding the idea absurd. “What on earth were you looking at a bunch of old musty dresses for?”

  A prickle of irritation burrowed into the back of Eleanor’s neck. Old musty dresses? Conrad was really pushing his luck now.

  “Eleanor’s an expert on the Victorian era, particularly the fashion. She runs her own business making replica vintage clothing from the eighteen hundreds.”

  Conrad’s eyebrows shot up. Now she had his attention. Not just a farmer’s daughter.

  Bodie took after his father in many ways. They had the same height and build, the same olive colouring. But there was a ruthless edge to Conrad that was unsettling. A sharpness that left her feeling like she’d had a dollar value put on her head.

  “That’s lovely,” Pamela said, smiling kindly. “I can’t sew a stitch. What’s your business called?”

  “Queen Victoria’s Closet.”

  “What’s its annual turnover?”

  Eleanor blinked at the rapid-fire question from Conrad.

  “Dad.” The warning in Bodie’s voice was loud and clear.

  “What?” Conrad smiled, as if to show he was bearing no malice, but it didn’t help. Not when it reminded her too much of a great white shark. “I’m just curious. From one businessperson to another.”

  Eleanor knew exactly what her annual turnover was, but she didn’t think a paltry thirty thousand dollars would be enough to impress Conrad Webb.<
br />
  “Oh it’s just a small concern,” she dismissed, her cheeks heating.

  “So it’s a hobby? Not a business?”

  “That’s enough, Dad.”

  Eleanor flinched at the steel in Bodie’s voice. His mother’s expression pinched slightly before she recovered to plaster a smile on her face and change the subject.

  “Did you have a favourite dress in the exhibition?”

  It took a moment for Eleanor to gather her thoughts. “My favourite garment wasn’t a dress, actually. It was a man’s frock coat, and it was divine. It was made by one of their students from a vintage pattern.”

  “Oh yes.” Bodie squeezed her leg under the table as he nodded enthusiastically. She could have kissed him. “It was better than half that crap you see dudes wearing on catwalks.”

  His father stared incredulously at him, but Pamela ploughed on. “And that’s the kind of thing you do?”

  “Yes.” Even to her own ears, Eleanor sounded stilted and she hated that the ease with which she usually slipped into her favourite subject was in tatters. “I make replica outfits from old patterns. Dresses mainly, but any item of clothing really.”

  There was no way Eleanor would tell them about the lingerie, but she was conscious of the pantaloons she was wearing beneath her A-line skirt. Or maybe that was just because of the heat of Bodie’s palm on her thigh.

  “So you’ll be prancing around in frock coats, then?” Conrad jeered, his chin stuck out at an arrogant angle. “Can’t see it myself.”

  “Oh I can.”

  The words slipped out before Eleanor could stop them, but she wasn’t sorry. She had absolutely no problem seeing it. She’d been fantasizing about Bodie in that bloody frock coat for a week and had already made plans to make it for him over the coming months. Ideally, if they’d been going to have a wedding, she’d have made it for that, but no doubt there’d be some place he could wear it.

  Bodie smiled at her, and it bubbled like a drug through her veins. She smiled back, suddenly giddy.

  Conrad, on the other hand, looked like he was going to say more, but they were saved from it by two kitchen staff suddenly appearing with a couple of platters of Sydney rock oysters. Eleanor’s stomach heaved at the sight of them, but she’d never been happier to see the slimy, snotty delicacy in her entire life.

  …

  After lunch, Conrad had asked Bodie for a private word and Bodie had reluctantly disappeared inside. Pamela invited her over to the railing, and they talked pleasantly about the history of the area and the house as they watched the Manly ferry head to Circular Quay.

  Twenty minutes later the men were still gone, which made Eleanor nervous enough without holding onto her painfully stretched bladder. It was amazing how much she’d peed in the last twelve weeks! She asked Pamela for directions to the bathroom and hurried inside.

  Washing up afterward, she inspected herself in the mirror. She’d ditched her regulation plastic claw and used pins to tame her hair today. She’d also chosen a blouse with a demure neckline and no corset underneath. The way Bodie looked at her when she wore one was not fit for polite company.

  Still, she felt naked without it. Like a knight without armour, and she thanked God for her frilly-bummed pantaloons beneath her skirt, bolstering her confidence.

  Not that it mattered what she wore—it didn’t take a psychologist to know Conrad Webb was not much of an Eleanor fan. Even sadder, he didn’t seem to be much of a Bodie fan, either. He hadn’t asked Bodie a thing about rugby the entire time.

  Eleanor would have thought that Conrad’s giant ego would have lapped up his son’s rugby god status. Instead, he treated it like it was an unfortunate diversion when Pamela had asked about it. An act of recalcitrance from a son whose one true path led to business, not sporting glory.

  Heading back out to join Pamela again, she stopped abruptly in the corridor at the sound of her name. A door was cracked open. The fullness of her bladder had precluded all else on her way past, but she could see it now. And hear the conversation going on behind it.

  She shouldn’t eavesdrop. Wasn’t there some old saying about people who listen in on others’ conversations never hearing good of themselves? But she couldn’t stop, either.

  “What do you mean, you’re going to marry her? You’ve known her for a few weeks!”

  “I mean I’m going to get a license next week and in a month we’re getting married.”

  Eleanor wanted to object. The deal was they were going to talk about getting a license next week. But given she was eavesdropping, she could hardly butt in. Not to mention the tiny trill of excitement that fluttered through her belly over Bodie’s eagerness.

  “You’re going to marry a…seamstress? From buttfuck nowhere?” Eleanor couldn’t see Conrad, but she was pretty sure he’d probably just spluttered that enquiry out with a bunch of spittle.

  “Yes.”

  Bodie’s voice was much lower than his father’s, so Eleanor couldn’t hear what inflection, if any, he’d used with that yes. Happy. Positive. Determined.

  Resigned?

  “Christ. She’s up the duff, isn’t she?”

  “Dad.”

  “Isn’t she?”

  There was a pause for a beat or two and Eleanor held her breath, the thump of her heart so loud in her ears it must surely be reverberating around the hallway.

  Say no. Tell him to…go fuck himself.

  “What if she is?”

  Groping for the wall beside her, Eleanor’s breath left her lungs in a rush.

  “I hope you’re getting a paternity test.”

  Eleanor hadn’t expected to hear congratulations. She expected anger and more bluster. But she hadn’t expected this quick fire, calculated comeback. “I don’t need one.”

  “Christ, son, don’t be a fool. How many paternity suits are levelled against elite athletes? Not to mention rich ones with trust accounts.”

  A trust account? Bodie had a trust account?

  “The baby is mine.” Eleanor shut her eyes as the floor beneath her tilted. Bodie’s decisive claim of paternity was the only bright spark in the ugly hue of this conversation.

  “I thought they taught you to be smarter than that. I know I sure as shit did. I suppose you think you love her.”

  Eleanor’s eyelids flew open. She needed to leave. Now. She ordered her feet to move. She did not want to hear this. The contempt in Conrad’s voice was bad enough.

  But again, her feet refused to budge.

  Bodie’s stiff, “I’m not discussing this with you,” lodged like a bullet in her heart.

  What did that mean?

  It was crazy to want him to say yes. It was ridiculous to think—to hope—he could be in love with her. This wasn’t a Heyer novel. It was real life. And his father was correct, it was far too early for such…romantic folly. They’d only been together for a month.

  So why did it hurt so much he’d not said it?

  Why?

  Because he’d dismissed it so quickly? Like it hadn’t even entered his head?

  That thought was like a fist to her throat and she hurried away, wishing she’d never stopped to eavesdrop at all.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “You’re not going to join the family business after your rugby career ends, are you?”

  Bodie was startled out of his reverie by the question. They were driving home from his parents’ house, the conversation with his father still playing heavily on his mind. He maintained a relationship with his father for his mother’s sake, but it was getting harder and harder to stay civil.

  Hell, if he hadn’t wanted to knock his father’s flashy white veneers down his neck as he’d tried to cast doubt on the paternity of his baby.

  “Not even if I was penniless.”

  She visibly relaxed, and so did he. She’d been quiet—more so than usual—during the meal and had practically dragged him to the car when he’d suggested it was time to leave.

  “I’m sorry about my father.” He
gave a dismissive shrug. It was what it was. If it had been up to Bodie, he’d have kept Eleanor away from him for much, much longer. But with their marriage hopefully imminent, it was inevitable that it would be sooner rather than later.

  “Has he always been so…full on?”

  Bodie almost laughed out loud at her polite euphemism for overbearing. “Yes.” It pained Bodie to admit it but it was true. “He comes from old money. Generations of private schools breeding ruthless businessmen. Everything is an acquisition or a merger to him. He doesn’t know anything else.”

  “I’d have thought old money would be into the whole rugby scene, though?” The sport was, after all, firmly entrenched in the private school culture.

  Bodie snorted. “No. He had a particular career path in mind for his son and heir and it didn’t involve being sidetracked by something as frivolous as sport.”

  “Yes, but…you were obviously really good at it?”

  There was an incredulity in her voice that only someone who has come from a large, loving extended family could affect.

  The kind of family he wanted for his baby.

  “It didn’t matter. He always discouraged it. He never came and saw me play as a kid. In fact, he’s rarely seen me play with the Smoke, unless he has some clients he wants to impress with free entry to his corporate box.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Her voice trembled with empathy. If he wasn’t driving he’d lean right over and kiss that troubled little V between her brows. He was used to his old man’s crap but it had clearly shaken Eleanor.

  “I do have a lot to thank him for,” Bodie admitted. “I get my drive to win, my competitive streak from him. Getting ahead in this sport, getting to an elite level, requires a killer instinct, and I learned it from the best.”

  She nodded and he knew she understood. Her brother might be all laid-back-cowboy on the surface, but under it all he was as focused on his career as the rest of the team.

  “I’m my father’s son.” Frankly that scared the bejesus out of him.

  “No.” She shook her head vehemently. “You’re not like him, you know why? Because you play on a team. You’ve learned the people around you make you stronger, and you need to trust them to have your back just as you have theirs. Business is a solo sport, and your father’s learned not to trust anyone. That doesn’t make him strong. It makes him foolish.”