Kick It Up Read online

  Watching Simon throw back his longish blond locks and laugh, she balanced the toe of her sensible shoe on the luggage cart, rolling it back and forth. She could think of a few ways she’d like to occupy the golden boy, and they involved chocolate syrup and one of those goal nets. But despite her sticky insides, she had no plans to fall at his soccer cleats. He’d have plenty of women to keep him busy, and besides, he had too much success, money, and good looks to really annoy her parents.

  The luggage carousel squealed to life and began spitting bags out of the chute. Simon jogged back to her side and jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “A few fans.” His blue eyes glimmered with pleasure. You’d think the guy would be used to fans approaching him. He’d been playing professional soccer since he was sixteen – another factoid she’d gleaned from Evan. “You must be accustomed to creating more of a sensation than this. Evan told me about your popularity in Europe.”

  “What do you mean by that?” His mouth tightened as he raked stiff fingers through his hair.

  So the golden boy had a soft spot on that hard body of his. Time to tread lightly. She didn’t want to lose this job just when it had started getting good. “I heard you can cause riots in Europe just by walking down the street. It must be nice to have a little lower profile here.”

  “Give me one season, and I’ll be causing riots here too.” His chest rose and fell, and the grin returned.

  He could cause all the riots he wanted once Evan returned from vacation – earthquakes, floods, and famine too – but not on her watch. Nope. She had to hold onto this job, prove to everyone that she could stick with something longer than Donald Trump could stick with his latest wife.

  Their driver snagged Simon’s matching Yves St.

  Laurent suitcases from the carousel and loaded them on the cart with Simon’s help. In fact, Simon had done most of the loading. The doors whisked open, and she followed Simon as he strode onto the sidewalk into the cool evening air. He flicked back the sleeve of his expensive jacket and checked his Rolex. Did he own anything that didn’t have a designer label stuck to it? Probably had a logo on his underwear too...and she wouldn’t mind doing the verification.

  Crossing his arms, he surveyed the stretch limo at the curb with a tight jaw. True to celebrity form. She suppressed a sigh. This job might be more difficult than she’d imagined, and they hadn’t even gotten to the protective custody part yet. “Sorry, no hot tub in this one.

  Isn’t it big enough for you?”

  He jerked around sharply, and she pasted a smile on her face. “Sir.”

  To hell with keeping Simon out of trouble. Maybe she should tame her sarcastic tongue before it got her into trouble. Celebrities and sarcasm didn’t mix unless you did the mixing behind their backs and sugar-coated it. She sucked in a breath and held it.

  “It’s plenty big.” Simon laughed and grabbed the door handle. “And stop with the Mr. Bosford and sir rubbish. Call me Simon.”

  Blowing out that breath, she hung back and waited for him to enter the dark interior of the car, but he gestured her in first. A soccer player and a gentleman, someone’s mum taught him right. She slid across the black leather seat to the far corner, and he ducked in after her, bringing with him the faded scent of spicy, masculine cologne that had her imagining him in nothing but his designer underwear.

  Before the limo even crawled into the line of cars circling LAX, Simon pulled a bottle of champagne from the silver bucket. He expertly popped the cork and held the bottle aloft. “Drink?”

  The wisp of bubbles floated toward her, tickling her nose. She didn’t know the protocol here. Did the rules allow assistants to drink with the clients? Did the rules demand assistants drink with the clients? Her gaze traveled past the bottle and collided with Simon’s questioning eyes. His lips turned up in a devilish smile. That come-do-me grin spelled trouble.

  Evan must’ve been smoking something if he thought she could tame the appetites of Simon Bosford. The only way she could keep him off the streets and out of the clubs of L.A. was to give him a reason to stay home. Now that’s a job she could grab onto with both hands.

  He took her silence for consent and tipped the foaming liquid into two glasses. He handed her the crystal champagne flute and twirled the bottle back into the bucket.

  While she took a sip, he threw himself into the seat across from her, banging his knees against hers. The muscles of his powerful thighs strained against his tight jeans. Must be all that running around the field kicking a ball. The necklaces nestling in the open V of his patterned silk shirt caught the light from the soft bulbs in the door and winked at her.

  “What’s the plan?” He clinked his glass with hers.

  “The plan?” Her plan consisted of getting him home to his condo, ordering him a meal, and tucking him into bed –

  alone. Then she had to email a report to Evan that his prize client had arrived safely and was sleeping soundly.

  “How does Evan propose to launch me onto the L.A.

  scene?” He slumped against the seat and lodged a booted foot next to her thigh. “I get it that soccer isn’t very big here and I’m not exactly a household name like your big football and basketball stars, but I aim to remedy that. It’s what I’m getting paid for.”

  She had a ton of ideas for catapulting this smokin’ hot jock into the glittering world of L.A. celebrity. She could land him on the cover of Chatter magazine, pushing Brangelina, Paris, and Lindsay into those little corner pictures under a month. Too bad she didn’t have that job. Instead, she had to rein him in.

  He tossed back the rest of his champagne and took a swig from the bottle.

  Yeah, good luck with that reining in thing.

  “As I mentioned before, I’m not responsible for launching you anywhere.” She took a prim sip from her glass, enjoying the fizzle against her nose and the warmth in her chest. She scooted away from his foot to a cold spot on the leather. “I’m in charge of seeing to your needs.” He lifted his eyebrow again in that James Bond-thing.

  Did they teach that move in English schools? Simon must’ve gotten an A in that class. “I have a lot of needs, Jessica.”

  She just bet he did. As if on cue, a lock of hair slid from the loose knot behind her head. After all those years as a child beauty contestant and she still couldn’t secure her hair in a tight bun. She tipped the rest of the sparkling liquid down her throat, and Simon immediately refilled her flute from the bottle he’d just had between his lips. She took another gulp. How bad could it be to exchange germs with an English soccer star? He’d even been in the World Cup –

  three times.

  “Let’s start with my name.”

  “Huh?” His words pulled her out of a pleasant daydream of Simon running down a soccer field in small shorts...with his shirt off. Did soccer players ever take their shirts off during games?

  He grinned. Could he read minds too? Her cheeks warmed, but not just because of the champagne she was now downing faster than a virgin bride on her wedding night.

  “In most of the world, I’m known as The Boss, but you didn’t seem to recognize that name.” He grabbed the neck of another bottle and tipped the empty one upside down in the bucket.

  “You can’t be the boss.” She shook her head, and the rest of her hair tumbled over her shoulder. “We already have The Boss.”

  “Who’s The Boss?”

  “Bruce Springsteen.”

  He waved the bottle. “Nobody listens to Springsteen anymore.”

  “I do.” In fact, his easy dismissal had just made light of one of her favorite memories of reclining on the bitch seat of a Harley, tooling along the Coast Highway with Springsteen blaring from a CD player. She couldn’t exactly remember who inhabited the front of that motorcycle, but she recalled some serious tattoos and some pissed-off parents.

  Swirling his champagne, he chewed on his lip. “I suppose I could be The Boz. Some people call me that even though I don’t like it.”

  She slipped out of her
shoes and kicked her feet up on his seat, wiggling her pink polished toes. Helping him choose a nickname had to qualify as a gofer job duty, didn’t it? “Nope, can’t use that either. We already have The Boz.”

  “Come on, you’re taking the piss now.” She choked and the tiny bubbles fizzed up her nose. “I can assure you, I’m not taking a piss.” He laughed, the sound bouncing around the interior of the car. “It’s an expression, meaning joking or kidding. You are kidding me, aren’t you?”

  Relieved that he didn’t actually think she’d wet her pants, she replaced the champagne sh’d sprayed on the seat with more champagne. “I’m not taking the piss. The Boz is a retired football player and sometime actor.” He sighed. “That’s the problem with this country, too many bloody celebrities taking up all the nicknames.”

  “You can be The Boss.” The champagne lifted her spirits and made her feel magnanimous. She flicked her hand. “I don’t think anyone will mind two Bosses. I mean, he sings, you play soccer. Nobody will confuse you. Why do they call you The Boss anyway? Is it just because of your name?”

  She hoped so. She didn’t like bossy men, control freaks most of them. She’d had enough bosses in her life, and she didn’t need to add another one.

  He stared out the tinted window. “It’s not just my name.

  On the football pitch I am the boss. I’m in charge. I’m the leader. Or at least I used to be.”

  The light in his sparkling blue eyes dulled, or maybe the reflection from the window had caused the effect. Whatever the reason, she didn’t like it. It put a damper on the crackling atmosphere in the limo.

  She grabbed the bottle from his slack hand and poured him another glass of champagne. The foam peaked and rushed down the side of the slender flute, cascading over his strong fingers wrapped around the stem of the glass in a death grip.

  She raised her glass. “I officially dub you, or re-dub you The Boss. You can be the English boss.”

  “Are you pissed?” His grin lurked at the corners of his lips. “And before you go off all half-cocked, that means drunk.”

  “Half-cocks and piss.” She giggled and slapped the seat beside her. “You Brits sure have your minds in the gutter. What happened to all those stiff upper lips?” He wagged his finger at her. “Don’t say half-cocks and stiff in the same sentence.”

  She laughed until she snorted, which usually happened when she laughed hard, especially while drunk. Shit. Did she just get drunk on two glasses of champagne? At least she’d banished the sad look from Simon’s eyes. That had to be in her job description. She wriggled in her seat with the pleasure of knowing she was doing a bang-up job.

  Besides, eyes that beautiful should always shine with mirth.

  Now she knew she was pissed. Who used the word mirth anymore?

  Might as well keep doing her job and keep the party going. She reached for the bottle, and he imprisoned her wrist with his fingers, sticky with champagne. “I’m glad you like a good laugh, Jessica. That’ll make working with you easier, and I like easy.”

  Her pulse galloped beneath his touch, and she caught her breath. She could be easy. He pulled her toward him, brushing his mouth against hers. The tip of her tongue dabbled at the sweet champagne on his lips.

  All too soon, Simon pulled away and jumped onto the seat. Sliding back the panel to the sunroof, he jabbed the button to open it. The cool night air rushed into the limo as he bent forward, extending his hand. “Are you ready to party?”

  Jessica bounded up on the seat next to him. Hell, how many times had Evan repeated the mantra, the client is always right? Time to do her duty. Time enough for settling in tomorrow.

  Simon’s head disappeared through the sunroof as he yanked her against his body. Placing her hands on his shoulders, she hoisted herself up, balancing one foot on the ice bucket.

  She thrust her head through the roof of the car, tilted her head back, and yelled, “Get ready for The Boss, L.A.” Chapter Two

  Simon kicked off the blue satin sheets imprisoning his legs and staggered from the bed. He fumbled for the light switch inside the bathroom, stubbing his toe on the doorjamb. He drew in a quick breath and smothered the obscenity that rose to his lips. The flick of the switch illuminated the cavernous bathroom with its sunken tub, steam shower, gold fixtures and black and white tiles, which amplified his dizziness. This bathroom dwarfed the entire kitchen in the old council flat where he grew up.

  Grabbing the edge of the sink, he ran his tongue along his teeth as he leaned in for a closer look in the mirror.

  Christ, he needed a toothbrush and a shave. He flung open the mirrored medicine cabinet door. Empty gleaming white shelves glared back at him. Where the hell had the driver put his bags? He cranked on the faucet, splashed his face with cold water, and scooped some into his mouth where he gargled and swished it around.

  He returned to the bedroom, his feet sinking into the thick carpet. Shoving aside the heavy drapes and wedging his palms on the windowsill, he peered out the window at a stretch of green grass, bordered by spiky palm trees thirty floors below him. A weak, wintry sun cast a champagnehued glow over the scene. Not that he needed any more champagne.

  Jessica had led him on a wild tour of the city last night.

  He didn’t know how a sports agency gofer managed to sweep into all those exclusive clubs and bars with ease, but she’d handled it as if she’d been born into it.

  He’d met so many celebrities last night, he couldn’t keep them straight. They danced, drank, ate hundred dollar sushi, and posed for the paparazzi, or at least he did. When the cameras appeared, Jessica melted into the background. The evening exceeded his wildest fantasies about his first night in L.A., and he owed it all to Jessica.

  She’d surprised the hell out of him. He figured he’d go it alone once he dumped Miss Clipboard, but she not only joined him, she orchestrated the entire evening. He didn’t have a clue where to go, but she knew all the hot spots.

  Even though the eleven-hour plane ride had taken its toll, he’d wanted to go out and make a night of it to blot out that uncomfortable moment in the limo when he actually admitted to Jessica that he doubted his leadership skills on the pitch. Although he’d doubted those skills for two years now, he’d never confessed that to anyone. Nobody wanted to hear about his insecurities, least of all an attractive woman ready to get her party on.

  Luckily, she didn’t seem to notice. Or did she? After his admission slipped out, she’d proclaimed him The Boss.

  God, she didn’t pity him, did she? He couldn’t allow that.

  He’d have to work harder at shellacking on that shallow celebrity coating.

  Once he’d suggested a celebration, she’d made it happen. Of course, it didn’t hurt that the champagne had already made her tipsy. Then she’d insisted on stopping at that expensive boutique on Rodeo Drive because she refused to go out in the pantsuit. He couldn’t blame her for that, and she sure cleaned up nicely. That red dress he bought had hugged every long, dangerous curve on her body, and the high heels put her at almost eye level with him. Evan should’ve known better than to send a hot woman to look after him.

  He pushed off the windowsill and crossed the room to ease open the double doors of the master suite. He hadn’t taken a good look at the place last night, but if that bathroom was any indication, the condo must be huge. He jogged down the curved staircase with its gleaming metal banister – a little too high-tech for him, but he never gave much thought to his living space as long as it provided plenty of room for wine, women, and a little self-pity.

  The driver from last night had left Simon’s luggage in a neat stack by the front door. He was sure he tipped the bloke well, especially since Dad had driven a limo once, but he couldn’t recall if he’d handed him dollars or pounds.

  He grabbed his small carry-on and hoisted another bag over his shoulder. God, he needed a shower, a good breakfast, and about ten hours more sleep.

  ***

  Jessica rolled onto her back and groaned. H
er mouth felt stuffed with cotton, real cotton, not those cosmetic puffs that masqueraded as cotton. Even with her eyes closed, the light pressed against her eyelids like a heavy blanket.

  She peeled one lid open, focusing on a shaft of sunlight from the window. At least she hadn’t slept through the entire day. She grasped at that bit of silver-lining, rimming an otherwise dark cloud – a dark, nasty cloud enveloping her entire fuzzy head.

  She hadn’t had that much to drink since the night she got married. And look where that landed her? She blamed it all on The Boss. She’d tried to keep up with him, but that man could drink more than a whale gulping in a school of fish.

  A chill snaked through her body, and she rubbed her bare arms and fumbled for the bedcovers. The sheets lay crumpled at the foot of the bed. She sat up and leaned forward, glancing down at her body, naked except for her polka-dotted panties. Shaking her head, she rubbed her eyes.

  “Awake, are you?”

  She dropped her hands, her eyelids flying open. Simon stood on the threshold of the double doors sporting nothing but two suitcases over his shoulders and his ubiquitous grin.

  She realized too late that she was wearing only slightly more clothing than he was. Gasping, she scrambled for the bunched up bedcovers and yanked them up to conceal her bare breasts.

  His nakedness didn’t faze him at all. Neither did hers.

  He dropped the larger bag on the floor and headed to the bathroom swinging the carry-on bag in his hand. His muscled buttocks bunched and released as he strode across the room. His tapered waist flared into a set of broad shoulders, slabs of pure golden muscle shifting on his back. She just thought of several new nicknames for him, starting with Adonis and ending with fan-fucking-tastic.

  Oh God, if she had sex with that man last night and couldn’t remember the act, she’d have to visit a hypnotist and relive the every moment.