Kick It Up Read online

  “Did I, did we...?” She choked out the words.

  “Have sex?” He stopped at the bathroom door, twisting his head over his shoulder. “No. By the time we made it back here, you weren’t what I’d consider a consenting adult.”

  “Where’d my clothes go?” She clutched the sheet to her chin, grateful for that chivalrous streak that seemed to zigzag through him at just the right moment.

  He jerked his thumb toward the closet. “I hung up the dress and put the bag with your other stuff in it on the wardrobe floor. Didn’t think you’d mind too much about your suit, since you were anxious to peel it off anyway.”

  “Did I, did you...?” She tried to keep her gaze above his waist, but now he stood sideways, flaunting his assets.

  Yeah, she’d remember if she had sex with that...him.

  He nodded. “I undressed you. Seemed a shame to get that dress all wrinkled, especially since it cost a few thousand quid.”

  Slumping against the headboard, she grabbed a pillow and buried her face in it. She inhaled his spicy cologne, reminding her of all she’d lost by getting shit-faced. She tossed the pillow aside and sat up. “You really shouldn’t have done that.”

  “No problem.” He turned toward her, wedging his shoulder against the doorjamb. “You really wanted out of that pantsuit. You can pay me back if it makes you feel better, or accept it as payment for picking me up yesterday and showing me the town.”

  “I-I’m not talking about the dress.” His full frontal nudity scrambled her senses and twisted her tongue...and zapped her with a longing that curled her toes.

  “You shouldn’t have undressed me.” And she shouldn’t have accepted that expensive dress from him. She’d most definitely have to pay him back. Couldn’t allow him to hold that over her head. She didn’t allow anyone to hold anything over her head anymore.

  “Trying to keep that tattoo under wraps, are you?” He winked and slammed the bathroom door.

  She fell back against the headboard and closed her eyes. The man had no shame. And why should he? His body resembled a sculptured work of art, and she suddenly had a burning desire to study art history.

  Women definitely loved The Boss. Both starlets and actresses of a certain age had eaten out of his hand last night, literally ate out of his hand. He possessed inexhaustible energy, keeping the party going well into the wee morning hours.

  Okay, last night didn’t happen. It was just a hiccup in her game plan. She had to develop some sure-fire method to keep him quietly stashed away. If he kept up this pace until his practices started, his coaches would have to haul him out to that soccer field and prop him up. And she’d lose her job.

  Dragging the sheet with her, she slipped out of the king-sized bed and shuffled to the walk-in closet. She opened the door and turned on the light. Rows of empty rods, shoe racks, and shelves yawned before her. Just great. She should’ve had Simon all unpacked and comfy by now instead of stumbling through his condo with a hangover and a satin sheet wrapped around her almost-naked body.

  The red halter dress floated on a hanger, a pair of flirty red stilettos put her brown loafers to shame on one end of a shoe rack, and a bag from Versace huddled in the corner.

  She grabbed the bag and pulled out her wrinkled slacks, dumping her equally crumpled jacket and blouse on the floor. Her bra hooked on the bag, and she yanked it off.

  The bathroom doors whooshed open behind her, emitting a burst of citrus scent. Clutching the sheet to her chest, she turned. Simon framed the doorway, still naked, toweling his wet hair. His biceps knotted as he worked the towel.

  She gulped. “Would you please put some clothes on?”

  “That’s right. You Yanks are a prudish lot. That’s why we shipped you over here in the first place.” Simon brought the towel down in front of him, blocking his essentials from her greedy gaze. He wrapped the towel around his waist and tucked a corner into the edge to hold it in place.

  “I’m not a prude.”

  “I have to admit you didn’t act like a prude last night, but that could’ve been the booze talking.” Slicking back his hair, which flipped up at the ends, he crossed the room to retrieve the large suitcase he’d dropped by the door.

  She chewed on the edge of her thumb. She didn’t remember doing anything particularly outrageous, and she did recall everything up until the limo ride back to his place.

  Did she embarrass herself when they got here?

  “What happened last night? Did I dance on the tabletop? Slide down the banister naked?” His brows shot up. “Do you generally do that sort of thing?”

  “Not at all,” she lied. I just don’t remember anything past getting into the limo after the last stop.” He pulled a pair of dark blue briefs from his suitcase and stepped into them. He whipped off the towel and dropped it on the carpet. “Unfortunately, you did nothing of the kind. You passed out in the limo.” Smacking her palm against her forehead, she said,

  “Oh my God. That poor driver had to carry me all the way upstairs?”

  “That poor driver carried my bags inside. I carried you all the way upstairs.” He crouched down next to the bag, rummaging through the folded clothes, and ducking his head as if embarrassed by his chivalry.

  Well, he should be embarrassed for dumping her in his bed instead of one of the other beds in this place, and she knew for a fact that this condo had two other bedrooms, both with attached bathrooms. How chivalrous was that?

  “Why’d you bring me to your room instead of the guest bedrooms?”

  “No sheets on the beds in the guest bedrooms.

  Besides, your skin felt cold, the bloody furnace in this place doesn’t seem to be working, and I couldn’t find any extra blankets. I reckoned our body heat could warm us both up.” The knots in her stomach just got knottier. She’d forgotten to call the gas company to get the gas turned on, and she’d forgotten to tell the maid service to make up all the beds. Who knew he’d have guests in those guest bedrooms so soon, and who knew she’d be the first one for a sleepover?

  He shook out a pair of designer jeans and frowned at a wrinkled shirt. Remorse lanced her belly, doing nothing to loosen those knots. Instead of haranguing him for lugging her passed out five-foot, nine-inch frame up the staircase and tucking her into bed, she should be thanking him. He didn’t even mind that his condo resembled a cold, empty house for sale. Most celebrity-types would be screaming for her head by now. Despite the designer duds and the thirst for attention, he didn’t seem like most celebrity-types, way too laid back. Maybe Yorkshire was the Southern California of the U.K. – without the sun.

  “I’m sorry.” She dragged in a breath. “I’m sorry your condo’s not ready, and I’m sorry you had to carry me inside.”

  He glanced up from his scrutiny of another shirt. “No problem, luv. You’re a lot lighter than my mates, and at least you didn’t puke on me.”

  She grimaced. “Thank God for small favors.” He gestured at the sheet, which had slipped down to reveal a little cleavage. “Why don’t you shower and dress, and we’ll get some breakfast and discuss all those things on your clipboard.”

  Shit, the clipboard contained about a million to-do lists, and she just may have lost it performing a task that appeared on the to-don’t list. Pulling the sheet tighter, she stepped into the room, her gaze sweeping across the dresser, the nightstands, and the cabinet containing a DVD

  player, CD player, and a TiVo box.

  He must’ve read the panic in her face. “The clipboard, your handbag, and briefcase are all downstairs. I tipped the driver an extra quid to bring them into the lobby while I tucked you into bed, and then I ran down to get them.” Seemed the playboy soccer star had more sense than his gofer. She sagged against the closet door, and then crouched down to shovel the uptight clothes she’d put on with such resolve hours upon hours ago into the Versace bag. “Thanks, I’ll take that shower now.” He stepped out of her way and waved his arm toward the bathroom with a flourish. “Just one thing about that shower
.”

  She halted next to him, close enough to discern droplets of water shimmering in the blond hair scattered across his well-defined chest. She cleared her throat and raised her brows. “Yes?”

  “It’s cold.”

  ***

  When Jessica clicked the bathroom door behind her, Simon let out a long, pent-up breath. If he had to stand there one minute longer talking to her while that silky sheet slid up and down her lithe body, he’d have to jump back into that freezing cold shower ahead of her.

  He’d gotten an eye-full last night when he’d slipped that slinky dress off her body, forgetting she wouldn’t be wearing a bra under a halter dress. But her condition didn’t inspire amorous thoughts, not that he didn’t enjoy taking a good, long look after he settled her on the bed and removed those sexy high heels from her feet.

  Her pert breasts, a perfect handful, topped with rosy nipples, a perfect fingerful, had tempted him and stirred his cock to action. He’d run his hand along her side, shaping the gentle curve of her hip, and skimming her satiny thigh.

  She’d stirred, fluttering her long, dark lashes, and he’d drawn back, feeling like a creepy voyeur.

  A breath of air hissed between his teeth. He had to get rid of her, tell Evan she didn’t meet his criteria. Hell, she botched his arrival, didn’t she? Although he didn’t care about that, he could use it as an excuse. He didn’t even have to tell Evan he couldn’t handle the sexual tension.

  Or maybe he’d just shag her and get it over with. Once he had sex with a woman that pretty much ended the mystery and killed the attraction. At least for him. He always had to end a relationship first, make sure he didn’t disappoint anyone’s expectations of him.

  High-pitched shrieks from the bathroom pierced his reverie and he dropped his shirt in a heap, starting for the bathroom door. Did she slip on the tile floor? Spy a spider in the corner of the behemoth shower? He grabbed the doorknob as he heard her squeal again.

  “It’s freezing!”

  He chuckled and his pulse ticked back to normal, or at least as normal as it could go, considering he had a sexy brunette with endless legs and perky breasts shivering in his shower.

  He finished dressing, smoothing the creases in his shirt as he tucked it into his jeans. He slipped a gold band on his left thumb and heavy gold ring studded with six diamonds, one for each goal he’d scored in the last World Cup, on his right ring finger. Would it be his last World Cup?

  His place on the first string World Cup team hung by a thread, his captaincy of that team, a distant memory. If he proved himself here in the States with the Waves, he might just sew up that place. But if he tried and failed, his career would end in humiliation. Best to pretend he didn’t want it so much. Best to pursue the easy path of garnering celebrity, headlines, and multi-million dollar endorsements.

  Best to avoid failure by any means necessary.

  “I’m going to take a look around.” He banged his fist on the bathroom door over the shower spray. “I’ll wait for you downstairs.”

  Muffled squeals answered him – must be rinsing her hair.

  He descended the staircase, his hand lightly resting on the banister, imagining Jessica sliding down in the buff.

  Why had she immediately assumed she’d done something wild and crazy when he told her she hadn’t acted like a prude? A huge gulf existed between not acting like a prude and cavorting in the nude.

  He stepped down into the living room and drew the blinds open. Squares of sunshine created a pattern on the white carpet and glinted off enough electronic equipment to stock a warehouse, nearly blinding him. He studied the rows of buttons on the single remote control, and then tossed it onto the black leather sofa.

  Crouching down, he peered at the hard-back books lined up in the small bookshelf in the corner, dwarfed by the home theater components. He ran his index finger along the perfect spines and grunted at the slick bestsellers.

  Nobody had bothered to ask him about his reading tastes.

  Not that he’d tell anyone anyway. Bad boy athletes did not consume histories and biographies.

  He skirted the long, granite counter separating the living room from the kitchen. The gadgets lining the counters rivaled those in the living room. Too bad he didn’t cook. He threw open the refrigerator door and grimaced at the empty shelves.

  “I meant to fill the fridge last night after consulting you and making a list.” Jessica, once again outfitted in her proper suit, her wet hair pulled back in a ponytail, leaned against the counter. She smacked her clipboard against the gold-flecked black granite. “We can start right now, so you can make some breakfast. If you don’t cook, we can hire one for you, and I can fill in this morning. I can’t do anything fancy, but I can make scrambled eggs.” With his stomach grumbling, he held up his hands.

  “Hold on. Why cook when we can go out to eat? And I know just the place. Are we far from the Beverly Hills Hotel?” She pursed her lips, and her green cat eyes narrowed.

  She said in clipped tones, “No, we’re not far.” Did she have something against the Beverly Hills Hotel? Maybe she’d slid down the banisters nude, and they’d banned her for life. “If it’s not far then let’s go to the Polo Lounge for breakfast.”

  “How do you know about the Polo Lounge?”

  “Didn’t I tell you? I’ve been to L.A. before. Besides, doesn’t everybody know about the Polo Lounge?” She folded her arms around her clipboard. “I can guarantee you, Aunt Mildred from Omaha does not know about the Polo Lounge.”

  He didn’t know about Aunt Mildred from Omaha, but he did know the Polo Lounge, situated in the Beverly Hills Hotel, attracted both A-list celebrities and paparazzi alike.

  He swung the fridge door shut, grabbed the phone sitting in its base, and slid it across the counter toward her. “Call a taxi.”

  She eyed the phone as if she expected it to jump up and bite her on the nose.

  He grinned. “Let me guess, the phone isn’t connected yet either.”

  She spun around, marched to the black lacquered coffee table in the living room, and scooped up her handbag. “No, it’s not, but I have my cell phone.” After she ordered the taxi and clicked her phone down on the counter with a satisfied snap, Simon asked, “By the way, do you even have an Aunt Mildred from Omaha?”

  “Nope.”

  Fifteen minutes later, they sat in the backseat of a taxi that reeked of stale cigarettes and perfume, hinting at taxi cab confessions, cruising along the tree-lined boulevards of Beverly Hills. From the minute they entered the taxi, Jessica chatted on the phone setting up his utilities. He could definitely use the heat in that chilly condo, or maybe the stark furniture and futuristic design made the place cold. He should find more inviting digs, but then he didn’t plan to spend much time at home.

  He already had his getaway place – a small villa on Lake Como in Italy. They called it a villa down there, but not so much for its size as for the fact that it sat on a hill surrounded by lush vineyards. The celebrity set hadn’t discovered the area yet, and his retreat had afforded him peace and quiet. He hadn’t been there much lately. Didn’t want to spend too much time alone with his thoughts.

  Jessica shoved her mobile phone in her handbag, leaned back, and sighed. “You’re all set. Now we just have to figure out what to do for a car. Nobody takes taxis for short distances like this in L.A.”

  He spotted the looming pink edifice of the Beverly Hills Hotel just up the block. “It seems close enough. We could’ve walked.”

  Her eyes widened and her mouth gaped open. “Are you taking the piss? Nobody walks in L.A.” He laughed. Jessica made him laugh a lot. He liked her. He gripped the edge of the seat. It didn’t turn out well the last time he’d enjoyed a woman’s company this much, the year he injured his knee. He sat out the entire second half of the season, missing the play-offs and the European championship, and his girlfriend, Fiona, had dumped him.

  He lit up the town after the break-up just to prove he didn’t care. He partied so
hard, he almost convinced himself.

  The taxi pulled up in front of the hotel. Simon plucked some of the unfamiliar bills from his wallet and placed them into the driver’s outstretched palm. The driver’s shaggy brows rose, and Jessica reached over and snatched one of the bills out of his hand.

  She murmured as they walked up to the door, “I noticed you have a tendency to tip big. You don’t have to impress taxi drivers or bartenders.”

  Jessica obviously didn’t realize the tabloids talked to everyone in their quest to get the scoop. At least they did in England. Besides he came from a long line of taxi drivers and bartenders, but she didn’t need to know that. His gaze darted around the empty hotel front. “No paparazzi?” Grabbing his arm, she said, “Too early.” They entered the restaurant, and the hostess smiled.

  “Name on the reservation?”

  Simon’s stomach growled again. They didn’t have a reservation. Didn’t Jessica know they had to have one to get into this place, even at this hour? Maybe she’d never been here before.

  Jessica sauntered up to the hostess stand, leaned in, and whispered to the model-thin hostess, whose face brightened. “Of course, certainly. We have a table for two on the patio if you like. It’s a little chilly this morning, but we have heaters.”

  That’s better. Jessica sure knew how to use his name to get results. Following the hostess, they stepped down to the brick-covered patio and made their way to a table tucked in the corner and surrounded by foliage.

  He ordered a full breakfast of corned beef hash, poached eggs, toast, and Dutch apple pancakes on the side. Jessica ordered the pancakes, with double the sour cream, and a cup of coffee.

  When the waitress left, Simon asked, “No hair of the dog?”

  She shook her head, her ponytail swinging behind her.

  “I don’t think that works, and neither, obviously, do you.” She tilted her chin toward the tea bag he dangled over his cup.

  “Ah, but then I don’t have a hangover.”

  “How’d you escape? I’m sure you drank more than I did.”