Faster Hotter (13 page)

“I love being here,” he goes on, “Even if your abode is a bit more humble than we’re used to...”

“It can’t always be international hotels and sprawling estates,” I shrug.

“On the contrary,” he replies, “What with our combined salaries? I’m pretty sure that’s exactly what it can always be.”

My heart ticks just a bit faster at the words combined salaries. Those are married-people words, aren’t they? That’s permanent, serious business right there. Harrison’s face is as calm and smooth as ever, betraying nothing. Is he gauging my interest in weaving my life together with his, or just speaking practically? Damn his years of playing a cool game with the ladies. His poker face is impenetrable.

“Mansions it is then,” I say lightly, lifting a forkful of pasta to my mouth.

“Sounds good to me,” he replies, “But all joking aside, I hope you know that I wouldn’t need any of that, as long as you were there.”

“Now you’re just trying to make up for making fun of my apartment,” I tell him, “I’m onto you, Davies. You can’t sweet talk me.”

“Maybe not,” he shrugs, “But as soon as you’ve finished with your meal, I’ll do all sorts of other things with my lips that will be even better than sweet talk.”

And that, perhaps, is the
only
sentence that could cause me to abandon a perfectly delicious plate of pasta.

* * *

“Siena?” Harrison says through the bathroom door, “Baby, are you OK?”

I wipe the corners of my mouth, peering into the toilet to make sure I’ve flushed away all evidence of my sickness. I tried to creep out of bed as quietly as I could, but to no avail.

“Yep!” I call cheerfully, “Be out in a second.”

I tidy up my sleepy appearance as best I can and sidle back into the one room apartment. Harrison stands by the door, dressed in nothing but a pair of black briefs. I shamelessly drink in the sight of him in the early morning light—his tapered torso, sculpted thighs, tousled hair. It’s enough to send a girl crawling right back into bed again—or it would be, if she wasn’t too nervous about puking to get her groove on.

“Were you just sick?” Harrison asks, “I thought I heard—”

“Oh, yeah,” I say, brushing it off, “Some of the food from last night probably didn’t sit well is all.”

“I feel OK,” he says, “Are you coming down with something?”

“Who knows,” I shrug, pulling on a flowing floral dress, “Anyway, I feel fine now. Do you want to head outside? I’d love to show you around my old neighborhood.”

“Sure,” Harrison says, slipping gracefully into his jeans and tee, “Just make sure you have a pen handy to sign all your fans’ autographs.”

“Ha. Ha.” I say, rolling my eyes. “I’m sure that was just a one off thing last night.”

“Whatever you say,” he shrugs, “I wouldn’t underestimate the power of your appeal.”

We lock up my little shoebox and head downstairs, hand in hand.

“Just wait until you try a croissant at this place,” I tell him, wrenching open the front door, “One bite, and—”

An unmistakable, unwelcome commotion rises up and slaps us in the face as we step into the warm daylight. The pop of flashbulbs, desperate waving of microphones, and frantic clamoring bubble up before us. A mob of reporters have been waiting on my doorstep, hoping to catch a glimpse of Siena Lazio and Harrison Davies together again.

“What the bloody hell?” Harrison says, looking out over the crowd.

“How did they know we were here?” I ask, aghast.

“Perhaps your number one fan from last night gave us away?” Harrison suggests.

“Miss Lazio!” calls a reporter.

“Mr. Davies! Mr. Davies!” chants another.

“This is ridiculous,” I growl, “The season is over! What could they possibly want with us?”

“We’re just stepping out for some coffee,” Harrison says, shielding me from the crowd as we make our way down the steps. The reporters close in around us, blocking our way.

“Are you two living together?” chirps a media type.

“How would you define your relationship at this time?” another puts in.

“Are there wedding bells in your future?” queries another.

“There are croissants and coffee in our future,” I say, as patiently as possible, “If you’d all kindly get out of our way.”

“Do you plan to split your time between London and New York?”

“How will your relationship change now that the tournament is over?”

“What’s the sex like?”

“That’s enough,” Harrison growls, taking me by the hand and plowing through the crowd. I try and follow him, but it’s impossible to push through all of these people.

“I don’t want to call the police,” I tell the assembled herd, “But I will have to if you don’t give us some space! Do you understand?”

“This isn’t your property,” sneers a sweaty photographer at my side, “We’ve got every right to be here.”

“And I’ve got every right to a little privacy,” I retort.

“Not when you live in the spotlight, you don’t,” says a short, stocky reporter behind me, “So come on, tell us—who’s usually on top?”

“You’ve got some nerve,” I say, turning away.

“Hey—” the small reporter says, grabbing onto my wrist. “I asked you a question—”

The next moment unfolds as if in slow motion. I feel myself wrenched back to face the horrible man, torn out of Harrison’s grasp. I’m exposed and vulnerable, and every nerve in my body goes into panic mode. My entire world shrinks down to a little olive-sized center of gravity in my core. I cover my stomach with my left hand and haul back my right, bringing a stinging slap down across the reporter’s face.

The man reels away, cursing, as I look on in shock. The crowd backs up a hair, as if worried that I’ll strike at them next. Harrison grabs hold of my arm, concern clouding his face. I stare at the reporter, amazed at what I’ve done.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” the man whines.

“You should have kept your hands off of her,” Harrison shoots back.

“I didn’t have a choice,” I tell the reporter.

“Tell it to them,” the man says, nodding at the dozen reporters and photographers looking on, “You’ve always been something of a hitter, haven’t you, Miss Lazio?”

I blush, remembering the doctored video of me slugging Rafael Marques that made the rounds just months ago. The guy has a point. I do seem to have a knack for getting myself into these shitty situations time and again.

Harrison leads me away from the stilled crowd, off into Alphabet City.

“For what it’s worth,” he says, swallowing a smile, “At least you didn’t knock the guy out. It’s the little things—”

“I’m going to get so much hell for this,” I groan, “Between Enzo and the Ferrelli guys, I don’t even want to think about who’s going to be angrier.”

“Don’t think about them,” Harrison tells me, “You’re not beholden to their opinions, anymore. You are your own boss, whether they like it or not.”

“If only that were true,” I sigh, “But we know the owners still hold the reins.”

“Then maybe it’s time you snatched them away,” Harrison winks, “Now, come on. You’ve got me all riled up for the croissants, now. Let’s just enjoy the rest of our day.”

We walk off through the city streets together, trying to forget what’s just happened. But for the life of me, I can’t stop marveling at my motherly instincts that kicked in back there. For the first time, I felt a real surge of protection for the little body inside of mine. And that only makes this whole thing seem all the more immediate.

Take it easy, I think to the tiny life inside of me, we’ve still got a few things to sort out here before you arrive. Like letting your father know you exist, for one.

CHAPTER TEN

Harrison and I barely even make it through coffee before our cell phones start ringing off the hook. Now that our little love nest has been exposed, the attention is raining down once again. And this time, there’s no umbrella of anonymity to be found.

We hurry home as fast as we can, ducking the stray camera that wasn’t scared away by the scene earlier today. Once we’re barricaded in my little studio, we finally let in the deluge of word from the outside world. Another PR emergency? Excellent. At least I’m an old pro at handling these situations by now.

“Oh, god...” I groan, staring down at the screen of my laptop.

“That’s a good shot of you,” Harrison quips, looking over my shoulder.

There I am, captured mid-hit as I lash out at the reporter who tried to grab me. My face is contorted into a mask of rage, my curls flying everywhere. It wasn’t exactly my finest hour, I admit, but anyone would have reacted the way I did if some schlub tried to manhandle her! Especially in my, uh, condition. This whole thing could be explained and pardoned in a second if I could only let the world know I was expecting.

As I’m scrolling through the trashy article beneath my new glamour shot, a message pops up on my screen. I gulp as I see that it’s from Bruno and Carlo Ferrelli—they want to have a little video conference. Right this minute. I can’t very well ignore the message, given our last conversation. I sit cross-legged on my bed, arrange myself as professionally as possible, and accept the call. My bosses’ faces blink into view on my screen. Each Ferrelli man wears a mask of calm sternness, and neither looks happy to see me.

“Siena,” Bruno begins, “Good morning.”

“Good morning Bruno, Carlo,” I reply.

“We’d have asked you to stop by the offices,” Carlo says dryly, “But you seem to be on another continent.”

“Do you need me to let you know when I’m traveling?” I ask, trying to be helpful.

“It’s just sort of strange,” Bruno says, “To leave Italy so soon after becoming an important part of an Italian team. We thought you might stick around and learn the ropes of Team Ferrelli a bit.”

“With all due respect,” I reply, “I’ve spent my entire life learning the ropes of Team Ferrelli, so—”

“Not as a shareholder,” Carlo cuts me off.

“Don’t let him interrupt you,” Harrison hisses from the kitchen.

“What’s that?” Bruno asks.

“Nothing,” I reply, shooting Harrison a look as he pops open a noontime beer.

“Is Mr. Davies there with you?” Carlo asks.

“Um...” I stall, “He’s—”

“Right here!” Harrison calls, striding across the room and sitting down next to me in the frame. “Pleasure to e-meet you both. Hope you don’t mind me sitting in on your little powwow.”

“Not at all, Mr. Davies,” Bruno says, “It’s actually good that we can talk to you both.”

“How handy,” Harrison grins.

“Siena may have filled you in on our first meeting a couple of weeks ago,” Carlo begins, “We discussed your public image, as a couple—”

“Oh, yeah,” Harrison says, “I heard all about that.”

I shoot him a panicked look as he casually takes a sip of beer. What is he doing, talking to the owners like this?

“I guess you want to chat about what went down this morning?” Harrison goes on.

“That is exactly what we’d like to talk about,” Bruno says, “We’d discussed the fact that it would be helpful for the team if you and Siena avoided behavior that might seem scandalous.”

“You don’t need to talk about her like she’s not here,” Harrison says, nodding my way. A flare of anger cuts through me at being dismissed by these men. Where do they get off?

“Bruno, Carlo,” I say, grabbing hold of the conference, “I know that what happened this morning was a bit off-color—”

“You hit a reporter,” Carlo states, “It’s a serious matter.”

“He grabbed me,” I reply, “I was acting out of a sense of danger. There was nothing wrong with the way I handled that situation.”

“Not legally, perhaps,” Bruno says, “But from a brand-image point of view—”

“Why does it matter so much to you, the way Siena and I live our lives?” Harrison groans, “Last I checked, there was no such thing as bad publicity.”

“But bad reputations, I hope you’ll admit, are quite real,” Carlo says.

“I’ve never been too concerned with my bad reputation,” Harrison smiles.

“No. That’s abundantly clear,” Bruno says.

“Do you have a problem with me that you’d like to air?” Harrison challenges him. For the love of god, are they seriously going to hash this out right now?”

“We think that it’s unfortunate, the way that the media has seized your relationship with Siena and made it into a rumor mill,” Bruno says, as diplomatically as possible, “But we also feel that there are some aspects of your relationship that lend themselves to gossip.”

“That’s called having a good sex life,” Harrison winks.

I whip around to face him, blood pounding in my ears. I’ve had many heated moments with the man, but few that were filled with anger. Is he trying to tank my relationship with Team Ferrelli right now?

“We really do need you both to be more conscious of your public image,” Carlo says shortly, “It’s important for the team.”

“Well, I think that living our lives the way we like is more important than any team,” Harrison shoots back, “And that’s my final say on the matter.”

“Mr. Davies—” Carlo says.

“Sorry, we’ve got some things to attend to over here, like scaring the rest of the press away from our doorstep. I’m sure I’ll be seeing you again, gentlemen.”