Playing By Her Rules (Sydney Smoke Rugby Series) (3 page)

Which could have been never.

Injury, bad luck, bad weather, bad timing—any of these could have ended his career before it had even begun. They hadn’t, but now he had to live with the fact that the girl he’d once known had disappeared behind a wall that had been laid by him—or started by him, anyway.

Maybe other men in her life had been dicks, too. He cringed thinking about it. She used to shine. She’d been so happy and open, and she’d deserved so much more than having her joy sucked away by him and whatever else had conspired to make her the woman she was today.

But he had seen a flash of that clever, witty, funny girl he’d fallen in love with all those years ago.

Tanner
Stone’s
dick doesn’t quite live up to its namesake and pales in comparison to his ginormous ego.

Tanner smiled thinking about it. That was
his
Tilly. The girl who’d teased him mercilessly about his
hunk
rep around the school. The girl who had laughed at every opportunity.

That old Tilly was still in there, he was sure of it. She was just hiding, buried beneath a shit-ton of hurt, and he hated knowing he was, at least partially, responsible.

The thought needled like prickles on sunburn. He had to try and make amends somehow. If he’d broken her, wasn’t it his responsibility to fix her? To coax her out from behind that wall so she could smile again—could be happy within herself and shine bright for the whole damn world to see?

And it wasn’t about trying to wheedle his way back into her good graces, or even her bed. What was done was done and left well enough alone. Confessing the truth wasn’t going to make anything better. In fact, it could make things worse. He just needed to concentrate on enticing the old Tilly out and introducing the two of them again.

Lucky he had six opportunities to do it.

“Hey, John.” Tanner turned to face the guys still amusing themselves at his expense. “What’s the name of that swanky restaurant at Circular Quay? The one your wife’s uncle runs? With the private terrace that overlooks the harbour and the Opera House?”

About half of the Smoke were happily married. John Trimble was one of them. “Flamenco. But it’s usually booked out months in advance. You want me to put a word in?”

“Nah. Thanks.” It was amazing how many doors his celebrity opened. And though he wasn’t one to pull strings
usually
, he wasn’t above it when required.

“Whoa.” Brett Gable, another married guy, let out a long, low whistle. “That’s some serious coin, boss. You wanna hope she’s putting out after that.”

The comment pissed Tanner off. He hated that kind of macho bullshit. His intentions were honourable, for fuck’s sake. His intentions were
always
honourable. “Oh, nice, man. You kiss your wife with that mouth?”

Brett grinned, unperturbed, as Linc started singing, “Tanner and Matilda, sittin’ in a tree.”

Tanner kicked up an eyebrow. “Seriously, dude, how old are you?”

Linc laughed but continued. “K. I. S. S. I. N. G.”

Tanner rolled his eyes.
For fuck’s sake…
He turned his back on them again, which led to even more razzing. He ignored it as he strode to his locker and reached for his phone.

Next Tuesday night. Seven. Flamenco’s at Darling Harbour. Text me your address. I’ll pick you up
.

He keyed in Tilly’s mobile number and quickly sent off the message. He was adding her to his contacts when the reply came back. His pulse picked up a beat or two at the speediness of her response. He’d expected she’d get back to him
grudgingly
at some point.

I’ll meet you there.

He smiled. He hadn’t expected anything less. His fingers flew over the touchpad.

What kind of gentleman would I be if I didn’t pick you up?

He waited for her reply, which he knew in his bones would be swift. Tilly hadn’t ever been one to back down from a verbal sparring. His phone chimed, and he smiled again as he read the message.

I assume you’re using gentleman in the loosest sense of the word?

Tanner tapped away some more.

You wound me.

Another speedy response.

Excellent. My work here is done.

He laughed this time, loving this glimpse of the old Tilly.

See you Tuesday. Looking forward to it.

He threw his phone onto the top shelf of his locker and was reaching for some underwear when it chimed again. Tanner smiled. Typical Tilly. Always had to have the last word.

That makes one of us.

Chapter Three

Tilly almost swallowed her tongue when the Uber pulled up in front of the restaurant. If Tanner thought she was going to be impressed by the harbour side restaurant, he was damn right. But there was no way the meagre expense account provided by the paper was going to cover this. It would all be blown in one night.

Hell, she didn’t even know if she’d dressed appropriately in her little black dress. Sure, it was a classic cut that looked good wherever she went, and she knew she looked classy. Sophisticated. But she had the feeling sequins would be more appropriate.

And diamonds.

Unfortunately, the only sparklies she owned were of the cubic variety.

She glanced to her left. The elegant arc of a white sail, illuminated to show off the perfection and splendour of Sydney’s famous opera house, glowed in the foreground.

So this was how the other half lived.

“Tilly!”

Matilda turned to find Tanner approaching, her annoyance at being called Tilly evaporating as his big frame, looking surprisingly civilised tonight in a black suit, snowy white shirt, and trendy tie, drew closer.

There was, however, still something of the animal about his mane of golden-blond hair and his powerful stride that no veil of respectability could mask.

“You look lovely,” he said, leaning in to drop a peck on both cheeks before she could even gather herself to avoid it.

She stared at him for a moment or two, dumbfounded, when he pulled back. The Tanner she’d known hadn’t been this…cultured. “How very
French
of you,” she muttered.

He grinned. “I’m a man of the world now, didn’t you know? Spent six months in France when I was twenty, playing over there.”

Yes. She knew. She’d surreptitiously followed his career over the years, despite telling herself she wouldn’t.

“Although to be honest,” he continued, sliding a hand onto her elbow and guiding her toward the restaurant, “I much prefer a different kind of French kissing.”

Tilly’s heart rate spiked, and she stumbled slightly. Tanner seemed not to notice, although he did tighten his grip slightly while she regained her footing. They were almost at the door before she’d recovered her senses enough to protest.

“Stop, Tanner,” she said, shrugging her arm out of his grasp.

He quirked an eyebrow. “Problem?”

“Yes,” she said, ignoring the slight hitch in her breath caused by that eyebrow.
For the love of all that was holy, how on earth could an eyebrow be sexy?
“We can’t eat here.”

He frowned. “Why not? It’s one of the best restaurants in the city. It has a Michelin star, and a view to die for.”

“And a price tag to go with it, I bet. Newspaper expense accounts are not what they used to be, and this place will blow mine out of the water.”

He chuckled then, deep and low, his nose looking less crooked as his face creased with laughter. He took her elbow again and urged her onward. “I’m taking you out to dinner, Tilly. I don’t expect you to pay for it.”

Matilda ground her feet into the pavement, refusing to be jollied along like some hapless female starstruck by his company. “This isn’t a
date
, Tanner. It’s an
interview
.”

“I don’t care what you want to call it, Tilly. I’m the man. We’re eating together. I’m paying. Simple as that.”

Matilda blinked. His sentiment shouldn’t surprise her. He’d always been the kind of guy who opened doors, stood back to let her pass, and paid for her wherever they went, even back when he was surviving on his weekend-shelf-packer earnings.

But this was a whole other level. Putting her feminist affront to one side, it was important not to cede any of the power to him. She had to control how these interviews went, she couldn’t let him lord it over her.

“Don’t call me, Tilly.”

If he saw the gathering storm flashing in the amber flecks of her blue-green eyes, he didn’t pay it any heed. “If I’m picking the locations, then I
will
cover any costs incurred.” He shoved his hands in his pockets. “That’s a deal breaker. Take it or leave it.”

“Nice try. But you and I both know this has come from the top. You’re as much a pawn here as I am.”

“If you think I won’t tell them to go
fuck
themselves, then you’re dead wrong.”

Even without his menacing tone and the determined slash of his mouth, Matilda believed him. She ground her teeth. She hated that ultimately he held the upper hand. That she needed him more than he needed her. That her career path was dependent on this feature series.

She changed tack. “How about we go Dutch?”

“How about we don’t.”

Matilda gave an aggravated sigh, knowing she was snookered. “Fine.”

She had a good mind to order the most expensive thing on the menu, but she didn’t have it in her to be so bitchy. Being raised by an old leftie grandmother, and coming from a working class background, it was still somewhere in her DNA to be suspicious of wealth and excess.

“Thank you,” he smiled.

It was in his favour that there wasn’t anything triumphant in his tone. He reached for her elbow again, but she pulled out of reach. He might be calling some of the shots, but he didn’t get it all his way.

He grinned at her, clearly unconcerned by her recalcitrance. Or, as her grandmother would have called it, petulance.

“After you,” he gestured.

Matilda entered the restaurant and was greeted politely by the maître d’. It was an entirely different matter when Tanner followed her inside. Clearly, the headwaiter recognized him, and much obsequiousness and fuss ensued. Which would have been comical enough without half a dozen stops for autographs and selfies with an admiring clientele.

It obviously didn’t matter how posh you were—celebrity appealed to everybody.

By the time they were seated on the terrace—conspicuously absent of other tables—half an hour had elapsed.

“Sorry about that.” He grimaced, not looking very sorry at all. Looking quite pleased with himself, actually.

“That’s okay,” she said, feigning boredom. “I took notes while your groupies stroked your ego.”

His low chuckle was both unexpected and sexy. It was irritating that she couldn’t rile him as easily as his mere presence was riling her. “I remember when you used to tease me about my groupies.”

He was right.
God
. She was turning into such a freaking shrew! Whatever their personal history, he’d done well for himself, and he
should
be proud of that. Hell, somewhere deep down, if she pushed past old hurts and resentment, she could admit that she was proud of him, too.

He’d had a goal, and he’d worked hard and achieved it. Unlike her, who was still a long way from being professionally accomplished.

Although hopefully that was about to change.

Thankfully, with the arrival of the maître d’ himself to take their drinks order, she didn’t have to answer.

“Do you like champagne?” Tanner asked.

“Yes.”

He smiled at the hovering maître d’. “I’ll have your best bottle of champagne.”

Matilda frowned. “You drink champagne?”

“No. I drink beer.”

“I’m not going to drink a whole bottle of champagne, Tanner.”

“Never say never,” he grinned.

Matilda didn’t know how much the best champagne in this restaurant might cost, but with the opera house looming large behind Tanner’s head she figured it was way beyond anything she could afford. She looked at the waiter. “Just something cheap will be fine. I’m more of a cask wine girl. Quality is wasted on me.”

The waiter’s polite facade was sorely tested at her mention of wine that came in a cardboard box, but it didn’t matter, as Tanner gave a dismissive shake of his head and said, “You’re best please. And whatever boutique beer you recommend.”

“Yes, sir,” the waiter beamed and departed with a skip in his step.

Matilda arched an eyebrow at Tanner. “Only the best for you, huh?”

“What’s the point in having money if you can’t spread the joy?”

Matilda regarded him steadily. Tanner was clearly enjoying the spoils of his career.

And more than a little eager to show them off…

“Rugby’s made you rich, huh?”

“Rugby pays me well. My financial guy makes me rich.”

It was surprising to hear Tanner admit it so openly. She’d have thought he’d be more guarded in front of a journalist. Sure, he’d always been a bit of an open book, but he must have learned over the years that the media could be his best friend or his worst enemy.

And therein lay the problem, she suspected. He just didn’t see her as a journalist. He wasn’t taking her seriously. And that just wouldn’t do.

Time to remind him.

“Let’s get down to it,” she said briskly, straightening her shoulders as she reached into her small black clutch purse. She was conscious of him eyeing her, the smooth lines of his forehead furrowing a little as she pulled out her recording device.

“What’s the rush, Tilly? I prefer a little foreplay before
getting down to it
. I seem to remember you used to as well.”

Matilda almost dropped her recorder, shooting him a sharp glance. A retort came to her lips, but she could see the amusement dancing in his blue eyes. He was teasing her, testing her, maybe. Or maybe he was still pissed about being press-ganged into these interviews, and this was some kind of passive-aggressive bullshit.

For sure he was trying to rattle her.

Fine, two could play at that game.

“I’m more the wham, bam type now.”

The slight widening of his eyes and his sudden swallow brought her a measure of satisfaction. She placed the tape recorder in the centre of the table. “Do you mind if I record…”

“Us getting down to it?” He smiled, recovering quickly. “Sex tapes are expressly forbidden, but the rugby bigwigs did say I had to accommodate you in every way possible, so…” He shrugged. “I’m willing to break some rules.”

Matilda gritted her teeth. She would not rise to his bait. “The interview,” she clarified.

“You know…you’re not as much fun as you used to be.”

That was neither fair nor true. She might be more guarded now, but she knew how to have fun. Just not with Tanner. There was too much history, too much muscle memory, to drop her guard around him.

She shrugged. “You’re not as funny as you used to be.”

He grabbed his chest as if she’d wounded him, but chuckled nonetheless. “Touché.”

More French.

Thankfully the maître d’ arrived with their drinks, providing a circuit breaker for the puzzling swirl of tension that crackled and pulsed around them. She vaguely listened to Tanner chatting with him about the Smoke’s chances for the top eight as she tried to figure it out.

Why was he pretending to flirt and pushing her like this? It wasn’t helpful. In fact, it was downright annoying. And what was with her heightened awareness of him as a man, which was completely contradictory to her feelings?

Objectively it made sense, of course. Tanner was a sexy, confident guy. But there was a terrible familiarity to the jitter in her belly and the skip in her pulse.

Too familiar.

Oh, crap.

It was a shitty time to realise this physical response wasn’t
just
about Tanner’s sexual appeal to women generally but his appeal to her
personally
.

As a woman who knew him intimately.

Fuckity fuck.
How could her body betray her like this?

She didn’t want it. She sure as shit didn’t need it. And it was utterly pointless. She could never be with Tanner again, a guy who’d treated her so badly. No matter how much her traitorous hormones were curled up and purring in her belly.

Maybe one day she could forgive him, but she’d never forget that night. Her sense of betrayal ran too deep.

It wasn’t just that he—
her boyfriend
—had been all over another girl. It was the identity of the girl.

Jessica Duffy.

Popular girl. Cool chick. Hot babe.

Queen bee of the in crowd, and she knew it. The one that all the guys had their tongues out for. Who’d flirted outrageously with Tanner at every opportunity. But she’d also been a mean girl, snobby and merciless in her disdain for those she considered beneath her.

As a somewhat bookish teenager from a poor family, Matilda had been one of many in Jessica’s crosshairs. Reasonably resilient, Matilda had shrugged it off. She had friends and was generally well liked. The odd “nerd-girl” barb from Jessica was relatively easily ignored. Even her desperate attempts to snag Tanner hadn’t worried Matilda. Secure in his fidelity, they’d just seemed funny.

Boy, had that been monumentally stupid.

Tanner kissing another girl had been gutting. Kissing mean-girl Jessica had heaped insult on injury.

And he didn’t get to flirt his way out of that, no matter how much her body bitched at her. She was here for information. For her gutting exposé of the mythical Tanner Stone. For her future career. Everything else was ancient history.

Tanner asked the maître d’ to take their meal orders while he was there. He ordered an entrée of oysters and followed it with a main of lobster. As a teenager, hungry to hit the big league, he vowed he’d enjoy whatever came his way if he did eventually break through, and oysters and lobster were a symbol of how far he’d come.

He’d grown up the eldest of four kids in a working class family in a small town about a thousand kilometres from the ocean. Lobster had never been part of his vocabulary. To be able to bring Tilly here and show her how far he’d come, share his success with her, was the ultimate.

She ordered the risotto after an inordinate amount of time spent choosing. If he didn’t know better, he’d say she was trying to figure out what was the cheapest thing on a menu that didn’t come with prices for a very good reason. Either way, it’d had given him longer to check her out.

The light on the balcony was subdued to emphasise the view just over his shoulder, with only a low candle burning on the table between them. But it burnished the tips of her wispy, blonde pixie cut and threw her face into flickering relief.