Taming the Legend (5 page)

“I wrote to you.”

His brows drew together. “What?”

“You said yesterday that I never contacted you after you left Barcelona. That’s not true. I wrote to you. A lot.”

“Right. And all these letters went missing? I know posties aren’t always reliable,
but that beggars belief, Camila.”

He wouldn’t believe her without proof. She’d known he wouldn’t. She unzipped her purse and pulled out an envelope that had begun to brown with age. The handwriting on the addresses belonged to a teenager. She’d turned the
O
in Trenton into a heart. The contents were even more embarrassing. Still, she held it out to him like the peace offering it was.

He stared at it as if it had
Anthrax
stamped across the front. “What is it?”

She made a big show of examining it. “Well, it appears to be a letter. The return address is my mom’s house in Marietta, and the main address is your parents’ house in Kingston-Upon-Thames. The ink across the stamp shows I really did mail it. And I believe that’s your name there.”

“I didn’t recognize it. I’ve
never spelled my name with a heart.”

“You should.”

“I will from now on. Should I dot all my
I
’s with smiley faces?”

“That would be overkill.”

“That’s one word for it.” He took the envelope and flipped it over. “It’s still sealed.”

“I know.”

He flipped it over again. “Wait—did it get sent back to you?”

“Yes, but not by the post office. That’s why it doesn’t say
Wrong address
or anything like that. In fact, it wasn’t sent back for several months, but then it came back in a big envelope with all the others I’d sent you.”

His glanced up at her sharply. “How many others?”

“I wrote you every day for the rest of that summer. Then once a week. Then once a month.” For nine agonizing months.

“You’re talking dozens of letters.”

“Thirty-seven.
But don’t be scared,” she hastened to add. “I wasn’t a stalker or anything. I just…really missed you.”

Needed you. Desperately needed you.

“I never got them.”

“I know. I didn’t at the time, which is why my later letters were quite strongly worded. When I got them back, all unopened, I thought you’d just shoved them in a drawer and hadn’t even bothered to read them. It didn’t occur
to me till last night that you might not have even received them.”

He shook his head in obvious bewilderment. “Who—?”

“I don’t know. But surely there couldn’t have been too many people living at your parents’ house.”

He drew in a sharp breath through his nostrils. “Certainly narrows down the suspects. Do you still have the envelope they were returned in?”

“Upstairs.”

“I want to see it. See the handwriting.” He slipped his fingers under the flap and tugged on the letter. “May I?”

“Of course. I’ll just be sitting here, dying of embarrassment.”

His eyes moved quickly across the pages. Four pages, to be exact, front and back filled with purple ink in her happily slanted script. She motioned to the waitress for some coffee, needing something to keep her
hands busy and to give her an excuse not to look at him. She didn’t remember exactly what it said, but she remembered choking back angsty, my-world-is-ending sobs as she wrote it.

She’d contemplated reading it herself this morning, as she’d argued with herself over whether to let him see it. She’d only brought a few of the letters with her to London, figuring they might come in handy if she
got desperate. She was definitely desperate now, but that wasn’t why she was sharing the letter with him. He’d never known, never been given a chance to know what she’d gone through and what he’d missed out on.

But was giving him this letter a smart idea? It would start them on a path she wasn’t sure she could reach the end of. Already she felt hobbled just from catching a glimpse at the
letter’s closing paragraph.

Meeting you was the best thing that’s ever happened to me. I think I’m in love with you, Ash. I wanted to say it last night—so many times—but I chickened out. Please write back and tell me how you feel. It’s okay if you don’t feel the same. I’ll still count myself lucky to be your friend.

What a bald-faced lie.

He laid the letter on the table, his hand
covering it as the waitress poured Camila some coffee before leaving them alone again.

“I don’t know what to say.”

“Don’t say anything. Seriously. I was young and—well, I was going to say inexperienced, but we both know that’s not true.”

Her attempt at self-deprecating humor fell flat.

“Sex isn’t love, Camila. You can be experienced in one and know fuck-all about the other.”

Yeah, she’d learned that lesson the first time he’d laid his hands on her. As if he cherished her, adored her the way no boy who’d gone before him had.

“There are more letters?”

“Yes.”

“Can I read them?”

And here came the part that terrified her most. “I’ll make you a deal.”

“Go on.”

“I’ve never been to London before. And…and I’m afraid I might’ve misjudged you.
Last night you said you weren’t sure you wanted me to benefit from your hard work. I can understand that. Even though I want to save my camp, I need to make sure I can spend a month working with you too.” More than anything, she needed to know if she could trust him. If he’d never received the letters, then she had to figure out quickly whether to tell him the full truth. Maybe he would fly into
a violent rage. Maybe he would blame her. Maybe it would cause him unnecessary pain. So many possibilities, and she wouldn’t know the likelihood of anything until she knew what kind of man he’d become.

“So if I spend the day with you, you’ll show me the letters?”

“One at lunch and one after dinner. How does that sound?”

She held out a hand to shake with him. He stared at it for
a long second before his lips curled into a smile. “Sounds like the strangest date I’ve ever had.”

Chapter Four

Camila had written to him—thirty-seven times. He couldn’t wrap his head around it, after nearly two decades of believing she’d stopped giving a shit as soon as he’d caught the plane.

When I’m with you, my tummy goes all wiggly and my heart picks up speed. I feel all sweaty and like I want to laugh and cry at the same time. Meeting you was the best thing that’s
ever happened to me. I think I’m in love with you, Ash…

The image of Camila longing for him made him sick with regret.

But what could he have done, anyway? If he’d received those letters, how would he have replied? His life had belonged to his team. She’d lived on the other side of the world—and not even in one of the great rugby-playing nations he’d been fortunate enough to tour over
the years. Montana might as well have been Mars.

Now she needed things from him. He’d made up his mind about her scheme before coming to breakfast. He’d been about to turn her down, but she’d scuppered that plan.

My tummy goes all wiggly.

Cute, but also an uncomfortable reminder of how young she’d been. They both had been. Instead of making him feel like the retired old man he was,
reading her letter brought back the youthful thrill of being touched for the first time. Laughing and connecting with someone who couldn’t give a fuck about who signed his paychecks. Someone who wanted him for him.

They finished their breakfasts in near silence, both twisted up in memories. It was no hardship giving in to her request to spend the day together—he craved her company more than
he was comfortable admitting.

“Have you ever been to London before?”

She shook her head. “That summer in Spain was the only trip I’ve ever taken to Europe—or anywhere outside North America. In fact, I had to pay a hell of a lot to get my passport renewed in a hurry.”

“What would you like to do, then?”

She scrunched up her face in a thoughtful expression so adorable he fought
the urge to kiss her. “There’s so much. I don’t know how realistic it is to see everything in a day. What do you think is most interesting?”

“Probably none of the touristy stuff. But I’ll take you to see those places if that’s what you want.”

“What about where you played?”

He drew back. “You want to see the stadium?”

“Kinda. I spent a lot of time trying to picture you playing,
but I had no idea what rugby looks like. I couldn’t even imagine a rugby ball till I looked it up the other week. It’s basically like a white football, isn’t it?”

Oh, God.
“If I coach your team, will they have the same extensive rugby knowledge you do?”

“Oh, I doubt it.” The corner of her lips flexed. “But they won’t know as much as you do, either. Think of it as a challenge.”

“Mmm-hmm. Because I haven’t had enough of those.”

“Seems like you must be drawn to them.”

Definitely. And this woman had been one of the biggest from the very beginning.

“The stadium it is. I’ve got to pick up some stuff anyway. How about meeting me in the lobby in a quarter of an hour. Bring the envelope the letters were sent back in.”

“Sounds good.” She pushed her chair back
and stood. “How much do we tip here?”

“I’ll take care of it.”

She hesitated. “Ash… I’ve hated you for a really long time.”

He’d been hurt by her too. But maybe it was time to put the past away. He couldn’t help but grimace as he drawled, “Tell me how you really feel.”

She nervously tucked her hair behind her ear. When she left, her smile was shy and uncertain, the same as it
had been the first time they’d really talked. By that point, they’d run into each other on the beach three times. He’d purposely gone to the same spot. The first two days, she was already there. On the third, she arrived after him and laid her towel down a little closer than before. She’d stayed cool, sarcastic, and hadn’t flirted with him once, so he’d decided she felt zero attraction.

Her distance had intrigued him. He’d found himself thinking of her when she wasn’t around and foolishly trying to get her attention when she was. But he wouldn’t make a play for her, despite his growing attraction. Why risk a humiliating rejection? She’d already overheard him and Hardy discussing his sex status. Maybe she’d been turned off. Or maybe she just wasn’t interested in him…or in having sex.
He wasn’t lacking opportunities, himself. Plenty of girls that week had given him inviting glances while untying the strings of their bikini tops on the beach. Some had brushed playfully against him as he stood at bars waiting for his tonic water to arrive. Several had gyrated against him on the dance floor at a disco, making him hard and sweaty and eager, but something always held him back. Something
was missing, and he hadn’t been able to figure it out until the night Camila came into the disco with her cousin, a guy Ash could tell right away was a grade-A prick.

Unlike most of the girls at the club, Camila wore jeans and a T-shirt. She carried a bag that looked like it could hold more than a tube of lipstick and condoms. Her cousin ditched her as soon as they were through the door,
but she didn’t seem to mind as she found an empty chair along the wall and pulled out a book.

Ash snorted, and the Italian girl he’d been getting freaky with on the dance floor gave him a funny look. “You okay?”

“Yeah!” he shouted over the earsplitting Euro pop. He pulled her closer, giving in to the music and trying to forget Camila sitting a few meters away. The girl in his arms did
her part to wipe his memory clean. She practically straddled his leg and rubbed herself against him before bending backward to shimmy her breasts in the air. A tad embarrassed at being used like a pole, Ash instinctively shot his gaze to Camila…and found her staring back.

Damn.

When the tempo of the music changed, Ash shouted close to his dance partner’s ear, “Think I need a break!”

She gave him a sultry grin. “Want to go somewhere more private?”

Hell, the fourth plinth in Trafalgar Square would be more private than this dance floor. He didn’t really want to go anywhere with her…but how to say that without hurting her feelings? “Uh, I’d hate to take you away from the music. You look like you’re enjoying yourself.”

Okay, apparently that wasn’t the way. Surprise
flickered across her face. “You…don’t want…”

He grimaced. “I’m sorry. I’m not good at this.”

“This?”

“Girls,” he clarified. “I’m not good at girls.”

She blinked, her high self-esteem and lack of English proficiency combining to confuse her. “I don’t understand.”

He patted her arm like a father. “I’m sure you’ll find a lovely boy.”

Oh Jesus. He was going to die a virgin.
Stark humiliation swirled with relief as she turned on her heel and stalked off the dance floor. He glanced back at Camila to find her book covering most of her face, except her eyes. She lowered them quickly when he looked at her, but it was too late. He’d caught her staring.

He grinned, confidence rising inside him again, and made his way over to her, plopping down in the chair next to
hers.

“Good book?”

“Riveting.”

“What’s it about?”

“Two families in San Diego just after the U.S. took California from Mexico.”

“Sounds old.”

She half smiled and finally looked at him. “It was written in the late nineteenth century.”

“Ah. Do you read a lot of Victorian literature?”

That made her roll her eyes at him. “Victoria might’ve been your queen then,
but she wasn’t everybody’s. This is one of the earliest Chicano novels written in English.”

He shouldn’t have asked her about books. He’d been patting himself on the back for remembering the late nineteenth century meant Victorian. If it was more literary than
Jurassic Park,
he was in over his head. “So Chicano was…your king?”

“Oh my God.” She slapped the book against her thighs. “Where
do you think I’m from?”

“Honestly? I don’t know. I would’ve said America but your accent changes sometimes. Not a lot. Just enough to throw me off.”

She stuck out her hand to shake his. It was warm, soft and small, but powerful enough to shoot shivers of desire through him. “I’m Camila. I’m from Montana.”

“Montana? Like, in the U.S.?”

“That’s the only one I know of, yeah. But
my accent might change because my dad’s Mexican. I usually spend my summers with him in L.A. and Baja. And Chicano isn’t a king. Or a president or any particular person. Chicano means Mexican-American.”

“Got it. So you’re Chicano.”

“Chicana, since I’m a girl.”

A very cute girl. Not sudden-stiffie gorgeous, but cute. He still held her hand. They both seemed to realize it at the same
time. She held his gaze and swallowed hard enough that he could see the muscles of her throat working.

“Do you have a name?”

He smiled. “Ash.”

“Nice to officially meet you, Ash.”

“You too, Camila.”

She slipped her hand out of his and pressed it against her thigh. Oh, fuck. Were his hands sweaty?

“So I saw you dancing with Bubble Butt. Did she take care of your problem?”

Ash blinked. “That was her?”

“Seriously? You didn’t even look at her face the other day at the beach? Yeah, that was her you were just dry humping.”

“Oh. Uh, no. Still got that issue.”

“Looking women in the eyes instead of the ass might help.”

“I’m looking you in the eyes.” And what stunning eyes. Even in this dim light he could drown in them. A hollow ache opened up low
in his belly, need pulsing hot and hard.

“My eyes are much nicer than my ass. I know this about myself.”

Okay, this felt like one of those girl conversations he would have to tread carefully around. Not exactly his forte. “I’m sure your ass is perfectly nice. I mean, I’ve never
seen
it—”

But I’d like to.

“It’s okay. I’d wouldn’t want the kind of body boys can’t take their eyes
off of. Conversations feel better than sex anyway. Not to disappoint you, or anything,” she rushed to reassure him. “I’m sure you’ll really enjoy it when you do it. Boys always do.”

She’d hidden so much meaning in that little speech that he didn’t know what to begin unpacking first. “So you’re not a virgin?”

Okay, apparently he was going for the most important shit first.

“No.”

Somehow that made him feel better. Already his mind had begun conjuring images of the two of them together. Once he found the right girl, he wanted to kick his virginity into touch as quickly as possible. The thought of fumbling around with another virgin, both of them awkward and embarrassed, made him cringe.

“Don’t judge me.”

He jerked back. “What? I’m not.”

“I can see from
your face you are.”

“My face?”

“You’re cringing.”

“Jesus. Look, I think it’s great you’re not a virgin.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Just because I’ve slept with other guys doesn’t mean I’ll sleep with you.”

He threw his arms into the air. “I give up. All I wanted to say was you’re fine the way you are. You might not like your arse, but I think you’re cute and clever. You could
do with being a little less defensive, though.”

Whether it was his admission that he thought she was cute and clever, or his admonition not to be so defensive, something melted her mask. For the first time, her face seemed to relax. Her shoulders lowered, and she gave him a shy, uncertain smile.

“Thank you.”

Confused, he said, “You’re welcome. Want something to drink?”

“Sure.
I’ve sorta become addicted to Fanta since I got here. Can you bring it in the bottle? Unopened.”

“One Fanta, undrugged. I’ll be right back. Don’t seduce any other guys with your sexy talk about Chicano literature while I’m gone, okay?”

Her laughter followed him halfway across the room, making him grin like an idiot. Winning that laugh had felt like a huge victory. Even today, with a
World Cup medal and a hell of a lot of other hardware choking his display cases, that laugh ranked up there with the greatest prizes of his life.

Now she wanted him to win another prize. As sure as he’d been when he’d woken up that he would turn her down, he couldn’t help wondering whether winning the San Diego Sevens would bring back the triumph he’d felt at winning her laughter.