The Glass Knot-mmf (28 page)

“Great,
thank you.”

“Come
on,” Fellows said, opening the door and half stepping through it.

Lewis
made no move to follow. “Anything else, Nicky?”

Yeah, come and do me a
private strip in my room later.

“Er, no, that’s it, thanks,” I said.

He
nodded, turned, and the star of all my dirty dreams and football fantasies left
the room.

“How
did it go?” Reg asked when he called ten minutes later.

“Great,
I got what I needed. I’m going to write up my report and email it to you by
ten.”

“Nine
would be better.”

“Oh,
okay.”

“And,
Nicky, don’t forget I’m relying on you to get the scoop on this. I could have
sent Jeremy, who by the way is completely pissed off that he isn’t going, so
make sure you get me inside gossip. Stuff no one else has.”

“I’ll
do my best.”

“Do
better than your best. I want to be in the know. Kick readers are relying on
you.”

I
braced for what I knew was coming next.

“Kick
hard.” Reg chanted the annoying office motto he’d introduced the year before.
“Kick fast and kick better than the rest.”

“I
will.”

“And
you’re staying at the Hilton tonight, right, with the team?”

If
only I was staying with one particular member of the team. The player who’d
made my whole body tingle with just a glance earlier. “Yes, but they’re dining
privately and having an early night.”

“Yeah,
I’m sure Fellows is seeing to that. That guy is anal about WAG rules.”

“I
know, and I don’t think he’s too happy a female reporter is going to be hanging
around either.”

“Tough
shit.” Reg laughed.

It
was no secret that he and Gavin Fellows didn’t get on. Reg had played
professionally at the same time as Fellows many years ago, and the two had
clashed on more than one occasion. I couldn’t help think my lucky break in
getting sent to cover the Euro had something to do with their long-standing
feud.

“I’ll
get the report over to you asap, okay, boss.”

“Yeah,
and make sure you keep your eyes open and your ears pricked every second of
every day.”

“I
will.”

The
line went dead and I picked up my Mac. I was determined not to let Reg down,
but equally I had my reputation as a sport’s reporter to think about, which
meant it was the football I was reporting not the antics of the players off the
pitch. And if Reg didn’t like that, it was too bad, he should have sent Jeremy.
I could always get another job. What I couldn’t do was repair my to-date,
professional and pristine reputation in the industry I adored.

My
attention was drawn to a quiet lounge to the left and I decided to order from
the bar menu and write while I ate. That way I wouldn’t be eating alone in a
restaurant, which I hated, and it would make my immediate task more pleasant.

The
bar menu was fancy and because I was now officially on expenses, I ordered a
crayfish and guacamole salad and a large glass of Pinot.

“England
captain, Lewis Tate, looked confident and determined the night before his team
flew to the Ukraine. The recent draw against Spain appeared to have only made
his faith in Gavin Fellows’ final selection all the stronger. When Kick
magazine asked about formation plans, he reported that his decision to stick
with four-four-two remained unchanged at the present time...”

Two
hours later my three-page report was in my sent box. I’d enjoyed a fabulous
supper and a delicious glass of wine followed by the frothiest cappuccino of my
life.

I
settled the bill and shut down my Mac. The flight to Donetsk was early, and
with the additional delay of London morning traffic, it would be an indecent
hour that I had to haul myself out of bed and get to Heathrow. I decided to
collect my suitcase from the concierge, who I’d stowed it with earlier when I
was running late, and head to my room. There I would take a hot, deep bubble
bath and listen to Adele, my absolute favorite singer at the moment. Then
lounge in bed and catch Sky Sports. See what was being reported about the
team’s departure.

As
I wandered across the lobby I spotted several of the players, including Bryers,
slipping into the POP bar. They appeared relaxed and at ease dressed in smart
trousers and casual shirts. I could just make out their light-hearted banter.
Bryers digging mid-fielder Carlton Clare, about his new, shaved haircut.

I
would bet my last pound that Gavin Fellows had no idea they’d sneaked off for a
drink and a bit of fun.

Good
for them.

I
dragged my attention away and smiled at the concierge. “You have my case. I
left it earlier. Nicky Thomas.”

“Ah,
yes, certainly, madam.”

He
disappeared through a walnut-colored door to his right then returned with my
cerise holdall, pulling it on its small wheels.

“Here
you are, madam.”

“Thank
you very much.” I took the handle and made my way to reception, checked in and
was told to head to the sixth floor.

As
I walked to the elevator the noise in the POP bar cranked up to disco level. It
seemed a party was beginning to evolve. Perhaps I should drop off my case and
head back down, see what was occurring. Reg’s words rang in my ears:
“Get the
inside scoop, the stuff no one else knows.”

I
clicked my tongue on the roof of my mouth, annoyed with myself for even
thinking it. That was not the journalist I was; if it wasn’t to do with the
game then I wouldn’t be sticking my nose in. Sod Reg and his need for dirty
gossip.

The
large, golden doors of the elevator slid open and I stepped in, rattling over
the rail between marble floor and green carpet. I hit level six and breathed in
the waxy scent of polish.

“Wait.”
Someone’s hand appeared around the shutting doors and stopped them closing.
“Hang on.”

‘’Oh,
sorry.” I quickly jabbed the door-hold button and the doors re-opened.

Lewis
Tate stepped into the elevator holding a newspaper. He glanced at me. “Thanks.”

“That’s
okay, er, which level do you want.” My heart was thudding. Gone were sleepy
bedtime thoughts. Now all I could think of was that I was alone, in a very
small space, with Lewis Tate,
the
Lewis Tate. Oh, if only time could
stand still, freeze, then I could lick him all over, starting at his mouth and
work my way down. See if he tasted as divine as he smelled—fresh citrus
mixed with a deep base note of something like bergamot, or maybe sandalwood.

“Level
eight, please,” he said, turning to face me. “Nicky.”

Oh,
sweet Jesus, he remembered my name. I smiled and managed to suppress a
delighted, girly giggle. “Eight, okay.” I pressed the button, relieved I’d
removed my chipped nail varnish that morning and replaced it with clear.

Fleetingly
I wondered if I should ask him another question about formation, or maybe
something more personal like if he was looking forward to the first game. But
my brain barely registered these thoughts, because as the elevator started
moving, a low buzzing noise hummed around the small space.

Fuck!

The
sensation of my guts pooling in my abdomen had nothing to do with the elevator
taking off. Unfortunately the mechanics lifting us upward were smooth and
silent and all that could be heard was an eager whirring coming from my
holdall.

Fuck!
Fuck! Fuck!

The
bump into the elevator must have jostled Big Ben. I wanted to be sick, let
mortification eat me alive, fall through the floor, hell to the consequences.
Where was a damn black-hole when you needed one?

I
glanced at Lewis. He was looking straight at me, his brows raised and his lips
slightly parted, as though about to speak. But he didn’t say anything. Instead,
he glanced down at my holdall and stared at it, as if he could see right into
it.

Swallowing
tightly, I gave the holdall a jolt against the floor, hoping to turn the damn
rampant rabbit off. No such luck. If anything the drone increased in enthusiasm
as though it had flicked itself up a speed. Big Ben was always enthusiastic, I
would give him that. Though at this moment in time I wished he was the silent,
droopy sort.

I
buckled my legs—they felt like noodles—and tried to fight the
blistering flush that was searing its way up my chest, neck and onto my cheeks.
I could just ignore the sound. Hold my head high and hope that he hadn’t really
heard it— either that or pray this was a bad dream.

Please
let me wake up!

But
it wasn’t a dream. This was real. Lewis Tate was standing right next to me
listening to my vibrator having a solo moment.

I
had to face the music with as much dignity as possible.

“It’s
er, my...”
Think brain, think.
“My electric toothbrush, it has a faulty
connection. Goes off on its own all the time. Drives me crazy.” I shrugged,
hoping to project nonchalance.

His
gaze settled on my hot face again. The right side of his mouth twitched, just a
little. “Really?”

“Yes,
really.” I pursed my lips, indignantly, to show I wouldn’t lie about such a
thing and if he was thinking of something else he had a dirty mind.

“Well
you should get it seen to.”

“I
will.”

“Otherwise,”
he said, folding his arms, his knuckles bulging his wide biceps outwards, “when
you want to use it the batteries will be dead and you will be...”

The
elevator was pinging up the floors, surely it had reached six. If it hadn’t I
was just going to accept my fate and die of embarrassment.

“And
I will be what?” Fuck, my voice had come out as a squeak.

He
rolled his lips in on themselves and cocked his head. The buzz continued, oblivious
to the acute state of discomfort it was causing.

Black
Hole, I could really do with you right now.

“Because,”
he said, tugging the right side of his mouth up into a definite half smile, “if
the batteries wear out you’ll be left feeling very frustrated.”

How
could this be happening to me? Was it some kind of sick, karmic joke to let
Lewis Tate know that my only release was a vibrator? Next thing he’d know I
fondly called it Big Ben—not that I was feeling fond of it right now.

Finally
the screen flashed six and the elevator doors slid open with a faint whoosh.

“I
will, get it seen to, that is,” I said, tilting my chin and willing my legs to
work for at least another five seconds.

I
stepped out, pulling my traitorous luggage with me. As it clanked over the
brass bar onto the corridor carpet, the buzzing stopped.

Bloody
typical.

“Good
night, Nicky,” Lewis called.

I
could almost hear the amusement in his voice. Well fuck him. Just because he
had a super-model at his beck and call, some of us weren’t so lucky and had to
rely on mechanical means of satisfaction.

Not
replying to his goodnight, I stalked down the long stretch of corridor, holding
my head up and forcing my shoulders down.

It
wasn’t until I heard the elevator doors ping shut that I fell against the wall,
dropped my head in my hands and let humiliation devour me. Crunch me up and
roll me around in its jaws.

What
the hell had I done to deserve that?

Shared

Struggling
artist Ariane Arlington flees the Welsh valleys after exposing her corrupt
boss. But when the sun rises she finds herself jobless and homeless in Cardiff
city with barely a penny to her name.

She
responds to an advert in the local paper -
Room to let, wanted, girl to
share
. What she doesn't realize is that the two insanely gorgeous guys who
live in the penthouse apartment really do want a girl to share, in every sense
of the word.

Fortunately
for Ariane, rent is the last thing on their minds. She discovers the men are
bound together by a turbulent past. Liam, a computer whiz, keeps a painful
secret hidden beneath his buff exterior, whilst Quinn, a pioneering
neurosurgeon, wonders if he'll ever meet a woman who can live with his
controlling ways. They admit the one thing missing from their lives is a woman
just like Ariane, who can handle them both in and out of the bedroom and who,
together, they can keep satisfied, loved and most of all, safe.

Shared Too

A sequel
to Shared.
Ten years on I’m still convinced I’m the luckiest
woman on earth. Two devastatingly gorgeous husbands committed to my
satisfaction—phew!—life doesn’t get much better or much sexier.

But as
though the mere concept of a perfect existence was created to be shattered, one
day Quinn turned to me and said, “Shared too. I want to be shared too.” Add in
the monster that haunted my nightmares and I was struggling to keep a grip on
my sanity.