Wilde Magic (Wilde Women Book 3) (7 page)

Her wide-eyed innocence as she looked at him cooled his ardor. This wasn’t the time or place. He had to say something ‘cause her body was losing its warm softness as she came back to earth and started to stiffen and withdraw.

Massaging the breast he refused to relinquish, Cal dropped his head forward to hers. “Sorry, ‘tessa. Sounds like the kids are misbehaving.”

She didn’t respond. Not with words. Her heavy sigh said it all.

Boom! Pop! Ka-boom!

Cal was reluctantly scrambling to his feet when he saw his mystery girl get there ahead of him.

“Oh my God,” she muttered angrily, only she wasn’t talking to him. Not really. “Guaranteed it’s that squad of aging boys I’m supposed to be handling. None of them have gotten the grow the fuck up memo.”

’‘tessa delivered this diatribe as she checked the buttons on her dress, smoothed her hair and wiped a few fingers across her lips. He had to admit to being more than a little pissy that she wasn’t at all blinded by the hots for him. Far as he could tell, she’d forgotten him altogether.

More noise outside compounded her haste. “I better get out there,” she bit out. “Before one or all of them blow their fingers off. Or worse.”

Running for the door, she suddenly turned and came back. With her hand out and a brilliant smile on her face she drawled, “My pleasure, Cal Tyler.”

He wrapped her dainty hand in his and smiled broadly. “The pleasure was all mine, Contessa.”

Screams of laughter, then BOOM!

“Oh shit. Sorry. Gotta go.”

And with that, she whirled away from him, unlocked the door and bolted down the long hallway.

“Wait!” He yelled after her. “How do I reach you?”

She was almost gone before she laughed gaily, waved over her shoulder and hooted, “Have no fear, Mr. Sexy Pants. Our paths will cross again if they’re meant to.”

If they’re meant to? What the fuck kind of answer was that?

The scowl on his face changed in a split second to laughter. “Mr. Sexy Pants?” He said aloud. “I’m taking it!”

Cal high-fived the empty air, tucked in his shirt and went in search of the guy handling security. It was going to be a long night.

“Well, this is a fine mess.” Anderson Merriweather dead-eye stared at the line of recalcitrant athletes and shook his head.

Charlie shared his frustration and ire.

Anderson was the team handler sent by the commission to make sure things like this didn’t happen. It would have helped a lot, she reflected with a frown, if he’d actually done his damn job instead of sitting in his hotel room leaving her and the trainer Brad, along with Will Dean who doubled as PR Spokesman and general roustabout to handle things. Keeping a bunch of spoilt rugby stars in line was way harder than it should be.

“Easy Merry,” the squad’s co-captain argued. “The boys and I were just having a bit of fun, is all.”

The perpetrators of said ‘fun’ all bobbed their heads in unison.

She knew what was coming next. Anderson’s true skill lies in passing the buck and making anyone and everyone else responsible for his failings.

“Wilde,” he barked. “I thought you were supposed to be channeling this,” he sputtered and waved his hands. “This … exuberance. What happened to directing the lads toward acceptable recreational pursuits.”

Good grief. She wanted to laugh in his face but stayed impassive in her expression. Not exactly rolling in money, Charlie needed this gig. Paid assignments were few and far between. Even though her unique skills and education made her overqualified for what she was doing, teaching Type A personalities and results driven professionals to slow down and smell the coffee before the stress got in the way was something she enjoyed.

But that didn’t mean she was going just to stand there and let this guy chew her up and spit her out. Uh uh. That wasn’t going to happen.

Fixing an annoyed expression on her face, she offered Anderson a snarky moue and nodded in Will’s direction. “Which I would have been happy to do, except that Mr. Dean thought it a better use of everyone’s downtime to attend some swanky garden party.”

“We got loads of good press, Merry.” That one statement was Will’s standard trump card. Press coverage was currency. Period.

Anderson slammed a battered copy of the Daily Mail onto a table. “You and I have very different notions of what’s considered good press.”

Charlie bit her tongue to keep from laughing. She liked a British accent as much as the next, but something about two grown men snarling at each other with those accents gave her the giggles.

“Mr. Pearcey blowing up Santana Moraux’s ten thousand dollar Hermes bag and almost frying her Yorkie at the same time does not fall under the heading of ‘good press.’”

Dan snickered, and the guy next to him gave him a good jostle with his elbow. Bunch of overgrown children.

Brad finally said something that put everything into perspective. “Yes, well these hijinks interrupted my training schedule. Now we only have four days to practice for the next match.” He gave Anderson and Dan a meaningful look. “So back-to-back sessions and no time off. Next time, keep the fireworks for the pitch.”

The uncomfortable smackdown pretending to be a meeting wrapped up shortly after. In her opinion, the whole thing was just stupid and pathetic. Charlie got the whole, boys will be boys thing but sheesh. Give those boys access to wine, women, money and celebrity and they acted like immature assholes.

Not only had the guys tittered and been rude as their exploits were put under fire, but they also pushed, shoved and acted like idiots on their way out. This was one assignment she was eager to wrap up. The money was nice, but she wasn’t an airhead despite them treating her like a terminally stupid blonde. None of these guys benefitted at all from her efforts.

“Charlize, would you mind staying a bit?”

Anderson’s question brought her up short. What now? She wondered.

“Ooooh, look boys!” Dan gloated. “The Baroness is in trouble…”

Charlie’s mouth didn’t normally get off the leash. That was more Rhiann’s style, but she’d had enough of Dan’s needling. Glancing over her shoulder at the group of retreating players, she scowled at Dan. “Bite me, Pearcey.”

A pin dropping would have sounded like a sonic boom—that’s how quiet it got. When she looked back at Anderson Merriweather, he was biting off a laugh. Despite his passive, laissez-faire approach, the guy in charge was clearly sick of this bullshit as well.

As soon as they were alone, she attempted to release some of the tension left in the room by taking some of the responsibility for what happened. After all, if she hadn’t been making out with a celebrity driver and been on the damn job, maybe just maybe she might have prevented at least some of the squad’s over-the-top antics.

“Anderson,” she said to get his full attention. “Even though those guys are barely manageable, I should have put my foot down when Will announced the invitation. I knew it was trouble,” she shrugged. Slowly rubbing her palms together, Charlie ended with palms up and said “What was I supposed to do?”

Anderson grunted, “Hmph.” Sitting on the edge of his desk, he gestured for her to have a seat. “Not your fault Wilde. Brad should have stepped in. The training schedule must be followed, or the lads will end up drinking and shagging their way across the continent.”

Charlie smoothed a hand down her skirt and wandered off in her mind as Anderson droned on.

Shagging. What a stupid word.

I wonder if those new kinetic sand kits came.

Where’s my phone and did I remember to charge the damn thing?

What was the name of that team Mr. Sexy Pants drove for?

Mr. Sexy Pants. Mmm. Nice lips. Good kisser, too.

Charlie squirmed in her seat. I let him touch my boobs. The boob thing was usually her line in the sand. The opposite sex had been lining up to have at her tits since she started wearing a bra. First, it was the boys in school. They whispered about her with words like boobalicious and Tits McGee.

It only got worse at the end of high school and continued through college. Hell. It continued to this day. Her sisters teased her that she had noise-cancelling breasts. They weren’t altogether wrong.

She snickered silently. Her tits were her Achilles’ heel. She wanted to be wanted, but not because of her D-cups. Usually, the second any boob action came into play with the guys she’d dated over the years, she tapped out. But with Mr. Sexy Pants and his peanut butter seduction? His big hand fit her curves perfectly. Remembering the passionate way he molded her flesh and caressed the …

“So, obviously they pulled rank, and I reluctantly caved. Just get us through the next two exhibitions and we’ll call it a day and a job well done.”

What? Was she being let go? Fuuuuuck. Maybe she should’ve been paying attention.

“Er, uh, excuse me? Say again.”

A slip of paper was being pushed into her hands. “Sylvia from the commission gave the green light. You’re to call that number and ask for a Robert Belster. He’ll take you through whatever it is that they want.”

Charlie glanced at the note in her hands. A local number, and a landline, not a mobile.

“I’m sorry. What is this about?” she asked with a wave of the paper.

“Crepuscolo. They’ve requested your immediate services. What I gather is, one of their top drivers is recovering from a race track injury.”

Injury? “What?” Charlie saw the way Anderson’s eyebrows furrowed at her sharp response. All she heard was Crepuscolo, driver and injury. They were talking about Cal Tyler. Cal Tyler injured. She felt sick to her stomach.

“Right up your alley, as you Americans say,” he assured her. “Something about too much focus on medicine hindering the man’s full recovery. The team physician seems to feel he would benefit from the left brain-right brain activities you preach.”

“Oh.” Real eloquent, dipshit.

“You must have made quite an impression on this driver. He went to considerable lengths to steal you away from us.”

Swallowing the lump forming in her throat wasn’t fun. She told him they’d meet again if it were meant to be. She hadn’t figured on him manipulating the outcome like this. Maybe the boob massage wasn’t that great of an idea.

She’d told him straight off that she wasn’t a bed-hopping celebrity fucker. She had said that, right? Nothing about this felt right.

I need to talk to Rhi, she thought with not just a little desperation. She’d know what to do.

Jumping to her feet, Charlie gave her soon-to-be ex-boss a polite handshake. “Thank you for everything. I’m sure we’ll be in touch at some point.”

While Anderson tugged at his tie and made a sheepish face, she gave up caring what anyone thought and almost ran out of the room.

Oh, my God. What am I gonna do now?

“You’re going about this the wrong way, Ty.”

His friend’s amused snort irked Cal. The fucker was having way too much fun needling him.

“Thalia agrees.”

He glanced heavenward then growled. “What the hell, JP! Why’d you tell your wife?”

They were playing pool after a grueling day working on routines with their pit crews that never went right. Though his Italian BFF swore up and down that he’d never been much of a billiards man before meeting Cal, he still managed to win almost every game. And this time around, JP’s opening break shot screwed Cal from the get go.

“I tell her, my friend, because when you find a woman like my Thalia.” He wagged his eyebrows playfully. “Sharing is fun times ten.”

“She’s got your balls in a jar by the front door,” Cal jeered. “Speaking of balls, three in the center pocket.”

He set up his shot, grinned when he made the play and then grumped when the cue ball followed.

“Scratch!” JP hooted. “And you are wrong about women, my friend. I don’t share with Thalia because she makes me. I enjoy her opinions. You’ll find out one day. Maybe with this Skippy girl.”

Another amused snort that rubbed Cal the wrong way.

“And then Cal Tyler, you will care very much what she thinks. About your favorite food. Whether that’s a bald spot growing on your head and whether your penis gets the job done.”

He reached for the top of his head on reflex and ran his fingers through hair thick enough to hide any spots. Asshole. Now he had him worrying about receding hairlines.