His Rules: Ludlow Nights - Book1 (A Ludlow Nights Romance) Read online

  His Rules

  A Ludlow Nights Story

  Introduction - His Rules

  A Ludlow Nights Story

  Ambitious, workaholic Anastacia Morgan runs Ferranti Communications

  with a cool-head and an iron will. Her latest project is ensuring sports star Olivier Conti does what he's told in a series of adverts. Olivier is impossible with a huge ego she's more than able to handle. His smile may do wonderful things to her libido, but Ana is determined to succeed where other women fail and resist the gorgeous soccer star.

  However, in this game there are no rules and Olivier's never missed scoring a penalty, yet.

  Copyright - His Rules

  By CC MacKenzie

  Copyright © C C MacKenzie 2015

  CC MacKenzie has asserted her right to be identified

  as the author of this work.

  All rights reserved. No part of the publication may be reproduced, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, imaging, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

  ISBN 9781909331211

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organisations, places and events other than those clearly in the public domain, are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Published by More Press

  Cover Design by Gabrielle Prendergast

  Table of Contents

  His Rules

  Introduction - His Rules

  Copyright - His Rules

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty One

  Chapter Twenty Two

  Chapter Twenty Three

  Chapter Twenty Four

  Keep in Touch

  Other Books Available by CC MacKenzie

  Her Rules

  Excerpt

  Chapter One

  Though She Might Be But Little, She Is Fierce

  William Shakespeare.

  "A footballer?" Anastacia shoved dense, dark curls over her shoulder.

  She sat back in a chair of butter-soft leather, raised imperious black brows and gave the good-looking man sitting on the other side of her desk a very hard stare. "You cannot be serious, Nico?"

  "I hope that is a rhetorical question," Nico Ferranti returned mildly. His wife, Bronte, always said that good things came in small packages.

  Well, Anastacia Morgan was a size zero, five foot two inches in her size four bare feet, and a prime example of how good things did indeed come in a small package. She was dressed in an immaculate business suit the color of bone, tailored just for her. A suit which fitted her in all the right places. And Nico knew for a fact Anastacia wore the fashion equivalent of stilts to boost her height. He'd bet good money those stilts were, even now, discarded under her desk. At the moment she resembled a very angry angel.

  Nico wasn't worried. He had plenty of experience of dealing with little girls who resembled angry angels. He had two of them at home.

  Now Anastacia was glaring at him over black-framed reading glasses perched on her small nose.

  She read the look on his face, uncompromising, and tossed down her silver pen in disgust. Her behaviour reminded Nico forcibly of his four year old daughter, Sophia, throwing a temper tantrum.

  Again those dark eyebrows shot into her hairline.

  "Can our soccer star speak in declarative sentences?" she asked in a droll tone of voice that made him raise his own brows.

  "Tsk, tsk, Anastacia. Sarcasm is not a good look on you," Nico told her in a very soft voice. A voice that made heat rise in her cheeks and told him his rebuke had been received loud and clear. "Just think of the nice fat fee you will receive."

  The look Anastacia sent Nico was her own version of uncompromising. She could stare down the Queen of England with that look, but she couldn't stare down Nico Ferranti.

  At thirty-four, Nico was head of a global business which spanned hotels and digital technology. A business he'd begun with a small legacy from his paternal grandfather, brains and balls. Nico ran things his way, and everyone who worked for him knew it. Including the tiny angel who was showing her fangs and glaring at him out of cobalt blue eyes.

  Two years ago he'd taken a big chance on Anastacia Morgan.

  And he'd never regretted it.

  One of Nico's greatest skills was recognizing raw talent in another. In her he'd seen a creative ambition, and a need for a financial freedom that matched his own. She was twenty-three and, thanks to him and her own incredible work ethic, she was one of the top brand managers in a highly competitive and cutthroat business. And since he knew that Anastacia Morgan cared as much for the Ferranti brand as he did, Nico kept her on a very long leash.

  Then she narrowed her eyes, pulled out the big guns, and gave him her death stare.

  Nico waited.

  After another minute Anastacia gave up with a, "Okay. You're the boss. But Nico... a footballer?" The last two words were said in a whine that made Nico bite down hard on his bottom lip. And she wasn't finished, "What's wrong with Tobias Aidin? He's the next big thing. Dontcha watch prime-time TV? In less than six weeks he has over five hundred thousand followers on twitter. Not only does his voice make women's toes curl, he can take direction and..." she paused when Nico gave her wide eyes. He had to admire the way she took a breath and battled on. "Sportsmen, especially soccer stars, freeze, or take the piss when a camera's rolling."

  Nico focused on brushing a speck of dust from the sleeve of an immaculate grey suit in lightweight wool.

  "As you are aware, the new Boutique hotels specifically target young business executives and tourists who demand the Ferranti quality and value for money. We need a well-known face and a name that resonates world-wide."

  "I've never even heard of Olivier Conti," Anastacia threw back.

  "Every soccer fan in the world has heard of Olivier."

  He noticed the careless little jerk of the shoulder as she shrugged off his comment.

  "We're selling a lifestyle here, Nico. Not flashy cars and even flashier women," she said with a sneer that made him again bite down on his abused lip.

  Little devil.

  "Seven goals in the world cup in Brazil," Nico went on relentlessly. "He's the leading goal scorer in the Serie A..." He shook his head at her wide-eyed blank stare. "...The Italian football league, for four consecutive seasons. Two of the top clubs in the Premier League are prepared to pay over one hundred million pounds for him."

  Anastacia narrowed her eyes until they were blue slits.

  "How come you've got the skinny? Since when do you follow football?"

  "Anastacia, cara mia," Nico drawled. "Soccer is in my DNA. I am Italian."

  He watched her try not to, but she couldn't help but grin at the way his voice deepened, the way his accent grew stronger.

  "Since Olivier is in such high demand, how the hell can w
e afford him?"

  Nico unfolded his tall frame from the skinny chair.

  "Let us just say the boy owes me a favor. Do not make plans for this evening. A car will pick you up at six-thirty. I have tickets for the game tonight. Milan against United."

  "Who?"

  Nico gave the question and the cranky tone in which it was delivered the attention it deserved, none.

  He strolled towards the door.

  "Hang on just a minute there, buster."

  Nico opened the door, turned to look at her over his shoulder, and almost burst out laughing at the unspeakable scowl on her face.

  "Si?"

  Anastacia sat back, and in a dazzling move that belonged to ballet, stretched up a long leg, pointed to a soft leather platform shoe with five inch heels. "These shoes and this suit are bespoke VB. How is this a good look for a football game? I'll need time to go home, get changed into skinnies and a T-shirt that says, 'Score Me.'"

  "Nothing wrong with standing out from the crowd. The suit and shoes are fine. If I were you, I would spend the next few hours boning up on the offside rule," Nico advised before he softly closed the office door behind him.

  As he strolled past Anastacia's ferociously loyal PA, he grinned and tossed her a cheeky wink.

  With language that turned the air blue, Anastacia spun her chair around to stare unseeing over the city of London with its miles of sky high glass structures and the ancient and famous landmark of Tower Bridge heaving with clogged traffic over the river Thames. In her past, she'd had other views of the city, but they'd been at street level. These days she gazed down upon the city from the fifteenth floor. And one day very soon she would look down from the top floor.

  One day.

  Anastacia Morgan only looked forward, certainly not into the past. The past was behind her now and that's where the past would stay, thank God.

  Again she thrust back the weight of her hair. Hair that was too long, too curly and it drove her nuts. However, her hair had become something of a trademark in the business. It hung past her waist in glossy curls the color of rich ripe chestnuts. A gleaming brown shot through with a rose gold that her friends told her was gorgeous.

  Her friends also told her that her eyes were the darkest blue they'd ever seen. A couple of men had also said they felt they could sink in and drown in her eyes.

  At the moment Anastacia could care less about her hair or her eyes or her looks. All she cared about was the Ferranti brand. A brand which encompassed the five star hotels, spas, and resorts world-wide. And now the new boutique hotels. Working for Nico Ferranti usually meant there was never a dull moment and plenty of challenges... but football?

  Her wide mouth was marred by the sneer on her full lips.

  Then Anastacia remembered how much she owed Nico. Two years ago, in the middle of the worst recession in living memory, she'd marched into Ferranti Enterprises with a marketing degree, a smart mouth and a gut-searing desperation for a job. And one twenty pound note in her purse. Never look back, she reminded herself. Nico had taken a chance on her and she would never, ever forget it. Anastacia wanted only the best for the Ferranti brand. If that meant working with a football player, then she'd make damned sure the prima-donna (weren't all footballers drama queens?) did the job.

  Determined, she spun back to her desk, snatched up the phone and jabbed a button.

  "Linda, get me everything you can on Olivier Conti. Oh, and find me someone who can explain to me in words of one syllable the soccer off-side rule. No, I'm not being funny."

  Chapter Two

  Later, Anastacia studied her PA's hurriedly cobbled together file on the footballer. According to Nico, Olivier Conti's good looks, charisma, work ethic and skills on and off the field were going to make working with him a breeze.

  Yeah, right.

  Easy for him to say.

  Anastacia glared and glowered at the glossy ten-by-twelve publicity pic.

  Almond shaped eyes the color of bitter chocolate twinkled into hers.

  She sniffed.

  He looked... charming.

  Anastacia didn't trust charming.

  He also had an in-your-face confidence.

  Anastacia didn't trust a man who was over-confident.

  His thick black hair had been styled. Not too much.

  She loathed too much hair product on a man.

  Good bone structure. Strong jaw. Smoothly curved mouth. Kissable. A straight nose, sharp black brows and a taut smooth skin combined to produce a face that women all over the world (according to the gushing blurb) dreamed about.

  Anastacia's PA, Linda, was a blood-hound when it came to digging up the juicy stuff in a client's private life. So far she hadn't found too much juice on Olivier. However, from the photographs and gossip pages it appeared he was fond of leggy blondes. A lot of leggy blondes, which was pretty representative of his type of breed.

  Footballers.

  Men who were too young to deal with too much money and the pulling power that money brought them.

  Men who were notoriously fickle when it came to commitment.

  Men who walked away from their responsibilities.

  Even if that responsibility was a child.

  She'd avoided the sport and the people in it like the plague.

  And she had a very good reason.

  A reason which was no one's business except her own.

  Now she tossed the photograph on her desk, and spun her chair to stare broodingly out over the city.

  She could smell it a mile away.

  Trouble.

  Olivier Conti was trouble with a capital T.

  While Anastacia was nose deep in everything Olivier, the man himself was giving Nico Ferranti plenty of grief.

  Olivier dragged his hands through short black hair. He was six foot two inches, tall for a footballer, and as lean and fast as a greyhound.

  "Nico, I cannot believe that a casual conversation about an investment has led to this."

  Nico sent him a big grin. A grin that a killer whale might have been proud of.

  "In five years, or less, you will be burned out. Finito. It is time you learned the hotel business."

  "I do not know what my agent is going to say about this. He knows I cannot act. I am not doing any of that modelling shit in my underwear, showing the world the size of my fucking package, either."

  "You would probably need to fill out your package with a pair of socks."

  Nico's droll response had Olivier wiggle dark brows and toss him an evil grin.

  "I do not like to boast, but..."

  Nico threw back his head and roared with laughter.

  Once he'd found his equilibrium again, he shook his head.

  "Your personal business has nothing to do with your agent. No one has asked you to strip. And, there will be no modelling your impressive package. It is small scenes in three cities, endorsing hotels in which you have invested a large sum of money." Nico decided not to mention a certain bathroom scene, which was pencilled in for Rome. He’d let Anastacia deal with it.

  Olivier swore, paced to the hotel suite's floor to ceiling window and back again.

  "This is not the same thing. I am not endorsing a watch or a car. This is acting, per amor di Dio! I am going to make an ass of myself."

  He might feel like one, but he wouldn't look like one, Nico decided, as he sipped his espresso. He studied Olivier over the rim of the tiny cup.

  The boy was tall, hard muscled, lean and wore clothes with a style and flair that was perfect for the Ferranti brand. Olivier's tanned, chiselled face, the drop-your-panties-eyes, had women all over the world drooling, while his skill and sportsmanlike play on the soccer field had won over male fans of the beautiful game. Olivier was highly intelligent, easy-going, good-looking and charismatic. And Nico reckoned he'd be a natural in front of the camera.

  Plus, the boy had good instincts. He was no fool.

  "You will not make an ass of yourself," Nico said in a reassuring tone. "And I can
guarantee that I have the best person in the business who is going to see to it."

  Olivier looked less than impressed as he flopped into a chair and stretched long legs clad in black designer jeans.

  "I do not need a babysitter," he growled.

  The thought of Anastacia Morgan babysitting anyone flashed into Nico's brain. Somehow, he couldn't quite see it. But he ignored Olivier's sulky comment and changed tack.

  "What if you get injured again? What if this time there is no going back?"

  Olivier sent him a black look of disbelief.

  But Nico knew how much Olivier had panicked last year when an injury had put him out of the game for three months.

  "I am one hundred per cent fit."

  He was indeed.

  And he was scoring goals.

  "Si. But how many footballers, the best, disappear into depression, and worse, after they have played their last game?"

  "I am not my father..."

  "Si. I know this. But... it is never too early to plan for the future. You have a responsibility to your madre, your sorelle."

  "I have planned for the future and I understand my responsibilities to mia famiglia. I can go into coaching..."

  Nico raised his hand to brush away that bright idea.

  "It is always wise to spread our skill base. What good is a business degree if you do not use it?"

  "So, instead of chilling out in a hot tub with hot women in Las Vegas, this summer I will be cooped up in hotel rooms?"

  "Think of it as investing in your future," Nico said in a cheery voice, tossing in a big smile for good measure. "Plus, having a work ethic instead of partying will set a good example to young players who look up to you. And it will be good for the image of the sport."

  Silence.

  "I need to prepare for the game," Olivier said as he stood. When he reached the door, he turned and beaned Nico with a dark look. "And if I end up flat on my face in this advertising campaign, I promise to tell Bronte about you and four showgirls in Vegas.”