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

  Nico felt the blood drain from his face.

  "What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas. Anyway, that happened long before I met my wife. I am a changed man."

  Olivier gave him a hard stare. "Si," he said, sounding like his mentor. "Do not say I did not warn you."

  As the door closed behind Olivier, Nico tipped back his chair and finished his coffee.

  Ah, he loved it when a plan came together.

  Chapter Three

  Anastacia met Nico at the entrance to Wembley football stadium. She'd been to the Wembley Arena lots of times for pop concerts and other, cultural, entertainment. Nico took her arm as she clicked along in heels not designed for clambering down wide stone steps at a football match. Her eyes looked to the heavens, to a sky so blue it hurt the eye. Christ, ninety minutes of utter boredom watching twenty-two men, men who had nothing better to do with their lives, run around on a bit of grass chasing a ball. She turned a steely eye on the thronging crowd surrounding them. Everyone was casually dressed in T-shirts and jeans. There was a lot of rubber-necking in their general direction because Nico and Anastacia looked a pair of peacocks tossed into the middle of a chicken farm.

  Nico glanced down at her set face, grinned, gave her arm a friendly squeeze.

  He caught her eye. "You will enjoy the game."

  She most certainly would not.

  "I'm only here out of duress," she responded, not giving an inch.

  "Si, I am the boss."

  Since he was most definitely was the boss, Anastacia held her peace.

  After a swift journey in an elevator, they surfaced high above the stadium to find the sun shining and the place jam-packed with fans wearing team colors. There was the persistent hum of the voices of tens of thousands of spectators blowing horns, banging drums, and doing Mexican waves. Speakers blared hard rock around the stadium, Queen belting out We Are The Champions. She smelled hot dogs, fries, spilled soda, coffee and beer. She was surprised to see quite a few girls and women of all ages. Although the fans consisted mainly of men, there were families, too. Over stimulated little kids, boys and girls of about eight years old and up, their faces flushed with joy and anticipation. Some had team colors painted on their cheeks. And loved-up couples. Her gaze lingered on a guy whispering to his girl who was grinning from ear to ear. A hot date at a football match? Who'd have thought it?

  Anastacia was a woman who was very sensitive to her environment and now she became aware of something else, something that ran its fingers over her skin.

  Fever pitch excitement.

  She could feel ripples of it like rolling waves of static electricity.

  Now, her own indifference fell away to be substituted by a grudging fascination. People watching, their myriad of facial expressions, their body language, was a big part of Anastacia's business. But more importantly, it was so much part and parcel of her open personality.

  "Wow, Nico. I can't believe how many normal people are here. The atmosphere, the buzz, is amazing. Who's playing again?"

  "Si, there is a reason why soccer is called the beautiful game. United are two goals ahead at the top of the Premier League, with three games to play, two at home. Milan will win the Italian league. This is the semi-final of the European Champions League." He gave her a bland look. "Which you would know if you had done your homework."

  Anastacia ignored the dig.

  Her eyes, her ears, were too busy just absorbing the vibe.

  Absorbing the fact she was shocked to the core she was having the time of her life.

  However, business opportunities were never far from her mind.

  "Who handles the promotional material for the Italian team?"

  Nico slanted her a that's-my-girl look, but since her eyes were on the crowd, she missed it.

  "If I were you," he advised. "I would focus on getting through your first ever live game of footie."

  With an annoyed huff, Anastacia sat back in her seat, but her eyes lingered on the crowd below.

  "It looks a lot more fun down there than it is up here. Why aren't we sitting in the stands surrounded by thousands of sweating, screaming fans?"

  Again Nico slid her a look, studied the sulky face, the sulky mouth, and prayed for patience. "Because we are sitting in the royal box where we can see all the action and I can explain to the uninitiated what a throw-in, a corner-kick, and a foul is. Plus, something called a set-piece."

  The sulky mouth pouted.

  "Do they serve food up here among the Gods, or are we too posh to eat?" asked an Anastacia who'd skipped lunch and dinner.

  "Si." Nico gestured to a large picnic hamper that had materialized behind them. He opened the lid. "A wide selection of exclusive sandwiches created by Oscar. He sends his love, by the way. Spelt bread wraps, with a variety of cold cuts, cheeses, hummus and salad. Help yourself."

  Anastacia fell on the feast, piling food high on a white plate of delicate china. Typical Nico Ferranti. The man liked to travel in style. She grabbed a napkin, heavy cutlery, a bottle of spring water. And didn't speak until she'd wolfed down her third sandwich. God, Oscar Zamani was the best chef in the entire world.

  All the while Nico simply watched her with wide eyes.

  Catching the look, she gave him a slightly embarrassed smile.

  "Sorry. Missed lunch. Starving. These are really, really good."

  "I have never seen someone so tiny eat so much."

  She finished guzzling the water, sent him a cheeky grin.

  "Something to do with my metabolism. Food doesn't stick."

  "It will do when you are thirty," Nico muttered.

  "Then I'll worry about it when I'm thirty then, won’t I?" Anastacia replied.

  The roar of cheers from the crowd drew Anastacia's attention to a football ground with immaculately cut grass as green as the Emerald Isle. Two teams, one in red, and one in white, were strolling onto the pitch. Each team had eleven players. Each player held the hand of an over-awed or utterly thrilled young boy or girl wearing team colors. Cute. Then the players lined up to sing The UEFA Champions League Anthem. When the singing finished, the roar of the crowd was deafening as the two captains stood on either side of the referee. They exchanged team pennants then the ref tossed a coin. The red side took the first kick of the ball.

  What surprised her was how slim and fast and skilled the players were. Each team appeared to have an eclectic mix of nationalities, like a mini United Nations, kicking a ball.

  Leaning forward, she rested her elbows on the stainless steel ledge. Her focus, however, was on one man only. Olivier Conti. He was playing for the away team, in white, with the red number 9 on his back. Hmm, he was taller than she'd expected. Not as skinny as she'd thought. Toned legs, tight butt. He'd look good in a black plastic bin liner, never mind a suit or jeans or sweats.

  Her heart did a funny little flutter in her chest that she immediately put down to indigestion.

  It soon became clear to her that Olivier was the spearhead for his team. The man was versatile, swift, and light, incredibly light, on his feet, with superb balance and centre of gravity. He moved... no, danced... quite beautifully. He flew over the grass effortlessly, feinted to the right, to the left, dodging numerous attempts to foul him. All fluid action. There was something of a big cat about the way he used his body; landing on his feet, running with the ball, the way he used his hips, shoulders, head.

  Hmm, he might just work after all, Anastacia mused as her eyes measured the length of a torso that showcased lean muscle, studied his wide shoulders, the strength in his thighs.

  "He's able to read exactly what his opponents are going to do before they do it. He's got a spooky radar, knows where players of both teams are at any given moment," she murmured.

  Since Anastacia never took her eyes from Olivier, she missed Nico's appreciative grin.

  As a marketing and communications professional, Anastacia loathed using descriptions like drop-dead-gorgeous or sex-on-legs. Although she had to admit Olivier had supe
rb legs. She studied him as she would a bronze sculpture of sheer male perfection by Auguste Rodin at the Victoria and Albert museum. Lean. Long. Muscled. Okay, so he looked good. What else did Olivier Conti have going for him? He was incredibly wealthy. He was talented. And, she admitted, stunningly sexy.

  Sexy was absolutely fine as far as Anastacia was concerned, because as anyone in the advertising game knew well, sex sells.

  Her attention was drawn again to Olivier. During a short break in the fast moving action, a player for the opposition was being given a yellow card for some weird violation of the rules that Anastacia didn't understand (and didn't want to understand), Olivier started doing a series of stretches that made his white shorts strain across a very tight butt. Anastacia's brows rose into her hairline. Hmm. Oh, yeah, sex most definitely sells.

  The tickle low down in her belly not only surprised her, but it annoyed her, too.

  That tickle made her frown.

  She was a professional. This was strictly business, nothing else. She didn't have time for anything else.

  "He's probably got the brain capacity of a root vegetable," she muttered under her breath. She sniffed. In her line of work she met lots of gorgeous men. Men who were powerful, wealthy, talented and attractive. However, most of them had one important element missing... kindness. Although she had to admit she'd never met one who ticked all of those boxes. Actually, she had. Nico Ferranti. She slid a long look to the man at her side who was one hundred per cent focused on the game.

  Anastacia admired her boss on so many levels, not least of which was because Nico was very easy on the eye. She was only human. It was a simple pleasure to look at him. But Nico was strictly business. She'd never lusted after him. Plus, he was blissfully married to the equally stunning Bronte. The couple had three gorgeous children. They all lived in a house that had stepped right out of a fairy tale. As far as Anastacia was concerned Nico Ferranti had it all. And since he was a wonderful human being, Nico deserved it.

  Again she became engrossed on studying the man on the field who was running rings around the opposition and had just missed kicking a screamer into the net by a whisker.

  Bad luck.

  Then her eyes narrowed when Olivier was fouled, a stomp of studs on the instep, a sneaky elbow jab to the jaw. She sat up. Ouch, that must have hurt. She was surprised when Olivier didn't complain or whine to the referee. He might have done a little hop and limped a bit, but he rose above it and within seconds was back in the game. Interesting. The man could take his licks.

  Anastacia wondered if he'd be able to take direction from a woman with the same fortitude.

  Interesting times, she decided, lay ahead.

  Then Olivier spun around.

  And she knew she'd never forget the first time she saw his face. Golden skin was pulled tight across sharp plains and angles. His eyes were dark, almost brooding, totally centred on the ball, on the game. His mouth, that full passionate mouth, was hard. He looked fierce. He looked dark. He looked dangerous. Anastacia had been expecting a pampered pretty boy. She certainly hadn't been expecting the strong, irresistibly sexy face of a warrior.

  Bloody hell.

  Chapter Four

  The half-time whistle blew.

  Nil-nil.

  The teams sauntered off the pitch to a rousing chorus of catcalls, cheers and applause.

  Some fans who were feeling friendly called out Olivier's name from the crowd. His grin flashed, sharp and fast, changing him from a warrior into an openly warm and approachable man with a captivating charm.

  Anastacia let out a breath she hadn't been aware of holding.

  "The verdict?" Nico asked.

  Her head was spinning.

  She put it down to dehydration.

  Anastacia grabbed a bottle of water, twisted the cap, took a sip.

  Feeling steadier, she leaned back in her chair.

  "He looks good, Nico. You were right about that. Moves well, great posture. But I'd need to hear him speak. If his English is passable and he doesn't have a squeaky voice and can take direction, then we'll see."

  "Bronte says he sounds just like me, only younger," Nico boasted without a blush.

  The pride in his voice nearly had Anastacia laugh out loud.

  Dark brows flew into her hairline as she gave him big eyes.

  "Seriously? Maybe if we tone down the Italiano it might work. Of course, we could always dub him."

  The way her boss looked at her, shocked speechless, cracked Anastacia's shaky composure.

  Nico shook his head as she roared with laughter.

  "Devil," he said with feeling.

  "You're too easy," she gasped.

  "I have a feeling Olivier will surprise you."

  Feeling mellow now, Anastacia decided to keep it quiet that Olivier had already surprised her. She was over the shock of seeing Olivier Conti in the flesh and now Anastacia began to work out a plan of action. If his voice was indeed as deep and sexy as Nico's, and... that remained to be seen... then he just might work. As she wolfed down a melt-in-the-mouth fresh strawberry torte made of light crisp pastry, she accepted a paper napkin from Nico and settled back to watch the second half.

  Twelve yards from the goal the air on the penalty spot was blistering and becalmed.

  In the third minute of extra time, ninety thousand people held their collective breaths.

  The score was still nil-nil. If this ball went in the net it was a win for Milan.

  Olivier felt sweat trickle down his back as he waited for the referee's whistle to take one of the most important penalties of his career. If it went in the net then his team were in the European finals, to be played in Rome in ten days. Anatoly Jara, the goalkeeper for United, was a big bastard with long arms. Anatoly was one of the best goalies in the world, but he tended to pull to the left. No jogging or dancing on the spot to distract the penalty taker for him. Anatoly's speciality was mind games. Olivier knew better than to catch his eye.

  The whistle blew.

  In one millisecond, without hesitation, Olivier took his run, twisted his shoulder to feint to the left, but his hips swivelled at the last second and the ball connected with the instep of his right foot. The ball shot into the right hand corner of the net.

  Yep, Anatoly went left.

  Olivier couldn't help his quick whoop of joy. He'd never lost the adolescent thrill in scoring a goal.

  The referee's final whistle blew and the roar of the crowd rising chanting Conti! Conti! was a wave of sound that nearly took him from his feet. His team mates were kissing him on the mouth, giving him a group hug before lifting him from his feet.

  Once the celebrations on the pitch had calmed, Olivier stripped his shirt, swapped it for a red number 9, before he let his eyes drift up to the royal box where he knew he'd find Nico.

  Instead, his gaze fastened on Anastacia's.

  And held.

  In a purely instinctive reflex, Olivier fell back from his teammates. Molto bella, he thought. With the wild curls of her dark hair and a creamy skin that could only be British, she looked like a gloriously sexy fairy. The immediate tightening in his belly, in his thighs, didn't fill Olivier with dismay. Anything but. She had the most amazing face. A cool and sulky and sexy face. But it was the eyes that held... trapped... his. And without blinking they held until he approached the tunnel. Those eyes were dark blue, brilliant, with a stare that verged on impudent. Olivier had no idea why, but he had the strangest feeling he'd annoyed her. He tried the smile that had charmed the panties off many a woman. Her response was bold, not shy at all. Without a flicker, she didn't smile back. She simply stared at him as if he was a smear on a Petri dish.

  Interested, and more than a little... irritated, Olivier broke eye contact and stepped into the tunnel.

  The fairy's face lingered in his mind as Olivier sat in an ice bath with five other players. There was no conversation. They were too busy breathing through the pain, the atmosphere subdued as their coach labored the point that i
t was crucial for them to maintain their form if they were going to win the European Championship. The relentless pressure was part of the job, and Olivier worked hard not to let it get to him. Especially pressure from a fanatical football press who constantly reminded him that he was one goal away from being hailed the top scorer of the year once more. He listened with half an ear to the team manager and thought of the sexy brunette sharing the box with Nico.

  Who was she?

  He hadn't tagged her as an average football groupie. God knew they came in all shapes and sizes. But average was the wrong word to describe such a fabulous face, those blue eyes, that sulky mouth. Then he remembered the way she'd stared at him and that irked feeling rose again.

  What the hell was wrong with her?

  What the hell was wrong with him? he demanded as he hit the showers.

  Still, in his mind, her vividly blue eyes seemed to burn a hole right through him.

  Why had she stared at him like that?

  As if she was analysing him.

  New-sprung irritation battled through bemusement. Unlike some of his teammates, Olivier didn't primp and preen his hair or his face. A quick rub with a towel was all the styling he needed.

  He pulled on black jeans by Armani, tugged a T-shirt the color of gunmetal over his head. Thrust his feet into black sneakers given by his sponsors and strapped on a twenty thousand dollar watch by another sponsor, TAG. Stuck buds in his ears, selected the Arctic Monkeys, hefted his bag and strolled out the door and through the waiting throng of a passionate press.

  He headed for the elevator instead of the team bus because he was staying at Ludlow Hall for a few days to spend down time with Nico and Bronte before joining the team in Rome for five days of pre-match conditioning.

  Due to I Bet You Look Good On The Dance floor pounding in his ears, he didn't hear the crowd screaming his name, or the press demanding attention, before he walked into the elevator and pressed the button for the top floor.

  Coolly, he stepped out of the elevator, ear buds now dangling around his neck. With a grin, he acknowledged the slap on the back from his club chairman. Then he automatically looked for Nico. Instead his eyes found hers. She was dressed in an expensive trouser suit. The color looked good on her, set off all that fabulous hair. The height of her shoes were insane as she stood with her back to the rail, just watching him, while he pressed the flesh of the great and the good. It struck him forcibly that for such a little thing, she appeared to have a huge presence. And there was that same look in her eye for him, an intensity level that not only seriously unnerved him, but seriously pissed him off, too. There was not one sign of approval, not one sign of enjoyment of the game. Olivier knew it was juvenile, but as she stared at him he was absolutely determined not to blink first, to win. Not once did her eyes waver as he took a step towards her.