Kick It Up

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Kick It Up Page 7

by Carol Ericson


  “Must suck for you.” Megan stopped pacing and ran a hand under her nose. “How can you be sure anyone you date isn’t after your parents’ money and influence?” It did suck, but over the years she’d gotten pretty good at picking the carob chips from her trail mix. She could usually spot an opportunist quickly. At least Simon didn’t need money and power, not that she’d even identified him as a carob chip.

  She shrugged. “You learn to figure it out. What about you? Do you really love Lenny, or do you want to be with him because he’s a pro football player?”

  “Love? I don’t know about that, but he’s cute and he’s fun. Speaking of cute and fun, how’s it going with Simon Bosford?”

  She didn’t want to discuss Simon with this Venus flytrap. “He’s settling in.” No thanks to her.

  Megan snorted. “Did you see the picture in The Daily Fix today?” She pounced on the tabloid rag crumpled on the dining room table and smoothed it out. “He’s hot. His car’s hot too, and it doesn’t look like he’s settling in to me, or maybe that’s exactly what he’s doing. Who’s the lucky brunette?”

  To hide her burning cheeks, Jessica yanked a paper towel from the roller, crouched down, and scooped up the used tissues. Megan seemed so over Lenny Stacker.

  “Does this mean you’re okay about Lenny?” Megan smacked the newspaper against her thigh and wailed, “Noo. You have to help me, Jessica.”

  “How am I supposed to help you? I don’t even know Lenny Stacker.”

  “Doesn’t your Dad own the Pioneers?”

  “No, he doesn’t.” Scowling, Jessica dropped the tissues in the trashcan. “And even if he did, I don’t have anything to do with his teams or the players.” Had Megan come here to use her friendship to get Lenny back? Okay, so maybe Jessica owed her a small favor for getting her the job with CSM.

  “What about Simon Bosford?” Megan flattened the paper on the table again, eyeing Simon’s picture like a shark eyes the rung below him on the food chain, only sharks didn’t salivate.

  “What about him?”

  “You’re his personal assistant. Introduce me to him.” Jessica cranked her head back and forth. “You just told me Evan doesn’t want anyone in the office dating the athletes. He’d have my ass if he found out I set you up with Simon.”

  He’d have her ass if he found out she’d spent the night at Simon’s place.

  Megan dug her fists in her hips. “You owe me, Jessica.

  I got you the job.”

  “Yeah, and do you want to giveth and taketh away so fast? I’ll set you up with someone else. Do you like rockers?”

  “Maybe. Someone from Jimmy’s band? I’m not interested in Jimmy. I never date girlfriends’ exes, bad karma all around.”

  At least Megan had some code of conduct. “Let me ask around, but stay away from Simon Bosford. He’s offlimits.” Megan held up her hands. “All right, I’m not going to get you in trouble with Evan. Any parting advice on Lenny?” Jessica shoved the box of tissues into Megan’s hand and ushered her to the front door. “Yeah, scrape him off the bottom of your stiletto like a clump of mud.”

  “Could you do that?”

  “I did it. Why do you think my marriage to Jimmy ended after three months?” She slammed the door on Megan and her gaping mouth.

  her gaping mouth.

  God, she’d never missed Kylie as much as she did at this moment. Friendship with Megan involved a series of back and forth favors. If you rode the see-saw up, you’d have to come down and hit the sand.

  She wouldn’t introduce Megan to Simon even if Evan encouraged them all to date the athletes. She hung the off limits sign around Simon’s neck more for her own benefit than Evan’s. She wanted to keep Simon for herself.

  There, she’d admitted it. She had a great time last night—the drive up the coast, dinner, conversation, and the best part came after she’d almost driven his car into the ocean. She’d experienced such peace and calm sitting next to him on the beach, watching the waves. He even came to her defense when the paparazzi showed up.

  He probably just felt responsible for her because she’d acted like such a nitwit. She was supposed to be taking care of him, not the other way around. She had to get her act together, prove she could do this.

  She swept the clipboard from the kitchen counter and settled in front of her laptop. She downloaded her email, sucking in a breath when she saw one from Evan roll by.

  She clicked it open. It contained a link to the story in The Daily Fix and one line of text.

  Don’t screw up again.

  Chapter Five

  “Welcome to America,” the security guard behind the desk in the plant-filled lobby called out.

  Simon waved to him, and wedged his shoulder against the glass door, pushing it open. He stood, blinking, in the hazy sunshine before pulling his Montblanc sunglasses from the top of his head.

  He chewed the inside of his cheek, a bad habit he’d developed in childhood when faced with stressful situations. Shoving his hands in his pockets, he settled his back against the side of the building, soaking up the warmth from the bricks like a lizard basking on a rock, only not so carefree. He didn’t even care if he got dirt on his Ralph Lauren shirt.

  “We expect you to earn your money, Bosford. The Waves need help. We need a leader on the pitch, someone who can bring this team together.” The words of the Waves coach and general manager, Franco De Luca, echoed in his head.

  De Luca made it absolutely clear. They wanted him to play soccer. They wanted him to increase ticket sales for the Waves, which he’d already done, since orders for season tickets this season had sky-rocketed when they announced he’d signed the contract. They wanted him to improve the Waves’ abysmal record, and they expected him to lead the team to the play-offs.

  Bloody hell. They wanted all that when he expected to come here and sell some merchandise. He drew blood.

  “Simon Bosford? The Boss?”

  A tall, gangly bloke tripped up the steps toward the office building that housed the Waves’ management offices. Simon pushed off the wall, ready to paste on a smile for a fan, but the young man’s muscular legs and Waves jersey stopped him. “Yeah, I’m Simon. You’re one of my new teammates?”

  The kid nodded and shook his hand in a bonebreaking grasp. “I’m Ivo Ignatov. I’m a forward too, and this is my first season. The Waves picked me up out of San Diego State last year. You’re my favorite player of all time, although I really liked Pele, once my dad showed me some tapes of him playing, but you have some of the same skills.

  That first year you were in the World Cup is when I started following international soccer. That goal you scored against Germany on a corner kick was awesome.”

  “Do you ever come up for air, mate?” Even though he’d loosened his grip, Ivo had been pumping Simon’s arm during the entire discourse.

  Pink blotches stained Ivo’s fair skin as he dropped Simon’s hand. “Sorry, man. I get carried away when I’m nervous.”

  Seems he didn’t have a corner on nervous ticks. Christ, did the kid just compare him to Pele? He had some high expectations to meet, and not only from the Waves management. Simon jerked his thumb over his shoulder.

  “Do you have a meeting?”

  “Nah, I just came to pick up some paperwork from Franco’s secretary, Jackie. Are you getting ready for practice? I’ve been running wind sprints and lifting some weights, mostly leg presses.”

  The only leg press Simon had done lately involved two blondes and a wall in a hotel room. Ivo obviously didn’t read the tabloids. “I’m trying to recover from jet lag. I just got here.”

  Ivo cracked a grin. “Yeah, I read all about it in The Daily Fix. Did you really just buy that Ferrari?” Ivo obviously did read the tabloids. “Yeah, I just bought it, but they can fix it.”

  The kid shook his head. “How’d it wind up on the beach? Were you drunk?”

  If it came down to implicating Jessica or taking the hit to his driving skills, he’d take the hit. �
�Unfamiliar car, unfamiliar place.”

  Gesturing to the car park, Ivo asked, “What are you driving now?”

  “I took a taxi. I was just about to go back inside and ask the security guard to call me one when you came up.” He’d been too preoccupied thinking about the meeting and why the Waves had hired him to ask for a taxi on the way out of the building.

  “A taxi? To where?”

  “My condo in Beverly Hills.”

  Ivo’s jaw dropped and his Casper-like brows shot up.

  “You took a taxi from Beverly Hills all the way out here? That must’ve been expensive.”

  It had been expensive, but he didn’t want to go into that with Ivo, who was probably earning one tenth of what the Waves were paying him, and Simon wasn’t even doing wind sprints and leg presses. “Yeah, it was expensive.”

  “If you want to wait a few minutes while I pick up my stuff from Jackie, I can give you a ride back to your place. I don’t live far from Beverly Hills.” Ivo looked him straight in the face, but his bright eyes and pink ears indicated his discomfort.

  “Sure, mate, I’ll wait for you. Thanks.” Ivo exhaled and barreled through the glass doors to the lobby.

  Great, he’d never gotten hero-worship from his teammates before. Most of the blokes he played with on the German club team had graced a few World Cups themselves. Hell, he couldn’t even manage a starting place in that line-up, and he’d always used his lifestyle as the excuse because he couldn’t face failure.

  Didn’t want to fulfill his old man’s prophecy. Didn’t want to give Dad the satisfaction of saying he was right, that once he couldn’t play football anymore, he’d be a nothing, a nobody. His hands bunched into fists. He wouldn’t allow that to happen. He’d amass so much fame and fortune, nobody could call him a failure.

  Ivo charged back outside, waving a stack of papers over his head. “Got ‘em. Are you ready?” Simon nodded, still gnawing on his cheek. He didn’t think he’d ever be ready again for what the Waves wanted out of him—a fit footballer, capable of leading his team to the playoffs.

  ***

  One day after Evan sent the ominous email, Jessica headed to Simon’s condo with a sure-fire plan and a shopping bag destined to make that plan work, biting into her wrist. She slid her key into the lock and shoved open the door to the condo lobby with her foot.

  Isaac, the security guard at the front desk smiled.

  “Good afternoon, Jessica. Are you here to bring more supplies to The Boss?”

  “Hi Isaac. Is he in yet? I called earlier, twice, but I had to leave messages.”

  Isaac’s grin broadened. “Oh, he’s in all right, never left.”

  She skidded to a stop, and the heavy bags banged against her kneecaps. “He never left? How long have you been on duty?”

  “I’ve been on duty since eight o’clock this morning.” She released a pent-up breath. “Maybe he went out before you got here.”

  Isaac crossed his arms over his barrel chest and shook his head. “Jaworski worked graveyard, and he told me The Boss came in about two hours after he started his shift. I haven’t seen Simon since I got here.” She ground her teeth together. Evan couldn’t blame Simon’s late night on her this time. When she’d called Simon yesterday after his meeting, he claimed he’d run into a teammate and planned to have dinner with him. That sounded harmless enough, but apparently dinner had led to an all-night bacchanal. She couldn’t babysit the guy 24/7, could she?

  “Thanks, Isaac. I’ll use my key to get in and tread lightly.”

  Isaac covered his mouth with his hand, and his belly shook like a department store Santa’s. “I think that’s a good idea.”

  At least someone found the situation amusing. She’d already checked The Daily Fix and although it contained a photo of some actor with his pants down, literally, she couldn’t find one word about Simon. Of course, two o’clock in the morning was a little late, even for the tabloids.

  She punched the elevator button, and the doors opened on a whisper. She staggered inside, dropping the bags on the floor. She slid her small gold key in the slot for the penthouse suite and pushed the magic button that would whisk her to the top of the building. The doors opened on Simon’s private hallway, and she selected another key from the soccer ball keychain where she kept all his keys. She slipped through the front door and set the bags down in the foyer.

  The place still smelled like new paint, but a lived-in scent already permeated the air. She wrinkled her nose and sneezed. Cigarettes? She didn’t think top athletes smoked, and she hadn’t seen him light up yet. The heavy drapes blotted out the afternoon sun, so she picked her way across the darkened room to yank them open.

  Sunlight spilled across the disordered room. A pizza box yawned open on the coffee table with a half-eaten pizza abandoned inside. A wine glass lay on its side, while another perched on top of a speaker. CDs littered the floor, a heap of blankets covered the leather sofa, and an intro to some DVD was frozen on the flat screen TV. Looks like the bacchanal continued in here...for more than a party of one.

  With her heart thudding in her chest and dread hanging weights on her feet, she climbed the stairs to Simon’s bedroom. If he had a woman in there with him, she’d turn right around and leave. Why torture herself? She should turn right around and leave now.

  Gripping the handle, she leaned her ear against the door. A woman’s laugh caused her stomach to clench until she realized it had come from the TV. She pressed the handle down and nudged one door with her hip. She peeked through the crack. Simon reclined on the king-sized bed with a stack of pillows behind his head. Her gaze darted to the open bathroom door, and she let out a breath.

  He was alone.

  She swept both doors open. “Good morning, I mean afternoon. Did you just wake up? That must’ve been quite a night you had, judging from the condition of the living room.

  It’s a good thing your cleaning lady is scheduled to come tomorrow.”

  Relief loosened her tongue, and Simon grinned as he crossed his arms behind his head, the muscles of his chest and belly hardening. God, he looked inviting.

  “Make yourself right at home, Jessica. Don’t mind me.” She withdrew the keychain from her pocket and dangled it in front of him. “I have all your keys. Do you want me to give them back? I brought a few more essentials.” He yawned. “I hope those essentials include breakfast, or lunch, as the case may be. I’m starving.” She’d brought enough groceries yesterday to feed the entire soccer team. Guess he hadn’t done much cooking yet. “I can make some breakfast.”

  He swung his legs over the side of the bed, the sheet hiding his essentials. Had he turned into the American prude he’d derided only two days ago? She liked the decadent European exhibitionist better.

  He said, “You don’t have to cook. We can go out.” The man never stayed at home, and with Evan’s email still stinging her conscience, she dug her heels into the carpet. She couldn’t let Evan accuse her of starving his star client, could she? “We don’t want all that food to go to waste. I’ll just whip up an omelet, if that’s okay.”

  “Make it a fried egg, add some bacon or sausage, and throw on some tomatoes and mushrooms, and that’ll be more than okay.”

  She gagged at the request, but she aimed to please this morning. She had a job to keep. “I can do that.” She spun around and marched downstairs. The gleaming kitchen and high-tech gadgets momentarily baffled her, but she got to work on Simon’s English breakfast. If she lost this job, she’d simply find another. She refused to crawl back to her parents, begging for money from the trust fund grand-dad left her.

  Grand-dad must’ve been off his meds when he drew up that trust fund. Unlike most trusts, it didn’t become hers at a certain age. No, Grand-dad had a thing about marriage and family—probably because two of his children and several grandkids had gone through numerous divorces. To get full control of her trust fund, she had to get married and stay that way for at least two years. So that rendezvous with Jimmy didn’t
count.

  Her parents had the power to dole out money to her from the trust, but to get it she always had to toe the line.

  She hated toeing someone else’s line, but she had developed expensive tastes over the years. Marrying Jimmy seemed like the perfect escape plan. Not only did it piss off her parents, it put her on a course of getting complete control of her trust fund. Of course, not even that carrot could entice her to stay with Jimmy in a loveless marriage.

  This job with CSM gave her a chance to stand on her own. The measly salary put a crimp in her lavish spending habits, but she’d been working on cutting back anyway, well, except for that little mishap the other night in the shape of a fluid red cocktail dress from Versace. She intended to pay back Simon every penny for it.

  After she negotiated through the appliances, the smell of sizzling bacon wafted through the kitchen, giving a touch of hominess to this stark, modern condo. She cracked two eggs in the bacon grease where they snapped and popped, and then sliced a tomato to toss into the frying pan. She hadn’t anticipated a need for mushrooms this early in her cooking career. She slid the whole mess onto a plate and dropped two slices of bread into the toaster. If Simon wanted his toast done on one side, the English way, he could take a hike back to Leeds.

  She placed the plate of food on the counter and surveyed the messy living room. They’d have to pick up a little before the cleaning lady came. Funny thing about cleaning ladies, you always had to clean up before they did.

  She grabbed the pizza box from the coffee table and swept the crumbs into the box. She collected the wine glasses, frowning at lipstick smudges on the rim of one of the glasses. Was Simon’s teammate a cross-dresser?

  That pile of blankets on the sofa had to go. Looked like he’d ripped apart the newly-made beds in the guest rooms.

  She gathered the blankets in her arms.

  Her hand touched human flesh.

  She screamed, and a fully-formed person popped up from the sofa. A fully-formed blond person.

  Simon thundered down the staircase. “What the bloody hell is going on down here?”

 

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