He chuckled as he dredged his tea bag in a cup of hot water, but his chuckle ended in a grunt. Why did she keep pushing him away?
He thought he’d found the key to Jessica—live life on the edge and take her along to the precipice with him. It worked to an extent. She accompanied him every night on his revels, instituted most of them, but at the end of the evening she drifted away, leaving him to thrash around on those damned satin sheets alone.
He didn’t even particularly enjoy the partying. Sure he’d scored a page in the tabloids almost every day this week, but he didn’t experience the thrill he usually did at seeing his bad-boy exploits in print. He wanted a quiet evening at home with Jessica, a good meal, a few laughs, and a long, languorous session of love-making...sex. Bloody hell. She’d bolt faster than a thoroughbred at the starting gates of the Epsom Derby if she knew that.
All this mucking about at the clubs kept Jessica at his side, but she held him at arm’s length. What kind of game was she playing?
She didn’t crave the fame-by-association or the limelight. She steered clear of both. Whenever the paparazzi popped up, Jessica melted from his side, crouching behind other people, ducking back into the clubs, shielding her face with her handbag. She never appeared by his side in any of the photos that graced the tabloids.
She’d probably had enough of that with Jimmy Doe.
He shrugged before he sipped his tea. She just enjoyed having a good time, but he’d like to get her alone again.
“What’s on tap today?” Gemma bounded down the stairs with her usual unbridled enthusiasm.
“Ivo and I have that charity reception tonight the Waves are sponsoring. Did he invite you?”
“Oh right, that’s tonight. He did invite me. Did you invite Jessica?”
“No, she’s not interested in that. Too tame.” He had invited her, but she’d declined. Probably didn’t want to be stuck in a room with a bunch of stuffed shirts bidding on donated items to raise money for the Children’s Cancer Society. He’d planned on doing his part and then slipping away with Jessica back to his place, but she’d shot him down.
“Can I have a cuppa?”
“Make it yourself. You do know how to boil water in the microwave, don’t you?”
“You sound just like Milla. Do you know she yelled at me for dropping my clothes on the floor the other day?”
“Good.”
“You should be more mindful of your image, Simon.” She dug her fists in her hips. “You always give the little people too much leeway.”
“The little people, huh?”
“Yeah, like Jessica.” She slid her probing gaze his way.
“Jessica’s a little people?” He snapped open the newspaper and held it up, blocking his face.
“Don’t get me wrong. I adore her, but she is your gofer...isn’t she?”
“When did the little girl with the runny nose from the council flats in Leeds become such a snob?” Her jaw dropped in an unflattering imitation of a fish.
“You’re the one who puts as much distance as possible between your glittering life and the old Leeds homestead.” She had him there. He rarely talked about his upbringing in interviews. Sometimes the taunts of his schoolmates echoed in his mind—the taunts for the boy with no mother, the father on the dole, the scholarship kid with the working-class accent. He ran hard and fast from all that.
He rubbed his hands over his face. “It’s not the same as treating people badly or acting like an ass.”
“You’re right.” She plopped on the stool next to him and dumped some milk in her tea. “Besides for a gofer, Jessica sure seems to know a lot of people.”
“She was married to the lead singer from that band Lot 49.”
“Jimmy Doe?” Gemma did that fish-thing with her mouth again.
“Yeah, Jimmy Doe.”
“Do you think...?”
“No. She’s not introducing you to Jimmy Doe or anyone else in that band. They all wear black eyeliner.” Gemma couldn’t have timed her visit any worse. He had to establish his image as the sybarite of the soccer world in the States, and he had to impress a thrill-seeking woman. And he didn’t want his younger sister tagging along for the ride.
At least Ivo was taking her under his wing. He seemed like a decent bloke—a little too eager to party, but unlike Simon, he kept out of the headlines. He also stayed right by Gemma’s side, shielding her from some of the more unsavory aspects of L.A. nightlife. Gemma was safe in Ivo’s hands.
***
Gemma eyed her brother, his nose in the newspaper.
He sounded just like Dad when he took that tone with her.
Blimey, she could even detect a trace of the old Yorkshire accent creeping into his voice. She sighed and sipped her lukewarm tea. Didn’t matter anyway. She didn’t need some nancy boy who wore eye makeup. She had Ivo Ignatov in her back pocket, and he was a hunk and a half.
While she loved hitting the clubs every night with Simon and Jessica, she longed for a little one-on-one with Ivo.
Now she just had to figure out a way to make that happen without her straight-laced brother interfering.
He smacked his newspaper and she jumped, sloshing tea on her guilty face.
“Did you read about the latest archaeological discovery at that sight in Israel? It’s fascinating. I hope they publish the findings.”
She rolled her eyes as she mopped her face with the sleeve of her housecoat. Simon never could stamp out the brainy boy that lurked beneath the football star. She should be the celebrity, and he should go hibernate at Oxford. He’d hit thirty, and it was all downhill from there. Pretty soon he’d be wearing glasses, and he’d peer over the top of them like Dad and scold her for indulging in frivolous behavior. No, she’d be better off keeping her flaming desire for the husky Ruskie under wraps for now.
Good thing Jessica had come on the scene when she did. She definitely livened up things.
Jessica.
Party girl extraordinaire. Totally connected. Ex-wife of Jimmy Doe. She just might be able to enlist Jessica’s help in her quest to get some face time with Ivo.
In fact, Jessica could keep Simon completely occupied if she wanted. Simon was crazy about her, but Jessica didn’t realize it or didn’t care. No, it couldn’t be the latter.
The way those two whispered to each other and shared laughs that excluded everyone else, the way their eyes met across a room, like magnets, even when they were talking to other people, the way Jessica’s gaze tracked Simon’s every move when he chatted up a pretty girl.
There was something going on between those two, but Gemma couldn’t quite figure out what.
***
Jessica grinned at her laptop screen. She could almost see steam swirling around it from the scorching email Evan sent her. He accused her of being derelict in her duty.
Being irresponsible. Lacking judgment. He accused her of failure.
Normally, she’d take those as fightin’ words, prompting her to run for her clipboard and sensible shoes. Now she reclined against her sofa, closed her eyes, and savored the sweet taste of revenge melting in her mouth like a lollipop.
She’d teach them to mess with Jessica Brett.
She hunched forward, tapping on the keyboard, framing a response to Evan. She didn’t plan on showing her hand just yet. The Waves had a week to go before their practices started, and she still had a few cards to play with Simon to cement his reputation as a dilettante sports star.
Not that he entirely deserved that reputation. He embodied the playboy role almost by rote, but he didn’t embrace it. It was as if he put on the persona every night along with his designer, GQ clothes. But when she had him all to herself, he was more genuine than anyone she’d ever met.
That’s why she couldn’t have him all to herself anymore.
Expelling a raggedy sigh, she planted her elbows on either side of the laptop and clasped her hands above the keyboard. She’d struggled with her attraction to Simon on a nightly basis. She trie
d to convince herself he’d be riding the party train with or without her, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that she was using him as a tool to get revenge against Dad, Evan, and every other man who’d tried to control her over the years.
She pushed up the sleeve of her sweatshirt and checked her watch. Simon should be on his way to the Beverly Marquis Hotel for that fundraiser. His offer to accompany him to the gala had tempted her, but she had to decline. That crowd was sure to identify Roger Brett’s daughter, and she didn’t want Simon to know her true identity. Not yet.
Would he take someone else in her place? If he did, she wouldn’t even be there to make sure his evening ended as chastely as an English schoolgirl’s—an English schoolgirl that didn’t happen to be named Gemma.
Every night he made it clear he had a different ending in mind, but she’d slipped through his fingers. Would he tire of her games and offer to rock someone else’s world? That thought clawed right through her heart. Maybe she could allow herself another taste of his sweetness. One woman more or less would hardly warrant a chapter in his memoirs, but long after he bounced her from his life for her deceptions, she’d savor the memory of his kisses.
She blew out a breath and straightened the laptop on her coffee table. Attacking the keyboard, she wrote: Hi Evan, I’m so sorry I screwed up again. Give me another chance, and I won’t let you down.
***
The limo cruised to a stop in front of the Beverly Marquis Hotel, and Simon waited for the driver to come around and open the door.
“Cheer up, Simon. You look like you’re going to a wake instead of a glitzy party.” Gemma slid out of the car, smoothed her elegant dress over her hips, and grabbed Ivo’s arm for the trip up the stairs.
For once his sister looked classy instead of sassy.
Jessica’s influence. She took Gemma shopping for the dress, talking her out of a silver lamè number with fringe and a pair of ankle boots.
His scowl deepened. He’d anticipated an evening with Jessica without all the bells and whistles, a chance to be alone with her and then to hold on tightly so she couldn’t escape into the night. Nobody held on too tightly to Jessica
—a reaction to those parents who’d controlled her and sent her off to beauty pageants, no doubt. Now he had to pay the price.A camera’s flash exploded to his right. Forcing a smile to his tight mouth, he turned around and struck a careless pose. A roomful of his new teammates, Waves management, and football aficionados awaited him in the Grand Ballroom. Might as well give them what they paid for.
Still clutching Ivo’s arm, Gemma reached back to grab Simon’s hand. “Hurry up. Why are you dragging your feet? I don’t know why you didn’t bring a date. Lexi’s been calling you all week.”
For once, Gemma made sense. He should’ve brought a date. When Fiona dumped him, he’d grabbed with both hands at the bevy of willing and very able women orbiting his personal space. The strategy worked. The mindless sex blotted out the taste, the feel, and the smell of Fiona from his senses. When he returned to the top of his game and she came crawling back, he told her to bugger off.
Somehow he knew by the way Jessica seeped into his soul and pumped through his veins, he’d require the strength of Hercules and the steely resolve of John Wayne to blot her out.
A doorman scrambled to hold open the door, and Simon blinked at the glittering light that the crystal chandeliers threw off from their commanding position on the high ceilings. His shoes sank into the plush carpet on the sweeping, curved staircase that looked right out of the Titanic. Hell, this was Hollywood, or close enough, for all he knew it was right out of the Titanic.
Soft music wafted from the open double doors of the Grand Ballroom, and a waiter balancing a tray of glasses glistening with champagne swept his hand forward, gesturing them ahead. Simon snagged a flute from the tray before entering the lion’s den.
He inhaled the subtle perfumes and colognes, caught the rustle of silk and the shuffle of soft leather, and noticed the glint of jewels and the gleam of expensive time pieces.
The smells, sounds, and sights of money—more discreet than rolling around naked on a bed of bills but no less of a rush.
“Simon, glad you could make it.” His coach, Franco, applied a death-grip to his hand, as if he feared he’d take flight through the glass skylights. Not loosening his hold, he yanked on Simon’s hand to urge him closer. In a low voice he said, “For most of these folks, you’re the big draw tonight.”
Simon straightened up and reclaimed his hand. “You mean they’re not here for the thrill of giving to the Children’s Cancer Society?”
“Maybe not, but the Society benefits anyway. You know the game.”
“I know a lot of games.”
“We’re interested in your knowledge of only one game, Simon, and we’re looking forward to starting practices next week.”
Yeah, so was he—about as much as sharing a good Chianti with Hannibal Lecter. Franco dragged him off to entertain the big spenders and get his picture taken with Peter Casellas, the Waves owner. He had Casellas to thank for the multi-million dollar contract, Casellas and his silent partner, JB Enterprises.
“Hope you’re settling in, Simon.” Casellas pumped his hand. “We’re looking forward to a long and prosperous association.”
“So am I, Peter.” A long and prosperous association with a bunch of advertisers. “Am I ever going to have a chance to meet your silent partner? I like to know who controls my fate.”
“You just might get that chance. When’s your agent going to be back in town?”
“Evan left a message this morning. He’s heading back some time this week, and about bloody time.”
“I was thinking the same thing.” Casellas raised a brow and then turned away to greet some new arrivals.
He had a feeling he and Casellas would butt heads a few times before they parted company. Simon swapped his empty glass for a full one, took a deep breath and approached a group of his teammates. He recognized a few from international play, and one bloke had played on an English club team for a few years.
They eyed him warily, but he soon dispelled any reservations they had about him and his huge salary. He told stories about some of the European soccer stars that had them holding their sides and spewing champagne out of their noses. Then he moved onto some of his more outrageous exploits, which included his recent adventures in L.A. Of course, he left Jessica out of the picture.
As the players’ corner of the room got more boisterous, Franco shot nervous glances their way until one-by-one members of the Waves management plucked players from Simon’s sphere of influence.
Franco approached Simon, stripped of his audience.
“I’m happy that you get along so well with your new teammates, but this event is all about helping the kids.”
“Is it?” Simon scanned the room of well-dressed benefactors, chugging Krystal and stuffing themselves with those little crab puffs and lobster taquitos, while they bid on luxury items donated by their friends.
“In that case...” He turned his back on Franco’s sputtering and vaulted to the stage. He snatched the microphone from the stand, turned it on, and spoke into it.
“Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention please?
Just to get this party started, I’m pledging five hundred thousand dollars to the Children’s Cancer Society, and I don’t even need the week in Hawaii.”
He jumped off the stage to scattered applause, which picked up considerably when his teammates started yelling, “Boss, Boss, Boss.”
“Very generous of you, Simon.” Casellas clapped him on the back.
“That’s my brother. Always has to do everything bigger and better than everyone else.” Gemma squeezed his arm.
“Simon, I’m not feeling well. Ivo’s offered to take me back in the limo. We can order another for you when we get home.” The crowd parted at the doorway, and a tall couple swept into the room. The silver-haired man offered his hand as if greeting his subjects
and the svelte, dark-haired woman at his side smiled her approval. As the couple moved through their minions, the woman caught and held Simon’s attention. Must be some kind of celebrity since she looked familiar. In her mid-fifties, she possessed beauty and grace, without the benefit of a surgeon’s knife.
“Simon.” Gemma tugged at his sleeve. “Is it all right if Ivo and I take the limo back to your place?”
“Sure. Do you recognize that woman? Is she an actress?”
Gemma glanced over her shoulder and shrugged. “I don’t know. We’re taking off now.”
Simon shook hands with Ivo and gravitated toward his teammates again. He jerked his thumb over his shoulder.
“Who’s the royal couple?”
“Could be JB Enterprises.” Paul Alvarez, the best midfielder in U.S. soccer gave a knowing wink.
“JB Enterprises, the silent partner?” Simon swiveled his head around. Casellas had one arm draped around the silver-haired man’s shoulder and the other tucked around the woman’s slender waist.
“If that’s JB Enterprises, we’re in luck, boys.” Their goalie, Taye Carlson, swapped his empty champagne glass for a full one. “Don’t you know who that is?”
“No, should I?” Paul asked.
“That’s Roger Brett and his wife.”
Taye’s words had an immediate effect on his teammates, as their mouths dropped open and a few turned to stare at Roger Brett. The name meant nothing to Simon.
“Who the bloody hell is Roger Brett?” Taye tipped his glass, clinking Paul’s and then Simon’s. “My jolly good fellow, Roger Brett is a billionaire who already owns two football teams. If he owns the Waves, we can expect him to sink some serious money into the team. In fact, that explains your presence in our humble soccer league.”
Ajani Zikomo popped a shrimp in his mouth and talked around his chews. “If Roger Brett owns the Waves, that explains the B in JB Enterprises, but what’s the J?” The all-knowing Taye didn’t have an answer for that one, but they agreed if Brett owned the waves as a silent partner, they’d all benefit.
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