by CC MacKenzie
Anastacia just adored her big bed. No, she loved it. She loved sleeping alone and being able to spread her arms and legs wide in a star shape. She loved the lavender smell of her pillows. She loved cosying right under the comforter all safe and snug as a bug in a rug. When she'd stayed at Ludlow Hall and waxed lyrical to Nico and Bronte about the best night's sleep, under fabulous Egyptian cotton, she'd had in years, they'd generously gifted her a similar bed and all the bedding when she'd moved into her new apartment. By most people's standards the apartment, in a converted building right on the edge of the river Thames, might be considered modest. However, space was at a premium in London. But for Anastacia the apartment, with its high ceiling and tall narrow windows, had the added advantage of being a stone's throw away from her office. She'd piled every single penny of her inheritance, her savings and taken out a small mortgage, for an interior with an open-plan kitchen/living space and one good-sized bedroom. It was all hers. Something no one could ever take away from her. And she loved it.
Her eyes went wide when she saw Breaking Sports News, the score for the European Cup Final tickered along the bottom of the screen. Milan had won by four goals to two. Two of the winning goals scored by Olivier Conti.
Anastacia might be a person who could, if the misdemeanour warranted it... hold a grudge. She still hadn't quite forgiven him for his cave-man impersonation after she'd kicked mugger-ass. But she was a fair-minded person, too, and admitted that the man was an excellent kisser. So she raised her mug in salute to Olivier on a job well done. He was definitely on a roll. The picture leapt live to the scene in the football stadium. She had to grin. There was the man himself, in the middle of his teammates, holding a majestic cup made of solid silver, leaping up and down like a fool.
Still grinning, Anastacia turned off the TV, the light, and snuggled down.
Although her administration team had kept Olivier in the loop via email with the ever changing programme for the next six weeks, she hadn't heard a peep out of him. She hadn't expected to, not really and certainly not before the game. Olivier had had a job to do, without distractions. She could respect his focus, his discipline, his ambition. After all, she was focused, disciplined and ambitious herself.
The trouble was that two long weeks had given Anastacia plenty of time to examine her feelings and admit that she was incredibly attracted to a man she hardly knew. Fiercely attracted. So much so, she was seriously questioning her 'no dating clients' rule.
No matter how hard she tried not to, she dreamed of him. Every night. Dreams filled with lurid imaginings of hot kisses, slow hands, clever fingers, low moans and hot sex. Hot jungle sex. Lots of hot jungle sex. Her nipples tingled deliciously. She was turning herself on. Arousal, Anastacia told herself, was not conducive to a decent night's sleep. With an annoyed huff, she tossed onto her other side, found the cool part of the pillow and closed her eyes. Winding herself up like this was not a good idea, not when they needed to work closely together for six long weeks.
What if they became lovers and she discovered it didn't work for her, not that that was likely she admitted.
What if it didn't work for him?
Why wouldn't it work for him?
Her eyes flew open.
She liked sex.
She was a generous lover.
However, something was telling her that a relationship, even a casual relationship, with Olivier might be tricky to navigate without one of them getting hurt. She knew he liked her and was attracted to her. And she was self-aware enough to admit that she liked him, too.
From bitter experience, Anastacia knew what it was like when deep feelings entered a relationship and that relationship became one-sided. Knew what it was like when a man fell madly in love with a woman and those feelings were not returned. She'd been on the receiving end of an unwanted love. She'd badly hurt a man. The experience had made her leery of commitment and had put her off dating for a long time. It had taken many months of deep soul searching to admit that she hadn't made a mistake, hadn't given out the wrong signals to Jake. To admit that she was not responsible for another person's feelings.
These days she was careful to lay all her cards on the table.
Her career came first.
No wedding bells.
No children.
End of.
Pleased she'd sorted out that knotty little issue in her mind, Anastacia mulled over the source of her attraction to Olivier. Not that it was hard to find the source, after all she'd just be joining a legion of women world-wide who openly lusted after the soccer star and were happy to share proof of their devotion on Facebook, Twitter and Pinterest. Her jaw had hit the floor when she'd realized he had over fifty million rabid fans on his Facebook page, twenty million followers on Twitter, where he regularly updated fans after a match. Not once was there mention of his private life. Naturally, in a strictly professional capacity of course, she'd done a bit of digging. The last thing she and her team needed was an old girlfriend, feeling neglected, upsetting their tight schedule. She hadn't found much, apart from the very tall, very leggy, blondes. It appeared Olivier was happy to spread the love. He hadn't lived like a Trappist monk. Who'd want one? But there hadn't been a lengthy or serious relationship. If there had been, Anastacia couldn't find it. So she'd put the bloodhound that was Linda on the case. Linda had her own sources for digging up dirt. But it appeared no dirt was lurking in Olivier's past. He was close to his mother and two younger sisters. No pictures of those. His father, a professional footballer, had died when Olivier was fifteen. His father's car had missed a coastal bend and plunged off a cliff. Losing a parent at any age was a hard knock to recover from, but for a pubescent teenager it was doubly hard, Anastacia knew.
Since she'd had two long weeks to think about it, Anastacia reckoned her lusty response to the force of nature that was Olivier Conti was perfectly normal. The response of a healthy, single female attracted to a healthy single male. Thinking back to his face and those dark eyes and the way they'd stared into hers, made her belly quiver. Her belly had been doing a lot of quivering lately. Now a voice whispered he might be out of her league. Too handsome. Too rich. Too much?
Maybe.
Maybe not.
It wasn't as if she was champing at the bit to marry him or have his babies, was it?
And the big bonus was that she had the upper hand.
So there wasn't a problem, was there?
Anastacia nestled further into comforter heaven and, with a sigh of contentment, admitted there was no problem at all.
The seven-thirty wake-up call the next morning came as something of an unwelcome surprise to a woman who fiercely protected her basic human right to lie in bed on a weekend as long as she liked.
Rrrrrrrring!
Blearily, Anastacia groped for her cell as it emitted another high pitched sound. A sound that did her head in, and in the process her searching hand managed to knock over her camomile tea. The sound of her favourite china mug smashing into the oak floor had her swearing like a trooper.
"What the hell is it?" she yelled into her cell, groggily trying to work out the time.
Silence.
"Anastacia?"
"Yeah, what?"
"It is Olivier."
She rolled onto her back, counted to five, tried to kick-start a brain that was still dead to the world. For some weird reason her mind computed the reality that birds were singing and riverboats were sailing down the Thames. One eye checked the time on her cell, making her scowl. Gnawing back a stream of language better suited to the gutter, she took a deep breath.
"Who?"
"Anastacia," the sexy voice of wicked sin whispered in her ear. "Open the door."
Rrrrrrrring!
Not only her cell, but her front door?
Olivier was here?
As she staggered out of bed, Anastacia didn't stop to question why Olivier was now banging a fist on her door first thing on a Saturday morning. All she wanted was the racket to stop. Mutterin
g curses under her breath, she snapped open the locks on the door of her apartment and flung it wide open.
To find a big tall, dark and handsome man leaning against the door frame. A man who looked as happy as a pig in shit, gripping a huge bunch of bright pink roses. Roses that, true, looked more than a little bedraggled. A bit like the man himself. His strong jaw hadn't recently been up close and personal with a razor. His short hair was standing on end.
His dark eyes went on a long voyage of exploration over her face to study her bruise, down her pj's to her bare feet and up again. When those dark eyes met hers, he gave her a slow appreciative grin that had her belly dancing and her heart skipping.
Brain still not firing on all cylinders, she accepted the roses thrust into her hands. And without a peep permitted Olivier to stroll right past her and into her home. She shut the door as he dropped a large black leather holdall at his feet, shrugged off his leather jacket, rolled his shoulders and turned to her.
"We won," he said.
She couldn't help it.
The smile splitting his face made her smile, too.
She placed the flowers on a side table and held out her arms to him.
"I know. And you scored two goals. Congratulations."
He stepped right in.
His hands rested on her waist, but he didn't draw her close.
Instead he rested his forehead on hers.
"Miss me?"
She blinked.
Yeah, baby.
"Well..."
He dragged her into his arms.
The hard contact with his chest stole her breath.
As did the way his arms tightened like steel bands around her.
But before she could say a single word his mouth savaged hers.
Anastacia's vision glazed.
She fought to bring it back, to focus her eyesight. She couldn't concentrate. Couldn't think. She struggled not to taste the red-hot, commanding flavour of his mouth, to feel the sharp nip of his teeth that called for her to part her lips. Her own helpless moan as she opened to him sounded too loud in her ears. Then his tongue was ravaging, laying waste, even as it enticed hers to respond in kind. This was a brutal seduction of the senses and Anastacia knew she was drowning.
She struggled futilely against him, but her movements only pressed her heat closer to his.
Little by little, the kiss changed. The hard insistency of his skilled mouth on hers became soft, quite delicate. He nibbled at her mouth, as if relishing the taste of her, sucking her bottom lip so gently. And all the time his arms held her tight. Abruptly, Anastacia's glassy vision fell away and her will to struggle went right along with it.
Olivier felt the change in her, the sudden docility. And that docility, the way she yielded to him, aroused him. Instinctively he knew Anastacia was not a woman to sacrifice or give-up control. Not easily. And a part of him dimly realized that he'd taken that control from her, not by force, but by kindness. In two weeks she hadn't phoned him once. Not once. How many times had he almost given in and called her? Too many times to count. They were playing by her rules. But now that the football season was over he could focus not only on the Boutique hotels campaign, but on Anastacia Morgan, too. A woman, he was coming to realize, who liked to win, who liked to keep control. The only information he'd received about plans for the hotel campaign had come from her team. Never directly from her herself. That fact told him she was determined to keep him at arm’s length. And that fact had annoyed him, a lot. Now all residual anger with her, anger that he'd done nothing but think of her for too long, leaked away, too. It was kindness that had made her weak. Whereas he knew that if he pushed her, that push would be met by a hard shove back. Now he gave himself up to the heady sensation of losing himself in the scented softness of her warm body, the silky feel of her clothes under his hands, her tongue, and the sweet flavor of her mouth. Everything combined together and the tables were turned and Olivier found himself utterly seduced by the way she'd yielded to him.
Anastacia felt as if her bones were melting, the liquid weight deep in her belly seemed to spread out to her limbs. Arousal was a gnawing need, so brutal that it made her tremble. Her mouth was fused to his in a kiss that she never, ever, wanted to end. The gentle play of lips, tongue and teeth had sent her to a place she'd never been before. No one had ever kissed her like this. No kiss had ever been like this. His hands began a slow dance over her body, down to her hips, to cup her bare bottom. The thought slammed into her head that she was wearing G-string panties. But the way he was kneading her flesh made her shiver in erotic delight. When his hand slid under the silk of her top, stroked a swollen breast, she forced herself to object.
"No." The word was a whimper as gentle fingers stroked her skin.
Olivier gathered up the heavy weight of her hair in his hand, gently tugging her head back to look right into her eyes.
"I need to touch you." Watching her face, the back of his knuckles glided up the side of her breast, hesitating on the tight point of her nipple. She couldn't help the relentless shudder that ran through her. Then his hand roamed down to her flat, quivering belly. "All of you," he murmured. "I am going to kiss you, lick you, taste you, everywhere. I am going to feel your flesh burn under my hands, my mouth." Again his knuckles burned a path back to her breast. "I am going to watch your face when I make you come."
As he spoke words she knew were said to arouse, to inflame, the ache low in her belly became liquid.
Oh God.
His head dipped as his mouth took her lips again, sampling her agitated exhalation as it trembled into his mouth. In no hurry, he let his knuckles graze down her belly, around to her back. Then he ran his hands possessively up her bare skin, pulling her close, until their bodies fitted together, as if they were meant to be.
"Kiss me back, Anastacia." His forehead rested on hers. "Dio mio, kiss me back."
Mouth tingling from his, aroused unbearably by the desperation in his whispered words, by the way his big body shuddered against hers, her mouth plundered his as her tongue searched for his, hungry for the taste of him that already felt so familiar. He seemed happy to let her lead, didn't hurry her when her body pressed against his, when she lifted to her tip toes, then ran her fingers through his hair, dragging his head closer. But then something new rose up inside her now. Something she'd never, ever felt before. Something that had alarms pealing too loud in her head. The realization that she needed this man. And not just for sex, although heaven knew her body was more than ready for his. Anastacia Morgan was a woman who didn't do need. And along with the realization that she might need him was another truth she must face. If she gave herself to him, he wouldn't be satisfied to take only what she was prepared to give him. No. Olivier was a man who would take all of her. Everything. And there was no way in hell that Anastacia was ever going to give all of herself to any man.
Olivier drew her away.
He was so in tune with this woman's emotions, he'd felt her go stiff in his arms, felt her sudden reluctance. It was clear she'd had second thoughts. His control was on shaky ground. He'd learned a whole lot more about her now. Although not nearly enough. He wasn't going to forget that she was a woman who might play by her own rules, but she might be prepared to bend them. So much for never having a relationship with a client. By the way she'd kissed him, it appeared Anastacia had changed her mind about that, too, although she'd withdrawn from him right at the last moment.
And now he wondered why.
He stared into eyes that clung to his.
Eyes as blue as the ocean on a bright summers day.
Then he frowned when he read something in those eyes that looked like fear.
A fear that made him take a mental step back.
She was frightened of him?
"What is it, piccolino?"
They still held each other tight.
As if she'd just realized how intimately close he held her to him, she struggled to get away. And he wondered if he would be able to rele
ase her when his body ached so badly to have her.
"I don't play games," said Anastacia.
Oliver pressed a soft kiss to a mouth swollen from his.
"Everybody plays games," he corrected gently. "Many people, especially women, make an occupation out of playing the oldest game in the world. The one between the sexes. I know you are not happy about mixing business with pleasure, but this is what it is, Anastacia. We need to see where it will lead." She looked so serious, he placed a gentle kiss on her nose. "I know you are very good at what you do."
She frowned.
"I am good at what I do. Whether I like you or hate you won't make any difference to how I do my job."
"And you like to be in the driving seat," he murmured as he, very reluctantly, let her go.
"I'll do my job," Ana repeated as she stepped around him. Now he wondered how the atmosphere had changed and the conversation had turned. Then he saw the moment she realized she was standing before him virtually naked. "And I won't be mixing business and pleasure with you."
Olivier couldn't help but grin at the sight of her tight little ass clenching as she marched towards what he supposed was the entrance to her bedroom.
"Have you eaten breakfast?" he called out after her.
Anastacia didn't break stride as she entered the room.
"No," she said and slammed the door.
He smiled. "I will make coffee."
Chapter Thirteen
Anastacia couldn't believe she was sitting at the spacious breakfast bar in her kitchen, being served coffee and hot toast and yoghurt sprinkled with fresh raspberries by football superstar, Olivier Conti. This was the first time she'd had a man serve her breakfast. And she didn't know whether she was happy or surprised that it felt... right.
He'd set two places with cutlery, dug up linen napkins from who knew where. Now he placed a plate of wholemeal toast between them. When she finished her yoghurt and fruit, he picked up the empty bowl, popped it in the dishwasher. Then he slid a small plate in front of her and placed a piece of toast on the plate.