by CC MacKenzie
He slid into his seat, topped up their coffee and stared at her.
After a lightning shower, she deliberately hadn't made an effort with her hair or her face, she wore her oldest sweatpants and a baggy T-shirt.
When he still simply stared, she let out an annoyed little huff of breath.
"What?" she muttered, placed the toast back on the big plate, picked up her mug and took a careful sip. He made a first class cup of coffee. Must be the Italian in him.
"With your hair tied up like that you look about sixteen," he said.
He buttered a piece of toast, slid it onto her plate.
"I'm twenty-three."
"I'm twenty-five."
"I know you are."
"Of course you do. You think you know all about me, do you not, Anastacia?"
"I know enough," she admitted, picking up the toast. She frowned at it, took a tiny nibble. "I think you can drop the Anastacia. My friends call me Ana."
His eyes held hers. "I prefer Anastacia."
Her eyes narrowed. "Why am I not surprised?"
He shrugged. "It suits you."
"Gee, thanks."
"Tell me, I know you are good at it, but what exactly is it you do?"
She blinked. "I'm sure Nico filled you in on my role."
"Not really. He said you would explain it to me."
Anastacia watched him as he focused on buttering toast.
"I'm the brand manager for Ferranti Enterprises," she began, not noticing that he'd slid the toast on her plate before buttering another piece for himself. "That means everything to do with Nico's many businesses, advertising, promotions, brochures, video, campaigns like the one we'll run for the Boutique hotels, all come through me. I ensure consistency of the brand, the logos, typesetting, the language used and that the sponsors we use are of the highest quality."
"And what did you think about using me?"
Anastacia hadn't got to where she was in her career by avoiding hard questions.
"I didn't want you for the campaign," she admitted.
His eyes went cool now as they held hers.
"Si? Why?"
She took a deep breath, irritated with herself that she'd opened up a can of worms.
"I had nothing against you personally. I hadn't seen you. In fact, I'd never even heard of you."
In spite of herself, she was impressed by how he took the blow to his ego on the chin.
A dark brow rose as his eyes twinkled into hers. "Not interested in sports?"
"I don't have time to watch sports."
"Okay," he said in a friendly voice. "What do you have time for?"
His tone might be friendly, but she wasn't fooled, those eyes were razor sharp now.
"Look, not all of us are paid millions of Euros a year to kick a ball around a field. Some of us need to work for a living. I work hard, very hard, to ensure the Ferranti brand is one of the top luxury brands in the world. And that nothing damages the brand. So forgive me if in my humble opinion football does not exactly gel with my vision of the brand."
He sat back and studied her face very carefully.
"You do not believe I work hard?"
His voice went soft and silky, the sound of a very bruised ego.
Anastacia prayed for patience as she rolled her eyes.
"It is nothing personal. It's about public perception. In this country footballers as a breed tend to hit the headlines for all the wrong reasons. Anything from drug or alcohol abuse, fast cars and even faster women, affairs that ruin a carefully cultivated image of a devoted family man, call girls, three in a bed, you name it."
He placed his elbows on the worktop of black granite and leaned forward.
Now his dark eyes went narrow and thoughtful.
"A comprehensive list. But surely you must realize that not all footballers behave like this? Many are indeed devoted family men. Men who crave stability. Men who are loyal to their wives, girlfriends, and men who raise millions for good causes."
Of course he was quite correct.
But she was correct, too.
"That might be true. But I'm talking about the image of the game. I know nothing about football. And to be absolutely honest, I don't want to know. The first time I'd even seen a live match was the night of the semi-final."
"And what did you think of it?"
Sincerely surprised that he'd asked for her opinion on his sport, she answered without thinking.
"I wasn't watching the game. I was watching you. I was watching the crowd."
He drew back to study her face.
"I do not understand."
Anastacia ran her teeth over her top lip.
He wasn't going to like her answer because it might very well make another dent in his ego. However, she realized it was essential that he understood her role and, more crucially, his part in the campaign.
Leaning forward to underline her point, her eyes held his.
"My job is to drill down into what makes things tick in the public's imagination. I watched people in the crowd who matched the demographic we are targeting in our campaign for the Boutique hotels. Young professional males and females aged between twenty-five and forty. Specifically, I watched their response to you. They like you. The men respect you. The women lust after you." By the revolted look on his face, she realized he didn't like the last statement. Anastacia sat back and as his eyes narrowed again, she folded her arms and realized she was enjoying herself. "Sex sells, baby. I had photographs of you so I knew what you looked like. But photographs tell me nothing. They do not tell me how you move. You have superb posture, no slouching. You're confident in your own abilities. You look good. Clear skin. Good hair. Nice teeth. A strong aristocratic bone structure that will film well. So far so good. So then I needed to hear you speak. You speak well with just the right amount of Italiano in your accent. Not too much. If you can take direction..."
She stopped when he stood abruptly and stalked over to the sink to stare out the window.
And Anastacia wondered if she'd overplayed it. He was annoyed. Who could blame him? Nico should have been straight with him and told him the truth. Then she decided that wasn't a fair comment. It was her job to make things stack up for Olivier so that he had a clear vision of where he stood and what his role entailed.
He turned, leaned back against the sink, folded his arms and stared at her with eyes as dark as pitch.
"Are you telling me that you were staring at me at the match that evening because you were analysing me, as if I was a product, a piece of meat, instead of a person?"
Oops.
It appeared Olivier did not like being considered as a piece of merchandise rather than as a human being.
Which was fair enough, she wasn't sure if she'd like it herself.
Anastacia told herself to be reasonable.
She gentled her tone. "As far as the campaign is concerned you are a product. You are the person who will sell the lifestyle to our target demographic. You have a good body. A body that wears clothes well. An excellent speaking voice. Whether you like it or not all of those things matter."
In the drawn-out silence that followed her statement, she couldn't ignore the way her stomach fell or how dark and intent his gaze was as he studied her.
"Are you saying that I misread the signals you sent me, too?"
Something told Anastacia that if she acted as if she didn't know what he was talking about, he'd lose it. And he'd lose it big time.
She shook her head.
"No. You didn't misread the signals. For some reason I'm attracted to you. A little bit. And that is very inconvenient."
"You said you do not have a boyfriend."
Her eyes went wide. What on earth did he take her for? Did he really believe she'd have kissed him and let him touch her like that if she'd had a boyfriend?
"No. I don't have a boyfriend."
"Then I do not see your problem."
"Professional and personal relationships do not mix."
He shrugged, a jerky lift of one shoulder.
"It is not as if we will be working together for ever. It is only for six weeks. There is no reason why we cannot explore our feelings and just enjoy each other, have fun, have sex."
Anastacia found she couldn't argue with that kind of logic. There was nothing insulting or upsetting in his words, so she was confused to discover she felt both.
"What if something goes wrong? What if, in those six weeks, one of us meets someone else?"
He moved to return to his chair, picked up his coffee, took a sip.
"Why do I get the feeling that remark is directed at me? When I am with one woman I do not see another. If one of us has the good luck to meet the love of our life, then we end our relationship and move on."
Sincerely shocked, she blinked up into his face.
"You're looking for the one?"
Olivier shook his head, all the time studying her face very carefully.
"Not actively. I come from a long line of monogamous men. What about you? Never felt that flutter in the heart, in the belly?"
Something like a fist of fear along with plenty of fluttering gripped both body parts.
Anastacia told herself she was panicking over nothing.
She was totally unaware she'd gone bone white.
"Lust is not love," she stated with a hell of a lot more conviction than she felt.
He sent her that slow and wicked smile that made her tummy loop the loop.
"Si. But lust is often the first step into love. I like to think every day in life is an adventure, who knows where one thing will lead."
Who indeed?
"What if I don't want to take a step with you to anywhere?"
When he stood, moved toward her, she met his stare head-on, determined to show him that his words had not shaken her to her core.
She was prepared for a smart remark.
Defensively, she straightened, prepared for him to tell her he had places to go, things to do.
She wasn't prepared for him to anchor his hands in her hair, crush his mouth to hers in a scorchingly possessive kiss. A flame of pleasure seared through her system. Liquefied waves of longing swept over astonishment before her brain had time to process. His mouth owned hers, commanded it absolutely. But although the kiss was hard, it didn't hide a suggestion of desperation. And Anastacia found herself responding to a desperation that was more than command, more than possession. Anastacia Morgan had a secret. Something she regarded as the weakest part of her, hidden deep inside her psyche. And that secret was a hopeless longing to be needed. In her life thus far, no one had ever needed her. Never. The desperation in his kiss made her feel powerless. And God knew she was weak now. Weak with the heady scent of an aroused male who was making it clear he desperately needed, wanted, her. The dusky taste of him was nectar on her tongue as it danced with his, the feel of a strong body at the peak of physical fitness under her roaming hands brought her a heady joy.
Leisurely, Olivier drew back.
It took a long time for her to open her eyes to find him staring at her with eyes filled to the brim with a smouldering impatience.
"I want you and you want me. Admit it," he demanded fiercely.
Dear God, he was a man who wanted his pound of flesh.
"Don't push me," she warned.
"I will have you."
Annoyance at the certainty in that deep voice stiffened her backbone.
"I wouldn't be too sure of that if I were you," Anastacia responded with a determination that had Olivier tilt his head to look at her with narrowed eyes.
Eventually, he nodded, as if he'd managed to work out how she ticked.
"It seems you like to fight. I like fighting, too. Fighting keeps things... interesting."
Her hand itched to wipe that smug look off his face.
"What are you doing here anyway?"
"I am here because I have spent fourteen long days and long nights thinking of nothing but making love to you."
He said it casually, Mr. Cool, as if he had all the time in the damned world and with just a ghost of a smile on that sexy mouth, but Anastacia knew he was being absolutely honest with her.
"That's... straight, if nothing else."
"You like straight."
"I do," she agreed. However, he wasn't the only one who could be honest. "I'm not good at relationships, casual or otherwise. And since you like it straight, too, let me say something else... we're going to be working together for a number of weeks on an extremely important campaign. I love my job. I was more than fortunate to get it. And I intend to keep it. Emotions between us are running very high. That means our personal feelings will, and I'm utterly certain about this, interfere with our professional judgement. So as the person with ultimate responsibility, I have absolutely no intention of having a short and sweet fling with you."
"Short?" Olivier repeated, studying her with watchful eyes. Eyes that saw too damned much. Had she really thought he'd been all muscle and no intellect? That'll teach her. And he wasn't finished, "Have your past relationships been short and sweet? I would have thought you regarded yourself a little more highly than that. I do not believe for one second that you are not a romantic."
Romantic?
Where on earth had that come from?
Was he for real?
"Do you seriously believe I give a toss what you think?" she shot back, wrong footed and hating every moment of it. "At least you know where you stand."
"Oh, I know where I stand, piccolino." Olivier nodded in agreement. He was starting to get a handle on her. "You are so frightened of how I make you feel, so scared of the issue, you are using avoidance tactics."
"No, I'm not!" Temper roared in those fabulous blue eyes and he thought she looked magnificent. "I'm telling you to your face that I'm not interested. I'm sorry if that bruises your enormous ego, but you'll just have to get over it."
She went to breeze past him, but he caught her, and none too gently hoisted her onto her toes. His face was in hers. Olivier knew he was on the edge so he kept his tone low and easy.
"You are the most impossible woman I have ever met. You drive me crazy. I cannot remember the last time a woman drove me crazy."
"Color me not surprised." Anastacia yanked out of his hold, rubbed her arms where his fingers had dug too deep. "They fall at your feet as soon as you turn on the Latin charm. What flesh and blood woman could possibly resist?"
"You are so worried about protecting your own heart, you do not care about hurting anyone else."
Anastacia sucked in a too fast breath, as if she'd been slapped hard across the face.
Face white, eyes swimming, she stared at him before she thrust him away to race to her bedroom.
Olivier caught her before she'd taken two steps.
And he kept his touch light as he turned her to face him.
"Sore spot?" he whispered, feeling a combination of understanding and a deep regret. He could count on one hand the number of times in his life he had hurt another person badly enough to justify a prompt apology. Eyes wide with distress, Anastacia stared him down. "I am deeply sorry I upset you."
"Let go of me," she said through gritted teeth, but she couldn't stop the way her chin trembled.
"Anastacia." The need to give her a hug was an overwhelming one, but he realized she wouldn't have it. Not from him. "I am truly sorry. I do not make a habit of hurting someone I care about."
After staring at him for an endless moment, she nodded.
"Okay. Apology accepted."
But he could see by the way she trembled in his arms how much it had cost her to forgive him. Her blue eyes were filled to the brim with a courage that made him fiercely proud of her.
Brave girl.
He released her.
"Do you think we can get through the rest of the weekend without fighting?"
Someone or something had hurt her.
And now Olivier puzzled over how great the hurt was.
And how lon
g it might take for her to confide in him.
Those big blue eyes were wary now. "I don't know..."
Her reluctance told him that if he didn't repair the damage he had caused, she might never learn to trust him.
"Go on." His hip bumped hers. "Do not hold a grudge."
She frowned as her eyes held his. For a moment, he thought he had put his foot in it again. But then her eyes cleared.
"Okay."
"I have never been on a riverboat on the Thames," he said.
She answered the excitement in his voice with a smile before she knew it.
"We wouldn't get two feet before you were recognized."
He moved to his bag, rummaged through until he found a peaked cap and wraparound sunglasses. He slid on both. "I am the master of disguise."
"All right, but you're buying lunch."
He took her hand, linked her fingers in his.
"Whatever you want," he said, supposing she'd get her revenge and sting him for champagne and oysters in an up market bistro.
And right on the heels of that thought, she surprised him again.
"I adore MacDonalds."
His eyes went wide with something like horror.
"You cannot be serious."
"Watch me."
Chapter Fourteen
Under a red sunshade, they lounged at an action packed fast-food joint on the banks of the river Thames with skinny metal chairs and even skinnier tables. It wasn't McD, and for that Olivier was eternally thankful. If his coach caught him deviating from his rigid diet, he'd be fined a week's wages. And a week's wages amounted to a big chunk of change. Sounds of people chatting, music blasting from the riverboats that cruised up and down the river drifted over them. Anastacia loosened up when she scarfed down food, Olivier discovered. He watched her, with increasing fascination, tuck away enough fries to feed a family of four. And couldn't help but wince when she tossed more salt on the mountain of fries and dug a couple into a lake of tomato sauce. He wondered if she was aware that she let down the barriers when she ate. Would she, when she sat at a top restaurant with attentive service, elegant silver, linen napkins, fine wine, eat delicately prepared food with the same enjoyment? Something told him she would. He found himself using a napkin to wipe ketchup from the edge of her mouth before handing her a wedge of paper napkins. Always a man to seize the moment when one presented itself, Olivier reckoned there would never be a better opportunity to do some careful digging.