by Amy Andrews
He moved closer and her breath hitched. He rested his big shoulder against the doorframe. For any normal person the distance would have been respectable. But he was a big guy, which narrowed the gap significantly. There wasn’t much between respectable and reckless at the moment.
He lifted a hand to her wispy fringe, brushing it with his fingertips, following the curve of her face. Goose bumps fanned down her neck and across her shoulders.
“I changed my mind,” he murmured, tucking a short strand behind her ear. “I approve.”
Matilda’s eyes fluttered closed briefly as his fingers drifted to her cheekbone. For a light caress it was packing an almighty punch. “I don’t need your approval,” she whispered, the sensible urge to pull away battling with the insensible urge to turn her cheek into his palm.
The pad of his thumb feathered along her jaw. “I know.”
“You don’t have any say over what I do with my hair,” she asserted. She had to assert something because her body was not remotely holding the high ground.
In fact, it was dissolving beneath his touch, her breath thick in her throat, her pulse one long, slow thud after another.
“I know.” His thumb brushed toward her chin. Had he moved closer? Or had she?
Matilda swallowed. “You never did.”
“I know.” His thumb traced her bottom lip, his gaze wholly intent on the process, staring at her mouth like it was more fascinating than Saturday night’s game play.
Her body flamed beneath the erotic stroke. She could feel it rasping against her nipples and tingling between her legs. His other hand slid up to her face, his other thumb joining in the bottom lip torture.
Just as Matilda thought she couldn’t take another second, he lowered his head toward her. Slowly. Slowly. His scent invaded every cell, muddling her senses. How could she want him to kiss her after Jessica freaking Duffy?
But, she did. God help her, she did.
His mouth was a whisper from hers when she panicked. Since when did she let her body dictate to her?
“I thought you weren’t going to try and kiss me?” she murmured.
He halted, stayed very still, his hands still cradling her face, his mouth almost touching hers. There was beer on his breath and a heady sweetness in the liquorice of his aftershave.
“I’m not,” he murmured, his hands sliding from her face as he pulled away, straightening his back and shoving his hands in his pocket.
Matilda was glad for the solidness of the door after his abrupt withdrawal. Her entire body sagged from the break in tension, and without it, she may well have slid to the floor. In fact, it was still a real possibility.
She sucked in some choppy breaths to shunt some oxygen to muscles badly in need of it, as lust and desire churned and mixed like a kaleidoscope in her gut.
She glanced at him to find him wearing a stupid smile on his stupid face, obviously very aware of the effect he’d had on her.
Obviously very pleased with himself.
This was not the way she pictured this night would end. A polite handshake maybe. But in less than three hours in his company she’d been a whisper away from pashing his face off in the corridor outside her apartment.
And God knew where it would have ended up, seeing as how she’d obviously lost her mind where Tanner was concerned.
“Sweet dreams, Matilda.” He grinned as he pushed off the doorway. “I look forward to the article on Friday.”
She frowned at his retreating back. The easy grace of his big frame and the cockiness of his swagger were irritating as hell when she could barely coordinate her fingers to turn the key in the lock.
Tanner Stone was way too sure of himself. Too many women had been letting him have it all his own way.
If he thought he was going to walk out of here all cat-that-got-the-cream, he was dead wrong. “The answer is no,” she called out.
He stopped. Turned. Smiled. “No?”
“The crotchless undies? Not wearing them.” She pushed her door open. “I’m not wearing anything at all.”
Matilda was grateful, as the door clicked shut behind her, that there were only a half dozen paces to her couch. She collapsed onto it, her legs shaking.
If there was a hidden ninja in her apartment, she was totally screwed.
…
The next morning, Tanner woke to major traffic on his Twitter stream. That wasn’t unusual. But it was for a Wednesday morning. One of his followers—@rugbybunny1—had tweeted a picture of him and Tilly sitting at their table last night. They appeared to be holding hands. It was slightly grainy, but even in profile it was undeniably them.
Spied this cute couple out and about last night. Who is the mystery woman @slickstone? #sydneysmoke #holysmoke #mightbelove
His largely female following had gone crazy speculating and retweeting. It had taken them all of about an hour to track the mystery woman down.
Somebody called @slickstonesmistress had tweeted
Looks like #style columnist @MatildaK #holysmoke #betternotbelove #handsoffmyman
Tanner grinned as he scrolled through his feed. Tilly was just going to love being dragged into that. He contemplated joining in the fun, dropping some teasing hints, but he knew too well by now not to encourage the crazy that frequented his Twitter stream.
Then he remembered Tilly’s quip about her lack of underwear from last night and stopped grinning. He didn’t actually think she had gone commando, but that hadn’t stopped his imagination working overtime last night.
Or this morning in the shower.
In fact, it worked overtime all day. Not even the hard grind of practice managed to erase it, much to the chagrin of Griff, who was less than impressed with Tanner’s sudden inability to hold onto the ball.
“What the fuck?” he demanded as Tanner dropped the ball for the fifth time. “Are you all right there? You need to go and have a bit of a lie down? A massage? Rub some more pretty lotion into those hands of yours? How about a one-way ticket to the goddamn bench?”
“Sorry, Griff.” Tanner grimaced, aware of the other guys watching the byplay. “Distracted.”
Griff just looked more pissed off at the admission. “Since when do you get distracted?”
Tanner’s focus was legendary. He didn’t do distraction. Especially where women were concerned. When he got on that field, his concentration was always absolute. There hadn’t been a woman yet who’d messed with that.
“Hot date with that journo last night, coach,” Linc explained helpfully.
Tanner hadn’t told any of them about going out with Tilly, so Linc had to have found out via Twitter.
“Oh, Jesus.” Griff shook his head. “Please tell me you did not sleep with the Standard journo? You’re supposed to be making things better, not fucking things up.”
Tanner shoved his hands on his hips, affronted at the suggestion. “I did not sleep with her. Just because Linc is a walking hard-on, doesn’t mean we all are.”
“That’s Mr. Walking-Hard-On to you.” Linc grinned.
“Fuck off, Linc,” Griff growled before he turned his attention back to Tanner. “Get your head in the game. I swear to God, captain or no captain, I’ll bench your ass.”
Tanner believed him. Griff would defend his players from outside attack with his last breath, but that didn’t mean he thought they all farted rose petals. He was old school. Tough love was his motto.
Tanner was still thinking about Tilly’s bare ass when he opened the Standard on Friday morning. By the time he was done reading the article, he didn’t know whether to laugh or put that ass over his knee and spank it.
He hadn’t known what to expect but it hadn’t been this. It wasn’t an open attack on him. It was a skilfully written piece chronicling his early years and the birth of his generous celebrity. The suits in the offices would be most satisfied. But he still felt the subtle bite of it—the hint that beyond the facade was a flashy egotist.
Tanner Stone’s celebrity is burning bright, his e
go burning even brighter. Let’s hope his almost childish delight in throwing his sizeable reputation around isn’t compensation for a lack of size in other departments.
She’d seen right through his attempts to dazzle her with his fame. To impress her. The posh restaurant, the autographs, the posing for pictures, the lobster, the tickets he’d given to the maître d for his string pulling.
And she’d implied he had a small dick.
He’d laughed about that. If there was anyone on the face of this planet who knew what he was packing, it was Matilda frickin’ Kent.
He hadn’t meant to come across as an ego-tripping celebrity. He’d just wanted to show her how far he’d come. That he wasn’t just the boofhead footballer he’d been in high school. That he was more refined now. Worthy of a Stanford graduate.
Worthy of her.
Posh restaurants. Exquisite food. A private balcony. Deferential treatment. Women were supposed to love that shit, right?
But that had been his mistake. He should have known better than to lump her in with everyone else. Tilly wasn’t like other women.
She never had been.
She’d never cared much for money or status. She’d cared about the intangibles. Heart and soul. Gut. Kindness. Integrity. Strength—of character, not of body.
Fine. Challenge accepted.
Tanner shut the paper with renewed determination. Tilly’s article might have put a lesser man off, but not him. He resolved to try again. Try harder. He wanted another shot with her—in fact, it was fast becoming an obsession, and he was willing to do whatever it took.
He just needed to show her a different side.
He grabbed his phone and dialled the work number printed on her card. She picked up on the third ring.
“Hello. Matilda Kent speaking.”
“‘Perhaps his almost childish delight in throwing his sizeable reputation around,’” Tanner quoted, “‘is compensation for a lack of size in other departments…’ You might have warned me you were going to be mean.”
He deliberately kept his voice smooth and low. He might have been obtuse about some things on Tuesday night, but he hadn’t been oblivious to her physical response—the way her eyes had drifted closed when he’d touched her face, the ragged hitch to her breath.
There was a slight pause. “Can’t handle the truth?”
He laughed. “I tackle guys three times your size for a living. I can handle whatever you throw at me.”
“So you’re up for another meet?”
Tanner grinned. “I was born up, baby.”
“Really, Tanner? Are you going to turn everything into a sexual innuendo?”
“Hey, you started it by questioning the size of my junk.”
He could almost hear her eyes rolling. “That’s going to get really tedious.”
“Are you saying I’m boring? Because according to Twitter, it might be love.”
“Oh, yeah. That’s where I go to for all my relationship advice.”
Her sarcasm dripped through the phone. “Hey, rugbybunny1 is rarely wrong.”
“And what about slickstonesmistress?”
Tanner suppressed the urge to gloat. She’d been following the Twitter conversation. “What about her?”
“Is she?”
Tanner frowned. “My mistress?” He laughed. “I’ve never met the woman. She could be an eighty-year-old granny in outer Kazakhstan for all I know.”
“But you like it, right?”
If she was digging for more dirt on his ego, Tanner wasn’t playing. “Well, I prefer her Twitter handle to slicksucksdicks.”
She laughed. It huffed out as if it had taken her by surprise, like someone had snuck up behind her and squeezed her hard.
“Thought you’d like that one.”
“Hellz yeah, I’m following that one for sure.”
Tanner smiled. Her genuine delight was a massive turn-on. “So, where should we go on our next date?”
“Interview, Tanner. Interview.”
“Right.” Tanner hadn’t even realised he’d said date. But that’s what it was as far as he was concerned.
She could call it whatever she damn well wanted.
But where did you take a woman who ordered risotto—hot soggy rice as far as he was concerned—when there was lobster?
“I can do better, Tilly, but I’m racking my brains, here. You’re a hard woman to impress. I’d forgotten that about you.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t try so hard.”
Tanner knew a piece of good advice when it was wrapped up in a bow. “Okay. Fine. What would make your heart beat a little faster?”
“If you’re thinking skydiving, forget it. I don’t see the point in jumping out of a perfectly decent plane.”
Of course. Tilly was completely down-to-earth. She’d been raised by a grandmother who believed in keeping both feet firmly on the ground…and doing good works.
Aha! That was the way to Tilly’s heart.
“I’m thinking Monday night. Seven o’clock. The Chapel in Kings Cross. There’s a soup kitchen there. There’s always a mound of washing up to do and plenty of time to chat.”
Silence greeted him. Clearly she hadn’t been expecting that. “Yes. Okay.” More awkward silence. “But don’t forget to call the paparazzi. I’d hate for you to miss a photo op.”
Tanner grinned as the phone went dead in his ear. Tilly had claws.
He couldn’t wait to feel them down his back.
Chapter Five
Matilda was running a little late for her interview with Tanner. The crosstown traffic, always awful at this hour, had been compounded by an afternoon storm that had brought down trees and messed with traffic lights. Unfortunately, it hadn’t done much to relieve the stifling humidity. Remnants of the storm rumbled and sizzled in the heavy clouds overhead as Matilda stepped around a puddle in her low-heeled sling-backs.
She hoped it wasn’t some kind of portent. The electricity between her and Tanner the other night had been more than enough to contend with.
Welcoming lamps outside the old chapel ahead gave the weathered stone a warm glow, and Matilda picked up her pace, aware of the damp cling of her shirt and the limp plaster of her hair to her forehead. She felt as if she was wading through a wet sponge.
She hadn’t expected Tanner to choose a soup kitchen, and she was still puzzling over it. The fact that she wasn’t able to get his measure was a huge puzzle. She’d always been able to tell where he was at.
But her article—written deliberately to annoy him—seemed to have just rolled off his back. She didn’t understand. Most of the men she knew would be furious to be publically called on their shit. But not Tanner. He’d just laughed down the phone and told her he’d do better.
And then asked her what would make her heart beat faster.
If only he knew how fast her heart had been beating in that lift the other night, and in those seconds she’d thought he was going to kiss her, he wouldn’t have asked at all.
She needed to keep that shit to herself. She was on a mission here to reveal to the world their rugby darling was a giant ass. She wasn’t going to let his confusing flirting—or Twitter—derail her objectives.
Matilda reached the gate and hurried down the potholed path, dodging more puddles as she headed for the stairs to the left, which led to the basement soup kitchen. The Chapel had been running a meals for the homeless programme, staffed entirely by volunteers, for the better part of three decades.
It was a Kings Cross icon.
She slapped a hand against the warped and peeling white door and pushed it open. Several long tables were filled with people eating, from ancient-looking men and women right through to hollow-faced street kids and bewildered families.
The low murmur of voices instantly cut out at her arrival and Tanner, who was sitting with a bunch of old guys at a table toward the back looked up from his conversation. She guessed she stuck out like a pimple on a pumpkin in her pencil skirt, silky red blouse and heels.
Not to mention the impractical sheer black, thigh-high, lace-topped stockings she was test-driving for her column on the latest in fashion tights.
Her choice of clothing had been fine for the fridge-like conditions of a city office block, or maybe even a hot date, but not the kind that involved crippling humidity and some heavy duty washing up.
Her plan had been to nip home and change after work, but the storm had put the kybosh on that.
“Aha,” Tanner exclaimed into the silence, rising to his feet.
He was in dark blue jeans and a white T-shirt with the Sydney Smoke logo over one firm pec, leaving a good few inches of his half sleeve of tats visible. Matilda swore every female gaze in the room swung and fixed on him. Even a little girl with dark ringlets and a raggedy-ass doll glanced up from her food and smiled at him.
“Didn’t I tell you she was cute as a button, gentlemen?”
There were several enthusiastic nods and grins, and one, “I wouldn’t kick her out of my cardboard box,” followed by laughter.
Matilda blinked at the sooty-faced man who grinned a gappy smile in her direction.
“Ignore him,” said a woman with steely grey hair and a warm Irish brogue. She was wearing a religious collar with her plain grey civilian blouse, and a dainty gold cross around her neck. She smiled at Matilda as she approached. “Homeless humour.”
“Gotta laugh at something when you refuse to serve booze,” the same man grouched.
“We’re not a bar, Eric,” she chided with a sparkle in her eyes.
“More’s the pity,” he muttered.
“Hiya,” the woman said, extending her hand. “I’m Sister Kathleen. I’m running the show tonight. You must be Tilly? Thanks so much for your help.”
Matilda’s smile faltered a little as she shook the other woman’s hand and glared at Tanner bringing up the rear. “Matilda,” she corrected politely.
Conversation started up again as Tanner reached them. “I’ll show her the ropes, Kathleen.”
The nun nodded and smiled the most serene smile Matilda had ever seen. She looked like nothing would ever bother her. The same could not be said for Matilda as Tanner slid a hand under her elbow.