

## Getting Dirty

A Rugby Sports Romance Sampler

By

### Kat Latham

Published by Kat Latham

Copyright © 2015 by Kat Latham

Cover by Author's Pal

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. To obtain permission to excerpt portions of the text, please contact the author at kat@katlatham.com.

All characters in this book are fiction and figments of the author's imagination. www.katlatham.com

_Knowing the Score_ cover art copyright © 2013 by Harlequin Enterprises Limited

_Playing It Close_ and _Tempting the Player_ cover art copyright © 2014 by Harlequin Enterprises Limited

_Unwrapping Her Perfect Match_ cover art copyright © 2014 by Kat Latham, designed by Jessica Cantor

_Taming the Legend_ cover art copyright © 2015 by Harlequin Enterprises Limited

Cover art used by arrangement with Harlequin Enterprises Limited. ® and TM are trademarks are owned by Harlequin Enterprises Limited or its affiliated companies, used under license.

### Table of Contents

About the London Legends series

Knowing the Score

Playing It Close

Tempting the Player

Unwrapping Her Perfect Match

Taming the Legend

About the Author

### About the London Legends series

Meet the world's hottest rugby team!

_Knowing the Score (London Legends Book 1)_ : Spencer Bailey is a smokin' hot rugby player with a scandalous past. He has vowed to stay celibate during the rugby season... but when aid worker Caitlyn Sweeney comes into his life, he becomes determined to help this virgin overcome her fear of intimacy.

_Playing It Close (London Legends Book 2):_ Team captain Liam Callaghan escapes to Venezuela for some much-needed rest and relaxation. He spends one passionate night with Tess Chambers and wakes up to discover she has left him nothing but a note. He never thinks he'll see her again—until he returns to London and discovers she works for his team's newest sponsor.

_Tempting the Player (London Legends Book 3):_ Matt Ogden's extreme fear of flying is keeping his career from taking off. But when he gets one final chance to prove himself, he turns to the one woman he can trust—his best friend Libby Hart, a pilot who has secretly loved Matt for years. Can she tempt him into her cockpit to help him overcome his phobia... of planes and commitment?

_Unwrapping Her Perfect Match (London Legends Book 3.5):_ At six-foot-nine, "Little" John Sheldon is known more for his strength than his finesse. But this Christmas is shaping up to be the toughest of his life. Fortunately, emergency room nurse Gwen Chambers has the skills he needs to get him through—but can he convince shy Gwen to trust him to be her perfect match?

_Taming the Legends (London Legends Book 4):_ In this passionate story of lovers reunited, legendary rugby player Ash Trenton fights to help Camila Morales—his first-and-only love—save her indebted sports camp... while also fighting to keep from losing his heart to her all over again.

### Knowing the Score

A rugby player with a scandalous past gives up his vow of celibacy to help a virgin overcome her fear of intimacy...

Rugby player Spencer Bailey is determined to win a spot on England's World Cup team. But with a month break before the selectors start watching him, he's eager to have fun with a woman who knows the score: the relationship will end when rugby season begins. The lovely American Caitlyn Sweeney seems perfect for the role of temporary lover, since her visa will run out soon anyway.

Caitlyn works for an international disaster relief organization and can handle the world's worst crises, but she flinches from her own. Her past has left her with a fear of intimacy so deep that she has trouble getting close to anyone—until she meets sexy Spencer. His hot body and easygoing nature are too much for even her to resist.

Neither Caitlyn nor Spencer expects to fall hard for each other. But with their relationship deadline approaching, the old rules of the game seem less important than before...until past secrets surface, challenging everything they thought they knew about each other.

"I want Spencer. I want to marry this man. Not only is he patient and a sweetie, he's sexy as hell. Spencer should be cloned and mass produced for export. Britain would have a trade surplus that would be the envy of the world."

— _Dear Author_ named _Knowing the Score_ a Recommended Read

"This is one of the best contemporary romance novels I've ever read."

— _The Season for Romance blog_

### Prologue

Eleven years ago

Sydney, Australia

Spencer Bailey was ready to light up the world—and any Aussies who crossed his path in the next eighty minutes.

He sat in the corner of the visitors' changing room at Stadium Australia, head bobbing to the stirring refrain of "Rule Britannia" pumping through his earphones as he reread the poem his granny had posted him when he was selected to represent England in the Rugby World Cup. "Winners Take Chances." He'd taken chances throughout his short career, and today he would win the biggest prize.

Chaos reigned around him as his teammates prepared in their own ways. One of the props slapped himself across the face while the hooker did press-ups against the wall. The fly half lounged on the opposite end of Spencer's bench and belted out "God Save the Queen," which they would all sing when they lined up on the pitch.

Their coach let out a shrill whistle, and the team came to order, throwing down their headphones and rugger magazines and circling around their skipper and support staff. Adrenaline surged through Spencer. He could hardly keep from pumping his fists in the air in anticipation. Rubbing his hands together, he did his best to look like a grizzled rugby veteran instead of the wet-behind-the-ears team pup.

Before he could reach his mates, the door clanged open. Two men in suits pushed their way in, too gray and somber to be fans. They glanced around, ignoring glares from the team. Their faces shuttered when they found him.

"Spencer Bailey?" one of them asked. As if he didn't know. Spencer's face had been splashed all over the Australian press for three weeks—the English rugby wonder boy who'd made mincemeat of opponents outweighing him in both bulk and experience. The one who would smash the home team and walk away with the World Cup two precious hours from now.

"That's me. You looking for an autograph?"

Both men smirked. "You're under arrest."

"Wha—" Shock swelled his throat and choked him. Before he could say anything coherent, they'd slapped a pair of handcuffs on his wrists and pushed him outside.

The coach rushed up. "What do you think you're doing?"

One of the cops smirked and quipped in a broad Aussie accent, "We _think_ we're arresting him, mate." He glanced at his partner. "Isn't that what we're doing, Detective Inspector Post?"

"It is indeed, Detective Inspector Hughes." The cop frog-marching Spencer out the door sounded like he could scarcely contain his relish. Spencer—always sure-footed on the rugby pitch—stumbled as they pushed him outside.

"On what charge?" Spencer's coach followed them down the hallway and came to a halt when the cops stopped and turned Spencer to face his teammates.

"Rape."

_Flash!_ A journalist's camera caught the moment Spencer's world fell apart.

Post and Hughes were kind enough to wheel a TV into the hall outside his cell so he could watch the final while waiting for the team's lawyer to turn up. Like everyone in this godforsaken country, they expected Australia to thrash England. Spencer followed his teammates' every move with dry, scratchy eyes. His whole future seemed to ride on their success. Watching his scrappy team of underdogs lose by three points nearly made him sick.

When the team's lawyer finally arrived, the interrogation began. Hughes started. "You were in Adelaide a few days ago."

"Of course. You know I was." The whole bloody country knew. They'd watched him leave France in tatters in the semifinals.

"And you had a couple of guests in your hotel room after the game."

Ah. Now he understood. He sat back in his chair, trying to hide his tremors. He knew this happened to professional sportsmen, but his innocence gave him very little comfort. "Whatever those two told you, they lied," he said. "They were completely up for it."

He took a deep breath, trying not to think about how his grandparents would feel when they opened the newspaper the next day at breakfast. "For Christ's sake, they showed up at my door with a bottle of champagne and said they wanted to help me celebrate my birthday."

Hughes glanced down at his notes. "And how old are you, Spencer?"

"Nineteen."

The detectives exchanged a glance. "Hmm," Post grunted. "A fully grown man."

Spencer didn't feel fully grown. He felt like he was going to puke.

Hughes dropped his chin, glaring at Spencer down the length of his crooked nose. "It's too bad one of your guests was two months shy of being legal."

### Chapter One

Today

Wapping, East London

The old man walking in front of her gave an agonized groan and fell to his knees. Caitlyn's breath caught in her throat, her brain scrambling to understand what her eyes were telling her. When the man clutched his chest and sank forward, his forehead scraping the asphalt of the narrow pedestrian path behind the Tower of London, she dropped her bag and sprinted the ten yards separating them.

"Sir? What's wrong? Are you okay?" She laid her hand on his back, then slid it to his shoulder so she could help him sit up.

He shook his head. "Pain."

She frantically glanced around, but at 5:00 a.m. they were the only two people on the path. "It's all right. You'll be all right. Lean back against me."

He was so skinny that she had no problem kneeling behind him, supporting his back as he sat on the asphalt. According to the first-aid courses she'd taken, this position might help stave off the big one long enough for her to call—

_Crap!_ Her phone was in her bag—the bag lying on the ground, far out of her reach. _You are such a moron._

She stroked his silver pompadour as she tried to figure out what to do. "You're going to be okay. What's your name?"

"Philip," he whispered in a slurred voice, as if his mouth had filled with peanut butter. Or—more likely—as if a vise was squeezing his breath from his chest. "Please..."

"It's okay, Philip. You don't need to speak. I'm Caitlyn and I'm going to help you."

He moaned, his body jerking. He collapsed against her and, on the verge of panic now, she eased herself out from under him and lowered him onto his back.

_One, two, three._ Caitlyn kept her arms straight as her flat palms compressed Philip's chest, pushing hard so his rib cage would do the work his heart should be doing. She'd spent years working in countries the State Department warned people to avoid, but she'd never once had to use her first-aid training—and she'd prayed she would never have to. Go figure, on a normal London morning...

_Don't die, Philip. Fifteen...no, seventeen?_ Crap, she'd lost count.

Sunrise bathed the Tower's white stones in pink light, and she was the only help poor Philip had.

This path was normally clogged with tourists taking photos as business-suited Londoners politely elbowed their way through to the neighboring financial district, but this early it was deserted. She wouldn't have been here herself if she hadn't been shaking off jet lag from her Sumatra trip. As an American who'd recently moved to London, she went out of her way to pass by the thousand-year-old Tower every chance she could. To think she might not have been here at all...

Twenty-eight, twenty-nine...please don't die.

She tilted the man's head back, pinched his nose closed, sealed her mouth over his wrinkled lips and blew two sharp breaths into him. She paused to watch his chest. Still not moving. _Shit, shit!_

She started chest compressions again. A man's drunken voice, singing off-key, echoed off the tunnel leading to Tower Hill Tube station. Caitlyn's arms burned but she ripped her gaze away from Philip's chest long enough to see a young man in a suit stumbling toward her. Considering their proximity to the City, he was most likely an investment banker who'd spent the night getting shit-faced in a lap-dancing club at the company's expense.

"Help!" Her yell was more of a pant, but it seemed to make a dent in his drunken haze. "We need help!"

The man glanced around as though he hoped to hell she was talking to someone else.

"Get your ass over here and help me _now!_ " she shouted. The Suit paused, as if he wanted to ignore her, but his shoulders slumped and he veered her way.

"Call 999," she demanded.

He fell onto his ass next to Philip, swaying as he patted his pockets.

"If you don't have a phone, mine's in my bag back there." _Twenty-nine, thirty._ She tilted Philip's head again and breathed into him. No movement. And his skin was turning gray. "Hurry!"

The Suit pulled out his phone, a model so expensive that Caitlyn's charity could've fed a family of six for a year with it. When he hung up, he looked at her through sobering eyes. "Ambulance is on its way."

"Thanks." She broke off her chest compressions to breathe into Philip again. Her arms trembled from the strain. "Watch what I do. It's your turn in a sec."

She looked up to find the Suit leering down her shirt. Good to know Britain's financial well-being was in such responsible hands.

"Count to thirty," she told the jerk and started pushing, über-aware now of how her body jiggled.

It was so much easier in her first-aid class, where the dummies were made of plastic and something inside them clicked when you hit the spot in just the right way. She hoped she didn't hear any clicking from Philip's chest because it would probably mean she'd broken a rib. Her arms were ready to fall off by the time the Suit said thirty.

"Your turn," she wheezed.

"N-no way I'm putting my m-mouth on him," he stuttered.

_You stupid piece of..._ But she couldn't waste any more breath on him. She quickly shifted her body down to Philip's chest and pushed thirty more times. She tried to ignore the pain radiating down her furiously pumping arms by examining Philip. His light brown sweater and cords seemed more country than city. He wore a wedding ring. Someone was probably waiting for him at home, not knowing they might never see him again.

God, please.

She thought she heard a siren in the distance but in London it could just as easily be the cops on their way to an early-morning stabbing. It seemed like a thousand hours before the ambulance arrived.

While the paramedics loaded Philip into the ambulance and asked the Suit how long ago he'd collapsed, Caitlyn fumbled around in her massive shoulder bag. She found the generic business cards from work and, with shaking hands, wrote her name and phone extension on the back. Giving it to a paramedic, she said, "Will you ask the hospital to let me know if he...if he makes it?"

"Please leave me alone. I'm begging you, Spencer!"

Spencer sat next to the hospital bed, laughing as his tiny grandfather propped his wrinkled hands against Spencer's broad shoulder and shoved with all his might. If he hadn't laughed, he would've wept at how little strength those once-capable arms had in them. "Stop it, old man, you'll hurt yourself."

"Then don't make me get out of this bed and rugby-tackle you. Just go to the pub and get drunk. Meet a woman. _Anything_ but stay here irritating me."

"Why couldn't you be like this when I was sixteen and desperately wanted to get pissed and meet women?"

"Because you didn't drive me mad when you were sixteen." Granddad paused, exchanging annoyance for pensiveness. "Okay, you _did,_ but in an entirely different way. You were always gone, probably at the pub instead of hovering over me asking if I feel okay. I don't feel okay. I feel fed up."

Spencer swallowed the terror that had threatened to swamp him ever since he'd been woken by the hospital's call four days ago, the morning after Granddad had arrived for a visit. "Fine, but I'm only going to the hospital coffee shop—"

Granddad's shaggy brows snapped together, his face turning an unhealthy shade of red. "Over my dead body! I may be a temporary invalid, but that doesn't mean I'll stand for you treating me like I'm your dying child. For God's sake, boy, I used to change your nappies."

Shock slapped at Spencer, and he stared in disbelief. "No you didn't."

Please, God, say you didn't.

Philip's ire dissipated and he shrugged. "Okay, I left that particular task to your gran. But my point stands. My faculties may be failing me, Spencer, but as long as I'm aware of what's going on around me I don't want you treating me like I'm half dead. You've always been a complete pain in my arse, and as long as I'm alive I expect that to continue."

Granddad's message was clear: we'll pretend everything's normal because to do otherwise wouldn't be manly. Worse, it wouldn't be English.

"Fine," he sighed. "I'll wander home—"

"Take your time about it."

"—and I'll return in time for dinner."

Granddad's face lit like a bulb. "Bring me something nice? A fish supper from that chippy near the river?"

"Nothing breaded and fried for you for a long time. I'll find some carrot sticks you can gnaw, if those ancient gnashers of yours are up to the task."

Granddad's eyes might have narrowed, but Spencer sensed his relief at their return to normal relations. "They'll chew your arse if you don't treat me with the respect I'm due."

Spencer pushed himself out of his chair. "I'll be back in a few hours."

He ruffled his granddad's gray hair—just to irritate him—dodged his swatting hand and walked out of the room. After winding through dozens of corridors, he burst into the bright midday sunshine and squinted against the blinding pain. He'd been folded into that tiny chair every daylight hour since receiving the phone call he'd dreaded for two years, since his granny died. He'd nearly lost his grandfather—his gentle, affectionate granddad—who now wanted nothing more than to get rid of him.

Instead of heading straight home, where his granddad's belongings and barmy dog would remind him of all he'd nearly lost, Spencer strolled into the riverside pub next door to his building. He pushed his way through the working lunch crowd to the bar, remembering why he hated this place. Too many journalists from the nearby newspaper offices. Dozens of the parasites sitting around waiting for a story. Didn't even have to be true. His arrest eleven years ago might have been short-lived, but the memories of how the tabloids vilified him would never die. Like zombies. But he was only here to give Philip some breathing room. One drink and he'd break his promise, go back to the hospital and hover again.

"What kin I gitcha?" the blonde Aussie behind the bar asked.

Spencer stifled a shudder at her accent, which doused him like ice water splashed on his bollocks. Australian women's voices had filled him with sickening shame for over a decade. Why couldn't he meet an Italian or Spanish woman? "Pint of lager."

He reached into his pocket for his wallet, but his hand grabbed the cheap white business card the nurse had handed him the day his granddad had been admitted. _International Disaster and Emergency Aid,_ the typeface on the front read. In an unsteady hand, the name of his granddad's savior had been scrawled on the back.

Emergency aid—exactly what Granddad had needed a few days ago, when Spencer had been too soundly asleep to know any better. Not that he'd have had any fucking clue what to do if he had been with the old man that day.

Spencer carried his pint to one of the booths under picture windows big enough to drive a double-decker bus through and stared along the river at Tower Bridge.

"Anyone sitting here?" a throaty—English—woman's voice asked.

Spencer glanced up from his glass into eyes that promised him everything. "Be my guest," he replied, leaving it up to her to figure out whether he was answering the question posed by her mouth or her eyes.

"I'm Kendra," she said, sliding into the booth across from him.

"Spencer."

"I know. My ex was a fan."

_Strike one._ Not being a baseball fan, he wasn't sure how many strikes she would get before being out. He figured it'd be obvious when it happened, though.

"I went to a game with him once. I was amazed at how you move. I thought maybe you could show me some of your moves."

Strike two. Too easy.

He caught himself. _Too easy?_ A week ago he wouldn't have thought there was such a thing. Okay, he avoided women during rugby season because they were too distracting, but he loved easy women in the summer, right? Every summer he had one month off. One month with no training, no practice. One month when he could drink beer and even eat fat if he wanted to. One month to get a year's worth of sex. This was his rutting season because he'd stayed celibate every autumn, winter and spring since he was nineteen to focus on his game. On rebuilding his career and his reputation. This past rugby season had lasted longer than most; he'd been chosen to play for England during the June tour of South Africa, so his month off had been delayed. He hadn't had sex in a year. A fucking _year._

"I'm not up for moving much right now, Kendra," he heard himself say.

She pouted in a way he once would have found sexy as hell but now just seemed immature and pathetic. "Are you injured? I could help ease your pain."

How could he answer that? The truth was, he felt injured. Battered and bruised to within an inch of his heart's life. But no way would he explain to a stranger that he'd nearly lost the person who meant the most to him.

"No, just tired. It was nice to meet you, Kendra, but I have to get back home." He stood to leave. Apparently it took two strikes to walk away from a willing woman and a full pint.

He strode out of the pub. Within a few steps he faced his building's security door. Instead of punching in the numbers on the keypad, he fingered the business card again. _Caitlyn Sweeney._ Irish?

Suddenly he couldn't wait to hear her voice—the voice of the woman who'd blown the breath of life into his granddad's wrinkled lips, who'd kept his heart going until the paramedics arrived.

The woman who'd kept Spencer's own heart beating.

### Chapter Two

Caitlyn stood outside the crumbling Victorian hospital and wiped her sweaty hands on her cargos. Adrenaline shot through her, making her fingers tingle with painful jolts as if she peered over the edge of a precipice without a harness or rope.

Hospitals. She hadn't completely avoided them in the past nine years, but the ones she spent most of her time around these days were housed in tents and treated disaster survivors. This one—being an actual building in the middle of a city—resembled the nightmare of her freshman year of college.

She swallowed the anxiety beating like a gorilla at her chest and jogged up the brick steps. _You're okay, you're okay,_ she chanted as she pushed through the revolving glass door and strode to the information desk, determined to outrun the panic already clawing at her. "I'm here to see a patient—a Mr. Philip Bailey. He had a heart attack a few days ago."

The woman staffing the desk clicked at her keyboard for a couple of seconds before a deep, rumbly voice behind Caitlyn drowned out the clacking keys. "Ms. Sweeney?"

She turned. Saw a magnificent manly chest topped by the broadest shoulders ever. Slowly let her gaze drag upward to meet a rugged, scruffy face. Disheveled black hair fell in waves over his brow, and his nose appeared to have been broken once or thrice. The hazel of his irises matched the fading bruise tinting the skin around his eye. She would've dropped her bag and bolted except the uncertain look in his eyes arrested her. Despite his menacing appearance, he seemed unsure of himself and that made him oddly...vulnerable.

"Pardon me," he said, sounding far more educated and polite than she would've guessed, and she suddenly recognized his voice from the phone. "I thought I heard you ask for my grandfather's room. Are you Caitlyn Sweeney, by any chance?"

She nodded, mentally kicking herself for letting a strange man and this hospital overwhelm all her hard-fought-for composure.

"I'm Spencer Bailey. Philip's grandson."

"Hi." Her voice sounded breathless. Blood rushed to warm her cheeks until they probably matched her hair. _Get. A. Grip._ She held her hand out to shake. He grasped it gently. "I'm Caitlyn. But you know that. You don't look like your grandfather."

He grinned, and it transformed his face, making him look rakish instead of dangerous. His eyes glinted. "I favor my granny. Thank you for coming. Are you ready to meet him?"

"Yes." Nervous energy bounced around inside her. After her initial shock at being cornered by a man who could crush her using only his fingertips, the adrenaline seeped away. She stole glances at Spencer as he silently led her through the maze of hospital corridors. Probably six-three to her five foot six, and nothing about him was gangly. He sported a cotton top with wide horizontal green-and-white stripes and filled it out impressively well. His jeans were worn enough to give the impression of softness, though they were probably the only thing soft about him. One word described the rest: chiseled.

She glanced up to check out his face again and caught him checking her out. She came to a dead halt. Correction: _he_ caught her checking _him_ out.

Cue cheeks even redder than her hair.

The corner of his mouth twisted—upward, thank God. She'd probably wet herself if this big man glared at her.

He waved his hand in front of him, signaling they should continue walking down the corridor. "I've been trying to figure out your accent," he said. "Canadian?"

"No. American. I'm from Oregon." She paused. "Why do Brits always ask if I'm Canadian?"

"Self-preservation. Ask an American if they're Canadian and they'll correct you. Ask a Canadian if they're American and they'll rip your lips off."

A surprised chuckle burst out of Caitlyn at his deadpan description.

"I should probably prepare you. Granddad had an angioplasty yesterday. He doesn't really look like himself at the moment." Spencer directed a sad smile in her direction. "Not that you know what he looked like before. But he looks quite poorly."

Caitlyn steeled herself before they entered the room. A brief memory flashed—another hospital, a different patient. No hope of survival, and all of the gut-twisting anguish that had smothered her for months. Years.

"Caitlyn?" Spencer's quiet voice broke through the vision. He touched her elbow and led her away from the door. "I didn't ask before—are you sure you want to do this? You don't have to. I didn't tell him I called you."

His concern brought her fully back to the present, and she nodded. "I'm sure. Sorry—I'm just not good with hospitals."

He grimaced and glanced at an orderly pushing a wheelchair-bound patient down the hall. "They're horrible. I should've waited until he was discharged, but..."

A dark cloud passed over him, and the sentence finished in her own mind. _But I didn't know how many days he had left, and I still don't._ Suddenly Spencer ceased being a large, attractive man—two characteristics that never failed to ignite her nerves. Instead, he became someone's grandson, a man terrified of losing a loved one, and she could definitely relate to that quality. She reached for his forearm and gave it a squeeze. Good God, her fingers didn't even reach halfway around it. "What did the doctor say?"

"That his prognosis for recovery is good." Spencer shrugged. "He's ninety-one. His days are numbered anyway." His scowl and seemingly heartless words would have triggered Caitlyn's temper a few minutes ago, but her thoughts toward him had shifted to compassion, and she understood he battled fears of his own.

"I'd like to see him."

Spencer led the way into the room, and Caitlyn squared her shoulders, ready to vanquish the past so she could be what Philip and Spencer needed her to be right now. The private room had enough space for the bed and one chair upholstered in a color Caitlyn could only describe as "hospital blue" since every hospital she'd ever been in seemed to have the same furniture. Spencer perched against the windowsill and motioned for her to take the chair. Philip lay sleeping, his narrow chest moving with deep, even breaths. Beeping machines and the acrid smells of alcohol and gloopy food brought all the memories back, but Caitlyn fought them off.

She sat on the edge of her chair and lifted Philip's hand—careful not to jostle the needles taped to his thin, wrinkled skin—so it nestled on top of hers. His languid eyelids blinked into consciousness, and he stared at her for a second.

"Granddad, you have a visitor. Recognize her?"

The old man cleared his throat but his voice still came out scratchy. "Of course. I never forget a pretty face. How are you, my dear?"

Caitlyn opened her mouth to answer but Spencer interrupted. "Look closely. Maybe you'll remember."

Philip tore his gaze from Caitlyn to glare at his grandson. "How could I forget a woman like this? She's..." He turned to peer at Caitlyn again, his eyes taking in everything from her red curls to the hand she cradled his in. "She's the spitting image of..."

"Of the woman who saved your life, y'old goat?"

Caitlyn's jaw unhinged. She prepared to take Spencer to task for speaking so disrespectfully to a vulnerable old man, but Philip's hand seized hers, squeezing so tightly she realized he possessed more strength than she imagined. His mouth opened and closed several times before he produced speech.

"You," he whispered. "I didn't see you...I don't think." He shook his head as if to clear it. "I don't remember...anything."

A ghost of a smile touched Spencer's lips. "The paramedics told the nurse on duty that Granddad wouldn't have had a chance if you hadn't helped him."

The words hit Caitlyn hard. Overcome with a wretched tangle of emotions, she held Philip's hand and forced a smile. "Then thank God for jet lag."

Such an inane comment, but the two men seemed to appreciate it. Both relaxed noticeably, as if they'd been bracing themselves for tears and bear hugs.

Caitlyn could've killed for a bear hug herself.

His granddad's angel looked anything but angelic.

Oh, her face shone sweetly with compassion as she spent the next hour chatting and laughing with her patient. But her body—a devil's playground. And hadn't Spencer been likened to the devil more times than he could count? Her body wore its curves in the locations Spencer appreciated most. Visions of her generous breasts—above him, below him, next to him—would keep him awake at night if he didn't rein in his randy imagination.

Spencer kept up with the conversation flowing around him, even contributing a few times himself, but his mind had escorted Caitlyn to his bedroom and kicked the door shut.

Her hair fascinated him, miles and miles of curls a shade of red that belonged in Hades—the same place sexually frustrated men who lusted after women sitting at an old man's sickbed belonged. She wore it pulled back now, but let loose that hair would tumble over her shoulders and cover her breasts. It would tickle his belly as she pressed openmouthed kisses against his hot skin on her way down—

"I said, _isn't that right, Spencer_."

_Shite._ His granddad's voice sliced through Spencer's daydream. Nothing wilted him faster than that voice. "Of course, Granddad."

Philip grinned at Caitlyn, who stared at Spencer with her brows drawn together, as if her X-ray vision had bored through his skull and caught the peep show. "See, my dear? We won't take no for an answer."

The unfortunate phrase doused Spencer's remaining arousal.

"In that case, I'd be honored," Caitlyn said, her voice sounding more hesitant than honored.

What the hell had he just agreed to?

"Excellent! Spencer will arrive at your flat at seven to pick you up."

_Interesting._ Spencer would have to wheedle more details out of someone—like a date and what he should do with Caitlyn once he'd picked her up—but the prospect of spending time with her made his body thrum with anticipation. Even if his granddad had been the one to ask her out.

Philip made no effort to stifle the yawn that stretched his face to nearly twice its normal size. Spencer could identify a hint when it was thrust in his face.

"Tired?"

"I'm afraid so." Granddad's eyelids drifted shut then flew open, as if their heaviness surprised him. Spencer straightened from his perch against the windowsill, thankful to get the blood flowing to his legs again. For a while there, it had all pooled just north of his legs, leaving his feet prickling.

"Spencer, you'd better walk Miss Sweeney home."

Caitlyn protested before Spencer had a chance to react. "I don't live far. I'm in Wapping, near the docks."

"That's fortunate," Spencer said. "So am I. It must be nearly dark, and I don't want to walk through Whitechapel and Shadwell on my own. You can protect me."

Caitlyn's lips flattened into an ironic smile and she glanced at Philip. "All right. I'll see you next Saturday."

_Good girl. Seven o'clock, a week Saturday._ This detective malarkey was a hell of a lot easier than they made it seem on TV.

Philip lifted her hands to his lips and pressed a shaky kiss against her knuckles. "I look forward to it. And don't feel you need bring anything. Spencer has plenty of wine."

_A dinner date. Nice one, Granddad._ It wouldn't do, though, to have the old man thinking he could manage Spencer so easily, even if Spencer suspected his granddad stood a better chance with this woman than he did. Spencer cocked a mocking brow at Philip, earning himself a smug smile in return.

"I'll see you tomorrow," he said. "If you can keep your ancient heart pumping that long."

"I'll keep this heart pumping long enough to blister your backside. Now go away and promise not to visit me tomorrow."

"Can't, I'm afraid. I'll be here as soon as they open the hospital to visitors." Spencer sensed his granddad's secret relief in the way his body relaxed back into the pillow. "And if you're lucky I'll bring the highlights DVD from South Africa. All of my best moments—how they managed to pack them in to a five-hour program I've no idea."

The DVD ran more like two hours, and Spencer's highlights only a fraction of that, but why let the truth get in the way when goading his granddad?

Philip sighed and turned toward Caitlyn. "See what I have to put up with? It will be a pleasure to have dinner with someone whose ego fits in the room."

Caitlyn's gaze bounced between them like she couldn't decide whether to laugh or punch Spencer in the mouth. Spencer decided to rescue her—and his face. He gestured toward the door. "Shall we?"

They left the hospital and stepped into an East London street bathed with fading pink sunlight. The sunset would be remarkable over the river, near where he and Caitlyn both lived. What woman—what _American_ woman, especially—could resist a kiss or two next to the Thames as the light bounced off the water and set behind Tower Bridge?

Whitechapel bustled with people wearing various forms of Islamic dress—from Saudi women in full niqab to Somalis with only their faces uncovered to Bangladeshis adorned with makeup and colorful, sparkly saris. Only as Spencer watched them all rushing around did he realize today was Friday, and they were probably going home or to mosques for their sunset prayers.

"I love London's diversity," Caitlyn said, stepping over fast-food wrappers blowing down the road.

"Don't get this mix of people in Oregon?"

"Not in the town I grew up in. There it's more a mix of hippies and loggers."

"What town's that?"

She kept silent a moment. "You wouldn't have heard of it."

He glanced down to find her lost in thought. _It's Friday, and you've been stuck in a hospital all week._ His granddad was right—he should be out with his mates, enjoying his freedom before the season started and turned him into a monk again. But he couldn't relax in a pub knowing his granddad lay in a hospital bed. Not to mention that his sex drive had taken a nosedive the second the nurse had called him.

_Liar._ Caitlyn had certainly kicked up his hormones. He glanced at her again. Not his usual type. She didn't look like she spent hours at the gym honing her muscle tone and building a six-pack to rival his. In fact, she looked soft and warm, and he could imagine cuddling with her after going a few rounds in bed. His hands would have nice, plump places to rest instead of scrambling for purchase against tight skin.

Perhaps that explained his attraction. He desperately needed comfort right now, and she looked comfortable. Sexy with all that red hair and her wicked laugh? Fuck yeah. But also caring and gentle with a superhuman strength of character that had led her to put her mouth on a dying old man's and breathe life into him. Spencer's blood stirred, his own breath quickening as admiration flared.

"So, what do you do for a living?" Caitlyn asked.

Surprise hit him. He'd made the connection between her being American and knowing fuck-all about rugby. Of course she wouldn't know much about his career. But he'd flashed his goods on enough adverts that many Londoners could at least recognize him. His groin tightened at the novelty of getting to know a woman without his minor celebrity status—both the accolades and humiliations—getting in the way. "What would you guess I do?"

Her gaze roamed over his body, warming him everywhere it touched.

"Mmm...nightclub bouncer?"

He froze. He resembled a _bouncer_ to her?

A cute smile tipped the corners of her mouth. God, she had dimples. Fucking hot.

"No? Okay, let me think...pro wrestler?"

"Please tell me you're having a laugh."

She did laugh then and snapped her fingers. "I've got it! You're a florist."

He shook his head, unable to contain his smile, and they started walking again. "Not a florist. That was my second choice of careers."

They neared the Highway. Once they crossed it they'd have left the crumbling public housing estates of Shadwell behind and entered a different world, one populated mostly with professionals and suits who worked in financial services. They would also pass the massive billboard with Spencer's picture on it. He had seconds of anonymity left. Strange how disappointing that felt.

"You really don't recognize me?" If she lived in Wapping, she must pass that billboard every day.

She stared hard into his face before shaking her head. "Sorry. Are you on TV? I don't watch a lot of British TV, except the news. I'm not a big fan of reality—" she jerked to a halt with a soft gasp, her wide eyes focused on the billboard behind Spencer, "—TV," she finished rather lamely.

Spencer's heart sped, as if he were racing toward the try line as the game clock ticked down to zero. He knew what she saw— _him_ in all his glory. Most of his glory, anyway. Naked except for the black boxer briefs he advertised, his abs, chest, arms and thighs oiled and sprayed with droplets of water to give the impression of sweat as he ran a hand through his hair—showing off his flexed triceps—and smoldered at the camera. The slogan _Hard men wear Woody's_ was scrawled beneath his package, which the pants cupped and accentuated.

The makeup artist who'd greased him up had been thrilled she didn't need to stuff the front; he'd stretched the pouch on his own.

"Oh, my," Caitlyn whispered. "Yep. I recognize you now. I guess I'd never really looked at your face up there before."

He grinned, the tip of his tongue smoothing over his suddenly dry lips. "You're probably not supposed to."

The sun must've dipped behind the billboard because she blinked into the changing light. Her breathing had gone shallow, a sure sign of arousal if Spencer ever saw one. The tilt of her head elongated her neck, leaving plenty of nibble room for Spencer's lips. Fuck Tower Bridge at sunset—he'd been waiting for _this_ moment.

He reached around her, the tips of his fingers finding the curve of her lower back. Barely any pressure at all brought her chest flush with his sternum as he tilted his body toward hers. Her breasts brushed him as her breath quickened, and he leaned down to cover her mouth with his.

_Soft._ Her lips, her breasts, the hip he stroked. Everywhere, her softness cradled him, bringing not the expected comfort but a burst of excitement so electrifying it bordered on painful. Concentrating his focus on her mouth, he teased her lips, nibbling, tugging, tasting an intoxicating hint of her sweetness before desire swept over him. Her body trembled beneath his hands, and he tugged her tightly against him to share his warmth, at the same moment moving one hand to cup her cheek and the other to insinuate under the hem of her shirt, resting on the hot skin of her back. Her mouth opened on a gasp, and he pressed his advantage, his tongue—

Pain!

He jerked back, hand flying to cover his mouth, where his tongue seethed in excruciating pain.

"You bit me?" The words sounded thick, and he gently tested his tongue against the roof of his mouth and backs of his teeth. Everything seemed intact. No tang of blood. The agony eased surprisingly quickly, leaving only a dull throb and a body nearly numb with shock.

Caitlyn's wide, terrified eyes stared at him over the hands she pressed against her mouth. Her chest heaved with panicked breaths.

He'd scared her. He'd made a move and clearly scared the shit out of her.

"Did I hurt you?" she whispered through bloodless fingers.

"No." _Not for lack of trying._ Jesus, he'd never felt like such a monster in his life. No matter what the papers said about him, he'd never, _never_ made a move on an unwilling woman. He had to escape, to flee the humiliation before it trapped him again. "I'm sorry, Caitlyn. I—I'm just very sorry."

He turned and left, dodging honking cars as he jogged across the Highway and never once glanced back. Oh God, of all the women in the world, he had to insult the one who'd saved his granddad? The old man was the only father he'd known and his single living relative. When he died, Spencer would have no one.

This woman had given him the most precious gift—a reprieve from life without a family—and what had he done? To be quite honest, he wasn't sure. But something she hadn't liked.

His jog slowed to a fast walk as he rounded the corner by the newspaper offices. Damn it, he'd even done it in front of the tabloids that had hunted him for years.

Bailey, you are a fucking moron.

Caitlyn's heart hung heavy, weighed down with the fear she would never be normal. Too many memories barred her from enjoying simple intimacies.

God in heaven, she'd actually _bitten_ him. How appalling!

When Caitlyn pushed open the door to her apartment, her flatmate and colleague, Emma Taylor, stood in the bathroom brushing her teeth. Emma took one look at Caitlyn's face and, cupping a hand around her mouth to contain her toothpastey drool, said, "Wha' ha'ened?"

"Can we talk about it tomorrow? It's been a really long day."

Emma stared at her a moment, clearly realizing something was wrong. After a few seconds, she bent over and spat into the sink. "I hate to make it even longer, but Postroom Pete gave me a letter for you before I left work. It's on your bed."

Caitlyn sighed. She should have known that, of all days, she'd get a letter today. Damn Postroom Pete for giving it to Emma instead of leaving it facedown on her in tray. He'd probably tried to pump Emma for information she didn't have and would be too classy to divulge even if she did.

Caitlyn strode down the short hall to her bedroom doorway and stared at the unopened envelope on her twin bed. She closed the distance between her door and bed in one small step, picked up the envelope with the most infamous return address in California, and shoved it into a clear plastic folder under the bed. The folder held dozens of similar letters and was nearly bursting at the seams. "Thanks, Em. I think I'll go straight to bed. I'm wiped."

Emma wished her a good night and Caitlyn closed the door on her concerned face. Pulling her pajamas out from under her pillow, Caitlyn tried to change without knocking her arms against the walls. The twin bed—her only furniture other than a few bookshelves high on the wall—took up the room's entire length and more than half its width. She couldn't fully open the door because the bed got in the way, forcing her to shimmy sideways to enter or exit the room.

She basically lived in what was meant to be an office or storage room. Maybe a nursery. She had to hand it to Emma's entrepreneurial skills for renting it out as living space to a full-grown adult. She charged very little, though, and Caitlyn's charity salary left few options, most of them in slums. Plus, Emma had become such a good friend so quickly that Caitlyn could trust her not to blab about these horrible letters, even if Caitlyn couldn't bring herself to explain who they were from.

Caitlyn dropped her clothes on the floor and climbed into bed. She hated having the letters under her bed but she had no storage space; everything she wanted to hide away had to be shoved under the bed. Whenever she received one, she thought about burning them all. She'd never read a single one. But she might need them one day, if she had to go to court.

The letters usually brought nightmares with them, so she pushed them from her mind and tried to focus on practical things, like the water purification tablets she needed to order for the Zimbabwe program and how many deep-drop toilets her team could build in a week. Her thoughts kept straying, though, to how she'd humiliated herself tonight. Spencer had shocked her, yes, but she'd lost control and clamped down before she could even decide whether she wanted the kiss. Her body had betrayed her. Again.

God willing, she would never run into him or Philip in the neighborhood again. Unfortunately, in her experience God seemed to have a wicked sense of humor.

Buy Knowing the Score now!

### Playing It Close

Where do you go to escape everything when you're one of the most famous rugby players in the world? For Liam Callaghan, that place is a remote lodge on Venezuela's Caribbean coast. Perfect, except he doesn't exactly want to be alone with his thoughts. Enter Tess Chambers, the ultimate distraction.

Still reeling from a professional disaster that's made her all but unemployable, Tess understands the desire to move through life as somebody else. So when instantly recognizable Liam uses a fake name, she runs with it and creates a temporary new identity of her own.

Their time spent together in paradise is idyllic but brief—after one passionate night, Liam wakes up to find Tess gone. Returning to London, he's shocked to learn she's taken a job with his team's new sponsor. As the Legends' captain, he'll have to not only figure out how to work with the one woman who ever left him wanting more, but also convince her that their feelings in the present mean more than any lies they've told in the past.

"I loved Playing It Close so much that as soon as I finished it, I downloaded every Kat Latham work available."

— _Bitter Empire_

"I loved this book. I couldn't stop clicking pages long after my bedtime. I laughed out loud on several occasions and found myself reading with a smile plastered on my face. The only disappointing thing is that Liam and the Legends are fictional."

— _Give Me Books_

### Chapter One

Warm seawater sliding over naked skin. _That's_ how Tess wanted to end her second night in Venezuela.

She stood on the moonlit shore and gripped the hem of her T-shirt, battling her misgivings as she scanned the beach. No one. She was completely alone. If she pulled the shirt over her head, no one would see that she'd ditched her bikini top in her room and only wore a pair of frilly pink bikini bottoms. No one would see if she slipped those off too.

Her hand relaxed its grip on the soft cotton before fisting it again and inching it up. _Do it._

_But there could be cameras._ She scanned the shore from left to right, then turned to face the beachside hotel and did it again. The moonlight shone brightly—too brightly. The journalists who'd hounded her for eight months wouldn't even need to use their flash if they wanted a decent picture of the Scourge of the City cavorting naked and alone in the Caribbean. How much would the London tabloids pay for a photo like that?

Enough that she might be tempted to send them one herself.

_Idiot. You're at a remote eco-lodge halfway around the world. No one here cares or even knows who you are_.

Still...

Resolved, Tess let go of the shirt hem and took determined strides toward the water lapping at the shore. She had five more nights here. Plenty of time for the moonlight to die down. She could wait for a cloudy night—if northern Venezuela experienced such things. Tonight she would simply enjoy swimming lazily through the calm water with her T-shirt protecting her dignity.

Although it was past midnight, the sand was still warm from the strong rays it had soaked up throughout the day. The water cooled Tess's sun-kissed skin as it swirled around her knees, her hips, her waist. She brought her hands over her head and dove in, kicking her feet and pulling her arms back in an underwater breaststroke for as long as she could hold her breath.

_Freedom._ Under here, no one could touch her. Under here, her life was her own.

After ten minutes of paddling around, she swam for the shore and stepped onto the soft sand. A breeze swept over the sea, chilling her skin, and Tess realized she'd forgotten a towel. If she'd stripped her shirt off before getting into the water, she would have had a dry shirt to put on. Now she was half-naked in a translucent white T-shirt. Fabulous.

She shoved her feet into her sandals, crossed her arms over her chest and rushed through the hotel's beach entrance. _Please let everyone be in bed._

No such luck. As she entered the lobby, the receptionist was handing a man his room key. _Bugger._ She'd have to walk right past them to get to the stairs. Fortunately the lift was right here. She ducked her head and pressed the up arrow, muttering, "Come on, come on."

"We hope you enjoy your stay, Señor Jones," the receptionist said.

"Cheers, Maria."

_Come on come on come on!_ The lift whirred, dinged and opened. _Yes!_ Tess hurried into it and hit the button for the third floor a thousand times, like a hyperactive child on a sugar rush—the kind of child she used to be.

A deep voice called out across the lobby. "Hold the lift!"

_Oh, hell no._ She pressed the door-close button and let out a sigh as it worked its magic—

A foot jammed itself between the closing doors, followed swiftly by a deep-throated "Fucking hell!" when the doors didn't bounce open automatically but clamped together instead.

_No!_ Tess swallowed her cry of defeat as a pair of very big, very masculine hands braced themselves on the edge of one of the doors and pushed. Hard. Like, Superman hard. Within seconds, the man created enough space to squeeze himself and his travelers' backpack through the gap. When he leaped away from the doors as if they might bite him again, Tess had to press herself against the wall to avoid being flattened.

"Are you crazy?" she yelled as the lift's doors bounced closed behind him. Her voice reverberated around the small space, making the thin walls vibrate behind her back. "You could've been killed!"

A niggle of familiarity passed through her at her first glance at him, but then she noticed he was glaring at her hand. She followed his gaze to find she was still pressing the door-close button. Drawing back her arm, she crossed it with the other one over her chest. "Oops. Wrong button."

"Mentalist," he muttered. He pressed the button for the fourth floor and turned his back to her, dropping the weathered blue backpack from his shoulders. The lift shook from its weight.

_Holy mother..._ his shoulders took up nearly half the airspace in the lift. Tess breathed a silent sigh of relief as the lift jerked and started its ascent. Only a few seconds from now, the doors would reopen and this awkward moment would be behind her—literally, since she was getting off on the floor below his and would have to walk away with her wet T-shirt plastered to her skinny arse. He was so much bigger than her. Why the hell had she yelled at him when he first got into the lift?

Impulse-control: never one of her strong points.

Fortunately, he didn't say anything more. She'd caught his accent. British, like her, he'd probably grown up well versed in how to ignore awkward situations.

The lift chugged, its erratic ascent making her imagine it was a bucket being hoisted upward by monkeys working a rope pulley hand-over-hand. She kept her attention on the buttons, counting them as they lit up, as if they were items on a to-do list that she had to get through before she could escape. First floor—done. Second floor—done. Nearly there—

The lift jerked to a hard halt, making her gasp and brace her hand against the faux wooden wall.

"What the hell?" her companion muttered.

The second- and third-floor buttons were both lit, but the doors didn't open. The man banged his fist on them, as though they were a vending machine that had kept hold of his Snickers bar. "Open up."

"Don't think it can hear you," she said.

Mistake. Her sarky comment brought his attention back to her. She could feel it, even though she kept her gaze firmly trained on the opposite wall, not eager to see whether he was ready to throttle or jump her. For several long seconds, she shivered under his silent scrutiny. The water hadn't been as warm as she'd expected. Fine when you were in it, but stepping into the slight breeze had left her covered in goose pimples...and a couple of pointy parts she was desperately trying to cover with her arms, as if he might not have noticed that she'd left her bikini top in her room.

Damn it. One thing she'd learned from working in a male-dominated office was that she had to stand up for herself. She lifted her head to glare up at him, and the niggle of familiarity exploded into awareness.

No way. No _way._

Liam Callaghan? Liam Callaghan, rugby's all-time leading points scorer? Captain of London Legends and, more recently, of the England squad? Liam bloody Callaghan? Her father would shit a brick when she told him.

She'd leave out the wet T-shirt part, of course.

He was staring at her too. Or, at least, at her hair. She just barely managed to keep from touching it self-consciously. She'd had a lot of funny looks the past couple of days—not surprising since her hair was currently bubblegum pink. After a second in which he seemed fixated on the horror covering the top of her head, Liam Callaghan turned away as if she wasn't worth acknowledging—a posture she'd got used to during her years working in an industry dripping with testosterone—and banged on the door again, this time shouting for anyone who might be able to hear them. "Hello? We're stuck in here!"

She tried pushing the third-floor button again. And again. Her finger became more frantic as the doors stayed solidly closed.

"Will you stop that?" he snapped. "That'll make it worse. We're probably stuck in here because you jammed the buttons in the first place."

"Wait, are you accusing me of breaking the lift? Me? When you were the one who forced the doors open?"

His eyes went wide in patent disbelief. "Are you having a laugh? I wouldn't have had to if you'd held the lift like any decent human being would do."

She stuffed down her annoyance. He obviously had a point, though she would quibble with that _decent human being_ bit if she weren't half-naked and locked in a lift with a man who made his living knocking seventeen-stone men to the ground. "Look, let's not waste our time arguing about this. How do we get out of here?"

The question was more to herself than him, and she'd already started scanning the doors, walls and ceiling for any indication of what to do in an emergency. No escape hatch in the ceiling, the way there always was in films. Not that she'd know what to do if he did boost her up there. Maybe convince the monkeys to get back to work? No telephone or emergency call button. No security camera.

"Shit. We're fucked."

"Maybe there's a call button," he said, clearly a few mental steps behind her as he peered closer at the panel.

"There isn't. There's nothing. We're well and truly stuck."

He scanned the ceiling and the corners, then ran his hands down the seam of the closed doors. She waited silently for him to catch up with her. "There's nothing. We're stuck."

_Echo much?_ Saying the words aloud would be a bad idea. Another situation she'd learned how to deal with from working with sexist pigs for seven years. Don't antagonize, and try not to respond. They harassed you because they wanted to see you lose your shit. If you didn't, they'd realize it wasn't much fun and stop doing it.

He beat the doors, and the whole lift shook from the pounding. Without thinking, she grabbed his arm to stop him, immediately tugging her hand back when she felt the power in his biceps. She would need three hands to wrap around them. "Please don't do that. I'd rather be stuck between floors than plummet down to the ground floor."

"The receptionist said she was going home after she checked me in. Maybe she hasn't left yet. Hello! Maria!" He pounded and yelled some more before giving up with a curse. "Fan-bloody-tastic."

They stood in awkward silence for a few tension-filled moments. Her shivers grew more pronounced. The cool dip had felt invigorating after sweltering all day, but now her body registered not only the slight drop in temperature but also the fact that she might be trapped for hours in this lift with a strange man. A frustrated man. A man she didn't know, and she was quite exposed. More than a chill was making her teeth chatter.

"Are you cold?"

"Mmm-hmm." She rubbed her hands up and down her arms as best she could without exposing her breasts. Her shoulders hunched over, both to hide from him and because the more she thought about it the colder she got.

"Are you kidding? It's sweltering in here."

She gave him a look of pure disbelief. "You might not have noticed, but I'm wearing a little less than you."

One corner of his mouth kicked up. He clearly had noticed, and she braced herself for the smarmy comment that would inevitably follow.

Nothing.

He crouched down and unclipped the cover of his ancient blue backpack, then tugged on the drawstring tab that closed the top of the bag. After rummaging for a few seconds, he pulled out a handful of green cotton. "Dry T-shirt?"

_Oh, God, yes please._ She took it from him with a grateful smile, and he dug into his bag again. "I've got some trousers in here, too, but I think you'd fit your whole body into one of my trouser legs, so they might not be that useful."

He yanked out a pair of shorts and held them up, eyeing her. "Don't fancy the chances of these staying up, either." He dropped them, went back to the bag, held up a pair of gray cotton boxer briefs, his gaze never straying south of her face even though he was squatting level with her girl parts. "How about a pair of my pants? I promise they're clean."

"Thanks for the offer, but I've only just met you. I don't think it would be appropriate to wear your underpants."

"You're right. Much more appropriate for you to stand there wearing nothing but my T-shirt."

With a resigned sigh, she took the briefs from him and said, "Thank you."

"No, thank _you._ " He closed his bag, stood and turned his back to her. "Let me know when you're done."

The tiny lift didn't leave much room for maneuver, but she hurriedly stripped off her sodden shirt and dropped it to the floor with a _plop._ She whipped his shirt over her head. The hem fell halfway to her knees, covering her as she wriggled out of her damp bikini bottoms and tugged his pants on. The elasticated waist wasn't small enough to stay where it should, but fortunately it settled around her hips and seemed like it would stay put. She was drowning in clothes now, and he'd kept his back respectfully turned. A dangerous man wouldn't have done that, or even given her his clothes in the first place—right? Her shoulders relaxed. She rolled them around to ease the tension she'd carried from hunching over. "I'm finished."

He faced her again, quickly assessing her outfit. Sticking out a hand, he said, "I'm Liam...uh, Jones."

She kept her brows from rising at his lie, but just barely. "Hello, Liam Jones. I'm Tess. Tess...Crawley."

What the hell. If he was going to make up a name, she might as well, too, so she chose one from her favorite TV period drama. God knew her name had been splashed all over the papers for the better part of a year. She'd come here to escape the legal minefield she'd thrown herself into headfirst, but it had never occurred to her to make up a new identity, which seemed like an oversight now she thought about it. Hadn't she done everything possible to leave her old life behind and become someone new? She'd gone through two hair colors drastically different than her normal boring brown. She'd spent the past two days exploring the jungle treetops instead of the urban jungle she'd been trapped in her whole life. Yet she hadn't considered traveling incognito. Huh. Tess Crawley. What a novelty.

Liam made a sound of pent-up frustration and stretched his arms above his head, his fingertips scraping the low ceiling. He was quite a bit taller than her, probably nearly six feet to her five foot three. Certainly not one of the biggest players, height-wise. In fact, on TV he was dwarfed by some of his teammates. Then again, he towered over others. Funny thing about rugby, how the men who played it had wildly different body types—from twenty-stone goliaths with no necks to garden gnomes who could dart across the pitch...to gods like Liam Callaghan.

But no, he wasn't Liam Callaghan, and she had to remember that. Everyone deserved privacy, especially when they were on holiday—a lesson she'd recently learned the hard way.

He glanced at his watch. "Maria told me the reception desk opens at six. That's less than five hours from now. You don't suppose someone might arrive early and discover the lift's broken?"

"Could do. I'd bet kitchen staff get here fairly early. The breakfast they prepare is amazing. Must take hours of prep."

A growl rumbled and they both glanced at his stomach.

"Hungry?" she asked.

"Yeah. I ate on the plane, but that was hours ago."

"No snacks in your Mary Poppins bag?"

His face lit up and he practically ripped the poor backpack apart. He dumped several rolled-up items of clothing onto the floor before pulling out a plastic container with a triumphant "Ah-ha!"

She grimaced when he popped it open. "What is that?"

"A little something my housekeeper made me for the journey. Can't believe I nearly forgot about them."

"You have a housekeeper?"

A flicker of awareness crossed his face. He seemed to realize he'd given a piece of himself away and evaded the question. "Homemade energy bars. They look a little worse for the journey, but they're great. Lots of oats, sultanas, wheat germ, honey...want one?"

She shook her head. "You lost me at wheat germ."

"Suit yourself." He sat on the floor and rested against the wall. Too tall to stretch his legs out, he kept them bent and spread wide with his backpack in between, invading her space even more. She peeked into the container again. What might've once been bars had been knocked around so much that they now resembled pale, chunky dirt. He scooped up a handful and squished it into a patty before dropping it into his mouth. His eyes closed as he chewed, and the back of his head thunked against the wall. Light gray shadows clung to the skin below his eyes. His wavy blond hair—always famously tousled—stood practically on end. He looked exhausted...and far too big for this lift.

He grabbed another fistful of the crumbled oat concoction and shoved it into his mouth, sighing in satisfaction. She hadn't realized how hungry she was until the smell of honey hit her. Swimming always made her ravenous. Once he'd swallowed, he glanced up at her with sleepy eyes. "Why don't you sit down? We might be here a while. I'm not used to having to look up to talk to women, and I'm getting a crick in my neck."

She slid down the wall, sat with her knees to her chest to help her warm up, and pulled the bottom of his T-shirt over her naked legs. Her tummy rumbled, but before she could steal another peek at his snack he flung his arm out to silently offer it to her.

"Thanks." She tried to be delicate. Her mother had drilled ladylike table manners into her, which made it difficult to find a way to pick up crumbled, sticky oats without feeling like a slob.

Liam shook his head in clear amusement and reached into the plastic container with his whole hand. "Let me help. Open wide."

She opened her mouth.

"Wider than that, Pinkie."

Just to mock him, she opened as wide as she could and tilted her head back, shocked when he dropped a shower of the mix into her mouth. Pieces bounced off her chin—hopefully whatever the hell wheat germ was—and rolled onto the canopy she'd made of his T-shirt between her chest and knees. She closed her mouth and chewed, the sweet taste of honey coating her tongue and making her groan.

"Good, huh?"

She nodded, too lost in nirvana to answer with real words. She'd been hungrier than she thought, and the delicious mix hit her sweet spot. Simple but luscious. Satisfying but leaving her hungry for more. More. She needed more. Her head lolled to the side, her mouth opening and receiving another helping. She savored as she chewed, swallowed and let out a throaty sigh, only realizing how embarrassingly sexual the sound was when she opened her eyes and found Liam staring at her with an expression she couldn't decipher. She self-consciously licked her lips for crumbs, and his fern-green eyes homed in on her mouth with an intensity she'd never been on the receiving end of before. It was the way a starving man would look at a steak, or how she would view a bottle of cabernet at the end of a horrendous work week. Desire and need swirling around each other, rubbing up against each other in a seductive dance. Her temperature spiked as he dragged his gaze away from her mouth and met her eyes with a look bordering between fascination and confusion.

He scooped up another handful of his snack and slowly munched on it. "So, uh...tell me about breakfast."

Okay, maybe she'd misinterpreted that look, reading into it what she wanted to see. Or maybe he had a food fetish. She tried to clear the lusty thoughts clouding her mind. "It's a big spread. Lots of tropical fruit, pineapples, mango and even chunks of fresh coconut. But you can also get the local equivalent of a fry-up—beans, scrambled eggs with onions and tomatoes...ooh, and this thing called _cachapa,_ which is like a thick pancake made out of corn with melted cheese in it. It's so delicious."

Their stomachs growled in tandem, and he offered her the container of crumbs again. No longer caring if she made a mess, she squished some together and popped the lump into her mouth. "Swimming always makes me hungry and sleepy."

"That why you went in this late at night? Couldn't sleep?"

"No, not that." But how could she explain that she'd made herself a list of ten things to accomplish on this trip, things she'd never done before and had decided her life wouldn't be complete without giving them a go. Skinny-dipping was number one on the list—still unticked.

His voice dropped, his lips curling in a gently teasing smile. "Let me guess. You were sweltering hot and couldn't take it anymore, so you went down to the beach—fully intending to do the decent thing and just dip your toes in the water. Maybe splash around up to your ankles. But then something came over you. Some wicked yearning to be a bit naughty. So you stripped down to your bikini and jumped in...only when you came up for air, you realized your top had magically disappeared."

She bit back a shiver, forcing her brows to rise in mock censure. "That's some imagination you've got there."

"Not really. It happens in a lot of the movies I watch."

"Oh, right. You watch _those_ kinds of movies."

He shrugged. "I won't lie. They've been known to catch my attention when I'm staying at a hotel."

"Stay at a lot of hotels?"

He ignored her. "But that's not what happened, is it? Otherwise your shirt would've been damp but not completely soaked."

"You're putting way too much thought into this. Don't strain yourself."

"Hmm...I'm guessing you waited till the middle of the night because you thought everyone would be asleep. You decided to go for a midnight dip in the lagoon. Clearly you've never seen _Jaws_ , or you would've realized what a stupid idea that is. But you wanted to go in, all the way in, and you wanted to feel the water all over you."

Her skin flushed, and suddenly the chill left her body, replaced by a heat that percolated just below her surface. How could he know? Was she that easy to read?

Apparently so, because he watched her closely as he continued. "That's definitely it. You wanted to feel that warm water all over your naked body. Or maybe you just intended to go in topless this first time, work up the courage to skinny-dip another time. Break yourself in slowly. So you left your top upstairs because you knew you'd chicken out if you brought it with you."

The way he described the scene was so close to what actually happened that she felt as if he'd been watching her. He obviously hadn't been. The backpack and tired eyes said he'd just checked in. But his keen attention to detail made her breath catch in her throat.

"Only, your shirt's wet, so I'm thinking you chickened out anyway. Convinced yourself that swimming in the dark water at midnight was adventurous enough for tonight, that you'll do the dirty tomorrow night...or maybe the night after. What happened?"

She swallowed, his intense gaze holding her transfixed. "Too much moonlight. Some of the rooms overlook the lagoon. I didn't want anyone to see me. Not when I'm booked in for another five nights."

"So you'll do it on your last night here?"

"Maybe." That was the idea, anyway. She had to. She never let to-do-list items go unticked.

"You know what you need?"

Yeah, she could think of about a thousand things, and in that moment she was convinced he could provide most of them.

"You need a cove. Somewhere with a bit of privacy, hidden from public view."

Sounded reasonable. Why hadn't she thought of that?

"But that's not really safe, is it? What happens if you get a cramp? Or there's an undertow? Who'll watch out for shark fins popping up in the water behind you? Swimming lesson number one—never swim alone."

She closed her eyes, leaned her head against the wall and let his seductive voice wash over her.

"You need a swim buddy, Pinkie. It's a good thing I'm here. I make an excellent partner in crime."

### Chapter Two

Liam wasn't here for an easy hookup. He was supposed to be allowing himself time to heal, and his sports psychologist had specifically forbidden casual sex as a route to emotional recovery. After months of ignoring that advice and finding himself at the bottom of a very dark place, Liam had finally decided to follow his therapist's guidance. Time alone, away from all of the distractions of his career—including women—so he could come to terms with his grief.

But then she'd moaned. _Moaned._ Right there, sitting next to him in a space so small he couldn't have lain down in it. Suddenly all he wanted was to get horizontal and release the energy he hadn't known he had left after that bitch of a flight.

She'd fucking moaned—over an energy bar—and that was all it had taken to turn the lift from stifling to sultry. From claustrophobic to intimate.

And her face...he couldn't describe it. The way she'd gone all soft and happy had drawn his attention away from her unfortunate hair and made him picture all the ways he could bring that satisfied look back.

"You're staring at me."

He blinked. "I am?"

"Yeah. It's creeping me out."

He exhaled a quiet laugh. Well, that settled the question of how attracted she might be to him. No wonder—he'd started sweating buckets from the humidity as soon as he'd stepped off the plane. A full day on planes followed by a three-hour car journey to the hotel meant he probably smelled like he'd just stepped off the rugby pitch. When he'd checked in, all he'd wanted was a shower and a beer, possibly together. Fuck, he'd be less sticky if he bathed in lager.

Focusing on the firmly closed lift doors, he said, "Sorry about that. Better now?"

"Yes, thanks."

He offered her the box of energy crumbs again. "Want some more?"

She was quiet for a second, making him think she considered his offer to include more than just energy bars. It did. Finally, she exhaled a sound full of regret. "I shouldn't."

Interesting. He allowed himself to look at her again. "Why not? Are you...committed to other food products?"

"Uh, no. That's not a problem."

"So, you're not into bars and you're more into...girls?"

She laughed. "Couldn't think of a food you could compare women's bits to?"

"Nothing that wouldn't earn me a punch in the face."

She leaned a little closer and whispered as if she were confessing. "I'm definitely partial to bars."

His heartbeat quickened, pounding blood down low in his belly. "Glad to hear it. So if those aren't problems, what's stopping you from tasting more?"

"It's...complicated."

Normally he would've flirted his way to a more favorable answer, but he understood complicated. Fuck, she didn't even know his real name. Somehow, though, that made her reactions to him all the more tempting. Just once he wanted to know what it was like to be with a woman and know she was there because she wanted _him_ , not his money, fame or the exposure that came with him.

Most of his career, he'd been surrounded by women who would've found out which hotel he was staying in, jumped in a pool and manipulated their way into the lift with him, exposing everything they had. He didn't have much experience with women who came from the real world.

The fact that Tess was real made her not only more attractive but also more untouchable. He was used to women who knew the rules. Easy relationships with a bit of arm candy—that was what he and they both wanted. He could be the bit of rough who filled out a suit and made a photogenic escort to actresses' premieres. They could be a pleasant diversion from a career that left no time for anything else...not even the family who needed him most.

He tried to push away the thought of what his mother's final days must've been like, but coming to terms with the grief and guilt was why he was here...his therapist's words, not his. He would've said he was here to get the fuck over it, to erase the haunting memory of what his mum had looked like when he'd finally walked into her hospital room.

His gut clenched, drowning his lust. He needed some conversation quick before the ghosts took shape again. _She's been here a few days already. Ask her what there is to do._

_Bang bang bang_.

They both sat up straight. "Did you hear that?"

"Yes," she said, rolling to her knees and rapping her knuckles against the doors. _Bang bang bang._ "Hello? Is anyone out there?"

" _Dios mío—sí!_ Yes, I am out here. It's Maria from the reception desk. The repairman is working on the problem. He will—"

The doors slid open as smoothly as they should've done ages ago, revealing that they were stuck between floors. A woman in a knee-length skirt bent over to look at them through the gap, a wrinkle marring the smooth skin between her brows. "Are you all right?"

Liam scrambled to his feet and clasped Tess's hand, helping her off her knees. Relief flooded him—God, he _really_ needed a cool shower now—and he pulled her against his chest, pressing his lips against her forehead in a loud, grateful, smacking kiss. She laughed and squeezed him in a quick hug before letting go. "Let's get out of here."

The lift was closer to the third floor than the second, but still there was only about a meter gap between the floor and the top of the lift's door. Liam shoved his clothes back in his backpack before he realized that Tess had grabbed Maria's hand and was preparing to hoist herself out. "Whoa, let me lift you."

She gave him a strange look. "I think we've got it."

Tess braced her free hand on the hotel floor and pushed herself upward at the same time Maria pulled. She went up easily, but Liam cupped his hands around her hips, his thumbs braced under her bum cheeks, and gave her an extra boost. Quite a firm bum, considering how small she was. Nothing skinny about it at all, despite his first impression. She twisted in the air and slid onto the floor before swinging her legs around. Lying in the third-floor hallway, she raised one haughty brow at him. "I told you we had it."

"I know. I'm sure you did. That doesn't mean I should just stand here like a muppet, does it?"

She rolled her eyes. "Hand me your backpack."

"That's all right. I've got it," he teased.

"You _are_ a muppet."

He laughed as he shoved his bag through the gap and she set it aside, giving him room to climb to freedom. But when she reached out her hand as if she was going to help yank him out, he stopped laughing. "Now you're definitely kidding."

She gave him an enigmatic shrug. "Maybe."

Ignoring her gesture, he pressed his hands flat against the floor and hoisted himself up. For one glorious moment, he lay on the hallway floor and stretched his arms and legs as far as he could. Fourteen hours in planes, three hours in a car and far too long in a tiny lift...he'd started to wonder whether he'd ever be able to move his whole body again.

Maria chattered nervously, explaining that her manager had called her mobile to say that the lift's alarm had gone off. When she'd told him that a guest had just arrived, he'd called the hotel's handyman, who'd driven in from the village and was now working on the control panel downstairs. Liam didn't give a shit about any of it. He craved hours and hours of time spent horizontally, starting now.

"We are so sorry this happened," Maria said. "Please let me know what we can do to make up for it. We can arrange massages for you or give you a free pass to the spa..."

Liam had never found anyone who could massage him as well as Steven, the team's massage therapist, who had biceps and hands bigger than Liam's. And he didn't quite know what happened at spas, but whenever his past girlfriends had gone to one they'd come home with a lot less hair in certain sensitive areas, so that was out. All he wanted was a bed.

Oh, and one other thing. "Can I have a beer? Draft, not canned."

Maria's eyes widened. "Of course! I have the key to the restaurant. I'll bring your beer in a few minutes. How many would you like?"

"Just one." One was an indulgence anyway. He never drank during the season, and in the off-season he held himself to a couple a week. Some of his teammates arrived at pre-season training looking like tubs of lard, and they had to work extra hard to shed the flab they put on. Not him. He worked his arse off to become constantly better, not to regain what he lost through a month of gluttony.

"And you, _señora?_ " Maria asked Tess. "What can we do for you?"

Tess was quiet for a moment, and Liam crunched up so he could see her. She stared off into space and had an adorable _oh-the-possibilities_ expression that made him wish he'd asked for something different. Something that would give the two of them more time together. Maybe she'd ask for a beer too. They could drink it in his room and reminisce about the time they were stuck in the lift together.

Finally, a sweet smile touched her lips and she turned her attention to Maria. "Could you tell me if there are any coves around here?"

Liam held an old photograph. His mum—eighteen years old and on a journey to discover herself—stood in front of the Taj Mahal. She shouldered a big, brand-new blue backpack. Liam dropped the photo on the floor, stepped inside and watched the edges blur as he became part of the scene. Women in colorful saris walked past, but he saw only one woman. Barely a woman. His mum's smile transformed her face from pretty to radiant, the way it had his whole life.

" _What are you doing here,_ cariad? _" she asked, her Welsh accent stronger than he remembered. Maybe it softened during those five years she spent in London between this trip and his birth._

" _I don't know. Looking for you, I guess. Is Dad here?"_

She shook her head. "I haven't met him yet. Come back next week when I'm in Udaipur. I'll share a tuk-tuk with him from the station. You can squeeze in with us and watch him win my heart."

She shifted her weight, and he realized the backpack must be heavy. He stepped behind her and slid it off her shoulders, hoisting it over his own. She tried to stop him. "I can carry that."

" _I know you can, Mum, but it's easier for me so let me help you."_

_She grabbed one of the straps and tried to yank it from his shoulders. "Please give it back. I don't want to burden yo_ u, cariad bach."

Frustration swept through him. "Cariad is fine, Mum, but I'm not bach anymore. I'm not little. I can help you. Just let me."

But she fought harder until she began to fade away, becoming only a shadow and leaving him aching with regret that he'd wasted their final moments by arguing...

Liam slept through breakfast. Hell, he slept through lunch too. By the time he woke up, groggy as if he'd been doped-up on pain meds, the sun was already throwing long shadows across the room. He probably wouldn't even have opened his eyes if his stomach hadn't growled so loudly he thought a pack of dogs had broken into his room.

He stretched, yawned and scratched his belly as he stared at the ceiling fan whirring above his head. The stale taste of beer coated his mouth and he needed another shower. The one he'd had last night before he'd collapsed onto the mattress had helped him relax to the point of oblivion. Maybe another one would send him back there.

He rolled over and found a massive fruit basket on the table. It hadn't been there the night before, he was sure of it. The damn thing took up the entire table and overflowed with colorful fruit that made Britain's produce look shriveled and pale. There was a mango the size of a watermelon and a couple of bananas suffering from elephantiasis.

A vague memory prodded him, of his door opening and closing at some point this morning, rousing him to semi-consciousness. A gasp, followed by the rustle of tissue paper had made him think that he should wake up to investigate, but then he'd thought _Fuck it, they can take everything as long as they let me sleep._ Must've been the housekeeper bringing the basket. Hopefully he hadn't shocked her too badly. He'd been too hot through the night to pull the sheets over himself, and definitely too hot to wear any clothes.

He tugged on his pants and flipped open the courtesy folder on his nightstand, searching for the room-service menu. The names of dishes were completely foreign to him. He'd never been to a Venezuelan restaurant before, and if he'd been asked, he probably would've guessed the food would be similar to Brazilian. Lots and lots of meat until a man could hardly walk straight because protein choked his gut. But this menu had a nice variety of meats, vegetables and corn cooked a hundred different ways. He called downstairs and ordered a random selection of five dishes. That ought to cut the hunger at least by half.

While he waited, he took another shower, brushed his teeth and explored his spacious room. One whole wall was windows, and even from his bed he could see the sparkling turquoise Caribbean. On the balcony a hammock was swaying in the breeze. He'd opened the balcony doors last night to get the air circulating, and the sounds of happy chatter and faint instrumental music floated into the room. He stepped onto the balcony and looked out at the lagoon and the crescent-shaped white-sand beach surrounding it on three sides.

A dot of pink caught his attention immediately, as if he'd been looking for her—which, of course, he hadn't been. Being only four floors up, he could see Tess well. She lay on her tummy on a big towel. Or maybe her petite body just made the towel look big. She faced away from the lagoon and was reading a paperback. She wore the bikini she'd had on last night, top included this time.

Maybe she would join him for dinner. He'd come here for time alone, something he never seemed to get. If he wasn't playing rugby then he was fulfilling his duties to his club or to the England team. Press conferences, meetings with coaches and players, charity events, sponsorship obligations... Mark, his sports psychologist, had told him he needed to get away from everything, to have time alone to evaluate how his life had changed in the past six months. Forget reaching the pinnacle of his career by being named England captain for the upcoming Rugby World Cup. Losing his mum with so little warning had rocked him hard, and Mark had said he'd never taken the time to process it.

How the fuck did you process something like that? She was his _mum_. His biggest supporter. His best mate, in many ways. And the way she'd robbed him of an opportunity to say goodbye, or to try to make things better for her at the end...

His throat seized up. He drew in a shaky breath and made up his mind. Alone time was the last thing he wanted.

Buy Playing It Close now!

### Tempting the Player

Best friends make the best lovers.

Libby Hart and Matt Ogden are perfect for each other—as friends. They've known each other for ages. They act as each other's plus-ones. They even share custody of a dog. And if there's always been a little spark between them, so what? It's never been worth jeopardizing their friendship.

Professional rugby player Matt is fighting for a starter position with the London Legends—and that's not the only thing he's fighting. A crippling fear of flying means he's struggling to get his career off the ground. He has no time for a relationship, even if Libby does make him ache. As an airline pilot, Libby's looking for a stay-at-home husband so she can have a family without sacrificing her high-flying career. Matt's certainly not that man.

But just because they don't have a future together doesn't mean they can't have a right now. When Matt asks Libby for help overcoming his fear, they agree to take a vacation from their platonic relationship—whenever they fly together, they can have sex. It's the perfect way to resolve all that built-up tension. As long as they can avoid getting a little too comfortable...

"This is one of the best friends-to-lovers books I've read in a long time. Even if you know nothing about rugby, this is tender and hot romance."

—Molly O'Keefe, RITA award-winning and bestselling author

### Chapter One

Fifteen thousand spectators roared so loudly that Matt Ogden's stadium seat vibrated beneath his arse. He leaned forward, tapping his feet as his teammates lobbed the ball from one to the other. His torso swayed every time the ball went airborne. His hands clenched with every catch his team made. His quads flexed each time one of the lads sidestepped to avoid a Leinster tackler.

Matt's body unconsciously put itself on the pitch, right in the center of the action. His coach, on the other hand, didn't.

As usual, Matt sat with the other reserve players on the wrong side of the touchline. He'd held this position so long, he was tempted to update his Twitter profile to say _professional seat warmer_ rather than _fullback_. He'd warmed it so often that last year the team's supporters had voted his bum the Legends' hottest.

He spared the match clock a glance. Seventy-six minutes gone. Just four left to play, and his team were up by five points. Leinster would need to score a try to tie the match and a conversion to win it.

"Come on, boys," he muttered. "C'mon, c'mon."

His team didn't need his touchline coaching. They were deep in Leinster's half, threatening their try line. If Legends could score, they would leave the good citizens of Dublin weeping into their Guinness tonight. But all they really had to do was prevent Leinster from scoring.

Legends' left winger fumbled the ball backwards, and Matt's stomach leaped up to choke him. But he needn't have worried. His rival for the fullback position, Alfie Hardwick, sprang forward and pounced on the loose ball a split second before a Leinster player flew through the air and landed on top of him. Safest pair of hands in rugby, Hardy was. The man had the distinction of committing the fewest errors in the entire league last season. Matt's chest burned with the bizarre mix of relief and annoyance he experienced every time Hardy performed a brilliant feat of magic on the pitch. Happiness for his team, and desperation for Hardy to freaking retire already and give Matt a chance.

But as the Leinster tackler rolled away and Hardy pushed the ball back toward the Legends scrum half, hope bloomed where the desperation had taken root. Blood streamed down Hardy's face. It gushed from his nose and out of a cut on his forehead. He had to come off, and someone would be chosen to be his blood replacement while the medics tried to stop his bleeding. At this point in the match, he would be off until the ref blew the final whistle.

Matt shed his jacket, slid to the edge of his seat and twisted to face his coach. Ruud Bakker glanced between his bleeding star fullback, the match clock, Matt and Sean—the younger reserve player two seats down from Matt. Cursing, Ruud-Boy swiped his hand in the air as if to say _Get over here._ "Oggie! You're up."

_Victory_. Matt sprang from his seat and rushed to his coach's side. Ruud-Boy grabbed Matt's shoulders and stared into his eyes, his vowel-flattening South African accent growing deeper from his intensity. "This is your moment, lad. You know what to do. For the team, for the fans— _do it!_ "

Matt shouted, an indistinct, wordless noise of determination, eagerness.

"Good lad. Get on there." Ruud-Boy swatted Matt's arse and Matt jogged onto the pitch, slapping Hardy's shoulder as they passed each other. Jesus, the man looked like an extra from a horror film. No way his nose wasn't broken.

"Don't let them get past you," Hardy shouted.

_For fuck's sake_. _Obviously_. Playing at fullback, he would provide the Legends' last line of defense. But he could do more than simply preventing Leinster from scoring. As one of the quickest players on the pitch, he could slip through gaps between Leinster players and finally score the try that Legends had been threatening to score for the past five minutes. After five years of riding timber and only playing when Hardy's seemingly bionic body was too injured or too unconscious to stay on the pitch, now was Matt's chance to prove his worth to his club.

The team gathered around their captain, Liam Callaghan, all leaning in to hear Cally's exhortations, all sweating hard and breathing heavily—all but Matt. "We're going to win this, boys," Liam said. "It's just a matter of by how much. We're going to take advantage of Oggie's fresh legs and run the killer ball."

Matt's spirit soared. They'd run this drill hundreds of times at practices, but he'd never had the opportunity to do it when it counted. The play would put him right in the center of the action and likely end with him scoring a try. It was the biggest vote of confidence his captain could give him.

The match restarted with a scrum. Legends gained control and toed the ball to the back of the pack, where their scrum-half, Ash Trenton, bent down and snapped it to Cally, who ran a diagonal decoy to pull the Leinster defenders out of position. Legends' two centers ran alongside Cally as if waiting to receive the ball, while Matt hung back and waited.

And here came the dummy. The outside center cut in, running toward Cally and drawing more defenders. Matt, completely off Leinster's radar, sprinted dead ahead as Cally made a dummy pass to the center. Before Leinster could figure out where the ball really was, Cally popped it to Matt, who caught it without changing his pace. By the time Leinster realized he had the ball, he'd broken through the front line of defenders.

This time, the crowd's roar vibrated through Matt's whole body. A Legends winger ran along the touchline to Matt's left, there for support in case Matt couldn't work his way around the defenders. Fifteen meters to the try line. He sidestepped an opponent and kept going. Ten meters. The only thing between him and the try line was Leinster's fullback. The man waited, light on his toes, reading Matt's body.

Matt might be able to get around him and score. Or he could be tackled and get a bollocking from the team for being selfish when his winger was wide open.

Matt would never sacrifice his team for personal glory. He fizzed the ball to his winger—

A blur of blue flashed past him. The Leinster fullback ran into the gap between Matt and his intended target, nudging the ball off course with his fingertips. He stumbled forward and barely managed to tip the ball into his own palms, snatching it out of the air before Matt's teammate could catch it.

Adrenaline jolted through Matt like lightning. He spun and ran after the fullback, tackling him just as the man offloaded the ball to the Leinster fly-half, who caught it and passed it out wide. Matt tried not to choke on mud and misery as a Leinster winger evaded every Legends player and sprinted eighty meters to the opposite try line, leaped over the line Superman-style, and grounded the ball to the home crowd's earsplitting cheers.

The man who'd intercepted Matt's throw lay in the grass next to him and slapped Matt's bum. "Cheers, mate. I think we'll nominate you our man of the match."

Silence seethed in the visitors' changing room. When they won matches, they sang filthy songs and danced around the changing room naked. When they lost, they each retreated into a deep, dark space in their own minds, trying to figure out what went wrong.

Judging by his teammates' narrow-eyed glares, they found Matt in that darkness.

_Darkness_ pretty much described the place where Matt found himself. The stale air was so thick with censure that he could've choked on it.

Choking's what you do best.

The voice didn't belong to Matt, or even one of his teammates. His dad might have passed on a couple of years ago, but his final words to Matt would never die. They were etched into the vulnerable meat of Matt's brain.

You're the biggest bloody disappointment of my life.

Matt didn't take a shower before leaving the changing room. No need, since he'd barely broken a sweat. He strode down the hall, clueless where he was going and barely aware of his surroundings until a door opened and he nearly plowed into a woman. She gasped, and he reached out to steady her, recognizing her almost immediately. Hardy's wife.

"Jill. Sorry, I wasn't paying attention."

"That's all right." She gave him a reassuring smile that made a tiny dent in Matt's heartsickness. Gesturing at the door, she said, "Alfie's still being patched up in there. I just came down to say goodbye."

"You're not sticking around for dinner?"

She shook her head. "No, I've got to get back to London. I've got a standing date with Chloe. Every Saturday night, we watch _Dance the Night Away_ together _._ "

Matt laughed, some of his anxiety lifting. "Sounds like a raucous Saturday night."

"Oh, it is. It's the one night of the week Chloe gets to eat sugar. Have you ever seen a five-year-old on a sugar rush?" Jill shivered theatrically. "Believe me, by the end of the program there's more dancing in our living room than on the TV screen."

"Fun times. I won't delay you. I was just—" Just what? Just going absolutely nowhere.

Jill's smile dimmed a little, and she laid her hand on Matt's arm. "I know it doesn't feel like it, but it's only a game. There are more important things."

_Bullshit._ "Yeah, I know. I'm all right. But cheers."

She squeezed his arm and walked down the hall before disappearing around a corner. Matt stood outside the treatment room, trying to figure out what to do. _Go back and face your teammates. Apologize._ It would take bollocks the size of rugby balls, but he needed to do it.

He'd just turned to head back when a feminine shout of alarm echoed down the hall.

"Jill!" He sprinted down the corridor.

Behind him, a door slammed and Hardy's voice called out his wife's name. Matt rounded the corner, his feet slipping on the slick flooring. About twenty meters in front of him, a man in a black hoodie was trying to tear her handbag from her as she clung on to it and kicked him.

"Let her go!" Matt rushed down the hall toward the struggle. The thief glanced back at him, yanked the bag out of Jill's grasp and shoved her against the wall. He ran through a door at the end of the corridor.

Hardy shouted behind Matt. "Get him! Get the bastard!"

Matt ran past Jill, squashing his instinct to check she was all right. She'd crumpled against the floor, but Hardy was right behind him, and the medics wouldn't be far away. He shoved through the door and out into the Dublin drizzle. Fans were everywhere, but only one person was running away from the stadium, one person with a generous head start. Matt ran like he'd never run before, chasing the arsehole into a car park and motioning when he saw a copper. "Thief!"

The cop joined the chase, but he didn't have to run far. Matt caught up with the man easily, closing the last couple of meters in a flying tackle and landing hard, smashing the fucker into the pavement. When Matt rolled away, the man was out cold.

Matt grabbed Jill's bag and explained to the cop what happened. Blood welled up from the long, rough scrapes on his knees, but he hardly felt them. His chest heaved, his lungs desperate for air. He forced himself to his feet and raised his arms above his head. His dad's voice rang in his head. _If you can breathe at the end of a match, you didn't play hard enough._

Matt had been breathing plenty fine at the end of today's match. Now he was winded. Suddenly, only having played a few minutes seemed perfectly all right, if it meant he'd had the energy to help Jill out.

He made his way back into the bowels of the stadium. His teammates had crowded the hall, and they patted his back, muttering, "Good on ya, mate," as he passed them on his way to the treatment room, where Jill sat on a bed with Hardy and one of their team doctors, Daphne, facing her with concern.

"I'm fine," Jill said, her fingers pressed against her temple and pain etched across her face. "Really, fine. Oh, Matt! My bag!"

He handed it over to her, avoiding looking at Hardy. "The cops have him. I told them what happened. They might need to talk to you or something."

Jill turned a pleading glance to her husband. "Could you give them my contact details? I need to catch my flight."

"Jill, you need a scan." The anger vibrating in Hardy's voice would've made a grown man piss himself.

Jill simply waved away his concern. "I gave birth to an eight-pound baby with no pain meds. A little bump on the head won't kill me."

"A _little_ —for fuck's sake, you hit your head and passed out. Your pupils are so dilated I can't see the color of your eyes. You're probably concussed. Chloe can wait. She always records the shows anyway. Watch it with her tomorrow."

Jill laid her palm to her husband's cheek in a gesture so sweet, yet so manipulative, that Matt bit back a smile and glanced away. The winner of this match was obvious. "I'm going to watch it with her tonight. It's our tradition."

She kissed her husband gently and slid off the table. Lifting onto her toes, she gestured for Matt to lean down. He did, and she kissed his cheek. "Matt, you're my hero. Thank you."

He actually felt blood rush to his cheeks. What was he supposed to say? _My pleasure? No problem?_ "Anytime."

Yeah, that made no sense. As if he'd be there any time she got mugged.

"How the hell did someone get down here?" Hardy ran his hands through his hair until it stuck up in sweaty spikes. He let out a shaky breath, threw his arm around Matt's shoulders and slapped his chest. Hard. "I don't know what to say. I can't—"

"It's all right, mate. Just glad I could help."

Hardy took a taxi to the airport so he could spend an extra half hour trying to convince her to go to hospital. Matt and the rest of the team mingled with the subdued friends, family and fans who'd flown over only to watch them lose in the last minute. When the team had sufficiently drowned their sorrows, they met Hardy at the airport for their chartered flight across the Irish Sea.

Matt boarded dead last, so he didn't spend a single second longer than necessary in the flying torture chamber. He forced himself down the aisle to his usual seat at the back—near the toilet, in case he completely lost control of himself. Hardy sat across the aisle from him, a white bandage plastered across his swollen, purple nose.

Matt fastened the seat belt with shaky hands. He usually took a pill to help him stay calm as the cabin door sealed shut any chance of escape, but tonight he'd been so wrapped up in mentally replaying his bonehead move and Jill's attack that he'd forgotten. So he kept his eyes squeezed shut as the flight attendant secured the door, and he gripped his armrests during the bumpy takeoff into Dublin's inclement autumn weather. Surely this flight wouldn't be as bad as others. God couldn't be that cruel.

The plane shivered as its nose sliced through the clouds, and Matt shivered too. Finally, it leveled off, and he forced himself to loosen his grip on the armrests. Takeoff was always the worst. Well, takeoff and turbulence. But so far, it wasn't too—

_Boom!_ The plane bounced—actually fucking _bounced_ as if it had been dropped onto a trampoline. From his seat he saw the wing tip flap like a seagull's in a hurricane. He clenched all his muscles to keep from spewing his anxiety—and coronation chicken—across the seat back in front of him. The metallic tang of blood burst across his tongue as he bit down hard, trapping the futile prayers behind his teeth so none of the men around him would hear him beg.

"Gentlemen, the captain hasn't turned off the Fasten Seat Belt sign. Please remain in your seats..."

Yeah, no problem. He lurched for the pocket sewn into the seat in front of him, desperately searching for the airsick bag but coming up empty. Of all the flights to be sober on...

The back of a hand slapped Matt across the chest. Took him a second to realize Hardy had reached across the aisle with an empty paper bag. "Here. Have mine."

"Cheers," Matt mumbled, but Hardy wasn't listening. He sat with his head tipped back, earbuds in, body completely at ease. Matt couldn't do that even when he self-medicated.

The plane rolled, taking Matt's stomach along for the ride until the plane righted itself again. Fumbling, he managed to get the bag open and ready, but his gut refused to release its chokehold. The floor shuddered beneath him. Terror squeezed the air from his lungs, and his gaze darted through the cabin. Where the fuck were the escape routes?

Firm fingers wrapped around his wrist, and Matt nearly leaped from his seat before he saw Daphne crouched next to him. She rested her free hand on his shoulder, giving it a reassuring pat. "It's all right, Matt. Just a bit of turbulence."

He shook his head, unable to squeeze words out of his tight throat.

"It is. I promise you." She relaxed her grip on his wrist, and a vague realization hit the part of his brain that was still working. She'd been taking his pulse, the way she did whenever he took a hard knock to the head. Lifting his hands so the airsick bag was at his mouth, she said, "Close your eyes. Good lad. Now breathe into that a few times for me, nice and slow."

As he did, her über-calm voice swept over the whirring and rattling of the plane. "All right, I want you to listen to me. Are you listening?"

He nodded.

"Good. I want you to picture something nice. Something or someone you love."

"Find my happy place?"

He heard the grin in her voice as she answered. "Yeah, that. Find your happy place, somewhere that has no stress associated with it. Not the rugby pitch."

Obviously not. But if not the pitch—

He furrowed his brow. What else did he have?

"Got it?"

He nodded. She didn't need to know he had nothing.

"Who's there with you?"

Damn it. He hadn't expected a pop quiz. He dug through his brain, searching for someone who made him happy until he found her. Blond hair. Sharp-toothed grin. Long, soft tongue. "Princess."

Dr. D was quiet a moment. "A specific princess, or will any princess do?"

"My dog. Princess."

"Oh. Of course." Her subtle shock came through loud and clear: _You're a six-foot-one, sixteen-stone rugby player...with a dog named Princess._ How would she feel if he told her Princess was a teacup Chihuahua with a penchant for sweater vests?

"Right. And what are you and Princess doing?"

Walking through the hills, Princess prancing around his feet—no need for a lead, since he could easily outrun her—and Libby right next to him, elbowing him in the ribs because he'd just ripped the piss out of her.

Ah, Libby. His cute friend had infiltrated his dreams some time ago. Now she was turning up in his happy place?

You've got it bad, mate.

"Matt? Tell me what you're doing."

"Looking for a picnic spot." He recognized the place now. Last year, he and Libby had spent a day hiking through the Chilterns west of London. They hadn't got Princess yet, though. So here he was, trying to pretend he wasn't trapped inside a metal coffin hurtling toward a fiery death at a bazillion miles per hour, and his mind was conjuring up his bizarre pseudo-family. Not wanting to dip too deeply into his own psychology, he focused on Libby's laughing face. She was always laughing—mostly at him, it seemed. Funny, that. _Odd_ funny, not amusing funny. Whenever she acted as his plus-one, she smiled at other people's jokes, maybe even let out a huff of amusement, but her bursts of laughter seemed reserved for him.

It was nice to have a friend who made him feel like he was the best in the world at something. He'd lay down his life for his team, but they were much better at pointing out his endless flaws than making him feel he could do no wrong. And his family...they might as well have changed their surname by deed poll. The Clusterfucks had an appropriate ring to it.

But Libby... His heartbeat slowed, and his grip on the airsick bag relaxed. Just turbulence. He could do this. He could survive, make it all the way home and invite Libby over for dinner. Maybe—

The plane nose-dived, and Matt's eyelids shot open just in time to see Daphne lose her balance, landing on her arse. Visions of the burning plane skidding across a field, the good doctor bouncing through the cabin like a pinball, hit Matt's final panic button. They were all going to die, but he would be a hero if it killed him. He yanked his seat belt off, wrapped his arms around her waist and practically dragged her up the aisle, yelling, "You need your seat belt!"

His teammates swarmed, grabbing at any part of his body they could reach, but Matt focused on Daphne's empty seat as if it were the try line. "Seat belts! Get your fucking seat belts on! Brace! Br—"

Someone hit him hard enough to knock the wind out of him. Matt landed on his back in the aisle, several concerned faces floating above him, and the words _Brace! Brace!_ echoing through his body until the world faded to black.

### Chapter Two

Libby Hart eased herself into the piping-hot bath and let lavender-scented bubbles swallow her whole. A dozen flickering candles provided the room's only light. Relaxing against the fluffy towel she'd laid across the back of the tub, she let out a moan. She'd earned this. In the past two days, she'd achieved nearly everything on her checklist—an unheard-of event. She'd even managed to sneak in a date and a waxing session at the salon.

God it felt good not to have a unibrow.

Every week, she worked a four-day shift, leaving three days to cram her entire life into. She usually spent the first day sleeping and the second and third looking after her baby nephew or hanging out with her friend Matt and the dog they'd adopted together. That didn't leave much time for tackling important tasks, such as making sure she didn't resemble a yeti.

This week, though, her sister was visiting their mum in Norfolk, and Matt was playing an away game in Dublin, so she'd had little to distract her. Tomorrow she could relax, drop by her sister's to clean the place before Mary and baby Caleb got home, and then go to the Bonfire Night event with Matt. A full day enjoying time with the people she loved.

Heaven.

Tiny nails scratched at the enamel tub, and Libby leaned over to find Princess on her hind legs, trying to climb up.

"I don't think you'll make it, sweetheart. It's ten times your size." She reached down and cupped her hand under the dog's soft belly, then lifted her so they faced each other. Though she hadn't named Princess, the poor dog certainly looked like royalty, with her weak chin, wonky teeth and slightly turned-up nose. "See? Lots of bubbles. Hot water. You wouldn't like it in here."

Princess gave her chin a lick before pumping her feet in the air and straining to get back to her hot-dog chew toy next to the tub. Libby put her down, slipped earbuds in and flicked through her playlists to one Matt had made her.

Matt, the gorgeous rugby player who'd bizarrely become one of her closest friends, was never far from her mind. He seemed to dominate her thoughts all too readily at intimate moments like these—naked in the bath, with candles lit around the room and Adele belting out songs of desire in her ears. Libby closed her eyes and let her head loll to the side. Tension eased from her shoulders as she pictured Matt sitting behind her, rubbing her shoulders with his strong, capable hands. Imagination not good enough, Libby reached across her chest to rub one of her own shoulders, lending credence to the lie that Matt was touching her. Dream Matt shifted his legs so they stretched alongside hers. His erection nudged the cleft of her bum, making her twitch and turn to give him a stern look, one he answered with his naughty, dimpled grin.

Her hand slipped under the bubbles on its way to romance herself the way only Dream Matt could. Before it reached anywhere special, a hand touched her shoulder.

_A_ hand...not _her_ hand.

Her eyes flew open. A man loomed over her. Libby's heart exploded—so did his, apparently, since he leaped back against the sink.

"Holy fuck!" She shot up straight, then slid down so the bubbles covered her shoulders as soon as she recognized him. Only her head and knees peeked through the foam. "Matt! Bloody hell, what're you doing?"

"Checking you're not dead!" His shout was muffled thanks to Adele's singing. Libby held up a finger and tugged the earbuds out.

"Ah, that explains it," he said, his body relaxing a bit against the counter. Even with some of the tension fading away, he was still vibrating with energy. "When you didn't answer the door, I let myself in. Then I saw you kinda slumped over, and you didn't move when I called your name. It looked like you'd passed out and were about to go under."

He must've seen her hand going under. Oh thank _God_ he hadn't come in thirty seconds later. He would've known exactly how alive she was. Better he think she was dead.

"For fuck's sake, Lib, I think you gave me a heart attack." He leaned back against the counter and rubbed the center of his broad chest.

"Try opening your eyes to find a big, bruised man standing over you in the bath."

He grimaced. "I'd probably have shat myself."

"Yeah, well, good thing there're a lot of bubbles in here."

He let out a bark of laughter and slid down to sit on the floor. She slipped farther under the bubbles. "Make yourself at home."

"Cheers," he said without a hint of irony. "Christ, what a day. I need some quality time with my girl."

Before Libby could misinterpret who that girl might be, he reached for their dog.

Unbelievable. She was naked in the flippin' bath and he could sit there completely unaffected. He was fully clothed, but just _looking_ at him made her pulsate. He was big—too big for the bathroom that the estate agent had described as _bijou_ when Libby had bought this flat. His back was against the cupboards, his feet against the tub, and his knees bent to turn his lap into a cradle for Princess. She yipped and tried to leap onto his lap but missed, tumbling off his thigh into a pile of overexcited Chihuahua. He rescued her. Lucky bitch curled up on his crotch.

"Ah, how's my baby? I missed you. Yes, I did. Yes, I did."

As Matt made baby voices at their dog, Libby took the opportunity to drink him in. He must've come straight from the airport because he still wore the charcoal suit and green-and-white striped tie he traveled in for overseas matches. The jacket fit him perfectly across the shoulders, accentuating their breadth. It was unbuttoned, the plackets falling casually to the side to reveal the white dress shirt beneath. If he stood and turned around, his trousers would hug the tightest arse Libby had ever seen. She could draw his bum from memory—not that she was good at art. She was pretty shit at it, actually. But she was fantastic at checking out Matt's backside when he wasn't paying attention.

He finally glanced up at her with those spectacular moss-green eyes and grinned the grin that haunted her most erotic dreams—the one that brought out the dimple in his left cheek, just below a dark red patch covering his cheekbone that looked like it would turn into a nasty bruise. "Romantic."

"What? Oh, the candles. I do this every night. Don't you?"

"Nah. I'm more an ice-bath man, myself."

"What, in _your_ bath?"

"Well, yeah. Where else? My sofa?"

Her hands clenched beneath the water. He lived in a flat just below hers. Knowing he might be down there naked on a bed of ice would make her future bath-time fantasies so hot they'd radiate through the floor to melt his bath. She'd read about things she could do with an ice cube that he would really, really enjoy.

Though she undoubtedly wouldn't be the first to do them to him.

He gave her face a searching look that momentarily shot her through with fear that he could read her thoughts.

"Are you all right?" he asked.

"Perfectly. Why?"

"You, uh, you look like someone smeared you with toothpaste." He gestured to her eyebrows. "Either that, or you've just stepped off the set of the world's worst porno."

"Oh, bollocks!" She spun away and tried to hide her forehead with her palm. Her skin had been red and sore when she'd got home from her waxing appointment, so she'd applied thick antiseptic cream across her brows. The cream had dried and turned crusty, but she'd been so distracted with finding Matt suddenly in her bathroom that she'd completely forgotten. She must look like a clown. Like a clown that had been used by men with terrible aim.

"I just, um— _bollocks_. Could you hand me a flannel from the cupboard?" Still turned away, she held out her hand until she heard a cupboard door close and felt the soft cloth brush her palm. "Cheers."

She dipped the cloth into the water and pressed it against the delicate skin where her yeti-hair used to be. The wet heat made her skin throb. She rinsed out the cloth and did it again until her skin felt slick and clean. When she'd finished, she dropped the cloth into the tub and turned back to him, sinking to cover herself. "I got my brows waxed today, and the white stuff's cream to help it heal. That's all. Definitely not toothpaste. Or semen."

His lips pressed together so hard they nearly disappeared, and he made a funny noise, like smothered laughter.

"What?"

"Nothing. Anyway, I already knew. I saw it on your to-do list on the table—along with the fact that you had a date last night. Do you always put your dates on a checklist?"

"Only when they feel like a chore."

"They wouldn't feel like that if you stopped dating prats."

"I don't date prats!"

He squinted an eye at her, clearly thinking _That's bollocks and you know it._ "You must not've been too excited if you did your hedge-trimming the day _after._ "

"Maybe I just wanted to make sure he liked me for my personality, not my naked orbital ridge."

"Your orbital ridge? Saucy wench."

"It's the eyebrow bone, stud." She blew a handful of bubbles at him, making him laugh as he swiped them off his thigh.

He raised his brows and glanced toward her crotch. "Got cream anywhere else?"

Adopting a haughty tone, she said, "That's my secret."

His grin died down to something a little less playful, a little harder to interpret. His fingers seemed to unconsciously find the contusion on his cheek.

"What about you?" she asked. "You all right? Looks like it was a tough match."

"What, this?" He tapped the bruise and she nodded. "Bloody awful. They humped us in the last minute."

"Ah well, at least you got something out of it, then."

His sexy lips turned upward. Oh, Lord. Had someone cranked the heat up in the tub? _Don't kiss him, don't kiss him._

"I'm a bit wound up," he said. "Thought maybe we could watch a film or something."

Her heart picked up its pace. Why did she get so pathetically happy when he sought her out? There was something so flattering about his attention, but he never made her feel like she should be grateful for it. Easy and fun, that was Matt. "Film sounds good. Why don't you pick something out while I finish up in here?"

He pushed himself up and gave her another funny look.

She touched her brows. "Did I miss a spot?"

"No." He seemed on the verge of saying something else but then gave his head a small shake and left the bathroom. Libby drew in her first steady breath of the past five minutes. Something wasn't quite right here. Matt often seemed keyed up after matches, especially away matches for some reason. It must be tough to focus all that energy and adrenaline into a couple of hours, only to lose.

Whatever was going on with him, she was happy to be the one he came to, to unwind—even if it was by sitting on her couch instead of getting naked and sweaty together.

Through the open door, she saw him turn on her TV, pull up her film service and flick through it. He called over to her. "Drama?"

She thought about it for a second before dismissing it. "I'm not really in the mood for anything dark or serious."

"Me neither. Action?"

"Oh, I saved _Castaway._ I've never seen it, but I've heard good things."

Matt read the description. "Tom Hanks survives a plane crash? Fuck no."

"You'd rather he died?"

"No, I just..." He shivered hard and hit the button to go back to the film listings. "Sounds too serious. What about a rom-com?"

"No way." Watching a rom-com with Matt would be acute torture.

He gave her a teasing smile. "You never want to watch rom-coms with me. Why is that?"

She would've thought it was obvious. Thank God it wasn't. "Too schmaltzy." He didn't look away. Her whole body warmed under the weight of his attention. "What?"

He shook his head. "Nothing. Why don't I choose something? You'll fall asleep after the opening credits anyway."

"I will not."

"Mmm-hmm. What happens at the end of _Psycho?_ "

Damn it. They'd watched that film together twice, and she hadn't lasted fifteen minutes either time. But at least she'd seen a famous clip of the film several times. "Janet Leigh's killed in the shower."

"At the _end?_ "

"Yeah. Isn't that—what? Why are you laughing?"

He swiped his hand over his mouth, but his eyes still laughed at her. "God, you're cute."

The words shot arrows at her vulnerable heart. She tried to shove them from her mind, but they took root alongside a half dozen other comments he'd made over the years. On his first wedding anniversary after his divorce, for example, when he'd spent the evening drinking and told Libby he loved her hair. He'd asked if he could touch it and she'd let him, wondering the whole time whether she should breach the distance and kiss him. But as he rubbed her corkscrew curls between his fingertips, he'd compared her curls to his ex-wife's stick-straight hair, and Libby's desire had withered and died.

Like Lazarus, her insecurity was destined to be resurrected...over and over again. After sitting next to her completely unaffected as she lounged in the bath, he heaped on another insult by laughing at her while their dog wagged her tiny tail at his feet.

They'd been friends for five years, and—other than the weird hair incident—he'd never shown any indication that his feelings were more than friendly. While she had crazy, sexy, impossibly acrobatic dreams about him, he apparently thought it was okay to laugh at her and call her cute.

I'll show you fucking cute.

She stood up in the bath, water sluicing over her body and bubbles clinging to her pointy bits before dropping to the tub with a plop. She stepped out and briefly turned her back to him, stretching up on her toes to pull her satin bathrobe off its hook. Taking her time, she slipped one arm into it, then the other, before pulling it closed over her wet body. It clung to her curves as she lifted her hands to unclip her hair and let it tumble around her shoulders.

Finally, she turned to fully face him and walked casually into the living room. "Pick something out, then. I'll just change into my pajamas. Be back in a sec."

Then she turned and left sopping footprints on the hardwood floors as she went into her bedroom and closed the door.

Damn but she itched to run for her mop and wipe up those footprints. But Matt's slack-jawed, wide-eyed stare—totally worth warping her floors.

Libby's breasts were like... They were like...

God, Matt couldn't come up with words. They were just like, right _there._ In front of him and in his head, his memory. Burned there. Forever.

And the rest of her body... _damn_.

Not that he'd been ignorant of what lay beneath her clothes. Her uniform fit her like it was custom made—for all he knew, it was—and he wasn't blind. He'd always tried not to imagine what she might look like. Okay, so it happened. Sometimes it happened when he was asleep, and then he either woke up hard and frustrated or sticky and unsettled. Now he knew. Her body was lush and firm at the same time. Curvy in the womanly spots he loved best.

But she was his friend and, even if he didn't know nearly everything about her—including now the color of her pubic hair when it was dripping wet—she practically screamed _I'm husband hunting_.

Matt was not husband material. He did not _want_ a romantic relationship. He pushed himself hard at training so he could sprint faster from relationships. He'd been a husband once only to have his marriage explode in his face three years later.

But Libby...

Jesus, why had she done that? He sat down hard on the couch, digging his fingertips into the corners of his eyes until black spots floated across his vision instead of her breasts. Talk about the worst possible timing. Just when he'd thought his life couldn't tilt further off balance, the one stress-free element yanked the carpet out from under his unsteady feet.

He'd come here tonight because he needed to unwind after his shite-tastic day. Libby always gave him that. Calm and capable, she embodied the qualities he lacked. Being around her never failed to soothe his overactive brain, giving him space for some friendly flirting, a sweet break from overanalyzing the problems with his game and how a career that had started promisingly could crumble so quickly.

Princess yipped and tapped her front paws against his shin, but he left her on the floor. She would just want to curl up on his lap, but all the space there was occupied by his throbbing erection.

The bedroom door stayed closed, so he shifted and pressed his palm against his cock. Damn it. He lived his life in silos. His career required superhuman energy to sort out the mess he'd made of it. Sex—always simple and lacking strings—usually fell into his lap, so to speak. It provided relief without requiring much effort. And Libby was someone fun he could relax with, someone he could easily hide his biggest failings from because she took him at face value. Not that he ever outright lied to her, but he could evade her questions about his career as smoothly as he could sidestep a ten-year-old on the rugby pitch.

If Libby sneaked out of the friend zone and into a fuzzy area that combined sex with emotion, he would end up failing her, hurting her, the same ways he had his ex-wife. And that would devastate him. He'd always managed to hide his attraction to Libby for the greater good of their friendship.

But Libby, wet and naked—

The door opened, and he slid his hand away from his erection, quickly crossing his leg over his knee. Dressed in flannel pajamas that covered every inch of skin but her hands and feet, she came and sat at the far end of the couch, tucking her feet beneath her bum. "So what did you pick?"

_You. That's why I can't touch you._ Took him a second to realize she was talking about films. She stared at him guilelessly, not a hint of embarrassment or desire. Had she even known he could see her?

"Matt?"

"Uh, yeah. Have you seen _Invictus?_ It's a rugby film with Matt Damon."

"Ooh, Matt Damon. Magic words. Want me to make popcorn?"

He nodded and she uncurled herself to go into the kitchen. Considering Libby had been his happy place a few hours ago, Matt could've laughed that he was about to immerse himself in rugby to escape the feelings she filled him with.

He could've laughed, except there was nothing funny about a terminal boner.

Buy Tempting the Player now!

### Unwrapping Her Perfect Match

' _Twas a week before Christmas, and at the auction house..._

At six foot one, Gwen Chambers has felt like a giant her whole life. She's a calm, capable nurse saving lives in a busy London hospital, but healthy men give her heart palpitations. When larger-than-life rugby player "Little" John Sheldon convinces her to bid on him in his team's fundraising auction, she discovers how pleasurable heart palpitations can be.

A rugby player was stirring, with desire no one could douse...

John has wanted Gwen since he first saw her, but when he's injured in a match just before Christmas he suddenly needs her too. Not only can the sexy nurse help him recover, but she might be able to help him look after his daughter—a shy ten-year-old who speaks only French.

But will it be a Happy Christmas for all, and for all a good night?

From decorating the Christmas tree to ice skating at the Tower of London, Gwen helps father and daughter open up and bond with each other—and she bonds right along with them. But when John's agent calls with a life-changing offer, Gwen has to decide how far she's willing to go for her perfect match. Will their first Noël also be their last?

"The story is funny, warm, engaging and left me smiling when it was finished... This is one special novella that I'm glad I plunked down the money for."

— _Dear Author_ named _Unwrapping Her Perfect Match_ a Recommended Read

### Chapter One

The goddess wore a rugby shirt with the wrong number on it.

John Sheldon watched the woman walk through the door of the stadium's hospitality suite, where he and his London Legends teammates would soon be auctioned off for charity. Outside, snow blanketed the rugby pitch while green and white Christmas lights strung around the stadium blazed with the team's colors. Inside, rich people were getting pissed on mulled wine and whisky he'd never be able to afford under normal circumstances. John had been trying not to yawn when the woman entered the room.

Her height drew his notice first. How could it not, when the next-tallest woman in the room came to her shoulders? She was the only woman here who wouldn't make him feel like a towering giant. Her face was angled away from him, and her wheat-blond locks of hair had been twisted and clamped behind her head in one of those casually elegant styles that begged to be undone, mussed up by big, clumsy fingers. Her neck was slender, her shoulders broad, and her rugby shirt had the number ten on it. His captain's number.

An elbow jabbed him between the ribs, jostling the tumbler of Islay whisky he held and splashing the amber liquid across his hand. "I count three for me, a dozen for the skipper and nil for you, Shelly. What do you make of that?"

John set his tumbler on a table, tempted to lick the alcohol off his hand so it didn't go to waste. Opting instead for a classiness he usually failed to achieve, he wiped his wet hand on a cloth serviette and looked down—a good eight inches down—at Matt Ogden, who'd recently become the team's starting fullback. "Nil what?"

"Bidders." Oggie raised his brows and nodded at the crowd gathered in the suite.

John scanned the people who'd paid five-hundred quid each to be here tonight. They'd come to raise money for several charities by bidding on a player to do pretty much whatever they wanted for a day. Last year John had been "won" to teach a kid rugby skills. That was a lot better than the year before, when he'd had to show up at a stockbroker's office and pretend to be his best mate. How he'd got through it without lamping the arsehole was a mystery.

And Oggie was right—not a single person wore his number. At the start of the evening, guests received a replica Legends rugby shirt, and they pinned on it the number of the player they intended to bid for. It was an ice-breaker that gave the players a chance to change people's minds before bidding started. A good dozen guests, including the goddess, wore the number ten—not surprising, since his captain Liam Callaghan was one of the best-known rugby players in the world. But why in God's green England would three people want to bid for Oggie when he'd barely played until last month, while John had started every match?

Okay, so Oggie was a little above average height, while John was six-nine. He could see how that might intimidate people. And Oggie was apparently good looking—if you asked him—so that explained why all of his bidders were female.

"Fucking hell," John muttered, the potential for humiliation sinking in. "I'm not standing up there and having no one bid on me."

"Looks like that's exactly what you're doing. Meanwhile, I'll have to let those three ladies down gently," Oggie said, his voice betraying the fact that he might be here physically but mentally he was back home, shagging his best friend Libby.

The specter of a crushing defeat loomed over John, and his determination to come out on top finally kicked in. "I may not get as many bidders as you, mate, but I bet I can raise more money."

"Really?" Oggie laughed and stretched out his hand. "You're on. What does the winner get?"

"Pride. Bragging rights." He held up his tumbler. "And a bottle of this whisky."

"Done. Now go do what you do best. Knock some heads together."

John knew right where to start. The goddess might've started the evening wearing his captain's number, but by the end of the night she would be calling out his.

Wonder if I could wedge those windows open enough to throw myself out, Gwen Chambers thought as another of the women standing near her droned on about her stock portfolio. Gwen had never considered investments a weapon before, but after five minutes she felt like she was being battered into a long, tedious death.

She'd only joined the group so she didn't look like a loser, standing alone in a corner or hovering by the drinks table. This definitely wasn't her crowd, though. After she'd spent a twelve-hour shift sprinting from one end to the other of East London's busiest Casualty department, inserting IVs, shifting patients from gurneys to beds, and dealing with a suspected addict who refused to take no for an answer, these women's conversation about their retirement funds had the same effect as chloroform.

The women barely glanced at her as she excused herself and turned away in search of a different anesthetic—alcohol. She hadn't gone far when the air around her sizzled to life. Tingles shimmied down her back, as if the pin her sister had used to attach the number ten to her shirt was rubbing against her skin. The sensation rose, though, from her back to the base of her skull, stroking along her neck and skimming the top of her head.

Someone was watching her. Someone whose gaze could reach over her head.

She fought the urge to hunch her shoulders, make herself smaller. Disappear before she became the arse of someone's jokes. But she'd battled that instinct for years and refused to give in to it now. As nervous energy bubbled beneath her surface, she carefully focused on composing herself.

A man cleared his throat behind her. Above her, actually. The sound had her turning and—oh, my God—brought her face-to-shoulders with the tallest man she'd ever seen. She actually had to look up to meet his warm brown gaze, a gaze made even more brown by the bruises shadowing the delicate skin under one of his eyes.

At six-one, she'd never felt anything but massive. Overgrown. Freakzilla, as the kids at school had not-so-affectionately called her.

This man gave her a brief taste of what it must be like to be normal. Dainty, petite and feminine. This must be how her sister Tess felt around everyone she met.

The man stuck out his hand. "John Sheldon. Number five."

She placed her hand in his. Currents of adrenaline made her fingers pulse with a sensation bordering on pain. "Gwen Chambers. Bidding on number ten."

"Let me get you a drink and tell you why that's a terrible mistake." Before she could respond to his flirtatious words, he snapped his fingers. "Chambers...are you related to Tess Chambers?"

"She's my little big sister," she said automatically before noting the deepening confusion on his face. "I mean, she's my older sister but she's a lot littler than me. It's something we always say to—you know what? Never mind." Oh God, just shut up, you fool.

John Sheldon smiled. "Our sponsor's sister. Very nice to meet you, then." He gestured toward the number on her back. "And you're bidding on her boyfriend—why?"

That won a little laugh from Gwen. "She's making me, actually."

"Making you?"

"She doesn't want anyone else to have him. Said she has big plans for him." Gwen raised both hands and grimaced. "At that point, I stopped asking questions. But since she's the auctioneer, she said it wouldn't look right if she bid on him herself. So she gave me some money and asked me to do it for her."

John's brows shot up. "And you're going to be a good girl and do as she says?"

"Well, of course. It is her money. Otherwise—"

"Otherwise...?"

"Otherwise I wouldn't be here at all. This isn't really my scene."

"No? Why not?"

Too many virile men. Her blush deepened as she recognized the corner she'd painted her into. "My dad and sister watched a lot of rugby when we were growing up—"

"Wait—I've met your dad. Your sister's brought him to some of our events. Blonde bloke. Scruffy beard. Short."

Gwen laughed. Her dad was six-foot six. Only this guy could consider him short. "Yep. Short and hairy. At home, we call him Ewok."

John had the misfortune to be taking a sip of whisky at that moment. He made a horrible choking sound, bending over and covering his mouth and nose as Gwen patted his back. His broad, strong, warm back. God, she could feel every single muscle. She could outline them with her finger and name them for him, if he let her.

Grabbing a serviette from the table next to him, he wiped his mouth and hand, and stared at her with amused, watery eyes. "You're having me on."

"Yeah, we don't call him Ewok. Mostly we call him The Doctor because, well, he's a professor of history, so if he could time travel he would."

"Like Doctor Who."

"Got it in one," she said. "Anyway, I never watched rugby with him and Tess. I'm more—"

He waited a few seconds, but when she couldn't find a less pathetic way of saying a cake-decorating enthusiast he had mercy on her. "More...of a doer rather than a watcher?"

She blinked. "Um, are you asking if I play rugby?"

He wouldn't be the first.

He grimaced. "Actually, I was trying to flirt. Didn't come out right."

Flirt? With me? She caught herself before she said it but blurted out instead, "Are you taking the piss out of me?"

He reared back. "What? No! Why?"

Because he also wouldn't be the first to do that. When she was sixteen, a boy from the school swim team had bet his teammates he could get a blowjob from her. She'd given him a hell of a lot more than that before finding out he'd won a hundred quid in addition to the dubious prize of her virginity. Her sister had got revenge by distributing a humiliating picture of him getting out of the pool with an unimpressive erection, but the wound he'd inflicted had never truly healed. Every attractive man who flirted with her in the decade since then had paid for that boy's sins.

John looked so horrified by the question that she immediately felt awful about doubting him, for both their sakes. "I'm sorry. Ignore me."

"I don't want to do that, Gwen."

The sound of her name in his deep, throaty voice gave her shivers. A waiter passed by with a tray of full champagne flutes. John grabbed one and handed it to her. "Let me try again with the flirting," he said. "Imagine you bid that money on someone other than my skipper. What would you want him to do?"

"Someone other than Liam?" She took a long sip of the champagne, trying to wet her suddenly parched throat.

"Me, for example." His eyes sparkled with mischief. "Imagine you bid on me. What would you have me do?"

"I'd get you for a whole day?"

"Mmm hmm. A whole day. All yours." His voice caressed her as seductively as a physical touch. The seed of temptation he'd planted sprouted. If he were hers, what would she have him do? Ruck me, she wanted to joke, but she kept quiet for fear that she might see a flash of revulsion on his face before he was able to cover it.

A gavel tapped a piece of wood three times, and everyone turned their attention to the front of the room, where her sister's boyfriend Liam leaned over a podium to speak into a microphone. "All right, everyone, we're ready to get started. Could I have all Legends front and center?"

One of John's hands skimmed the sensitive skin inside her elbow. He leaned down—what a novelty—and nudged the shell of her ear with his nose. His voice sent shivers of longing through her as he whispered, "All day, Gwen. All yours. Whatever you'd like. Anything at all."

Oggie went for seven-hundred quid. As he strutted off the stage to the lady who'd bought him, he tossed a smirk over his shoulder that had John imagining all the ways the cocky arsehole could get hurt during their next training session. Not seriously injured, of course. Just bruised enough to need that whisky he was inevitably going to win off John.

The most John had ever raised in this auction was four-hundred pounds. Beating seven hundred? Seriously doubtful when most of the bidders seemed to be waiting for players who hadn't come up for auction yet.

"Next up is the big man himself," said Tess Chambers, who worked for the eco-travel company that sponsored the team. "Don't let his size fool you, ladies and gents. He may make a living out of knocking grown men off their feet, but he's a gentleman down to his massive tippy-toes. And he'd be perfect for any of you who have a ceiling that needs painting."

The crowd chuckled as John stepped forward and stood next to Tess. She was tiny and dark, the complete opposite of her sister. He found Gwen near the back of the crowd, too far away for him to read her. Lights glinted off her hair, creating a halo effect that did funny things to his gut, making it flutter the way it often did before a match. Had he convinced her to spend a little of her own money on him?

Jesus, please don't let me go for less than a hundred quid. His hands squeezed into fists as he waited for the humiliation to begin.

"Can I have an opening bid of two hundred? Two hundred?" Tess called out.

Silence.

"One hundred?" The pitch of her voice went up, making it obvious she sensed the embarrassment he was about to suffer.

Okay, I'll settle for fifty. Don't let me go for less than fifty. Maybe he should've taken a page from Tess's book and given her sister some money to bid on him.

The room was so quiet he could practically hear the snowflakes landing on the pitch outside.

"How about eighty?"

Blood rushed to John's cheeks as the crowd shifted nervously. Never in the history of this auction had a player gone unsold.

"Fif—"

"Five thousand!"

A collective gasp sucked the air from the room. John's breath fled from his lungs as his gaze shot to Gwen. She had to be kidding. Had to. That was the kind of money players like Callaghan drew in, not John.

Tess seemed just as shocked, staring open-mouthed at her sister. That was when it hit him. Gwen had just bid her sister's money on him instead of Callaghan.

He pressed his lips together to contain the laugh threatening to bust out. Color swept across Tess's face as she leaned into the mic. "No...you can't."

Gwen made her way through the guests to the front of the room, her hand still raised to bid. "Five thousand for number five," she repeated, stronger this time.

Tess shot him a pleading look and he shrugged, totally failing to keep from grinning now. "You heard the lady. She obviously knows quality when she sees it."

The crowd laughed. Tess's brows drew together as she glanced at her boyfriend. Callaghan had covered his face with one hand, his head swinging back and forth like he couldn't believe what had just happened. Seeming resigned to his fate of being bought by someone else, he dropped his hand and nodded at Tess.

"Sold," she muttered, and the crowd broke out in a cheer, clapping and whistling.

As Tess announced a brief break in the auction, John jumped from the stage and covered the ground between him and Gwen in two strides. Wrapping his arm around her waist, he lifted and swung her in a circle. Jesus, she felt amazing. Soft and substantial and real. She'd saved him from abject humiliation in front of men who never would have let him forget it. She'd made him look like a god instead. Feel like a god. And now she clung to his biceps, laughing as he swung her around. When he set her down, her bright blue eyes sparkled, and his breath was stolen all over again. He let go of her, but her hands still rested on his arms, burning him like a brand.

"I'd better go pay," she said, "and then I'll need to leave so Tess doesn't kill me before I convince her that this is my Christmas gift."

"Too late." Tess's voice vibrated with annoyance behind Gwen, who winced and slowly turned to face her sister. Tess stood with her hands perched on her hips, lips pursed and brows in a flat, pissed-off line.

John would almost have laughed at how intimidated he was by a woman half his size—except she'd singlehandedly humiliated London's financial services industry, so he knew the power she packed.

"I'll pay you back," Gwen promised.

"You'd better. But not in cash."

Gwen rubbed the corner of her lips. "Uh, any check I write you will bounce harder than a rubber ball."

"Pay me back by going out and having fun." Tess gave him a quick wink, relieving some of the tension from his shoulders. He wasn't going to die today after all. "Make sure you show my sister a good time."

"I promise." Thank God—something he and Tess could agree on. He could hardly wait to get Gwen alone. "I was just about to ask if she's free one night this week."

"Any night but Tuesday," Gwen said. "Tess and I have plans that night."

Tess made an oh-shite face. "Tuesday. That was this Tuesday?"

"Yeah. Why?" Now it was Gwen's turn to perch her hands on her hips. "You didn't."

"I did. I'm really sorry."

"Did what?" John asked. The two sisters seemed to have a private communication system he wasn't privy to.

"I double booked myself. I'm so sorry, Gwenny."

"Can't you cancel your other thing? I paid for our tickets already."

Tess bit her bottom lip, her voice reluctant. "I could cancel—"

"Buuut?"

"But that was the night I was going to do my surprise thing for Liam, and it's the only night this week he can get away from his team commitments."

Inspiration struck John. "I'm free Tuesday night."

Tess wrinkled her nose. "No offense, but I'm not doing my special thing for you."

"No offense, but I'd stop you even if you tried." He turned to Gwen and grazed her elbow with his fingertips. "If you've got a spare ticket for something Tuesday night, I'd love to go with you."

She and Tess exchanged a quick look. "I really don't think—"

"That sounds perfect!" Tess said in a rush. "Cheers, John."

"Tess—"

Tess cocked her brow, and a slow smile spread across Gwen's lips. She straightened her shoulders, and he tried to ignore how the movement made her big breasts look perky. "Okay. It might be kind of fun. How about meeting me at Angel Tube around six thirty?"

"It's a date." She may have bought him, but suddenly he felt like he had won the greatest prize.

It only occurred to John much later, after Gwen had gone home and he'd gone out with the lads, that he had no idea what he'd committed himself to.

Whatever it was, he'd be spending the evening with a beautiful woman, so it couldn't be that bad.

Right?

### Chapter Two

Nervous energy zipped through Gwen as her Tube train screeched its way into Angel. She hated, hated being late, but a bus accident had kept her rushing around at work far later than she'd planned. She'd barely had time to change her clothes, throwing on her best woolen skirt and a jumper before running out of the hospital. 'Twas the season of heavy layers and too many people on the Tube, making her sweat just as much as the anticipation of seeing John again.

How could one big man make her this jumpy?

When the train's doors opened, she and a hundred other Londoners poured onto the Underground platform and boarded the steep escalator to freedom. A blast of cold air hit her hot cheeks as she crested the top.

And there he was, looking massive and intimidating in a thick winter coat, leaning against the exit with his wooly cap pulled low over his forehead—and a bouquet of roses in his hands.

Her tummy tightened. The last time someone had given her flowers...

He's not Adam.

She took a deep breath and walked toward him. He seemed to notice her straightaway, a broad smile transforming his face. "You made it."

"I'm so sorry I'm late. There was a bus accident—"

He blanched and clasped her arm. "Jesus. Are you all right?"

"Yeah, yeah. Sorry, I forgot you didn't know. I'm a nurse."

His body practically wilted. "Oh. Thank God. I mean...was anyone badly hurt?"

"Everyone was stable by the time I left."

"Good. That must be a tough job."

"It's challenging, but I like it. And I make sure I do plenty of fun things to keep me balanced. Like tonight's plan, for example."

He leaned closer and gave her a conspiratorial grin. "Want to tell me what we're doing?"

"If I did, you'd probably jump over everyone here in your rush to get away."

He stroked the pad of his thumb across her cheek, the coolness of his touch so surprising against her overheated skin that she shivered. "I'm not running away, Gwen. Even if we end up at a male strip club."

She coughed. "Um, excuse me?"

"I saw Tess today. She kept looking at me and laughing her arse off. So I'm making guesses here about what we're doing."

"Not that. Ever."

"Just saying—I can scream 'Take it off!' with the best of them."

Weirdly, she could picture that. He seemed like the kind of bloke who could make anything fun and was dedicated to making sure others around him had fun too. "We're going to a craft store."

"A...crap store?"

"Craft. You know, where you buy materials for various crafts."

"Oh. Right. Like carpentry?"

She laughed. "Sort of. It's a few minutes' walk. Shall we?"

"Sure. But first, these are for you." He held up the roses. They were a stunning shade of dark pink that she'd never seen on a rose before, and she could smell them even from several inches away. Something shifted inside her, something that felt uncomfortably like longing.

"They're beautiful." God, she sounded breathless even to herself. "You really didn't have to."

"I wanted to. They reminded me of you."

She dipped her head to sniff them, conveniently hiding her face as she asked, "How so?"

He wouldn't let her hide. Nudging a finger beneath her chin, he tipped her head back until she looked him in the eye. "I'd never seen anything like them before. I couldn't take my eyes off them."

He killed her. Please, please be real.

"Ready?" He held out his elbow.

I'm not sure. But she hooked her arm through his anyway and led him into the snowy evening.

Most of the flakes melted as soon as they hit the pavement, making the streets and sidewalks shimmer with the reflections of Christmas lights in puddles. Shoppers in brightly colored scarves and knit caps thronged from one store to the next. A man stood on a corner and roasted peanuts in a sugary mixture, giving the wintry air a sweet scent.

And John's body created tingles all along Gwen's side. The season worked its magic, lifting the doubt and shyness that usually plagued her when she went out with men.

Too soon they arrived at the small shop, and John opened the door for her. Cotton fabrics and yarn lined the walls, and knitting needles, crochet hooks and trendy pattern books were displayed on tables.

"Oh look," John said, holding up a cross-stitching kit that said Rugby's a sport played by men with oddly shaped balls. "One for me."

"You should get it."

"If I do, will you teach me how to knit it?"

"That's cross stitching."

He shrugged. "Same thing, right?"

"Sure. About like how rugby and football are the same thing."

He dropped the kit back on the table. "Blasphemy."

She was still laughing when a young woman in a 1950s housewife dress approached them. "Are you here for the course?"

Gwen nodded, and the woman said, "Welcome! Follow me."

She led them into a cozy annex at the back of the building, where a half dozen women drank mulled wine and nibbled on mince pies. Several antique-looking teacups and saucers sat in the middle of a long table. Through the speakers, a rough, Irish voice sang about a dismal Christmas in New York, but here in London Gwen's Christmas looked ever more promising.

Everyone stopped chatting when they walked into the room. All gazes shot to John...then down John...then back up him. The women weren't exactly subtle in checking him out, nor were they subtle in their approval. He shifted closer to Gwen and whispered out of the corner of his mouth, "You haven't hired me out to be a stripper, have you?"

"The idea has merit, but no."

He looked momentarily surprised. "I think you just said you want to see me naked."

"I think you just set me up."

He nudged her shoulder playfully. "Maybe. Now will you tell me what we're doing?"

Before she could say anything, the woman who'd shown them into the room closed the door to the shop and said, "Evening ladies and, uh"—she glanced at a list in her hands—"I'm guessing you're not Tess."

"Not even in my wildest dreams. I'm John, Tess's replacement."

"Pleasure to meet you, John. If everyone could have a seat, we'll get started."

Gwen and John hung up their coats, hats and scarves before settling themselves at the long table with everyone else. John's leg brushed against hers, and she was only half surprised when his hand came to rest on her knee. She didn't push it away. It felt like it belonged there.

"Welcome to the class. I hope you're all ready to have fun and create some beautiful, unique Christmas gifts for your family and friends. Over the next two hours, we'll be making floral-scented candles in these teacups."

The hand on Gwen's knee tightened. She pressed her lips together to keep from laughing.

"Now, it's not difficult, but it is sometimes quite delicate work, especially when you're dipping your wick."

John's muffled cough nearly made Gwen burst out with inappropriate laughter.

"If you're ready, grab a couple of teacups and saucers. There are two for each—"

Crash!

Gwen swiveled in her chair to find John half out of his seat, reaching across the table with his free hand, the fragile handle of a teacup clasped between his fingers and the rest of the teacup broken on the table.

"Whoops. Guess my wick was too thick for that one."

Gwen pressed her hand over her mouth and shuddered with laughter. John carefully pulled a different teacup across the table and set it in front of her. "That one looks sturdier. Much more my style."

This man. Damn.

Throughout the evening, John kept making her laugh at him and long for him. They worked together to melt their wax, adding a few drops of rose-fragranced oil—Gwen's new favorite scent—and dangling their wicks into the teacups.

"You'd better pour the wax," John said. "I don't trust myself."

His easy admission that he wasn't good at something made Gwen's chest ache as she poured the wax into the cups. Who would've imagined this big, tough rugby player fiddling around with a dainty teacup and actually looking like he enjoyed it? He was so easy to be around, she found herself chatting and flirting as if it came naturally. All too soon they had three teacups filled with slowly hardening wax.

"We'll have to leave them overnight to set," the teacher said. "So you can come back to pick them up tomorrow."

She and John shared a quick look. She busied herself writing their names on tags and setting them next to the teacups. "I'm off in the morning, so I can pick them up."

"All right," he said, shoving his hands in his pockets and looking a little unsure of himself for the first time all evening. His hesitation was adorable. Her hands clenched, so tempted to stroke him all over, ease his anxiety. He'd totally won her over.

"You hungry?" he asked.

"Starving." Her hunger grew as she watched him shift his weight from foot to foot.

"Great. Me too. What sounds good?"

She gave in to temptation, sliding her palms around his waist and drawing him closer. "You."

Twenty minutes later, Gwen followed John through the door of his midterrace house. He lived not far from the stadium in Stratford, an area in East London that had been recently regenerated for the Olympics. When he flipped on a light, her fears of finding herself knee-deep in cockroaches in a filthy bachelor pad dissolved. Certainly there was nothing frilly about the place, but it was clean and tidy with furniture that looked like it had been chosen for comfort rather than style. Furniture chosen with tall people in mind. Tension eased from her shoulders. Whenever she was a guest in houses decorated by women, everything was too low—mirrors, artwork, sofas. She always felt like Gargamel invading a Smurf house.

Here, though, she had the strange feeling of rightness, of fitting. Even his couch seemed higher than normal, and when she peered down at the legs, she saw someone had added slightly mismatched wood to the bottoms of them.

John had insisted on getting them a cab, even though it was much more expensive than the Tube. She wouldn't have minded the longer journey. Perhaps the slap of frigid air on the walk from the station would've knocked the misgivings out of her. During the ride, he'd kept her talking about herself, easing her worries that this would be an anonymous one-night stand. It might only be one night, but his easygoing questioning had pulled enough out of her that she didn't feel anonymous.

He cleared his throat, gesturing toward the sofa. "Why don't you sit down? I've got some wine somewhere."

"Sounds lovely." She self-consciously smoothed her skirt over her thighs and settled on the edge of the cushion. Her palms curved over her knees, which were clenched tight as a virgin's. Calm down. He's scrummy as fudge, and he seems just as sweet. And Tess did say he's a gentleman. Tess had plenty of experience with arseholes, and she didn't give compliments lightly.

The pop of a cork brought her mind back to the room. A minute later, John handed her a glass of bubbly the color of spun gold. "Sparkling wine okay?"

"Perfect. Cheers." She clinked her glass against his and took a long, slow sip as he sat next to her. The weight of his gaze stayed on her for several long moments as the wine fizzled over her tongue, cooling her parched throat.

His voice soft, he asked, "Are you all right?"

"Mmm-hmm." She didn't lift her lips from the glass. Let the wine work its magic amnesic powers, scrubbing from her memory the fact that she didn't do this, didn't sleep with men she hardly knew. Men who could be hiding any kind of secret, using her as a joke for their own and other people's amusement.

When the glass was only half-full, she paused for a breath. John slid his glass, untouched, onto the coffee table before gently prying hers from her white-knuckled fingers. "Hey," he said. "We can just sit here and have a few drinks and a chat. Watch a film. Doesn't matter. I'm not interested in doing anything you have to talk yourself into."

She exhaled a shaky breath and fell back onto an old habit of apologizing for things that weren't her fault. "I'm sorry. I just—I never do this. One-night stands, I mean."

Idiot. Her eyelids clamped shut at the clumsiness of her inadvertent honesty. The gentle touch of his fingers on her cheek convinced her to peek at him through her lashes. The desire on his face had her opening them all the way.

"Gwen."

"Yes?"

One corner of his lips tugged up into a sinful smile. "Who said anything about one night?"

Gwen stayed silent for several long seconds, making John fear he'd plowed through some fragile boundary he'd been skirting all night. No surprise there. He was a second row, not exactly known for his finesse and nimbleness.

But then her shoulders relaxed, and she gave him a shy smile that tore him up inside. "I just assumed you'd only be interested in a short-term fling."

"I won't deny I've enjoyed a fling or two in my life. But let's take it easy and see where this goes." He wanted it to go straight to his bedroom, but one night wouldn't be nearly long enough to cover all the things he wanted to do with her. And he was more than happy to take his time getting there. "Got any ideas for our date?"

Her brows drew together. "Date?"

"You know, that thing you just paid a hell of a lot of Tess's money for. At least, I assume it'll be a date...unless you really need your ceiling painted. In which case I'll do my best to hide my disappointment."

"That's all right. I'm more than capable of doing that myself. I thought we just had our date."

"Nope. I talked my way into your date with your sister. Doesn't count."

"Oh. In that case, maybe I could cook you dinner one night."

He tilted his head. "Uh...I'm not sure you understand how this auction thing works. I'm supposed to do something for you."

She grinned. "I know. But I love to cook. It helps me unwind. I've even taken a few courses, but I've no one worth making the effort for. My sister and dad eat rubbish, and my mum's always on a diet. I love inviting my friends round and spoiling them, but I think they've tried all my recipes by now. Besides, you look like a man who enjoys his food."

"I think I've just walked into a weird alternate universe where all my dreams come true. Of course you can cook for me. But I want to do something for you too."

She shifted closer, giving him a hesitant look. "I'm open to suggestions."

Bloody hell. He had a lot of them. He picked up her hand, turning it over so he could stroke his fingertip over the soft, sensitive skin of her wrist and palm. Her eyelashes lowered, as if she were lost in sensation. "What if I took you out after you cooked for me? We could go dancing, see a film..."

"That sounds lovely." She shifted closer still, and he realized in a blinding rush of insight that she wanted him to make the first move. He was more than happy to oblige.

He leaned forward, his mouth landing softly on hers. Her hand cupped his cheek as if she needed the contact to balance her. To steady her. The touch had the opposite effect on John. It would've knocked him on his arse if he weren't there already.

When he'd first swung her in his arms at the stadium, the crush of her body against his had stolen all rational thought. Very few women fit perfectly against him. He rarely found women tall enough to be a good physical match for him. He'd dated a couple of models, but their waiflike frames had made him worry he'd shatter them. In fact, he'd never held anyone who felt as if she'd been created with him in mind. Not until Gwen.

The invitation back to his place hadn't been entirely lust-induced, though. He wanted to explore more than her body, but hell if he'd tell her that now. He'd have to get his mouth back in order to get the words out, and he was just fine with her borrowing it for a while.

Mindful of her earlier hesitation, John kept the kiss light, letting her control its depth, its intimacy. But then she slanted her mouth, touching the tip of her tongue against his lips in a curious exploration, and he was lost. He kissed her hard. His fingers fumbled with the clip holding her hair up. She sucked in a wincing breath before saying, "Let me."

When she released the clip and tossed it onto the coffee table, he could only stare in wonder. Her hair was blond to the point of near-whiteness, and it tumbled over her shoulders to graze the tops of her breasts.

"Gwen." His fingers slid through her hair, so fine and soft it tickled the rough, broken-and-healed-a-thousand-times skin of his knuckles. The lamp cast a harsh light on the room, so he reached back and flipped it off. He wanted to see her halo again. The moon obliged, backlighting her just enough to make her look otherworldly. He was so busy marveling at her hair that he failed to notice she'd tensed up.

"Why did you turn the lamp off?"

The better to see you. But he was no lecherous wolf, and he hoped to God she didn't feel she'd been lured here under false pretenses. They barely knew each other. She was his sponsor's sister. Practically his captain's sister-in-law. He should be protecting her in order to protect himself, but instead he opened up and allowed himself to be honest. "You're stunning. Your hair...it's fucking brilliant."

Okay, he would never be accused of eloquence. But she didn't seem to mind—the opposite, in fact. Her face softened into a smile, her chest rising and falling with quicker breaths, and she launched herself at him. They tumbled back onto the cushions, John maneuvering them so she stretched out atop him. The mobile phone in his pocket jabbed the vulnerable area between his hipbone and groin. Without letting go of Gwen or their kiss, he rolled to the side far enough to free his phone and slid it onto the coffee table.

Gwen's breasts pressed against his chest, so supple against the muscles he worked every day to develop. His hands roamed over her curves, coming to rest on her bum. He gripped her, shifting her body over his until she practically clicked into place. She moaned, the sound vibrating his lips. It traveled through his veins on a wave of adrenaline and testosterone.

He tugged at her jumper. "Get this off."

Bracing her knees on either side of his hips, she pushed up until she sat directly on his swollen, aching erection. She grabbed the hem of her jumper and the long-sleeved black shirt she wore beneath it. Without fanfare or seduction, she whipped the shirts over her head. In tandem, they both looked at her breasts, bound in a white cotton sports bra.

"Bugger," she muttered. "I came straight from work. I managed to change my clothes but didn't have time to put anything nicer on. I promise I have sexier lingerie at home."

"I love it. In fact, I should take a closer look." He crunched his abs until he buried his face in her bountiful cleavage. "Mmm, yeah, it's even better from this angle."

She laughed as he planted kisses where the cotton met her skin, tugging the top of it down to expose the faint red marks the bra had made. Opening his mouth, he gently sucked on the marks, using the tip of his tongue to sooth them. Gwen sighed. Her head fell back, and she wrapped her arms around his head, keeping him there.

"You know what would look great with this bra?" he asked.

"What?"

"My floor. Why don't we put it there and see if I'm right."

Four hands fumbled over each other, somehow managing to sweep the bra over her head. It landed with a plop several feet away.

Her breasts matched the rest of her. Generous. Perfect. So damn much fun to play with. He cupped them, massaged them, tugged her pink nipples between his lips and sucked until she ground her hot pelvis against him so hard he worried he'd finish without her.

When she pulled his mouth away, disappointment swept through him—but only for a moment. Then she tipped his head back and kissed him again, slowly riding him through his suit trousers. Building an intense friction against his most sensitive skin. Setting him alight.

"Lie back," she whispered against his lips.

Reluctantly, he did as she commanded. "Fuck, the view from here's even better."

Gwen's breasts were full and firm. When he reached up to palm them, she grabbed his hands and put them on cushions. "No touching. I want to see your face as you look at me, only look at me."

He groaned, digging his fingertips into the couch so hard he practically tore the fabric. His body knew what it wanted, and it wasn't self-control. Nor was it giving up control to someone else. But Gwen's obvious enjoyment held him back from doing what he really wanted, shoving her skirt up and her knickers to the side to he could get at her. She shifted again, making him groan.

"You're enjoying this, aren't you?" The words barely came out through his gritted teeth.

"You have no idea." Her face went serious for a second, almost confused. "I can't believe you're so..."

"Big? Say big. I want to hear you say you can't believe I'm so big."

She laughed, her breasts bouncing. Swear to God, he grew even bigger. "Gwen, I'm really sorry, but I'm going to have to go get something before this goes any farther."

Obviously catching his drift, she lifted herself off him. But as she went, she shimmied down his body and rubbed her breasts against his erection through his trousers. He swore, dragging the single word out like the orgasm he was desperately trying to keep at bay. "Gwen, love..."

She gave him a naughty grin and pressed a sweet, closed-mouth kiss right on his tip. "Go. And hurry. Please."

He shoved away from the couch like it was the starter blocks and sprinted for his bathroom. He searched everywhere, yanking drawers open and practically ripping the door of the medicine cabinet from its hinges. Where the fuck were his condoms?

Sitting half-naked on a man's couch was awkward, but the cacophony of curses coming from John's bathroom and bedroom whisked away Gwen's insecurities. How could she not feel flattered when a man was so obviously eager to be with her? This wasn't how she'd planned to end her night, but it was a hell of a lot better than going home alone and crashing face-first onto her mattress after working a twelve-hour shift. Her sister had always been the one with impulse-control issues—the main issue being that she lacked it completely. Gwen was sturdy of body and sturdy of resolve, which tended to lead to a life that was sturdy of boredom.

A particularly loud curse and a thump that might've been a drawer being yanked out too hard made Gwen grin. Impulse control was overrated.

John's mobile beeped with an incoming message, and she instinctively glanced at the phone's lit face. Her stomach lurched at the message scrolling across the screen. Oggie: _Bought the prize you won off me at the auction. What's she making you do..._

Instead of showing the end of the sentence, the message began scrolling again from the beginning. Words seemed to throb on the screen in time with her speeding pulse. _Prize...won...What's she making you do..._

The message could be about anything. Right? It could be about...

Gwen's brain failed to come up with alternatives. Obviously John had won something. Heartbreaking experience told her who the loser was.

 Buy Unwrapping Her Perfect Match now!

### Taming the Legend

When retiring rugby star Ash Trenton considered his next career move, coaching troubled teens at his ex-girlfriend's California camp wasn't on the list. But when Camila Morales reappears after eighteen years, begging for his help, he can't say no to his first and only love.

Camila was just sixteen when Ash moved on to start his rugby career, leaving her heartbroken...and on her own to make a life-changing decision. Now she needs his help to win a tournament prize and save her camp. Relying on Ash is the last thing she wants. But while it's hard to get over being dumped for a sport, it's even harder to ignore the rush of attraction that has only gotten stronger after so many years apart.

Coaching teens is the hardest job Ash has ever had, and the task becomes personal when he begins to fall for Camila all over again. But when he is offered his dream job, will he choose the job—or the woman whose heart he already sacrificed once?

"I was on pins and needles as the end got nearer. I was riveted to the book to see how it would all work out. I'll be honest and admit I was wiping away happy tears at the end and have my fingers crossed over who will be the next Legends hero."

— _Dear Author_ named _Taming the Legend_ a Recommended Read (A-)

"Latham has a knack for creating characters who will linger on your brain long after her charming stories end, and our sizzling-hot hero, Ash, will probably stay forever. This London Legends installment will soon become a favorite, whether you have indulged in any of these sport-related romances or not, and the risk of taking a second chance at love at first sight will intrigue and excite. And the hot cover, which will make you drool, is a major bonus!"

— _RT Book Reviews, 4 stars_

### Chapter One

Fireworks exploded over the stadium, bathing the screaming crowd in green and white light as Ash stepped toward the podium. He grabbed the spotless trophy, pausing a moment as flashbulbs nearly blinded him, and the momentous weight of history pressed heavily on his chest. All season his team had competed against other European clubs in this new championship. He was the first rugby player to touch this trophy. _London Legends_ would be the first team name engraved into it.

And this was the last trophy he would ever lift.

With a deep breath and a grin he couldn't contain, he hoisted it over his head. Eighty-two thousand rugby fans leaped out of their seats and roared. His teammates looped their arms around each other's shoulders, jumping up and down with a ferocity that made the makeshift stage shudder beneath Ash's feet. A couple of the suits gave each other patronizing smiles as they applauded the team without giving in to the same pent-up enthusiasm the players were releasing, enthusiasm they surely had to be feeling, even if just at the sight of England's national rugby stadium filled to capacity.

Ash lowered the side of the cup to his lips and pressed a kiss against its smooth silver finish. _Victory, you taste so fucking sweet._

"Mind if I have a go, mate?"

Ash reluctantly relinquished the cup to his captain, Liam Callaghan, who just moments before had nudged Ash forward to claim the cup, generously giving him one last moment in the spotlight. The team swarmed around, and dozens of photographers pressed close to take their photo. This was how history would see the final triumph of Ash's career—him standing next to the man who'd taken his place three years ago, not just on this team but becoming the England captain as well. After leading Legends for nine seasons, taking them from the brink of relegation to championship after championship, Ash had been shunted aside in favor of the young pup whose talents he'd been the first to spot.

Over the past three years, he'd done his best to get used to calling the younger man _skipper_ while ignoring the pundits' speculation about when he would retire. He'd held on as long as he could, but he'd put thirty-six years' worth of hard mileage on his body, and it couldn't cope with the sport's physicality the way it used to. Better to quit now, when he could still go out a champion, than to be carted off and dumped aside with the most pathetic of headlines: Injury Ends Rugby Legend's Career.

Damn but he was going to enjoy these last few hours of glory, and after that he would enjoy the hell out retirement. For the first time in two decades, he could get drunk. He could eat as much cheese as he wanted. Cram his mouth full of bacon butties. Scones with clotted cream. Champagne and lager and cabernet. Chocolate fudge cake. Hell, forget the cake. He could eat _fudge._ Boxes of it.

Tonight he could celebrate any way he chose because he didn't have to stay in peak fitness for any summer tours of the Southern Hemisphere. Nor would he have to get back in shape for the start of the next season in September.

Because as of tomorrow morning, Ash Trenton—once the leader of some of the world's toughest men, five-time European champion and winner of the most recent Rugby World Cup—was jobless.

One of the suits handed him and Cally each an open bottle of champagne. They grinned at each other. "Ready, mate?"

"Ready," Ash said.

They slid their hands over the mouths of the bottles and shook them hard. Turning to face their team, they sprayed their mates with a shower of sticky-sweet alcohol. The men crammed closer, tilting their heads back and opening their mouths to catch as much as they could. Ash could never get enough of this, triumph bubbling over after a long slog of a season. All the early mornings, all the sacrifices became worth it at this moment.

He jumped off the stage, leading his team as they sprayed champagne into the crowd and applauded their fans for turning up and supporting them at match after match. The security guards along the touchline let the players' families through, and several women ran onto the pitch to give their husbands and boyfriends sloppy kisses. This part always seemed sweet to Ash, like something he might one day enjoy.

As he walked along and waved to the spectators one final time, he cataloged the growing number of teammates who had someone permanent to go home with. Spencer Bailey, their inside center, was tossing his laughing toddler in the air while his wife tried to hide her flinch every time the girl went airborne. Cally, their captain, kissed his fiancée, who worked for the team's biggest sponsor. Matt "Oggie" Ogden grabbed the woman he'd first introduced to Ash as his good mate and planted a more-than-friendly kiss on her lips. Even "Little" John Sheldon, who'd just played his final match in the Legends' green-and-whites, was snogging the nurse who'd bought him at the team's Christmas fundraiser.

Ash turned away and waved harder at the crowd. He'd married his career, and he'd never questioned that decision.

So what did he do now his career was divorcing him?

"Ash, can I have a word?" Lavinia, a journalist for the TV channel that broadcast all the team's matches, held her microphone at her side and gave him a big smile.

"Sure, Vinnie."

She brought the mic up and pressed her earpiece farther into her ear. "I've got Ash, when you're ready," she said into her mouthpiece.

She waited quietly for a moment, listening, then nodded and transformed into her on-air personality. "Ash Trenton, congratulations. This must be the ideal way to cap off your career."

"It's pretty special, that's for sure. The whole team's worked hard all season, and we were confident we could do it."

"And what happens for you tomorrow? You've been cagey about revealing what comes next, but you've always been a man with vision. Can you finally tell us what you'll be doing?"

_Lounging around in my pants, scratching my delicates_. "I'm afraid not. Not yet, anyway."

"I don't suppose you'll be putting that certificate in coaching to any use?" Lavinia's eyes twinkled with a teasing gleam.

Ash gave her a coy smile, despite every frustrated bit of him wanting to scream _What part of no fucking clue don't you understand!_ "Well, I've always enjoyed working alongside younger players, especially at our academy. That's how I discovered Cally and a few of the others. But I really couldn't say at this point. I've got a few offers I'm considering, but I haven't made any final decisions."

So far nothing his agent had sent him had grabbed him. He'd told himself he'd find something once the season was over. But finding something he loved as much as he loved playing?

Impossible.

Lavinia tried to gently dig more information out of him, but he had nothing to give. So after a few minutes of cheerful banter, she gave up and wished him well. As soon as the red light on the camera went out, he leaned over and gave her a big hug and a quick kiss on the cheek. "You're my favorite pundit, you know that?"

She grinned. "Course I do. I'm everyone's favorite pundit."

Laughing, he shook his head. "It's been a pleasure, Vinnie."

"Likewise, Ash. Let me know if you need anything. You might have a face only a mother could love," she joked, "but you have the potential for a brilliant career in TV. Just as long as you don't take my spot."

"Ah, that's a shame. Your job's one of the new careers I'm considering," he teased. "Right up there with Cadbury's chocolate taster."

"Ooh, definitely go for that one. And send along anything you can't finish."

"Will do. Cheers again."

The team gradually made their way back to the changing room, the only place they could all let down their guards. One after another, his teammates and the support staff grabbed him for a bear hug. He got so many slaps on the back and bum that he would probably wake up bruised.

This is really happening. This is really the end. How surreal.

"Gather round, lads! Gather round!" Cally clapped to get everyone's attention. They all closed in and looped their arms around each other's shoulders.

"Most of us here started playing when we were little tykes," Cally said, "too young to remember a time when rugby wasn't part of our lifeblood. Some of us were lucky enough to get our starts at the Legends Academy and work our way up through the system. For those of you who didn't, well, you missed out on having guidance from one of the most brilliant players—and brilliant men—this sport has ever seen."

_Oh, Jesus. No one look at me._ Ash kept his gaze firmly trained on his captain's boots. If he let himself make eye contact with anyone, the lump in his throat would explode and leak out of his eyes.

Judging by the way Cally's voice choked, he was fighting not to lose it either. "Honorable. Devoted. Loyal. But enough about Oggie's dog."

The team chuckled, and Ash slapped Oggie on the back.

"Mate, my first year on the elite squad was your first year as captain. I remember thinking even then, 'I don't envy the poor bloke who has to succeed this guy.'"

_Fuck, I can't take this._ But he forced himself to laugh along with the rest of the team.

"Following in your footsteps has been the biggest challenge of my career, but I've learned more from watching you than from all the practice sessions combined." He shot a glance at their coach. "Ruud-Boy, you didn't hear that."

Ruud Bakker gave Cally an evil grin. "I'll have to work you harder come September."

With a good-natured groan, Cally continued. "It doesn't seem right that you won't be here when we start our fight to defend this gorgeous cup. The lads and I have been trying to figure out how to show our appreciation for all your years of leadership and guidance. One night at the hotel, we started playing that game I Never, and it turned into Ash Never. We figured out there are a fuckload of things we've never seen you do, and now's your chance."

Spencer twisted to grab something with both hands from the floor behind him, then hoisted it in the air. A case of champagne. "I've never seen Ash drink, except a few sips of bubbly from the trophies he's won. We want to see you get well and truly pissed tonight."

Ash stepped forward and took the case. Before he could say thanks, Little John produced a polystyrene take-away box from behind his back. In it lay a portion of fish and chips. "I've never seen Ash eat anything fatty. Time to kiss that girlish figure goodbye, sunshine."

Ash set the booze at his feet to take the fish and chips.

Oggie held up two small boxes of condoms, and Ash burst out laughing. "I swear to you, that's definitely one thing I _have_ done."

"Really?" Oggie grinned. "Because most of us can remember you being hit on by women, but none of us can recall you taking them up on their kind offers."

"That's because I'm more discreet than you mangy dogs." And because he'd always felt the need to set an example. Sex was great, but never so great that an hour of pleasure was worth risking the reputation he'd spent years building.

"Well, now you can do it six more times." Oggie handed him the boxes. "Or three. They're the cheapest brand I could find, so you might want to double up."

Cally's face scrunched up in confusion. "I thought you were getting a mega box."

"You only gave me five quid. Condoms must've gone up in price since the last time you had to buy one."

Cally's fair cheeks flushed dark red. He was getting married this summer. Being engaged must have its perks.

"Anyway, we hope you enjoy your retirement, old man. We can't wait to see what you do next."

"Neither can I," Ash half joked. "I think I'll start with this." He raised the fish to his mouth and took a big bite. Still chewing, he bent to uncork a bottle of bubbly. "And some of this." He swallowed the fish and raised the bottle to his lips. One, two, three, four, five...his team cheered as he glugged as much as he could in one go. When his mouth overflowed and he was in danger of chundering, he lowered the bottle and flicked a condom box in the air, catching it. "And maybe some of this, but not around any of you."

"Thank fuck for that. Everyone, there's a trolley with glasses in the corner. Grab one and let's raise a toast to Ash Trenton—pensioner!"

The toasts continued through dinner and on the bus back to the hotel. They continued as Ash, his teammates and their families and friends partied at the swish bar on the penultimate floor of the hotel. For three hours, his glass was never empty. His brain got fuzzy and he'd never grinned or snort-laughed so much in his life. As alcohol filled his belly, love filled the rest of him. This must be what _pissed_ felt like, but he didn't give a shit. These people, every single one of them, meant the world to him. He scanned the room. Most of his teammates were chatting up women. A few were chatting up their own wives and girlfriends. Young punk Sean Castells was trying it on with a dark-haired woman sitting at a small table, but even from across the room Ash could see her brush Castells off and turn her focus to him.

Awareness kicked to life, making his whole body go taut. The bar's lighting was dim, but bright moonlight and streetlight poured in from the floor-to-ceiling windows and cast half of her in shadows. She watched him intently, her hands trembling as she raised her glass to her lips. She never broke his gaze, even though she took a sip that bordered on a gulp.

He could practically feel the condoms vibrating through the pocket of his suit trousers. _Use us. Abuse us._

He mumbled excuses to his teammates and stood, making his chair scrape against the dark wood floor. The woman stiffened, her gaze skittering away before coming back to him. He crossed the bar, feeling her stare everywhere. She drank him in the way she had done whatever was in her glass—with a thirsty, nervous gulp that said _I need this. I need you._

He made it to her table and rested his hand on the back of the empty chair. He'd been about to ask if it was free, but familiarity struck him dumb. Where did he know her from? His brain cells took their sweet time firing up. Her fingers played nervously with the nearly empty glass, her gaze focused downward into the cola-brown liquid. Dark brown hair tumbled over her shoulders to rest against the tops of her breasts. He couldn't make out the shape of her, but her breasts had a lovely curve that made his palms curve in response.

She lifted her gaze to meet his. Jesus, her eyes. A clear green that knocked the breath right out of him—just as it had when he'd seen her on the beach in Barcelona half his life ago.

"Fucking hell. Camila?" Camila Morales. Her name had lived in his memory all this time. Ca- _mee_ -la. A name common in England, but with a twist of the tongue it became foreign, intriguing, beautiful, arousing. Everything this woman was.

Her eyes flickered with surprise. "Y-you remember me?"

Remember? He'd lost his virginity to her.

No, not lost it. He'd thrust it at her with an eagerness that would've been embarrassing if he hadn't already given her a leg-trembling orgasm—he hoped.

"Of course I remember you." He held out his hand, palm-up in the empty space between them. Giving it a hesitant glance, she placed her hand in his and he helped her stand. She was barely on her feet before he wrapped his arms around her. His whole body sighed with relief at the feel of her pressed against him again.

At least, pressed against him for about two seconds. Then she shoved him back and punched him square in the jaw, knocking his pride and his equilibrium straight out of him as he toppled over and landed on his arse.

### Chapter Two

Satisfaction—glorious, glorious satisfaction—rippled through Camila as she glared down at the man lying sprawled on the floor, gingerly working his jaw from side to side and grimacing. But that satisfaction was swiftly dampened by a wave of reality.

You freaking idiot. You just belted the one man who can save you.

In one fell swoop—literally—she'd completely blown the fifteen hundred dollars she'd taken from her savings account to come here and beg him for help.

The whole room had gone silent, everyone staring at her and Ash. Who was on the freaking _floor,_ laid out by one solid punch.

She would have to thank her brother Gabriel for showing her how to do that. If only he'd taught her that her knuckles would hurt like hell afterward.

"Camila. What the fuck?"

"Sorry. Didn't mean to do that." Hadn't meant to, but she _had_ dreamed about it for years. She stuck her hand out to help him up, but he eyed it warily.

"If I take it, will you use the other fist to knock me down again?"

She shook her head, not trusting herself to speak without cursing a blue streak—at him, at herself, at everything and everyone. He gently took her hand but, instead of clasping it and pulling himself up, he turned it over. "You split the skin of your knuckles. Hey, Cally! Get some ice and a cloth from the bar!"

_Damn it, don't be nice._ She was torn between wishing she could go back in time five minutes and keep her cool the way she'd convinced herself she would, or kicking him in the nuts. If he was nice to her, she wouldn't have an excuse for the nut-kicking.

And that would be some truly poetic justice. She would kick him in the nuts every two minutes for fifteen hours. Then she would rip his heart out. "My knuckles are fine."

"So's my jaw, thanks for asking." He pushed himself up and stood in front of her, so much broader than he'd been all those years ago. Almost exactly eighteen years since they'd met. And not long after that, he'd destroyed her.

A guy with dark blond hair and just about the handsomest face she'd ever seen approached with a glass of ice and a tea towel. "You okay, mate?"

"Yeah, fine. Never drinking again, though. Fucking hell, a little tap and I was down."

"It was more than a tap. I hit you hard." _Shut up shut up shut up._

Both men gave her a funny look before one corner of Ash's mouth kicked up. "You're right. You hit me really hard. Care to tell me why?"

_What the—?_ A weird shiver traipsed down Camila's spine. "Are you sure you remember me?"

"You know each other?" asked the blond guy, presumably Cally.

"Not for a long time," Ash answered.

That was one way to put it, but Camila had another way. "I never knew you. You were a liar and an asshole. You used me, tricked me and abandoned me, you scum-sucking son of a monkey whore."

A collective gasp pierced the silence. Ash's teasing half smile froze into a grotesque mask. Flickering candlelight from the closest table made him look evil. Dangerous.

_You're taunting a man who's made a career of tackling guys twice his size so hard they're unconscious before they hit the ground. You. Are. A. Freaking. Idiot_.

"Come with me." Ash had never let go of her bruised hand, and, after grabbing the ice and tea towel from his friend, tugged her through the silent crowd toward the door.

"No." She dug her heels in, but one of the cheap-bastard heels snapped right off and she stumbled. Ash's arm whipped out and helped her stay upright, but she shoved his hands away. "Don't pretend to be nice to me. I won't start liking you again, no matter what you do."

"Baby, believe it or not I stopped being interested in you liking me about eighteen years ago."

"Yeah, you made that perfectly clear," she muttered, and he cursed.

"I'm not having this conversation with an audience. Come with me now or I'll call the cops to haul your crazy arse away. Your choice."

Camila reluctantly gave in. Not only was a night in a London jail low on her list of touristy things to do while she was here, but she hadn't flown halfway across the world to assault Ash, despite how satisfying it ended up being.

No, she was here to beg him for the biggest favor of her life. And to promise him just about anything in exchange.

They'd nearly made it to the door when Cally came trotting up to them. "Mate, wait."

"What?" Ash snapped.

"We chipped in and got you something else."

"Now's not the time."

"Actually, it is, because if you try to get into your old room you'll find your key card doesn't work." Cally produced a plastic card from his suit pocket. "You've got two nights in the penthouse suite. To go with the—you know—other things we gave you earlier."

Ash took the card from him. "Cheers. That's thoughtful."

Cally clapped him on the shoulder. "You all right?"

"Yeah, that punch was nothing."

"Actually, mate, I was talking to the lady. I know you're fine, but she seems reluctant to go with you."

Ash threw her an ironic look. "Camila, would you like to come up to the penthouse suite so we can have a little chat?"

"Not really, but I'm going to anyway."

One of Cally's brows arched. "That doesn't really reassure me."

"Then how about this? I came all the way here from California so I could talk to him. Getting close enough to sweep the floor with him was an added bonus."

Ash rolled his eyes. "For fuck's sake." Then to Cally: "Satisfied?"

Cally gave a laugh that held very little amusement. "I feel like I just saw Superman crash into a bird and tumble out of the sky. Have you got an evil twin somewhere?"

"No. See you at breakfast."

"Your room comes with—"

"See you at breakfast." Ash stalked out the door and turned down the hall toward the bank of elevators.

Feeling like she needed to say something to the man who would've been her protector if she'd needed it, Camila said, "I won't see you at breakfast."

"I'm not so sure about that," Cally murmured.

Camila followed Ash and stepped inside the elevator. Ash used his key card to select the top floor. He didn't seem eager to look at her. Instead he stood gripping the glass of ice as if he were trying not to hurl it against the wall, his hard jaw gritted tightly shut, his shoulders so stiff he could've been chiseled from marble.

But he was a man, and one she'd once been intimate with. More than once. A few dozen times, if memory served.

And sadly, memory was serving very well right now. In fact, she was inundated with images she didn't want, featuring a man she wished she'd never met. The hesitant sweep of his hand over her bare thigh to play at the frayed edge of her hand-me-down shorts. The tease of his tongue against hers. The soft rasp of his cheek—no longer peach fuzz but not quite bristle yet either—on her inner thighs as he licked her to paradise.

Oh, God. She was in such deep shit.

The elevator opened onto a private corridor. Ash was just about to slide his key card into the lock when the door swung open to reveal a somber man in a dark suit. Ash started, taking a step back right onto Camila's bare toes.

"Ow!"

He stepped away immediately, and she grabbed her foot, using the wall for balance.

"You okay?" His face held actual, genuine concern, and she gave him a point for being a better person than she was—at least, when it came to tonight.

"Yeah. Fine."

"Did I break them?"

She hesitantly wiggled them. "I don't think so."

"Pity." He turned back to the man in the doorway, who'd lost some of his composure. "Sorry about the misunderstanding. Obviously my mates are taking the piss—"

"Mr. Trenton, please, allow me to apologize. I really shouldn't have made my presence known in such an intrusive manner. Ms. Morales, are you certain you're uninjured? Perhaps you should come in and sit down. I see Mr. Trenton already has ice. That's very fortunate. I can get you some more, though. Please do come in and sit down."

She and Ash blinked at the stranger, and then at each other. "Your room comes with a roommate?" Camila asked.

The man did a commendable job of not smiling. "Butler service, madam. I'm Mr. Frye."

"Oh. Cool. Wait—how did you know my name?"

"We make a point of quickly discovering the names of anyone who assaults our guests."

Her gut twisted with queasiness. _Assault._ What a horrible word for...punching a man in the face. _Oh, damn._ "Ash—"

"Come on. Let's take a look at your injuries." Both men stepped aside for her to enter the room first, almost comical in their politeness, and she felt like she'd stepped back into the nineteenth century.

Make that eighteenth. Holy hell but the penthouse suite was _exquisite,_ filled with antique furniture sumptuously upholstered in cream, gold and mint fabrics. A large mahogany table and eight delicately carved chairs stood on a platform one step higher than most of the room. A flat-screen TV dominated one end of the room, where the sofas and chairs looked built for comfort but were no less elegant than the rest of the furniture. Camila had left a camp that didn't have reliable hot water and stepped into the pages of an exotic billionaire romance novel. "Holy shhh...ugar."

Her toes throbbed as she hobbled over to the comfy sitting area, but she could tell they weren't broken. As Ash told the butler they'd rather be alone, she lowered herself onto the sofa and kicked off her shoe. The door clicked closed, and Ash sat next to her, close enough her cushion bounced a little, and she suppressed an uncomfortable shiver at his nearness.

A shiver of revulsion. Definitely revulsion. Definitely.

"Can you wriggle them?"

She did.

"Give me your punching hand."

"I won't hit you again. I promise. I'm really sorry I did it at all." Genuinely sorry now, not just because she'd blown her chance to convince him to move to California but because she'd never hit anyone in her life, other than a couple of times in self-defense. She wouldn't have thought she was capable of it and was horrified to discover she was not only capable but had gloried in it.

"Mila."

"Yeah?" she said, momentarily thrown off by his use of her nickname and the way it sounded in his deep, posh English inflection. _Mee-lah._

"I don't know why you hit me. I don't know why you're here. All I know is two things. One, you punched me hard, but I'm fairly well used to being punched by stronger people than you. That's not an insult to your punch. It certainly had a lot of power behind it. Just saying it's not the worst punch I've ever received. It's not even the worst punch I've received today."

He picked up her hand and laid it on his thigh, then wrapped some of the ice cubes in the tea towel and placed them softly over her broken skin. Despite his gentleness, she flinched at the contact, her hand tightening on his leg even as her belly went warm and liquid. She closed her eyes in embarrassment. What a horrible, horrible thing to feel this way about him, after the way he'd treated her.

And the way you treated him.

She opened her eyes and forced herself to meet his gaze. "It doesn't matter if other people have hit you harder. I shouldn't have hit you at all."

He tipped his head in acknowledgment. "Here's the second thing I know. We can talk about whatever brought you here, have a normal conversation between two adults who promise not to punch each other—"

She smiled a little.

"But if you _ever_ try to insult me in a way that dishonors my mother—whether explicitly or implied—then the conversation ends immediately and you will need to leave. Understand?"

... _son of a monkey whore._ Yeah, she understood. As shameful memories burned her cheeks and her heart, she struggled to swallow the sickness clawing its way up her throat. She understood better than he could ever know.

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

"Forgiven. Now, ready to tell me why you're here?"

The chill of the ice cubes finally worked its way through the towel and hit her broken skin, shimmering up her arm and making her shiver. Or maybe that was the nerves. She'd practiced this moment over and over in her mind, but nothing had prepared her for the reality of it. Just like so many of the momentous occasions in her life.

He sat patiently, quietly watching what must've been an intriguing display of conflicting emotions across her face.

"Um..."

He sighed. "Well? How much?"

"How much what?"

He rolled his eyes. "I doubt you're here for an autograph. I assume you're here about money. How much do you want?"

"Half a million."

His eyes bugged. "Fuck! _Pounds?_ "

"No. Dollars."

"Well, that's slightly more doable. But I think you've got me mixed up with a professional footballer, sweetheart. I don't make the kind of money that means I can just piss away half a million. Not even close. Not even for my first fuck."

Agony lanced through her, making her breath hitch. So much for trying to hide how painful this conversation was. Hearing him put it so bluntly—and at a time when she had few options other than to humble herself and ask for his help—was even worse than she'd imagined.

"How did you know where to find me?"

"Did a little searching online. Wasn't too difficult."

"Couldn't have been too easy, either. We don't exactly advertise—"

"But one of your groupies did."

His brows shot up, and she rushed to explain. "Not _your_ groupies. The team's groupies. I think she mentioned something about a shag with Shaggy?"

Ash cringed. "Yeah. Sounds about right. So why did you come here?"

Her throat constricted as she tried to swallow. "To ask—"

"No, why did you _come_ here? If you found out what hotel I'm staying in, you could've found out how to get in touch with me by email. Hell, my Twitter profile has my agent's contact details on it. But instead of saving us both a whole lot of humiliation, you've come to ask me in person. Want to know what I think?"

She shook her head, mute.

"I think you did it because you remembered the power you had over me."

Shock forced her to speak. "The power _I_ had?"

"Yeah." He surged to his feet and shoved his hands in his pockets, as if he really wanted to punch a wall but had enough mental wherewithal to stop himself. "You thought if I saw you again, I might remember how amazing you felt. How amazing you made _me_ feel. And I'd be so swept away with lust that I'd say yes to everything. That I'd forget how you cried over me at the airport and promised to write and never fucking did."

Her breath seized in her lungs. She opened and closed her mouth like a guppy, but stupider. Like a brain-dead guppy.

"You thought I'd be retiring, probably feeling all nostalgic and wondering what might've been."

She drew in a shaky breath, her voice hoarse from trying to hold everything inside until she could be alone, examine what it all meant. "No. I came because your agent told me to stop bothering him."

Ash blinked. "You talked to Steve?"

"I emailed him, called him. I would've sent a carrier pigeon if I'd thought it would get through to him. He just kept telling me you weren't interested."

"Good on him. I'm _not_ interested in forking over a ton of cash—"

"I don't want a handout. Please just listen to me. _Please._ "

He glanced at his watch and sat. "You've got two minutes."

Drawing in another shaky breath, she tried to calm herself. "I run a camp, a really amazing camp. Every year we help dozens of kids straighten out their lives."

He shot another look at his watch. "Ninety seconds."

"I inherited it from my dad, along with a load of debt I can't get on top of. We're in danger of being sold to developers who'll rip the camp down and build luxury lakeside houses."

"Where is this?"

"L.A." _Sort of. Not really_.

"Sounds nice. I might buy one. One minute."

"I found a way to save the camp, but I need someone who can coach a rugby team and help us win a tournament."

His nostrils twitched. "A rugby tournament?"

"Yeah."

"Where?"

"In San Diego."

His gaze sharpened. "The San Diego Sevens?"

"You've heard of it?"

"Uh, yeah." Judging by his tone, she was a moron for asking. "I take it you don't follow rugby."

Never. He'd taught her a little when they were in Barcelona, but after that she'd never wanted to hear about the sport again. Wasn't too difficult to avoid in America. But earlier this year she'd given in to curiosity and searched for information about Ash. It was something she'd done a few times, usually when she was feeling really low and desperate for a drink that she wouldn't let herself have. He was apparently her answer to alcoholism. This time, she saw he'd announced his upcoming retirement, but she also saw an ad that had probably targeted her because of her search term. That ad had followed her around the internet for days. And when her bank manager contacted her to say she needed to pay up, she'd decided that desperate times called for desperate gulps of pride.

Now was one of those times. "All I know is what I read in an article online. Rugby's growing really quickly in America, and there's something called rugby sevens that'll be an event at the Rio games for the first time ever. The San Diego Sevens is trying to capitalize on that and boost the sport's profile in the U.S., so they're giving the winning team in the high school bracket half a million dollars for their school or sports club." She spewed all the words out so quickly, just like she'd practiced, except with panic beating faster than her heart. "I need most of it but can pay you ten grand if we win. My camp really needs that money, Ash. Badly."

He stared at her with such intensity that she fought not to squirm. "How old are your team?"

"Seventeen."

"Have they ever played before?"

"Yes. They're incredibly talented and very determined." Not a complete lie. She was sure they were talented at playing something—hooky, probably, since they'd all been given final warnings by their school administrators. The chances of them having played _rugby_ before were about as good as Camila winning the World Cup all by herself. In fact, they might not have played _any_ sport before. She bit the corner of her lip. Best to keep that bit of info to herself.

"You want me to coach a team I've just met to win the San Diego Sevens in five weeks?"

Okay, so apparently the tournament was big enough that he knew the exact date already. She started feeling like even more of an idiot—and, from the look of astonishment on his face, even more hopeless about her chances of saving her camp. "Four weeks, actually, by the time the kids show up. I know how you like a challenge."

She meant it as a joke, but he clearly wasn't in a humorous mood.

"You don't know anything about me, Camila."

"I know a lot more than you think." Bit by bit, confidence began creeping back into her. She'd been in tougher situations than this. She bore deep scars—literal and figurative—but she'd survived. She could do this. "When I was talking to your agent, he told me you weren't interested. That you had better offers coming in, things that didn't require you volunteering on the off-chance you'd make some money."

"Off-chance? He said that?"

"Mmm-hmm. But let me say this. I know you can do this. I wouldn't have used a chunk of my savings and flown all the way over here if I thought there was a chance in hell we'd lose." Except that was before she'd realized this tournament was a much bigger deal than she'd thought.

"A brand-new team, Camila. In a month."

She changed tactics. "America's a huge market. We love our sports and we love our athletes. Breaking in over there could lead to an amazing new career for you—and just think about what having you participate would do for growing the sport."

She knew the exact moment she hooked him. His mouth had been moving as if he were chewing on the inside of his cheek while he thought, but once she'd mentioned the good he could do for his beloved sport his imagination clearly sparked. He tipped his head back against the sofa, staring up at the ceiling. Before he could give her any kind of answer, though, the delicate chime of a doorbell rang through the room. They both glanced at the door as if they could see through it.

"The butler?" Camila asked.

"Go away!" Ash shouted.

The lovely melody chimed again, and Ash cursed as he strode across the room and threw open the door. "I said—"

Whatever he said was drowned out by about a hundred people flooding into the room. Camila jumped up and stared, recognizing some of the faces from the party downstairs. Over the din, she just barely heard Cally shout to Ash, "Sorry, mate! We've got one more thing for you, and I couldn't hold them back."

If Camila had been on the receiving end of Ash's murderous glare, she would've pissed herself. Cally just grinned, slapped Ash's shoulder, stepped onto a chair and split the air with a two-fingered whistle. "Ladies and gents, could I have your attention please?"

Intrigued, Camila wove through the crowd to stand next to Ash. As the crowd shushed each other, he grumbled, "Fuck. This is not going to be good."

Cally announced, "Earlier the lads and I presented Trenton with a collection of small gifts. I guess you could call them tokens of our affection." A few of the men chuckled. "We'd now like to widen the celebrations and show a short film featuring some of our favorite moments of his career. Most of us know him for the brilliance of his later years, but not all of us are old enough to remember where he came from. So here's our highlights reel of the last twenty years. Enjoy."

The television screen turned on, and the lights dimmed. Ash leaned down and murmured, "On second thought, you should probably go now. In fact, _run._ "

"Not a chance." For the first time in a long while, she felt the beginnings of a smile.

Footage came on of Ash intercepting a ball at one end of the field and sprinting— _sprinting_ —the whole way to the other end, zigzagging around men almost twice his size before flying like Superman into the other end and smashing the ball into the ground. Superimposed over the video were the words _Ash Trenton, The Man..._

That was followed by a montage of him lifting and kissing various trophies and medals, along with the words... _The Myth..._

Then footage of him when he was probably in his early twenties as he flexed and posed in front of a photographer. He was naked—or, at least, she assumed he was, since he held a rugby ball in front of the good stuff. Camila's cheeks heated as she remembered how good that good stuff was.

Suddenly another player in full uniform flew into the shot and tackled him, making Naked-Ash drop the ball and fly into the air. The video froze with him midair, the camera managing to catch the view between his widespread legs as his penis and testicles flip-flopped from the impact.

... _The Legend._

The room exploded with laughter, and so did Camila. Next to her, Ash dropped his face into his hands and muttered, "God, I wish my career had ended through injury."

She patted his arm in mock comfort, never taking her eyes off the screen. The video continued in the same vein, making a big deal of Ash's amazing moves and intercutting them with shots of him asleep on the bus with his mouth wide open and drool cutting a path down his chin. Or singing horribly off-key in the shower. Or running on a treadmill as one of his teammates walked past with an ice cream sundae smothered in chocolate sauce and captured his attention, making him stumble and crash face-first into the black running mat before being thrown to the floor.

Asking him to move to the wilderness didn't seem like such a bad idea anymore. He'd probably welcome the offer with open arms.

When the lights went back up, everyone cheered and clapped, and Ash raised a hand to acknowledge their delight at his expense. Cally climbed back onto the chair, and the room hushed. "Mate, you're a good laugh and a good sport. We hope you'll make the most of this suite because we know how much you earn, and you'll have to get a proper job soon."

Ash's grin looked just a little forced as he took the thunderous applause gracefully. Then he went forward, gave Cally a quick hug and stepped onto the chair. "Unaccustomed as I am to public speaking—"

The whole room groaned, and Ash laughed. "I hadn't planned to make any great speeches—"

"So make a shit one!" someone shouted, and Ash flipped him the V.

"As I was saying, I hadn't planned this, so be gentle if I say something daft." His gaze met hers, and he went quiet for a moment, making those fireworks go _pffttzz_ again in her tummy. "Over the past few months, I've been asked over and over to reflect on my career. On the men I've played with and against, and on the people who have helped me along the way. But one question has cropped up more than any other—what am I going to do next?"

Camila's throat tightened, and she silently begged, _No. No. Please don't turn me down. Not without giving me a chance to convince you. Not in public. Please_.

Without breaking eye contact, he said, "The answer is..."

Camila held her breath along with everyone else in the room.

"I've got no fucking clue."

The crowd laughed and applauded Ash as he thanked them for their support, stepped off the chair and made his way back to Camila, who leaned against the wall for support. She felt like her lungs had been ripped out and then shoved back in backwards.

The corner of his mouth twitched as he reached her. "Where are you staying tonight?"

"Here," she said, her voice rough.

One eyebrow arched as if to say _the fuck you are._

"I don't mean in this room. At this hotel. Room four nineteen."

"When's your flight?"

"Day after tomorrow."

"Good. Meet me in the hotel restaurant for breakfast."

Her heart thudded painfully. "So you'll do it?"

"I'm going to think about it tonight." He leaned forward, invading her space. "If I'm going to work alongside you for a month, give you my time, my blood and my sweat so you can make money off me, I want to know you're the kind of person who should benefit off my hard work. I'll give you an answer after breakfast. See you at eight."

Buy Taming the Legend now!

If you enjoy _Taming the Legend_ , you'll love Camila's brothers' stories—One Night with Her Bachelor _,_  Two Nights with His Bride, and  Three Nights Before Christmas.

### About the Author

Kat Latham is a RITA-nominated author of sexy contemporary romance. She's a California girl who moved to Europe the day after graduating from UCLA, ditching her tank tops for raincoats. She taught English in Prague and worked as an editor in London before she and her British husband moved to the Netherlands. Kat's other career involves writing and editing for charities, and she's traveled to Kenya, Ethiopia and India to meet heroic people helping their communities survive disasters. She loves to hear from readers!

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Books for Montana Born

One Night with Her Bachelor

(Bachelor Auction series—Gabriel Morales and Molly Dekker)

Two Nights with His Bride

(Montana Born Brides series—Wyatt Wilder and Nancy Parsons)

Three Nights Before Christmas

(Montana Born Christmas series—Austin Wilder and Lacey Gallagher)

London Legends Series

Knowing the Score

(Book 1—Spencer Bailey and Caitlyn Sweeney)

Playing It Close

(Book 2—Liam Callaghan and Tess Chambers)

Tempting the Player

(Book 3—Matt Ogden and Libby Hart)

Unwrapping Her Perfect Match

(Book 3.5—John Sheldon and Gwen Chambers)

Taming the Legend

(Book 4—Ash Trenton and Camila Morales)

Standalone Novellas

Mine Under the Mistletoe

(Nominated for a 2014 RITA® Award)
