Just My Luck (22 page)

“Like what?” Marika asked absently, her eyes, Ally saw, tracing her son’s path into the tunnel.

“Do they always warm up first, right in front of everyone?” Ally tried to explain. “Or is that just something special tonight?”

Marika turned to her in surprise. “Course they do. Have to get warm, don’t they. They’ll have been sitting, getting taped up and all.”

Ally considered explaining that watching the players do their groin stretches wasn’t something North American audiences would have been treated to, but decided not to bother. She’d certainly enjoyed watching Nate do his, and everything else too. She was pretty keyed up for this, in fact.

She actually caught her breath when Nate led the team out of the tunnel again and onto the field. And couldn’t resist looking at the big screen at the end of the field just to see his face as he trotted out, holding the ball. If he’d ever looked tough to her before, that was nothing to how he looked now. His set jaw rough with stubble, his eyes hard, he looked like he could win the game all by himself, or at least give it his very best shot.

He was her Nate, but he . . . wasn’t. He was so much more. The gulf between them suddenly yawned wide, and she saw it with a sudden clarity, a shock of recognition that sent a cold shiver down her spine. She’d thought it would feel good to watch him like this, and it did. But it also felt strange, and a little uncomfortable too.

And then the teams took up their positions for the kickoff, and the Hurricanes had sent the ball sailing to the back of the Blues’ half, where a player caught it in sure hands and immediately sent it straight back again. Back and forth twice more, and then once again, without much running in between.

“Are they just going to kick it?” she asked, her momentary discomfort forgotten.

Marika laughed. “Playing for territory, bit of a chess match. Just wait a sec, and something will happen.”

Something did. The Blues got the ball this time closer to midfield, and the player began to run with it, passed it to another man, who passed it to another, and was brought down by two Hurricanes players who plowed into him ruthlessly, the bodies piling up. And after that, it was . . . fast. Played without a single break except a brief pause at halftime, and only a few substitutions, none of whom was Nate. Played even with an injured man lying on the field, being tended to by a doctor. The whole thing even rougher and more intense than it had looked on TV.

Ally could tell that, but that was about all she could tell. Except that the Blues seemed to be playing a little better, much of the action taking place in the Hurricanes’ half, the Hurricanes forced onto defense that did seem to hold up, because late in the game, the score was only 13 to 6 in favor of the Blues. The margin would have been a single point, except that the Hurricanes kicker had missed two penalties that had had the crowd groaning, so Ally guessed that he should have made them.

But then the teams squared off in another scrum—at least Ally knew what that was—and Nate fed the ball into it, ran around to the back to pick it up when it squirted out, and handed it off. And the Hurricanes were advancing down the field, Nate somehow there instantly after every tackle to collect the ball from the tackled player and distribute it again. Which must have been according to some plan. He certainly seemed to know who he wanted to give it to, and what should happen after that, because as soon as he handed it off, he was running with the ball carrier. Well, he’d said you had to have some brains to play this game, and obviously, he was right. Because the speed of the decision-making out there was impressive. And his reaction time . . . that was just crazy.

The Hurricanes advance was short-lived, though, because suddenly, after another tackle tantalizingly near the Blues’ tryline, there was some scrambling on the ground, and the crowd was groaning again.

“What happened?” Ally asked in confusion.

“Another turnover,” Marika explained.

“Too bloody many turnovers,” her husband Vernon, an older and even broader version of Liam, growled. “Not to mention the knock-ons and the spilled passes and the missed tackles. And,” he sighed a moment after the Blues player kicked the ball long, getting it out of the danger zone, “that dodginess under the high ball.”

Because, indeed, the player standing alone back there had missed catching the long, high kick, was having to scramble for it now. And then had his returning kick charged down by a fast-arriving Blues player. Which resulted in another turnover, which resulted in another flurry of passes. And, finally, a Blues player sliding across the line for an all-too-easy try that put the game away.

Ally stepped out of the lift the next day and saw Nate leaning against the doorjamb. He stood up straight as she approached, and she realized she was smiling like a fool. She pulled the door open, surrendered the fabric bag of groceries, the duffel that held tomorrow’s clothes to his demanding hands, then gave in to her emotions, pulled his head down for a kiss.

“Hi,” she smiled up at him, her arms still wrapped around his neck. “Big shot.”

He laughed. “What does that mean?”

She let go, followed him to the car and hopped in while he stowed her bags in the boot and jumped in beside her. “It means that I was impressed,” she said.

“Should’ve known my brilliant personality wouldn’t do the business, that I’d have to get you out to the park,” he sighed.

“Oh, you impressed me before this too,” she assured him. “OK, maybe not at first,” she admitted at his laughing glance. “But fairly quickly. By the time you were climbing with me, I was definitely impressed.”

“But somehow,” he said, winding through the hills now, nearing his house, “you’re more impressed now, even though we lost.”

“Because you’re so good at it. And being the best at that, at something that hard . . . that really means something. I finally got it, why you’re such a big deal. And it was close, too. Right up until the end.”

He grimaced, punched the button for the garage door, and pulled in. “Doesn’t matter how close it was. It was a loss, and I’d rather have shown you a win.”

“I don’t care about that. I was impressed. I was more than impressed.” She followed him up the steep flight of concrete steps that led from the back of the garage to the villa.

“Yeah,” she sighed from behind him, watching him climb the steps in his shorts. Remembering how he’d looked the night before. “Something about watching that . . . it’s pretty effective, as a woman-attracting device.”

He laughed. “I met you at the wrong time, that what you’re saying? The offseason?”

“Maybe,” she admitted. “But no, not really. I’m glad I got to know you first as a . . . as a person. I’d have been way too intimidated otherwise, if I’d watched you play like that and then met you.”

He frowned down at her as he held the door. “You’d have worried that I’d hurt you, you mean, that I’d be too rough. I meant what I said. I don’t do that.”

“Of course not,” she hastened to say, following him through to the big, modern kitchen at the back of the house, with its view out to a patch of manicured lawn and native plantings of agapanthus, flax plants, and tree ferns, a wooden deck with comfortable, cushioned furniture. They should have dinner out there tonight, she thought fleetingly.

“I didn’t mean, physically intimidated,” she tried to explain. “Just that I’ve never dated anyone famous before. Anyone with a stadium full of people cheering just because he showed up. It was an odd feeling. But a good feeling. Watching you run out there, especially. That was a
really
good feeling.”

“But I didn’t like watching you fall down so much,” she continued, watching him ease onto a bar stool with a sigh of his own. “Getting hit so hard. How’re you feeling? You look pretty sore.”

“A bit sore,” he admitted. “A bit tired too. I was glad when you said you wanted to have dinner in, tell you the truth. Though you didn’t have to cook.”

“I wanted to, though.” She began pulling the perishables out of her grocery bag and stashing them in the stainless-steel fridge. “And don’t get your hopes up. It’s nothing all that fabulous. I only make things that I can do in a half hour or less.”

What she’d really wanted had been to do something for him. And now that she’d seen the stiff way he was moving, the fatigue that was still evident, she was glad she’d thought of this.

“So what are we doing this afternoon?” she asked. “How’d you spend your morning?”

“Bit of stretching, got a massage, put ice on various things. Same boring morning-after as always. But now that you’re here, I thought I’d show you something special about my house.”

“Something special about your house,” she repeated slowly. “If you’ve got some kind of sex room, I’m pretty sure I don’t want to see it.”

He smiled at her, and she thought how much she loved being able to make Nate smile. Watching his normally intense expression lighten, and knowing it was for her.

“Much more pleasant, I promise,” he said. “Come on.” He picked up her duffel. “Upstairs.”

“You do have to take off your clothes, I’m afraid, to see this special thing,” he apologized, dropping her bag next to the bed in the spacious master bedroom, its many windows offering a panoramic view out over rooftops and trees, the Harbour below.

“Uh-huh,” she said, watching as he stripped down. “Sounding more ominous all the time.”

She didn’t much care for looking at the bruises and scrapes that covered his arms and legs, but she was definitely enjoying the sight of his defined abdomen, the muscles flexing in his broad chest as he lifted the T-shirt over his head and tossed it on the floor. And then he took off his shorts and underwear, and she took a good long look at that too. Oh, yeah. Thighs. And . . . everything.

“You’re not keeping up,” he pointed out.

“You’re distracting me,” she complained. “I haven’t seen you enough times yet to be used to it. And I’m just going to say here, it’s pretty interesting that you made such a big deal of my banging myself up one time on the climbing wall, with the way you look every week.”

“Told you, though. That’s me. I’m meant to get banged up, you aren’t. That’s how it is.” He sank onto the end of the bed with another sigh.

“And now,” he said pointedly, “time for you to get that gear off. Come on, give me a show.”

“What?” She started to laugh. “I’m supposed to do some kind of strip tease for you? I wouldn’t even have an idea how.”

“Oh, I think you could manage if you really tried,” he said, leaning back on his elbows now and smiling at her, so completely comfortable in his nudity. And no wonder. Naked was a really
good look on him.

Well, she’d wanted to make him happy today. That had been the whole plan. She might as well start now. He wanted this? He was going to get it.

She gave it a moment’s thought, then kicked off her low sandals.

“Strippers do it in high heels,” he pointed out.

“I guess you’d better go on down to Calendar Girls and watch one of them, then,” she tossed back, making him smile again. “Or you could stay here and watch me. Your choice.”

She reached for the elastic holding her ponytail in place, pulled it out, dropped it onto her sandals, and ran her hands through her hair.

“That’s probably my favorite,” he said. “That thing you do with your hair.”

“Oh, I’m done? Good. I’ll stop.”

“Nah. You’re not done,” he assured her. “Keep going.”

She closed her eyes, tried to think sexy thoughts. To imagine that she wasn’t Allison Villiers, tomboy, climber, and adrenaline junkie, and was some kind of sex goddess instead. The kind who turned men on. The kind who moved slowly and seductively, as aware of their bodies as the men who watched them.

She turned her back to him, crossed her arms over her chest so her hands reached down over her upper back, and caressed herself. Looked back over her shoulder at him, and saw him sitting up again, starting to look pretty interested. Which was fairly encouraging, wasn’t it?

She was glad she’d worn a dress today, wanting to look pretty for him. And that it had buttons down the front. She turned around again, stared straight into his eyes, no smile at all for him. Thought about how it had felt, that first night, when he’d flipped her over, unzipped her skirt, and tried to project the desire, the ache she’d felt then. Tried to show him what he did to her, with her eyes. With her body.

She reached for her buttons and began to unfasten them, starting at the deep V-neck and moving on down. Slowly. Patiently. Pretended it was his hands that were doing it, that were caressing the skin they uncovered with each leisurely release of a button, and sent that message to him with everything in her.

One thing about doing a strip tease for a naked man, she thought, her hands below her waist now, continuing their slow work, you got a pretty good idea of how well you were doing. And she was doing great so far. The realization gave her confidence, inspired her. She kept her eyes locked on his, lifted the skirt to her hips so she could reach the last buttons, saw his eyes drop to the expanse of thigh exposed beneath the flare of yellow cotton.

She held the dress together with her hands a moment more, swiveled her hips a little. She’d have felt stupid doing it, except that it was working, for her as well as for him. Oh, boy, was it working for her. She slowly opened her arms, pulling the two sides of the dress apart, showing herself to him. Turned again, dancing a bit, and let the fabric slide down her arms, drop from her outstretched hands, flutter to the floor.

Her bra had a front clasp, she remembered. All right, then. Still dancing, she turned to face him again. Reached a hand up, ran it through her hair. A little cheesy, but he’d said he liked it, and he was definitely liking it again now.

She kept her hand there, her fingertips at the back of her neck, elbow over her head, staring him down, her hips moving to the music, the insistent beat that had begun playing in her head, was throbbing now, a drumbeat straight to her core, and put her other hand to that front clasp.

And, as soon as she popped it, turned so her back was to him again. Gyrated, did her best bump and grind, and let the bra fall down her arms as the dress had, until it had joined the other garment on the floor. Crossed her arms over her breasts, turned again for him and, slowly, caressing every inch of the way, moved them down, down, until her breasts were revealed to him. Danced a little more for him, swaying to the beat that was so loud now inside her, she could have sworn he could hear it too. And then put a thumb on either side of her underwear, grateful that she’d worn a thong again, determined to make the most of it. To give him everything she had.