Chapter One
She’d been stood up. Unbelievable.
Fern Morgan checked her watch, a thin gold affair that always ended up with the face on the underside of her wrist, and wrinkled her nose. Yup, forty minutes late and no message. Greg had stood her up. Great. No doubt he’d had a better offer. Story of her life. Her love life wasn’t just DOA, it had been MIA for at least the last couple of years.
Checking out the level in her glass, she abandoned any pretence of being a lady and downed the drink in one swallow. She grimaced. Wine had never been her favorite. Since it seemed her date wasn’t going to show his face, the next round would be whatever the hell she wanted.
“Vodka and lime,” she ordered when she had the bartender’s attention, ignoring his pitying look at the fact that she was still alone. He’d probably seen it all, so there was no point bluffing. A woman didn’t sit at a bar—on her own—for almost an hour for kicks and giggles, not a high class one like this. No, this was date territory, a venue classy enough to make that all-important first impression. Which meant the décor was first class, as were the prices of the drinks.
Greg had picked it. Bastard.
“Vodka for the lady.” The bartender slid the glass in front of her, the ice inside clinking together as it stopped. “Can I get you anything else?”
Sensing he wanted to hang around and chat, she shook her head. After a long week at work, and the disappointed anticipation of a not-date with Greg from Acquisitions, she wasn’t in the mood. All she wanted to do was commune with her drink, get happily buzzed, and head on home to seek consolation in the tub of ice-cream she kept on reserve at the back of the freezer.
Looking up after the bartender moved off, she caught sight of herself in the mirror behind the bar. The wrong side of thirty, her shift-dress covered a figure with a few more curves than she would have liked. Whatever she did, no amount of sweating it out in the gym or starving herself would get those last few stubborn pounds to move, so she’d given up.
Her hair was short and sleek, a neat bob that framed her face, the dark color natural. Thank God. She couldn’t do the whole once a month ordeal some women at the office went through to stay blonde, or black, or whatever color they’d decided they wanted to be.
Her face was made up, but in the subtle style she preferred. A slick of lippy, a quick flick of eyeliner a la Audrey Hepburn, some mascara, and she was done. No false lashes here, thank you very much. She’d tried them once, and ended up with the bloody things stuck to her cheek like damn caterpillars. Never again.
Bored with her reflection—after all, it was nothing new—she took a healthy sip of her drink and savoured the burn as it went down. Damn, that was good vodka. No watering down here, that was for sure, which was a bloody good job with these prices. She cast a baleful look at the wine list by her elbow. She earned good money, but these prices were ludicrous.
The door at the front of the bar crashed open, and loud male voices announced the arrival of a large group. The bar staff froze for a second before the one nearest to her, the one who had tried to engage her in conversation, groaned.
“Great, the Sharks. Molly, I’m heading out on my break.” And with that he was gone, leaving the girl at the other end of the bar shooting a glare full of daggers after him.
Fern studied the chaos at the front of the bar through the mirror. The Strathstow Sharks were famous for their abilities on the pitch, the favoured sons of the town when they’d stormed to victory in the premiership and won the cup, and infamous for their somewhat exuberant nights out in the local bars. They were loud, brash, and could be a pain in the backside when celebrating.
If she’d know they were playing today, she might have thought twice about coming out tonight—date with Greg or not. A night in might have worked a lot better. Couple of vodkas and a chance to scratch the itch that had been bugging her for months… Christ, she couldn’t remember the last time she’d had sex. Long days at work and exhaustion had limited her options for meeting prospective partners. Thank God for vibrators. Without them, she’d have gone nuts.
The crowd moved closer to the bar, filling the empty space next to her as they all tried shouting their orders to the poor, harassed-looking Molly all at the same time. Fern huffed and shook her head, burying her nose back into her glass. When would they learn that they’d get their drinks quicker if they organised themselves, and one person ordered?
“SHUT THE HELL UP!”
A voice roared above the melee, and silence fell. Interested, she looked over as a man fought his way to the front of the group. Like the rest, he was suited and booted, but in his case, the smart jacket barely contained a powerful physique. Shorter than the rest, he had a set of shoulders on him as big as a barn, and a vicious bruise decorated one cheekbone.
Despite that, it was obvious he was the man in charge. Quickly, he collected orders and relayed them to Molly behind the bar in a low voice Fern couldn’t make out over the baying of the others as they pushed and jostled.
Shaking her head, she took another swallow from her drink and tried to ignore them. As soon as she was done, she was out of here in search of a tub of Ben & Jerry’s and a DVD. Something with explosions and car chases should do it…
*
Tom Sexton took his drink with a sigh of relief and turned to check that the rest of the lads were settled. He loved nights out with the squad, especially after a tough game like today, but it could be bloody hard work at times. On the pitch, they worked like a well-oiled machine, chewing up and spitting out any team that dared oppose them, but off it and out on the town, it was like herding ferrets—ones with ADHD and Tourette’s.
But miracle of miracles, now that they all had a pint or other libation of choice in hand, they appeared to be behaving. Casting an experienced eye over the known trouble-makers to ensure they were all well apart, Tom allowed himself to relax a little and took a drink.
The aged bourbon left a trail of fire as it slid down to his stomach. He sucked a breath in around it. Good stuff. Proper whiskey, just as he liked it, which was the reason that he’d insisted they come here. Some of the lads picked right dives, which was alright if you were into cheap beer and cheaper women.
Talking of women, his gaze slid past the two blondes Carson was trying to chat up, and to the brunette at the end of the bar. Petite, the figure under the black dress full of the sort of curves he preferred. Even now, he itched to run his hands along her waist and out over the cello curve of her hips. A shudder of heat rolled through him as he surveyed her over the rim of his glass, plotting his approach.
Despite his appearance, and he was the first to admit that stuffed into this bloody jacket, his broad shoulders and heavy chest gave him the appearance of a thug, he was a thinker. The first to spot and call plays on the pitch, he directed the front row with the ruthlessness of a war-general, smashing the opposition's defence and creating opportunities for the back row to storm to victory. And any victory, on or off the pitch, depended on the right approach.
His quarry turned on the stool, the turn of a slender ankle captivating him for a heartbeat before he realised she’d gathered her bag and was preparing to leave.
Oh, no sweetheart, we’re not having any of that. I haven’t gotten to know you yet. And I intend to get to know you a lot better. Like the Shark he wore on his shirt, he slid through the group around him and cut off her retreat before she’d taken a step away from the stool.
“Hey.”
She stumbled mid-step and trod on his toe, obviously not expecting anyone to be so close. “Oh! Sorry, I didn’t see you there.”
A hint of perfume reached his nose, delicate and haunting. He’d thought she’d be pretty. He was wrong.
She was stunning.
Dark eyes tilted up at the corners, cat-like, set over a button nose and a pair of bee-stung lips that looked kissable soft. Unlike the hanger-ons crowding the bar, she wasn’t plastered in makeup, her natural beauty drawing him like a moth to the flame. A cap of dark hair framed her face. His fingers itched to reach out, touch it to see if it was as silky as it looked, and to run through it, gripping it as he angled her head so he could claim her lips.
Her hair fell forward, covering her face as she looked down at his foot, and bouncing back as she glanced back up at him.
“I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to trample you. I didn’t hurt you, did I?”
If she hadn’t looked so worried, he might have laughed at the idea a little thing like her could have hurt him. Hell, she could run over him in full studs, and it wouldn’t bother him, not after the rest of the elephants on the team tried it in training regularly. With her, it would just be kinky.
He smiled. His best, panty-remover, charming smile. “Well, that depends.”
The delicate arch of her eyebrow rose, her lips pursing a little in a way that fascinated him. “Depends? On what?”
Her questions were blunt and direct, without a hint of a giggle or other coyness he was used to when dealing with women on a night out. As he’d thought as soon as he saw her, she was cut from a different cloth to the normal class of women who pursued the Sharks. Then again, that might be because she wasn’t chasing him, he was chasing her. And with every second, he was growing more determined to catch her.
“On whether or not you let me get you another.” He flicked a glance to the empty glass behind her and dropped his voice, risking a small move closer. “You’d be doing me a big favor. Half this lot wants to talk about cars, and the other half just wants to chat up women. I’m dying for some intelligent conversation here.”
Triumph hit him when she smiled and nodded. “Hmm, okay. I guess I have time for one more drink.”
“Thank you. You’ve saved me from insanity, seriously. I’m Tom. I’m with the Sharks, but I guess you already knew that,” he said, and kicked himself. So much for Mr. Cool. “I’m babbling, aren’t I?”
She chuckled, a dirty little sound that hit him right in the groin, and nodded. “Maybe a little. I’m Fern. Pleased to meet you, Tom.”
“Likewise.” He turned her back to the bar with a gentle hand on her waist, angling his body to cut off the rest of the squad’s view. He wasn’t normally so anti-social, but he didn’t want to share her with anyone. With a quick gesture, he signalled the girl behind the bar to bring more drinks. “Fern. A pretty name for a pretty lady.”
“Smooth talker.” Despite her come-back, a faint flush rose on her cheeks, proving she wasn’t immune to his compliments. “I didn’t hurt your foot, did I?”
He slid her a sideways glance and winked. “Would I lie about something like that? It’s throbbing something fierce.”
Throbbing—like something else. Keeping a smile on his face, he tried to clamp down his body’s reaction, but her perfume winding around him and the curve under his hand stopped it. He was as stiff as a f**king goalpost and so ready for action that if they were alone right now, he’d have that dress off and her under him in a heartbeat.
“Yeah, sure it does. Next, you’ll be asking me to rub it better.”