His Rules: Ludlow Nights - Book1 (A Ludlow Nights Romance) Read Online Free
Author: CC MacKenzie
she wolfed down a melt-in-the-mouth fresh strawberry torte made of light crisp pastry, she accepted a paper napkin from Nico and settled back to watch the second half.
Twelve yards from the goal the air on the penalty spot was blistering and becalmed.
In the third minute of extra time, ninety thousand people held their collective breaths.
The score was still nil-nil. If this ball went in the net it was a win for Milan.
Olivier felt sweat trickle down his back as he waited for the referee's whistle to take one of the most important penalties of his career. If it went in the net then his team were in the European finals, to be played in Rome in ten days. Anatoly Jara, the goalkeeper for United, was a big bastard with long arms. Anatoly was one of the best goalies in the world, but he tended to pull to the left. No jogging or dancing on the spot to distract the penalty taker for him. Anatoly's speciality was mind games. Olivier knew better than to catch his eye.
The whistle blew.
In one millisecond, without hesitation, Olivier took his run, twisted his shoulder to feint to the left, but his hips swivelled at the last second and the ball connected with the instep of his right foot. The ball shot into the right hand corner of the net.
Yep, Anatoly went left.
Olivier couldn't help his quick whoop of joy. He'd never lost the adolescent thrill in scoring a goal.
The referee's final whistle blew and the roar of the crowd rising chanting Conti! Conti! was a wave of sound that nearly took him from his feet. His team mates were kissing him on the mouth, giving him a group hug before lifting him from his feet.
Once the celebrations on the pitch had calmed, Olivier stripped his shirt, swapped it for a red number 9, before he let his eyes drift up to the royal box where he knew he'd find Nico.
Instead, his gaze fastened on Anastacia's.
And held.
In a purely instinctive reflex, Olivier fell back from his teammates. Molto bella , he thought. With the wild curls of her dark hair and a creamy skin that could only be British, she looked like a gloriously sexy fairy. The immediate tightening in his belly, in his thighs, didn't fill Olivier with dismay. Anything but. She had the most amazing face. A cool and sulky and sexy face. But it was the eyes that held... trapped... his. And without blinking they held until he approached the tunnel. Those eyes were dark blue, brilliant, with a stare that verged on impudent. Olivier had no idea why, but he had the strangest feeling he'd annoyed her. He tried the smile that had charmed the panties off many a woman. Her response was bold, not shy at all. Without a flicker, she didn't smile back. She simply stared at him as if he was a smear on a Petri dish.
Interested, and more than a little... irritated, Olivier broke eye contact and stepped into the tunnel.
The fairy's face lingered in his mind as Olivier sat in an ice bath with five other players. There was no conversation. They were too busy breathing through the pain, the atmosphere subdued as their coach labored the point that it was crucial for them to maintain their form if they were going to win the European Championship. The relentless pressure was part of the job, and Olivier worked hard not to let it get to him. Especially pressure from a fanatical football press who constantly reminded him that he was one goal away from being hailed the top scorer of the year once more. He listened with half an ear to the team manager and thought of the sexy brunette sharing the box with Nico.
Who was she?
He hadn't tagged her as an average football groupie. God knew they came in all shapes and sizes. But average was the wrong word to describe such a fabulous face, those blue eyes, that sulky mouth. Then he remembered the way she'd stared at him and that irked feeling rose again.
What the hell was wrong with her?
What the hell was wrong with him? he demanded as he hit the showers.
Still, in his mind, her vividly blue eyes seemed to burn a
Twelve yards from the goal the air on the penalty spot was blistering and becalmed.
In the third minute of extra time, ninety thousand people held their collective breaths.
The score was still nil-nil. If this ball went in the net it was a win for Milan.
Olivier felt sweat trickle down his back as he waited for the referee's whistle to take one of the most important penalties of his career. If it went in the net then his team were in the European finals, to be played in Rome in ten days. Anatoly Jara, the goalkeeper for United, was a big bastard with long arms. Anatoly was one of the best goalies in the world, but he tended to pull to the left. No jogging or dancing on the spot to distract the penalty taker for him. Anatoly's speciality was mind games. Olivier knew better than to catch his eye.
The whistle blew.
In one millisecond, without hesitation, Olivier took his run, twisted his shoulder to feint to the left, but his hips swivelled at the last second and the ball connected with the instep of his right foot. The ball shot into the right hand corner of the net.
Yep, Anatoly went left.
Olivier couldn't help his quick whoop of joy. He'd never lost the adolescent thrill in scoring a goal.
The referee's final whistle blew and the roar of the crowd rising chanting Conti! Conti! was a wave of sound that nearly took him from his feet. His team mates were kissing him on the mouth, giving him a group hug before lifting him from his feet.
Once the celebrations on the pitch had calmed, Olivier stripped his shirt, swapped it for a red number 9, before he let his eyes drift up to the royal box where he knew he'd find Nico.
Instead, his gaze fastened on Anastacia's.
And held.
In a purely instinctive reflex, Olivier fell back from his teammates. Molto bella , he thought. With the wild curls of her dark hair and a creamy skin that could only be British, she looked like a gloriously sexy fairy. The immediate tightening in his belly, in his thighs, didn't fill Olivier with dismay. Anything but. She had the most amazing face. A cool and sulky and sexy face. But it was the eyes that held... trapped... his. And without blinking they held until he approached the tunnel. Those eyes were dark blue, brilliant, with a stare that verged on impudent. Olivier had no idea why, but he had the strangest feeling he'd annoyed her. He tried the smile that had charmed the panties off many a woman. Her response was bold, not shy at all. Without a flicker, she didn't smile back. She simply stared at him as if he was a smear on a Petri dish.
Interested, and more than a little... irritated, Olivier broke eye contact and stepped into the tunnel.
The fairy's face lingered in his mind as Olivier sat in an ice bath with five other players. There was no conversation. They were too busy breathing through the pain, the atmosphere subdued as their coach labored the point that it was crucial for them to maintain their form if they were going to win the European Championship. The relentless pressure was part of the job, and Olivier worked hard not to let it get to him. Especially pressure from a fanatical football press who constantly reminded him that he was one goal away from being hailed the top scorer of the year once more. He listened with half an ear to the team manager and thought of the sexy brunette sharing the box with Nico.
Who was she?
He hadn't tagged her as an average football groupie. God knew they came in all shapes and sizes. But average was the wrong word to describe such a fabulous face, those blue eyes, that sulky mouth. Then he remembered the way she'd stared at him and that irked feeling rose again.
What the hell was wrong with her?
What the hell was wrong with him? he demanded as he hit the showers.
Still, in his mind, her vividly blue eyes seemed to burn a
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