Gray's Girl Page 5

  “All done, sweetheart. You get comfortable.”

  Quickly pulling the duvet over her and removing temptation, he hung the dress up on a hanger on the back of the door and returned to the side of the bed like he was some sort of bloody homing pigeon. She looked so peaceful lying there. His lips quirked. Like an angel. How corny was that?

  Leaning down, he pressed a kiss to her lips.

  “Tomorrow night, Frankie. You won’t be sleeping. I promise you that.”

  Chapter Four

  Sunlight and the sound of muted traffic outside the window brought Frankie slowly from the depths of sleep. Murmuring with contentment she snuggled under the warmth of the duvet and resolutely kept her eyes closed.

  In no way, shape, or form a morning person, she had to be dragged kicking and screaming from her bed in the morning, especially if she didn’t have to get up early to catch the tube. Since she was now freelance, there was no tube. All she had to do was drag her sorry backside into the kitchen, grab a mug of coffee, preferably strong enough to stick to the inside of her ribs, and boot the laptop up.

  Not today though. Her head ached, and the unsettled feeling in her stomach told her she’d had more than her normal couple of glasses last night. What on earth had she been drinking? Cautiously she opened one eye, and when the light didn’t try to slice and dice her eyeball, opened the other to look around.

  Her bedroom looked back, same as it always was. Oriental-print wallpaper, dark wood furniture, slatted blinds that cast the morning sun onto the bed and turned it zebra-like with stripes of light and shadow.

  Groaning, she turned over and looked at the clock. Ten thirty. The numbers of the display dragged another groan from her. She’d never slept this late in her life. And she had the Johnson-Briggs merger details to look over before the end of the weekend, which she’d planned to do this morning so she could have all of tomorrow to herself.

  Being freelance was great, but there was no safety net of a monthly salary, or paid holidays. If she didn’t work, then her bills didn’t get paid. Since she was serious about standing on her own two feet, she really would rather keep her own roof over her head instead of going cap in hand to her mum and dad to beg for her old room back. Besides, the last thing she’d heard, Damon had turned it into a weight room before he moved out.

  Damon. Just the thought of her brother brought forward curses foul enough to make a soldier blush. It was Damon’s fault she was in this mess. The next thought broadsided her, tackling her and taking her out in a slicker move than any she’d ever seen on a pitch.

  Gray.

  Her date had been little Leighton Gray. Only he wasn’t so little now. Instead he was massive, and muscled, and fucking hot. The events of the previous night replayed in her mind in not just Technicolor but full-on high-definition as well.

  She’d gotten drunk, flirted with her baby brother’s friend, he of the aforementioned hotness, all but assaulted him in the limo—a bloody limo of all things—and then, when they’d finally gotten back to her place after she’d teased them both mercilessly she…

  Couldn’t remember. She couldn’t remember a fucking thing.

  She could remember up to getting home, dropping her keys. The dance in the moonlight. Oh my God, the dance in the moonlight. If ever she could have conjured up her perfect romantic evening, that would have been it. Moving gently to the music, strong arms to hold her tight and make her feel safe, protected, even though there was nothing she needed protection from. Unless it was her own idiotic behavior, throwing herself at a man at least eight years younger than she was.

  It was the drink. Had to be. She didn’t drink, only socially and then only a couple before she switched to water. It was a rule she stuck to with the discipline of a religious fanatic. She’d seen enough of her colleagues use alcohol as a coping mechanism. No way in hell was she going that way. It got ugly fast.

  Oh God, what had happened? A quick sweep of the bed next to her revealed cold sheets. Didn’t look like he’d slept in the bed with her, but she wasn’t worried about sleeping. What else had they done? And why the fuck couldn’t she remember? And she wasn’t sore in any…ah, intimate areas.

  Sitting up, she flung back the covers and stopped. She was still wearing her underwear. Bra and panties, all present and correct. If they’d had sex, then her bra and knickers should have been AWOL and the space beside her occupied, or at least bearing the trace scent and warmth of a large, very sexy body.

  Her stockings were gone but a quick sweep of the room found her dress hung up neatly on the back of the door. Her stockings though, weren’t on the door; they were on the bottom of the bed, arranged in a shape. A heart shape.

  “Oh…” Unbidden, her hand covered her mouth as a warm, fuzzy feeling spread out from the center of her chest. He’d undressed her and put her to bed. It was the only explanation and further complicated the enigma that was Leighton Gray.

  He’d seen her naked. Heat flushed every inch of her skin, painting it scarlet. Oh my God, he’d seen her naked. Well, all but naked. Her underwear covered jack shit so he’d seen everything else. Her skin, the stretch marks from her constant battle with her weight. The appendectomy scar. The bulges, lumps, and bumps she hated all laid out on the canvas of the white sheet. The heat in her cheeks intensified and she moaned, barely recognizing the soft sound of distress as her own voice.

  He’d seen her, with the light on. Him with that ripped, hard body. What must he have thought? That she’d really let herself go. Perhaps that was why he hadn’t pushed his luck, gotten her naked and had sex with her anyway. As soon as the thought went through her head, she felt ashamed. He was better than that; she knew he was better than that. Like a gentleman, he’d undressed her and put her to bed.

  A shiver rolled through her at the thought of those big, firm hands on her body even if it was just to take her clothes off. She wished she’d been awake to feel it. Alone in her bedroom, she admitted to the desires she’d been pussyfooting around with all last night.

  Right or wrong, younger than her or not, she wanted Leighton. Heat crawled through her body at the thought, taking up residence low down in her belly. Her hips jerked, liquid heat slipping from her pussy and dampening her panties as the scent of arousal filled the air.

  Slipping from the bed she walked barefoot over the plush carpet, stopped in front of the mirrored door of the wardrobe, and studied her reflection. She wasn’t tall, only a couple of inches over five feet with an extra helping of curve she’d never been able to diet or exercise away no matter how much she tried.

  She ran her hands up over her hips and waist, turning this way and that. What did he see? Did he like her curves? Her lips pursed as she cupped her breasts, pushing them together and striking a provocative pose in the mirror. For all of two point four seconds before her head started to pound again.

  Grimacing, she dropped the pose and walked out into the main area of the apartment. She needed painkillers, coffee, and a shower. In that order. Then she was going to find a certain rugby player and ask him a few questions.

  * * *

  You’re gonna diet.

  Frankie couldn’t help the laugh as she looked at the words on the screen of her smartphone.

  “Yeah, no shit, Sherlock. Like I’m ever off a bloody diet.”

  And she wasn’t. Over the years she’d fallen prey to every fad diet or celebrity-endorsed craze there was, hoping beyond hope that this one might, just might, be the one that would magically melt the excess pounds from her hips and ass, leaving her with the svelte and slender figure she had in her dreams. She sighed. Like that was ever going to happen. There was no magic cure to losing weight; she’d finally accepted that. The problem was she sat on her ass too much and didn’t do enough exercise.

  Besides, who the hell was sending her such a bizarre text message? Swiping her thumb over the screen, she flicked the sender details up and frowned. It was a mobile number but not one she recognized. How odd. She sighed and shoved the phone back i
nto the front pocket of her jeans.

  Probably a wrong number, or worse, a promotional text. A work colleague had been plagued by them after an ex put her mobile number on a list for revenge. She’d had to change the number in the end. She’d see if she got another one, and then she’d work out whether she needed to ditch the number. Besides, there was a silver lining. If she did change it, Robby wouldn’t be able to contact her anymore. Win-win situation.

  “Just ’ere okay for you, duck?” the driver said as the taxi pulled into the parking lot in front of the south entrance of the Charnwood Road Stadium. She’d gleaned from Damon that they were training here today rather than the training ground farther out of town.

  “Yeah, perfect.” Digging in her bag, she pulled out her wallet and paid the fare. “Thanks, keep the change,” she said and slipped out of the taxi quickly so the guy could get away to pick up his next fare.

  The vehicle pulled away, the slightly battered sedan a total contrast with the luxury limo from last night. She still couldn’t believe he’d done that, ordered them a limo. Not just that, but, even though she’d been all over him, he’d wanted to wait until they’d gotten back to her place, instead of taking her up on her invitation and going for it right there in the luxurious interior. And she’d been in enough with her bosses to know the difference between a real top-line limo service and a special occasion one that catered to hen nights and proms.

  It was also a total contrast to her ex. If Robby ever ordered a luxury cab after one of their dates, he’d expected a handjob or something. For a limo, he’d have wanted the works and be damned if the driver or anyone else saw them. She shuddered, but that was him all over. He thought the world revolved around him.

  I want more than a one-night stand.

  Heat and pleasure rolled through her, a delicious counterpoint to the butterflies of excitement racing around her stomach at the thought of seeing Gray again. Did he mean it, that he wanted more than one night with her? Or had it all been an act, a good act, to get her to invite him in so they could… But they hadn’t; she was fairly sure of that. She wasn’t sore. There was no…other evidence. So it didn’t make sense.

  She stopped for a moment and looked up at the impressive building. The Willesdon Wolves were an old team, founded in the 1900s, and the building reflected that. She never thought, though, that she’d be walking around to the players’ entrance and giving her name to see her brother play here, if only training at the moment. The man on the door scanned a list out of sight behind the grilled window and nodded.

  “Go right through, Ms. Cross. I’ve got you down…twice actually. Guess they really wanted to make sure you got in.”

  She stopped at that, turning back to look at him curiously. “They?”

  “Yeah. I have you down as the personal guest of Damon Cross and Leighton Gray.” He grunted slightly. “First time Gray’s ever put anyone down.”

  “What? Ever?”

  Warmth spread out from the center of her chest at that little nugget of information. She knew the wives and girlfriends often came down to watch training. Well, more the girlfriends. The wives were more settled in their relationships, happier to see their men after they were mud and sweat-free.

  “Nope. We were beginning to think he was a chutney ferret.”

  She frowned, the northern dialect lost on her for a moment. Although she’d been brought up around here, having been in London for so long some of the sayings had slipped by her.

  “Yeah, chutney. You know…” The older man blushed, waving his hand vaguely. “Inclined the other way, batting for the other team?”

  “Ah.” The penny dropped and she laughed. “Oh no, he’s not. Believe me, he’s not.” With that, and savoring the look on the old boy’s face, she swept through the training entrance with a smile on her lips.

  It didn’t take her long to make her way pitchside, even with the warren of corridors. The sheer noise from the pitch echoed through them, making her quest easier. She emerged from the darkness of the building into the sunlight. Now heading into late spring, the weather was beginning to heat up and she felt sorry for the men pounding across the turf as she found a seat in the shade and sat down to watch.

  Gray and her brother were easy to pick out, although her attention was all on the first with just a quick glance spared for the tall figure of her brother. Instead, it was Gray who captured all her attention.

  His bright mop of blond hair was like a beacon, easily visible even if he hadn’t stood head and shoulders above most of the other players as they ran through what she assumed were a series of set plays. Determined expression on his face, he had the ball tucked under his arm and led a charge against what looked like an army of coaches armed with crash pads.

  Even running at half speed, he was impressive. She couldn’t take her eyes off him as he thundered down the pitch, shoulder lowered as he bulldozed his way through every barrier the opposition tried to put in his way. Finally he broke through the last barrier, massive thighs pumping as members of the other team trailed him.

  She held her breath as a challenger came in from the side, but he’d already seen the threat. His studs dug into the turf as he abruptly changed direction, the sheer power and flexibility required to do so boggling her mind. Behind him, the other players poured through the gap he’d created, the dark-haired streak that was her brother in the lead.

  Masculine shouts reached her, calls for the balls, positioning orders, most of which made no sense to her but obviously did to Gray. Another challenger came in, then another and another and even Frankie could see he wasn’t going to be able to avoid them all, no matter what fancy footwork he pulled.

  He didn’t even try. At the last moment he turned, throwing the ball to Damon in a slick move that said the pair had practiced it a million times, then dug his feet in. Half a second later he was tackled, a big hit that had everyone on the benches wincing.

  Frankie shot to her feet, her heart in her throat and her hand over her mouth; panic swarmed through her like a cloud of locusts, eating up every available resource until all she could think of was him. Her gaze riveted to the tangle of bodies and limbs where he’d hit the ground, one booted foot visible under a pile of bodies.

  Oh God, let him be okay. Please let him be okay.

  Her breath punched out of her lungs as the mound moved, Gray emerging from the bottom with a laugh. Relief flooded her, so strong she could taste it—

  A ball thudded into the turf in front of her feet.

  The sound of booted feet swiftly followed it; another player, one she didn’t recognize, swept her from head to foot with an interested glance.

  “’Ey up, sweetheart, come to see the best train?” His grin was so wide and charming that she couldn’t help but smile back. Catcalls and comments reached them as the other players registered their conversation.

  “Something like that,” she responded easily, which drew another grin. He didn’t get time to reply before a barked order from one of the coaches had him snatching the ball from the ground and sprinting back to join the rest of the squad.

  She didn’t bother watching him. Instead her gaze went straight back to Gray’s tall, wide-shouldered figure. Only to find him watching her with a steady blue-gray gaze. As soon as her eyes met his, he smiled, an expression full of lazy heat that made her heart turn over.

  The coaches called the team to order and another set play began. This time though, if there was an opportunity to get the ball onto her side of the pitch, it was taken, and she was treated to display after display of prowess as each player tried to one-up his teammates.

  A try was scored and she watched, waiting for the conversion kick. Instead of going between the posts, somehow the ball ended up sailing through the air to slam into the barrier just in front of her. She chuckled as the kicker, one of the smaller players on the team—which meant he could dwarf a normal-sized man—trotted over to her with an impish grin on his face.

  “Nice kick,” she commented, hearing
one of the coaching team going ballistic in the background. “Must take some skill to kick behind you like that.”

  He didn’t get time to answer as a furious bellow echoed across the pitch. “Bryant, you get your arse back over here!”

  He winked. “Yeah, I got mad skills, on and off the pitch. Stick around, and I’ll show you.”

  Frankie chuckled as he ran off, only to hear him yell, “Fuck me, Gray. If I’d known Cross’s sister was that hot, I’da let me brother walk from the bloody airport. I’d—”

  Gray and her brother intercepted him, Damon punching the ball from his grasp and her man grabbing the newly named Bryant in a headlock before he could finish what he’d been saying.

  “Oh for fuck’s sake!” The coach sounded apoplectic. “Gray, put him down. Cross, don’t you fucking dar—”

  Gray reluctantly released the other man as ordered, but it seemed he couldn’t resist a little payback, shoving him hard toward the coach. Damon, though, took the opportunity to boot the ball back down the pitch. Right toward Frankie.

  Gray took off after it, a glare at the three other players who started running as well stopping them in their tracks. Even from across the pitch she could read his body language, protective, aggressive… Hell, he looked ready to rip the others a new one if they so much as looked at her the wrong way.

  He was amazing. She watched as he ran toward her. The awkwardness she remembered from his youth was gone. Back then he’d been clumsy, always knocking into things, as if the long arms and legs, the tall frame, belonged to someone else. Now, though, he’d grown into it. There was no ungainliness. Instead there was raw power, solid muscle, and the confidence to use it.