Just My Luck (Escape to New Zealand #5) Read online

  “OK,” she said agreeably.

  “Other than that . . .” A bit more clicking and looking. “Thursday night. I can’t do dinner, but d’you want to spend the night? And come to the game Saturday? You and Kristen?”

  “Sure,” she said. “I’ll check with Kristen, but I’m pretty sure she’ll want to come.”

  “Two tickets, then.” He typed it in. “And I’ll collect you from your flat at eight-thirty Thursday, on my way back from dinner with the boys. We can have an early brekkie, then I’ll drop you at your flat again Friday morning.”

  “OK,” she said again. “I’ll take that.”

  “What does it look like on there?” she asked as he finished typing. “Just how hard is it to squeeze me in?”

  He swiveled the laptop, showed her the spaces, most of them filled.

  “What are these Auckland trips?” she asked. “Something to do with the All Blacks?”

  “Sponsorship things, media things,” he explained. “One for the All Blacks, one personal one this week.”

  “So next Wednesday,” she said slowly, “you’ve got training until noon, then an autograph-signing session with the team, and then you fly to Auckland for a couple hours for—a TV interview?” She looked up, got the confirming nod. “And then you’re back here again in the evening, and training again Thursday morning. Wow. You are busy.”

  She clicked again. Glanced at him, startled. Clicked some more, and looked at him again.

  “What?” he asked. “What is it?” What had her looking like that? He tried to remember if she could be seeing anything dodgy on his calendar. No. Not possible. Because there wasn’t anything.

  “Ally-D,” she read. “Sunday night. And I’m on there for the next day too, until one. All nicely filled in. And down here,” she clicked again, “on Thursday, we have Ally-S.”

  She looked at him, the dark brows drawing down a little over the brown eyes, and he could almost feel himself squirm.

  “I’m guessing,” she said slowly, “that Ally-D means you’re having dinner with me.”

  “Yeh,” he said with relief. “That’d be it.”

  “No Ally-B in either place,” she pointed out. “Presumably you think you can remember that we’ll have breakfast.”

  “Yeh,” he said again with a smile.

  “And,” she went on inexorably. “Ally-S? Don’t tell me, please don’t tell me that you’re calendaring sex with me.”

  “When you put it like that,” he protested, “it sounds bad.”

  “Well, yeah, it does,” she agreed, shoving the laptop back towards him. “What is it, a haircut? Are you telling me that unless it’s on your calendar, you wouldn’t remember? That you can’t hold that thought in your brain?”

  “Nah, it’s not that,” he tried to explain. “Just that there’s a lot to do, and I can’t afford to forget. So I put down as much as possible. It’s just a habit.”

  “Well, unless you take that S away,” she informed him, “you aren’t going to have to calendar it. Because it’s not going to be happening.”

  “Geez,” he muttered, grabbing the laptop from her and pressing “delete” over the offending character. “I’d like to play the ‘Ally being quiet and obedient’ roleplaying game. When am I getting that one?”

  He’d meant it as a joke, but found himself getting a little jolt at the thought. Looked at her, saw the shudder, her surefire sign of arousal. That had got her going too, had it?

  “Hmm,” she said with a sigh, clearly reading his mind as he continued to look at her. “You probably could get that one. I seem to be pretty easy, sorry to say. I’m guessing that all you’d need to do would be to play the ‘Nate being an attentive boyfriend’ game, and I’d go for it.”

  “What are you doing?” she asked as he began to type furiously again.

  “Calendaring the texts I’m going to be sending you this week. And reminding myself to make another Logan Brown booking for Sunday. We didn’t finish dinner last time, eh.”

  “And you want to make sure you get to eat all your steak? Nate . . .”

  “Nah,” he said. “I want to tell you to leave your dinner this time. So we can play that game.”

  Riding the Roller Coaster

  “You really did book us in here again,” Ally said with pleasure as Nate pulled the car to the curb outside Logan Brown a week later, where the valet came forward to meet them.

  “What?” Nate asked in surprise. “You saw me calendar it.”

  She waited until they were inside, seated at another intimate corner table, to continue the conversation. “So let’s see. If you calendar something, it happens? And if you don’t, it doesn’t?”

  “That’s about it. Well,” he amended, “not quite, or I’d’ve calendared a win in Brissy yesterday.”

  “Mmm,” she agreed. “I have a question about that, if you don’t mind answering it. Well, two questions.”

  “If it’s two,” he decided, “we’d better order first.”

  “Right,” he said a few minutes later. “Two questions.”

  “Gosh, you’re efficient,” she marveled. “Do we have an agenda for this meeting?”

  “Oh, yeh,” he said, and his eyes were warm on hers. “I’ve got an agenda. Think you know about that already, but I’ll be glad to run through the points for you later.”

  She cleared her throat, shifted a little on the leather banquette. “One of my questions, actually. But it’s Question Two, so I’ll start with Question One. Since I know how orderly you like to be.”

  “Question One, then,” he prompted.

  “You may not want to answer it,” she cautioned.

  He looked at her in mock alarm. “If you’re actually having second thoughts about sharing, maybe I should be concerned. But I’m pretty tough. Go ahead.”

  “Just about your team, and the All Blacks,” she began. “I mean, I know the All Blacks get selected from all five of the New Zealand Super 15 teams, right?”

  “Right.”

  “So does how well your team is doing, your Super 15 team I mean, how much impact does that have on whether you’re selected for the All Blacks?”

  “That’s your sensitive question?”

  “Yeah. What? That’s not sensitive? I mean, the fact that you’ve . . .” She couldn’t help her voice dropping a bit at the word, “lost a few games?”

  He laughed. “You can say it. If it’s too much for my delicate feelings to hear that we’ve lost, I’d better not read the papers, eh.”

  “Do you read the papers?”

  “Nah,” he said, still smiling. “Never read your press. That’s pretty much Rule Number One when you’re a sportsman. You’ll either become a tall poppy, or slink away into a corner in shame. I know how I’m going, what I need to work on, what the team needs to work on. And anything I’ve missed, well, that’s why you have coaches. But I’m going to take a guess here that the newsies have pointed out that we’ve lost. And have explained exactly why, too. That they’ve wondered why we haven’t got those obvious things put right yet, and that the general public’s weighed in as well.”

  “Yes, they have,” she said. “All of the above, and it makes me so mad. And you care, too, even if you don’t want to read about it. I know you do.”

  “Course I care.” He was serious now. “I told you, I really, really hate to lose. And that’s why I do everything I can to win. You can’t always, though, doesn’t matter what team you play for. Even,” he said with a smile, “the All Blacks. It’s never fun, you’re always gutted, but that’s sport. Flush the dunny and move on.”

  “Nice metaphor,” she said wryly. All right, he didn’t want to talk about it. “So OK. If your team isn’t winning—and not every New Zealand team does well every year, right?”

  “Right,” he agreed. “Sadly.”

  “So my question is,” she pressed, “what does that mean for the All Blacks, if your team isn’t very successful?”

  “If the squad were selected by the public,
or even some of the press, it’d mean a hell of a lot. Most of the journos know better, but there are a few . . . But anyway, since the selectors are looking at individual form, and they know what they’re doing, it doesn’t matter so much. Course you look better if you’re on a winning side, but they know that doesn’t always happen. They’re looking at who’s in form, wherever he’s playing.”

  “OK. Good,” she said with relief.

  “Were you worried?” he asked with another smile.

  “Well . . . I’m glad to know, let’s just put it that way.”

  “So that’s Question One sorted. What was Question Two, then?”

  “You still remember that there was a Question Two?”

  “I’m organized,” he pointed out. “As you’ve noted.”

  He was interrupted by the arrival of their dinners, and they paused for a few minutes.

  “Thanks for your email Friday night, by the way. Made me laugh,” he said at last, cutting another bite of steak. She’d teased him about ordering the same thing both times, to which he’d just answered, “I know what I like, and I get it.” Which had been followed by a look that she’d had not the least difficulty interpreting.

  “Oh!” She brought her mind back with a start. “I thought you might appreciate that.” She smiled at him. “That you weren’t the only one.”

  I tried to show a guy how to climb today, she’d written. I thought he was actually going to ask to have the person in charge—you know, a MAN—help him instead. He thought about it, I know he did. So I did what I usually do, got really matter-of-fact, really impersonal. And after he left, Robbo told me that he asked if I was a lesbian! He really did!

  He’d emailed back,

  Interesting. Glad I know better. And by the way, in case I haven’t mentioned it, I’m one hell of a lucky man.

  Which had sure been nice to hear.

  “Hope I wasn’t as bad as that,” he said now. “But I’m thinking maybe I was.”

  “Well, maybe. But at least you didn’t ask that. Of course, that was probably because you ran away so fast.”

  He laughed. “You’re probably right.”

  “I have another question for you, though,” she said, taking another bite of her own dinner. Fish this time. Much easier to eat than lamb, when your mind was elsewhere.

  “Would this be Question Two?”

  “Nope. Question . . . One and a half. How do you know what to say, when the announcer interviews you right after the game? Do you practice that?”

  That got another smile from him. “Nah. But I’ve done it a fair few times now, you know. Pretty simple. Just tell the truth, win or lose. Say what you did well, what you’ll be working on. What the other side did well. That’s about it.”

  “You’re so honest, though. That surprises me.”

  “Not going to deceive anybody by trying to sugarcoat things,” he shrugged. “Everyone saw the match. If the kicking was rubbish, if you need to get the scrum sorted . . . they can all see that.”

  “The crowd seemed pretty hostile over there,” she said next. “I heard some boos when you guys came out.”

  “That’s Aussie. Specially Queensland. A bit more excitable than Kiwis, that’s all.”

  “And that wasn’t Question Two either,” he prompted. “Where are we now? One and Seven-Eighths? Anything else?”

  “Well, I did want to know why you kick the ball so much. I mean, why do you give it right back to the other team? And then they give it back to you, so what’s the point?”

  “What?” she asked as he started to laugh, unable to resist laughing herself in response.

  “If I read this in the Dominion Post tomorrow,” he said, “I’m going to know you’ve been on a stealth mission all along. Sleeping with me to get access to my innermost thoughts, do an exposé. Not that anybody’d pay for that. I’m a pretty boring fella.”

  “You are not,” she protested.

  “Yeh. I am. But you’re just stalling now, Ally. Come on. Question Two.”

  “I’m embarrassed,” she admitted.

  He fixed her with those ice-blue eyes. “Question Two,” he commanded.

  She looked down at her plate. She’d got through a pretty good amount of her dinner tonight, unlike last time. And she supposed it had tasted good.

  “It’s kind of a shame, really, that you keep bringing me here,” she said. “Since I can’t remember anything about eating either meal, and I noticed that it’s really expensive.”

  He ignored that. “Question Two.”

  She cleared her throat. “Umm . . . when we talked last week. When you calendared that you were going to bring me here, you said . . .”

  “Yeh? What did I say?”

  “Well, when I made you take off the S,” she clarified. “You asked me when we were going to . . .” She looked around, leaned closer. “Play that game,” she whispered.

  “I told you,” he said, looking surprised, though she could tell it was an act. “We’re going to do it tonight. What, did you think I’d forget? I decided it was like breakfast. That I could manage to hold it in my head. And what d’you reckon, I’ve done it.”

  “And I said that I was going to make you leave your dinner this time,” he said, signaling for the check. “You’ll notice I was efficient, as usual. Finished mine. But you’re done.”

  And that was the last thing he’d said to her. They were in the car, nearly at his house, and he still hadn’t spoken. And the tension was too much for her to bear.

  “All right,” she burst out when he’d turned the corner into his street, was slowing and punching the button for the garage door. “I give up. I lose. You win.”

  “I know I do,” he said equably, pulling the car in, punching the door closed. “You don’t have to tell me. That’s the point of tonight, eh. I win.”

  With that, the tingle she’d felt during dinner, long since grown to an insistent pulse of arousal, gave another thrum, and she felt herself actually squirming a little. They were sitting in the dim light of the garage, and he wasn’t touching her. But she’d never been more aware of him, and she knew he could tell exactly how she was feeling too.

  “Nate . . .” she began.

  “No,” he said firmly. “No. That’s what this game is. You don’t get to talk. You don’t get to say anything. You’re just doing what I tell you tonight. Everything I tell you. Unless you want to stop,” he added as an afterthought. “If you want to stop, say so, and we’ll stop. Otherwise . . . we’re playing.”

  “When do we start?” she managed to ask.

  He smiled a bit at that. “Haven’t you noticed? We started about an hour ago. And that’s it. No more talking. Unless I hear ‘stop,’ you’re not talking till I tell you we’re done. And that’s not happening for a good long time yet.”

  She looked at him, opened her mouth to speak. Saw the look in his eyes, and closed it again. Oh, yeah. She’d play this game. He needed a win? Well, he was going to get one. Because she wanted it too.

  “First thing, get out of the car,” he said. “And follow me up to the house.”

  She did it. Of course she did it. She was inching up the biggest hill on the tallest roller coaster there was. Knowing that the drop was coming, knowing it would be almost too much, knowing that she’d be screaming when she got there. Half of her wishing she could stop the ride and get off, and the other half anticipating the thrill of the fall.

  She walked up the steps behind him. Waited silently while he unlocked the door and motioned her inside. Then she stood there and waited for that drop.

  He hung his keys on their hook. Of course he did. Leaned back against the solid wood and looked at her, standing in the middle of the entryway.

  “Take off your clothes,” he told her. “Everything but the shoes. Leave those on.”

  She did as he told her, dropping one piece at a time at her feet, until she was standing before him, naked.

  “Yeh,” he said. “That’s good. That’s what I want. Now walk upstairs
to my bedroom.”

  He wasn’t taking off his clothes? They were still moving up the hill, and she wasn’t sure she could stand the anticipation.

  She turned and obeyed his instruction, could feel his gaze on her as they began to climb. Then jumped with surprise, came to a halt when his hand closed around one cheek, began to rub.

  “Keep walking,” he told her. “While I feel this.”

  She shuddered a little. He had the other hand over a breast now, was caressing her in both places, pressed against her, climbing right behind her. And then they were at the top of the stairs, and she came to a stop, every part of her quivering.

  “Keep going. My bedroom,” he prompted. She shivered again, walked into the center of the room, and stopped again. Because he was right behind her, and he had both hands on her, one in front, the other moving in from behind. And those hands were merciless. Her breath was coming hard, and she was rocking in the high heels. She could feel him behind her, pressed into her, and she wanted him so much it hurt.

  He didn’t stop until she was nearly there. Then took both hands from her abruptly, forcing a little gasp from her at the loss. He was turning her around, bending to kiss her, his hands gripping her behind, pulling her up on tiptoe, rubbing her over him, creating a delicious friction as her sensitive center slid over the woolen fabric of his trousers, and she could feel herself opening for him. Needing him so much. Needing him right now.

  He set her down, took a step back. He was breathing hard too. Not nearly as firmly in control as he wanted her to think.

  “Take off my shirt,” he said. “Slowly.”

  When she was on her knees, removing his shoes and socks, she could tell the roller coaster was almost at the top. And when she was unfastening his belt, it was teetering at the rim. And after that, it was all the way over, and she was falling.

  But it wasn’t the big hill yet after all, because he was still in control, and he wasn’t letting her go yet. He was talking to her, telling her what he wanted, moving her at last from the floor to his bed. And every time she got close, every time the cries rose in her throat, threatened to escape, he was moving her, shifting positions, dropping her down a bit, making her climb that next hill.