Royal Baby (A British Bad Boy Romance) (27 page)

Brian nodded. “Wouldn’t be an exclusive if I gave it to both of you, would it? That would be an inclusive, and no one gives a crap about that.”

“Which one of us, then?” Lauren asked. “And why are you telling both of us?”

“I’d think it was obvious,” said Brian, “that I’m telling both of you because I haven’t made up my mind about which one of you will get it.”

“Ah,” I said.

“Nor am I about to,” Brian continued.

“Ah,” Lauren said, echoing me.

“You both have much to recommend you,” Brian explained. “You’re both young up-and-comers and that’s the flavor this article needs—I give it to one of the old-timers and they’ll spend all their time asking which footballers of the past Liam admires, and who gives a rotten crap about that? You’re both women and that’s a demographic Liam plays well in. You both know your stuff and you write with flair. You both work for organizations we’d like to look favorably on Liam for the future.”

He paused to cough for a second, then continued. “Lauren, the BBC represents Britain; it’s where Liam’s from, it’s where football matters, it’s where the fans come from and there’s definitely something to be said for loyalty when it comes to who covers his first interview. On the other hand, Allison, your magazine has done more than any other publication to raise the sport’s profile in the US, and we take that seriously. It’s read all over the world, and while the Beeb does football all the time, Liam would be the first Premiership footballer to give an exclusive to you. Frankly, there’s little to choose between you in practical terms—you both present an attractive package.”

Another man might have said that leeringly, but Brian Thomas obviously didn’t care about being a sleazebag when there was business to discuss.

“That’s why I’m passing the buck on to someone with a less practical outlook,” he added.

“Who?” I asked, since he seemed to be waiting for someone to ask.

“Liam Croft.”

Having delivered this surprising news, Brian took a step back and allowed it to sink in.

Lauren was the first to speak. “Liam Croft is going to choose between us?”

“Yes,” Brian said. “Seems to make sense. After all, this will  be a bare-all, up close and personal, no holds barred type of piece, and doing that with someone he doesn’t like wouldn’t really work, would it? So why not give him the final say? Qualifications-wise you two are equals—Liam will make his decision based on something a little less tangible.” He turned to leave. “Enjoy the game, ladies. I’ll see you afterwards.”

Lauren and I exchanged glances. We’d already been in competition, of course, but now that competition had heated up in no uncertain terms. ‘May the best journalist win’ no longer seemed appropriate.

We headed back into the media lounge as the players took to the pitch. Normally I would’ve been agog at this point; keen to enjoy my first Premiership match. But not now. I’d said nothing after Brian dropped his unexpected bombshell. What was there to say, really? I’d seen the pictures of Liam out on the town—the whole world had seen them. When it came to girls, he had a very distinct type, and if you were trying to find the number one example of that type, then you couldn’t do much better than Lauren Bilson.

I looked over at her again. As I watched her flash a dazzling white smile to a bartender who immediately flushed bright red, my mind flashed back to my editor’s words, and I began to wonder if my supposed assets were going to be enough to get me through this and make Liam pick me.

Probably not.

Dammit.

Chapter 4

Liam

Is arrogance still arrogant when it’s true?

That was one of the questions that constantly buzzed around me from the media—along with ‘Is he single?’ and ‘How many of those stories do you think are true?
Really
?’ Press conferences like the one I’d given prior to today’s match were the norm for me—rank disregard for my opponents coupled with a cast iron assumption of victory that went well beyond mere self-confidence.

Of course, a lot of it was a show for the journalists—my manager Brian wanted me to come across in a certain overly self-confident way to build up a striking, memorable public image of me—but I would’ve still gladly admitted that I was as arrogant a man as had ever lived. But then there was that question again: was it really arrogance if it was true? I was currently the best at what I did, and there never really seemed to be any doubt that my team would win.

So
was
it actually egotistical to say it? Or would it have been stupidly over-modest to deny something that everyone knew? Most people would have to agree that I wasn’t exactly wrong in my self-confidence, but I guess that didn’t make it any more pleasant a trait.

The one thing that made the trait bearable to people (other than the fact that I kept winning matches) was that I was damn passionate about what I did. It wasn’t always obvious in my press conferences, because I was so blasé about winning without even having to try, but I truly loved what I did. I was never happier than when I was out on a football pitch, and for all the ‘I don’t need to try’ acts I put on for the media, I never gave less than one-hundred percent. Somehow that enthusiasm negated—or at least mitigated—my inflated ego.

It was, therefore, no great surprise that when the match ended that afternoon it was with a resounding victory for my team. I’d scored twice and assisted in another two goals—I might’ve been arrogant but I was still a team player—and was carried out of the stadium on the shoulders of my teammates to the ecstatic roars of a delighted crowd, chanting my name. Their latest chant was
Liam Croft, never soft.

Ha! Never soft, indeed.

Just ask the ladies.

All kidding aside, when this sort of thing represented your average day at work, surely a man could be forgiven for getting a bit of a swollen head. I’d played out of my mind and got the result that I knew I deserved—so why did it sound so wrong to actually say that I deserved it?

Grabbed by a roving TV camera crew for an immediate post-match reaction to yet another victory, I put on my best ‘media smile’ and prepared to live up to the reputation I’d worked so hard to forge.

“Liam, are you surprised by today’s victory?”

I nodded. “I really am.”

The reporter’s eyes widened. “Oh?”

“Yes. I thought we’d beat them by a much bigger margin than that. Maybe all the drinking is actually starting to affect me.”

He chuckled. “Is there anyone you’d like to thank?”

I knew that reporters asked me questions like this to get the shockingly arrogant soundbite that they always wanted from me, but today I wasn’t about to play their game, as I actually had someone to thank.

“Yeah. My brother Dean. I wouldn’t be where I am without him, and he’s always there for me with my best interests in mind. And, even if he can sometimes be a bit of a pain in the arse, I really do appreciate everything that he does for me.”

With this little bit of climbing down and fence-mending accomplished, I gave a cheery wave to the TV camera crew as I headed for the locker room. I could thank my teammates face to face—they knew I appreciated their contribution as well, but according to Brian, saying that on camera could hurt my brash public image, and that hurt the team in turn, albeit indirectly.

A shower and a change of clothes later, I was finally heading out of the locker room, knowing that the grim task of the post-match press conference lay ahead of me. I was grabbed once again, this time by my manager.

“Great match, kid,” Brian said, slapping me on the back.

“You were watching?”

Brian frowned. “Of course not. You were playing football—why in the world would I want to see that? Get it together, man.”

“Then why did you say…” I began, but he cut me off with a wave of his hand.

“Everyone says you won,” Brian explained. “That’s good enough for me.”

“Well, nice to know you care.”

Brian frowned again. “What on earth would make you think I care? That’s crazy talk. You winning and keeping up your public image works for both of us—that’s what it’s all about. So keep doing it and we’re golden. You kick the ball, or whatever the hell it is you people do out there for ninety minutes, and I’ll take care of everything else. Speaking of which: I’ve got two women waiting for you in the lounge.”

I held up my hands. “Money I’m happy to leave to you, but I don’t need you, or anyone else for that matter, to bring me women. I can get my own damn girls. And if I ever reach the point of
not
being able to get my own…” I paused as this horrifying future flashed through my unwilling brain. “…then we’ll figure something out. But until that day—that distant,
distant
day—I don’t need you providing girls for me.”

Brian’s lips twitched, but he didn’t respond just yet.

“What do they look like?” I added. While I didn’t like the idea of my manager bringing me women, if they were already here then I wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth. I may as well enjoy a bout of post-match coital bliss with the ladies.

“Are you quite finished ranting, you horny idiot?” Brian asked, shaking his head.

“What?”

“If I’d said that there were two men waiting for you in the media lounge, what would you have thought?”

I shrugged. “I guess I’d have thought that they were reporters.”

“So…” Brian waited for my one-track mind to work its way around to the truth.

“They’re reporters?”

“Yes,” he said, nodding. “They actually let women have jobs these days, you know,” he added sarcastically.

I scoffed. “Oh, shut it! I just wasn’t thinking. I’m tired.”

I wasn’t an idiot, nor was I unfamiliar with the concept of women in the workplace, but my first reaction to them always came from just below waist level. It wasn’t exactly something I was proud of—well, there were
some
aspects of it I was proud of—but my overall attitude to the opposite sex was one which I was willing to admit was a bit sleazy. Maybe it was a consequence of my upbringing, maybe I was just a jerk. Either way, I wasn’t proud of it. There were always hundreds of female reporters sent to interview me after matches, and yet my mind had immediately jumped to sex when Brian mentioned two women in the lounge.

Brian quickly returned to business; something he was always comfortable doing, “They’re both American. One is visiting from there, and the other is permanently based in London now. They’re here for your exclusive interview.”

“Why are there two of them? They can’t both do it, if it’s exclusive.”

I might not have always paid much attention to the business side of things, but even I could spot the problem there.

“You’re going to pick which one gets the exclusive.”

“Me?” I said. “I thought that was your job. I pay you to deal with the media and all that crap, so I don’t have to. If you don’t do it, then what am I paying you for?”

Brian shrugged. “For making you one of the wealthiest, best known and most successful sportsman on the planet?”

I acknowledged this with a curt nod. “Well, yes. But I also pay you to handle the media. Why can’t you just pick one?”

Brian sighed. He obviously didn’t like the part of his job that required him to explain himself to sports people. “Because it will look like I picked the girl just because she works for the BBC. It’ll look like I just chose the bigger organization with the deepest pockets; as if it’s all about the money. And we can’t make it so incredibly bloody obvious. But they’ve sent along a nice-looking blonde girl, as I asked them to, so when you pick her, no one will be the least bit surprised.”

“Wait…so I’m not really choosing between them?” I asked.

Brian’s eyebrows shot up. “Good grief no! You can’t seriously think I’d leave a decision like that to you!”

I nodded. On the one hand, I ought to have been happy. I hadn’t wanted to choose between the girls and now it seemed that I didn’t really have to. On the other, it did feel a little bit as if I was being manipulated, which wasn’t a feeling I enjoyed.

“All you’re doing,” Brian continued with his explanation, “is making it look as if we’re giving equal consideration to a smaller media outlet. Take time to speak to the other one—I forgot her name; some dark-haired girl—and listen to what she says. Or at least act like it. Then just do what comes naturally…hit on the blonde with the nine foot legs.”

“What’s her name?”

“Lauren Bilson.”

I nodded. That would be fine; girls called Lauren were usually pretty hot.

When I arrived in the media lounge—led by Brian, his face wreathed in a disingenuous smile—it wasn’t hard for me to guess which of the girls I was supposed to pick, nor for me to see why Lauren had been selected for this particular assignment.

I would’ve been the first to admit if I actually had a ‘type’, but I didn’t. It had been Brian’s suggestion for me to always be seen with a particular type of woman—those who the gossip columns and magazines always lauded as perfect—so now I’d appeared on the front of every magazine and newspaper in the country with every tall blonde model, singer and actress in the country. Now everyone else in the country thought they knew that I liked my ladies tall, blonde and slim. It had become part of the Croft brand, like arrogance and drunkenness, but unlike all the other aspects of my brand, there wasn’t even the slightest degree of truth to it.

In fact, I liked women of all shapes and sizes, so the tall, skinny blonde ‘obsession’ I allegedly had was manufactured by Brian and exaggerated to extremes for the sake of the public. I guess it worked, though. The gossip columns loved that I apparently had a type, because it meant they could easily speculate which up-and-coming model or actress I’d go for next.

When I laid eyes on Lauren Bilson, I immediately knew she was the one I was meant to pick for the interview. She was pretty, with a slim figure, long blonde hair and flashing green eyes. Not bad. I could see why they’d sent her.

Then I noticed the other girl, and I felt like I’d just been hit by a bolt of lightning.

Christ, she was gorgeous, and she couldn’t have been more different to Lauren if she tried. She was on the shorter side, while Lauren was tall. Her hair was a shiny dark brown compared to Lauren’s blonde, and while Lauren’s blonde hair was straight and controlled, the other girl’s hair was curly and wild. Lauren had a fine figure, gently undulating like a willow, whereas her counterpart featured impressive curves that could hardly fail to catch a man’s attention.

Especially a man like me. I loved a woman with curves more than anything.

Above all, while there was no doubt that Lauren Bilson was a nice-looking woman in her own right, she’d obviously enhanced that genetic predisposition with haircare products, makeup and a skirt so eye-catchingly short that sitting down was guaranteed to reveal her knickers to someone. These were all things that I heartily approved of in the women I usually chose to be seen with, and yet I found myself drawn to the sheer natural beauty of the other girl.
She
didn’t seem to have made any effort whatsoever; her hair was wild, a suggestion of eyeliner was the only concession to makeup, and her clothes were clearly chosen for practicality.

Somehow, that made her ten times more stunning than any other woman I’d seen lately.

Or maybe ever.

Try as I might, I couldn’t stop staring at her, and for a second, I actually caught her eye. I expected her to glance away shyly or flash me an inviting smile like every other female reporter did when they were vying for my attention, but instead, she boldly looked back at me with an impassive look on her face, then gave me a mere ghost of a smile before turning her attention to Brian.

Okay, then
.
I guess she wasn’t my biggest fan.

“Ladies,” Brian said, inviting them closer with an expansive movement of his hands. “
This
is Liam Croft. Liam, this is Lauren Bilson…”

“It’s a great honor to meet you, Mr. Croft,” the blonde said, beaming a megawatt smile in my direction.

“…and…I’m sorry, Miss, I’ve forgotten your name.”

“Allison Flores,” the gorgeous brunette replied. Her voice was like honey, as clichéd as that sounded. “Very pleased to meet you, Mr. Croft.”

She was polite, but considerably less effusive than Lauren, and I wondered why.

“Miss Bilson. Miss Flores.” I shook hands with the two women politely, smiling my best media smile. I was still finding it almost impossible to take my eyes off Allison. I absolutely
had
to give her the interview….but then Brian would be furious, and Brian did tend to know best when it came to business. If he’d put this deal together, then it’d been for a reason, and me coming along and screwing it up did neither of us any good. On the other hand, if I gave the interview to Lauren, then I might never see Allison again as she’d probably be immediately heading back to her home country. That idea troubled me more than I would’ve thought, considering how I’d only met her five seconds ago.