Trying Too Hard...: A steamy standalone sports romance. Molly Wishlade Ann

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      She bit her lip. Strange. She would usually share much more about her latest beau with Sarah but there was something different here. Henri. Catrin didn’t want to tell Sarah about the level of intimacy she’d shared with him. It was…special, important, theirs. Hers and Henri’s. To discuss their sexual exploits would be like betraying him and she didn’t want to do that.

      But she could show him off!

      She reached into her bag and pulled out her iPad. She cleared the cups to one side and placed it in front of her friend then opened the celebrity client folder. When she found the right file, she pulled up Henri’s photograph.

      “Wow!” Sarah sighed. “That is what I call a man and as you know I’m not all that fond of…” She cut herself short and looked at Catrin then started to giggle.

      Catrin winked at her then gazed at the photograph. She tapped the screen to enlarge it and absently traced the strong jawline and dark hair which flopped softly onto his forehead and curled above his ears. He really was one of the best looking men she’d ever seen. She was consumed by an ache to hold him again and to be held.

      “So when are you seeing him?”

      “Tonight.” Catrin’s stomach flipped in anticipation. “In fact, I’m going straight there.”

      “Well let’s go get you something nice to wear!”

      Catrin grinned. “Really?”

      Sarah nodded. “But promise me that you’ll be careful.”

      “I promise,” she replied, well aware that caution had not been her strength of late.

      As they stood up and donned their coats, Catrin allowed Sarah’s warmth and enthusiasm to warm her right through. She knew that the relationship with Henri was doomed, knew that it wasn’t going to go anywhere. She was breaking protocol and taking a gamble with her career. But Henri wouldn’t be in Wales permanently and once she got promoted to celebrity agent in her own right, she’d have no more to do with him. She’d build her own client list and this would be a fling she’d had one wet, miserable Welsh summer. Like the brief glimpses of sun that Wales celebrated in August, Catrin would savour Henri’s warmth. Until it was time to let go.

      It must be something to do with the time of year, when love should be in the air -if you listened to the radio and believed the clichés in the magazines – and she’d let her emotions and her lust get the better of her. She’d enjoy what time they had, keep it all under wraps, then watch as he sailed off into the sunset. Make that rode off – on the Eurotunnel.

      It would be as easy as that!

      Wouldn’t it?

      ***

      Henri paced up and down the length of his hotel room lounge with the frustration of a caged tiger. He just wanted Catrin to arrive so that he could immerse himself in her, both physically and mentally and shut out the nagging doubts.

      He was a Frenchman in Cardiff. It might not sound as exotic as Sting’s Englishman in New York but it was certainly exotic to him. Everything was so different here yet so beautiful. He was just hours from his homeland and could be back there by train or plane whenever he chose but he had a feeling that he may not want to return.

      He’d come to Wales to train with the Welsh team. Following their Grand Slam victory, everyone with international ambitions and any sense wanted to experience their training regime and to see for themselves the new improved team that the top New Zealand manager had created. They were tough, strong and fast. He’d debuted with his own local team in France but his mother had been Welsh, which gave him dual nationality – and a choice.

      He was a skilled full back and sought after. Offers had been made and deals placed on the table. If only it could be as easy as playing for France and Wales but it wasn’t. The IRB stated that you had to choose which country you played for then stick with that country. He needed a strong agent to seal the best possible deal for him in order to map out his career. He had received proposals from both France and Wales and he had to make a decision before the autumn round of matches began. If he made his international debut for Wales, he could never play for France and vice-versa.

      His agent in France had referred him to Clarkson and Gwillam’s Welsh branch for the duration of his stay and he had gone along to their anniversary dinner just a week ago. He hadn’t been looking forward to it, in fact he’d almost been dreading it. He hated all the fuss and glitz of the celebrity world and he’d had enough of the bimbos and hangers-on that the modern culture encouraged.

      But then he’d seen her and it had all changed.

      Walking into the fine medieval hall at Cardiff Castle had been an experience in itself. He’d been chauffeured to the event, though he could easily have walked it from the Hilton. The chauffeur had told him that Liam H. Clarkson would meet him at the entrance. The agent must have been late, which hadn’t troubled Henri at all. He didn’t need someone to hold his hand, so he’d entered the historic building alone and the atmosphere had been an absolute delight.

      Long, narrow corridors weaved like labyrinths, their cold stone walls illuminated by heavy candelabra. Every so often a corridor widened out into a small chamber which was adorned with faded tapestries and suits of armour. He had to force his mouth shut to prevent himself from gawking like a schoolboy in a sweetshop.

      When he’d arrived at the largest chamber so far, he was lulled by the mellow Celtic tunes plucked from a harp and the heady aroma of the expensive spicy perfumes and citrus colognes of the hundred or so people milling around. The air was filled with animated chatter which rose above the mournful melody and bounced off the curved stone ceiling.

      Though he’d grown up in France, he’d visited Wales on several occasions but never made it to the castle. That evening he had wondered why. He felt something there, a connection deep in his soul, like a part of him belonged to this ancient, beautiful and rugged country.

      He had accepted a glass of champagne from a pretty young woman dressed as a medieval servant and taken a big gulp. Then he’d seen her. She reminded him of a mermaid with her slim figure and white blonde hair which fell like a satin waterfall to her waist. Her grey-blue eyes sparkled like sapphires in the candlelight and her skin seemed to glow, making her appear ethereal. If it hadn’t been for her modern attire, he’d have been convinced that she was a spirit trapped within the castle walls, luminescent with paranormal energy. A hundred cheesy chatup lines had run through his head but he’d been so overwhelmed that he couldn’t pick one out. They just merged together like a giant melting pot of lust and nerves.

      His breath caught in his throat as she’d moved across the room. Her elegant frame was swathed in the sheerest black fabric which clung to every curve. He could tell that she wasn’t wearing a bra and his cock had twitched with desire at the high, round breasts. He wondered if she was aware that the material of her dress was so sheer but then of course she was, she was probably a model or actress and used to displaying her wares. It was all about attracting attention with these types of women. The hem of her dress stopped just below her knee – not too slutty, not too formal – and it drew attention to slim calves and killer black heels.

      “Henri!” Ahand clapped him on the shoulder and he turned, reluctant to look away from the flaxen-haired vision.

      He raised a questioning eyebrow.

      “I’m Liam Clarkson.” The man held out a manicured hand. “Pleased СКАЧАТЬ