I was sitting amongst friends and gorgeous models and adoring fans, and all of it faded into the background as I looked down into the crowd of people and found her. The good-luck girl. The one whose kiss nearly had me ducking back into the shower for a cold blast before my match. The one whose tits I had been fantasizing about since I felt them pressed against my chest, her nipples pert against her shirt. The one whose big brown bedroom eyes and mussed dark hair practically begged for a good time.

The one who had run away before I could get anything more than a name.

And there she was—Emmy—staring up at me from a massively crowded dance floor, her cheeks flushed, and the view giving me a fantastic shot of her cleavage. When I raised my eyes back to her face, she lifted an eyebrow as if she knew exactly what I was thinking. I gave her a wolfish grin, and pushed away from the table.

“Need another beer?” Declan—my best mate and bodyguard—did the same.

“Yeah, but I’ll get this one myself,” I told him.

This time he was the one who raised an eyebrow.

“I’m capable of getting my own drinks,” I frowned. Surely I wasn’t that much of a spoiled wanker that I needed to be waited on hand and foot.

“Sure, you are,” he teased.

I gave his hair a playful ruffle as I passed by, ducking easily as he tried to do the same. He might have been bigger and brawnier than I was, but I had the speed and agility, which usually proved quite useful on the court.

I knew he had to follow me, it was his job, after all, but it was times like this when I craved invisibility. I doubted the paparazzi would believe me if I told them, but I was actually a pretty private person. It just wasn’t that easy to keep private things private when everyone in London knew your face and your name, and was quick with a camera phone. Sure, some of the things the tabloids printed were true. I wasn’t one to turn away from a good party, nor did I tend to avoid beautiful women. But the tales of my exploits involving both were highly exaggerated.

Then again, the truth never sold papers, so it didn’t matter if I wasn’t as out of control as everyone thought. If people wanted to believe that I was the bad boy of tennis, the black sheep of my family, well, there was pretty much fuck all I could do to change that. So I stopped trying. Embraced what I could and ignored what I couldn’t.

If only my family could do the same.

Weaving through the crowd, I could feel Declan’s eyes on me. I would have given my left ball to have a brother like him, instead of the stick-up-his-arse, wet-blanket one I had. Hugh made it a point to be the best at everything, and he succeeded in nearly every single aspect of his life. Except sports. He could never beat me at sports. I suppose a therapist would have a field day exploring the psychology behind why I worked so hard to excel at something that my brother couldn’t. And why I insisted on playing even though it challenged the way Davenports had presented themselves to society since, well, the beginning of Davenports.

Tennis was the one thing I had where my accomplishments weren’t the result of my last name. I did well in tennis because I was good at tennis. And I fucking loved it. There was nothing like the rush I got before, during, and after a game. It was like being on a whole different planet. Like being a completely different person. Nothing mattered but the ball, my racquet, and the net.

The only thing comparable was a night of fantastic sex. And contrary to what the tabloids said, it had been quite a while since I had one of those. Training had taken over my life the past year. After a disappointing showing at Wimbledon last year, I was determined to prove myself. No tantrums on the court, no fistfights with wankers like Killian Black, and no one-night stands that made me late for practice.

That last rule of mine was being sorely tested by the brunette in black that I was searching for on the dance floor. Everything about her was appealing, and just remembering how she had grabbed me and kissed me was already making me hard. I wanted her. I wanted to pull that tight black shirt down around her waist and fill my hands with her beautiful tits, sucking her tight, taut nipples into my mouth, making her moan.

Out of the corner of my eye I could see groups of women whispering as I passed. I was used to the attention. Used to women throwing themselves at me. What I wasn’t used to was someone like Emmy who had apparently had no idea who I was.

It wasn’t the first time someone had claimed they didn’t recognize me. For the most part, I played along, because I didn’t really give a fuck. But Emmy seemed genuinely oblivious. Maybe it was because she was American. No matter the reason, it was appealing as hell.

Moving through the crowd, I scanned the crush of bodies for her. My phone buzzed in my pocket and I pulled it out to find the most recent in a long line of texts from my coach. All of them demanding I get my arse back to the hotel and go to sleep, rest up for practice tomorrow. I ignored it, the way I ignored the others. Garrett is a great coach but I don’t need a nanny.

“Fuck,” I heard Declan mutter behind me.

I turned and followed his gaze.

“Fuck,” I confirmed.

Even though Declan had no idea I was looking for Emmy, he knows that there’s one person I really don’t want to see. Killian Black. And that Aussie bastard was leaning against the bar, laughing like a fucking hyena, and ordering a round of drinks.

“Just avoid him, mate,” Declan put his hand on my shoulder.

It was good advice, and I might have taken it if the person he wasn’t buying drinks for was Emmy.

* * *

I knew the moment she noticed me, because I could see her nipples go hard, those tight peaks pressing against her silky-looking shirt. They were covered in these delicate-looking leaves that swirled around her waist like she’s some sort of autumn goddess. It didn’t even matter that it was summer.

“Charlie,” she murmured when I approached, her eyes cast downwards, her dark thick lashes fluttering against her pale skin.

“Emmy.” I moved in front of Killian, taking the beer from her hand and helping myself to a long drink.

She blushed and I got hard. She was fucking gorgeous. I could feel Killian tensing behind me, but for a moment it was just me and Emmy, and I drank her in. Her dark hair was down, silky against her shoulders, and it took a tremendous amount of resistance to keep from tangling my fingers in it. Her skin was smooth, her cheeks flushed, and there was a tiny little freckle next to one eye. I was fascinated by it.

Killian cleared his throat.

“Hey, mate,” he told me. “Fuck off.”

I turned to him. “I’m not your mate,” I warned. “And Emmy and I are old friends. Isn’t that right?” I glanced back at her and wink.

I heard Killian grinding his teeth together, and I balled my hands into fists in case he decided to take a swing, but he just shoved past me and disappeared into the crowd.

I turned back to Emmy, pasting my most charming smile onto my face.

“Was that lumbering oaf bothering you?”

“No.” She pursed her lips at me. “But this whole mine-is-bigger-than-yours act might be.”

I had just taken another sip of her beer and nearly choked at the comment. So she was funny and astute. And not one to take any shit. I liked her even more.

“I suppose you could break into his dressing room tomorrow and confirm that mine truly is bigger,” I teased. “Though you might have to bring a magnifying glass for Killian.”

She went red, but still managed to roll her eyes at me.

“Athletes,” she said. “You’re all so obsessed with your . . . stats.”

I laughed.

“Honey, if it’s my stats you want to ogle, just say the word.” I moved a little closer. She was wearing some perfume that filled my senses. Vanilla and cinnamon. Or maybe it was just her. “I’d be more than happy to compare them with yours.”

The flush spread to her throat and chest. A chest I couldn’t stop staring at.

“Looks like you’ve already started the comparison,” she noted, dryly.

“I’ve barely begun,” I whispered. “You’ll know when I’ve started. Trust me.”

“Trust the bad boy of tennis?” she asked, but her breathing had become shallow.

I was slightly disappointed that she had figured out who I was, but it was inevitable.

“It’s true,” I told her. “Never trust a bad boy.” I gave her a once-over. “Though you don’t look like the kind of girl who wants a good boy.”

Her gorgeous red lips twisted in an ironic smile. “I’ve found that the good boys are the ones you really have to watch out for.”

Before I could get to the bottom of that cryptic comment, I felt a hand on my shoulder. I turned to face my bodyguard.

“The party’s moving across the river,” Declan told me.

“One minute,” I said, but when I turned back to invite Emmy to join us, I found that she had disappeared.

“I’ve never seen a girl run from you,” Declan joked. “Are you losing your touch?”

“Not bloody likely,” I frowned.

He was right. I wasn’t used to being brushed off. But it didn’t matter—if I wanted something, I usually found a way to get it. And right now, what I wanted was a certain brainy, built brunette. It was only a matter of time.