Fuck. How the hell would the media discover where they were? Gritting his teeth, he replied to Didier.
Jamie
Let me in the back?
Didier Pascal
J’arrive.
The taxi driver took him around the corner to the next street. Jamie paid him, tipping generously, and got out. There were a few straggling photographers around, but no one had caught sight of him yet.
The back door on the complex opened a crack.
Running, Jamie darted into the opening, ignoring the calls from the reporters as he slammed the door shut.
“C’est fou, non? Comment ils nous ont trouvés?” Didier put his arm around Jamie’s shoulders and walked him back to the townhouse. “Tu sais?”
“I don’t know how they found us.” He ran his hand over his hair.Fuck—what a mess. “I need to check on Rachel to make sure she’s okay.”
Erik was waiting for them by the door when they walked in. “It’s a nightmare out there. How did they figure out we’re here?”
“No idea.” He frowned, pulling out his mobile. Brad could have gotten access to the address, but he wouldn’t have tipped anyone off, would he?
Didier must have seen where his mind went because he said, “You think it’s your agent?”
“Would he pressure me to change my mind and sign the deal with Torino? Yes.” He strode into the living room, pressingcallon the way.
Brad picked up the phone before the first ring had barely started. “What the fuck, MacNiven? I can’t believe you’d do this.”
“Do what?” Jamie asked coolly. “Because from my seat it looks like you alerted the media to my location.”
“Like I’d fucking do that. Do you know what kind of chaos you’ve caused with this stunt? Is it true?” he barked.
Jamie ran a hand over the back of his neck. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“That you’re in discussion with the Chicago Fire.”
He stopped abruptly. “Sorry?”
Erik came over and held up his mobile.
“One moment, Brad.” He put his cell at his waist and read, hearing the man sputter on the line.
The article fromThe Chicago Tribunereported that Jamie MacNiven was seen at a baseball game in Chicago, and that love was in the air. It speculated that Jamie’s contract with Torino FC was up and with Jamie having a lady love in Chicago, he might pull a Beckham and come play on this side of the pond.
There was a picture of him kissing Rachel at the game, when it’d been on the big screen. The caption pointed out that Didier Pascal and Erik Nilsen were with him and that maybe they’d come to play in Chicago too. All three players would be a wealth of talent for the Chicago Fire.
“Fuck,” he said succinctly when he raised the phone again.
“That’s exactly how I feel. Fucked.” Brad spit it out with feeling, his anger vibrating through the line. “I would have brushed off the article as bullshit, but I got a call from Hailey Allen, who works for some PR firm in Chicago called Taylor, Mackenzie, & Inglewood.”
Jamie froze—it started at his heart and spread out all over his body. That was Rachel’s firm.
“Hailey called to assure me that Rachel Morgan is an up-and-coming associate and equipped now to handle a client of your caliber. They just gave her an incredible promotion and expense account to ensure that you’re taken care of in the way you’re used to.”
Jamie dropped onto a chair, unable to utter a sound, barely aware that Erik sat down beside him.
Brad continued. “Hailey wants to set up a dinner to discuss you coming over to the firm, since it’s in Chicago and you seem to like it there. She seems to think you’re going to play for the Chicago Fire too.”