He’d been thinking about Annabelle a lot today, maybe because the Beav had strong opinions, too, and she also didn’t seem interested in impressing him. It was odd being with a woman who wasn’t coming on to him. Of course, he had told her he was gay, but she’d figured out that was bullshit at least a hundred miles ago. Still, she’d kept trying to play him. But Little Bo Peep was way out of her league.
Her mouth froze in midyawn as she spotted the well-lit three-story hotel. As many times as she’d aggravated him today, he still wasn’t quite ready to hand her a couple hundred bucks and throw her out. For one thing, he wanted her to ask him for the money. For another, she’d been good company today. And then there was the hard-on that had been plaguing him for the past two hundred miles.
He turned in to the parking lot. “These places will take most any credit card.” He should have felt like a bully, but she was so full of tough talk and swagger that he didn’t.
Her lips compressed. “Unfortunately, I don’t have a credit card.”
No big surprise there.
“I abused the privilege a few years ago,” she went on, “and haven’t trusted myself since.” She studied the Merry Time Inn sign. “What are you going to do about your car?”
“Tip the security guy to watch it.”
“How much?”
“Why do you care?”
“I’m an artist. I’m interested in human behavior.”
He pulled into a parking space. “Fifty dollars now, I guess. Another fifty in the morning.”
“Excellent.” She held out her hand. “You’ve got yourself a deal.”
“You’re not watching my car tonight.”
The muscles in her throat worked as she swallowed. “Sure I am. Don’t worry. I’m a light sleeper. I’ll wake up the minute anybody gets too close.”
“You’re not sleeping in it, either.”
“Don’t tell me you’re one of those sexist jerks who thinks a woman can’t do a job as well as a man.”
“What I think is that you can’t afford a room.” He got out of the car. “I’ll sport you.”
She shot her sharp little nose up in the air and followed him. “I don’t need anybody ‘sporting’ me.”
“Really?”
“What I need is for you to let me guard your car.”
“Not going to happen.”
He could see her trying to find a way around him, and he wasn’t completely surprised when she began reeling off the price list for her portraits. “Even taking out the cost of a hotel room and a few meals,” she said when she finished, “you’ll have to agree that you’re getting the best end of the deal. I’ll start sketching you tomorrow over breakfast.”
The last thing he needed was another portrait of himself. What he really needed was…“You can start tonight.” He opened the trunk.
“Tonight? It’s…awfully late.”
“Barely nine o’clock.” This team could only have one quarterback, and he was it.
She muttered to herself and started rooting around in the trunk. He pulled out his suitcase and her navy duffel. She reached past him to snatch up one of the toolboxes that contained her art supplies and, still muttering, followed him to the entrance. He negotiated with the inn’s sole bellman to watch his car and headed for the reception desk. The Beav stayed at his side. Judging by the live music coming from the bar and the locals spilling out into the lobby, the Merry Time was the small town’s Saturday night hot spot. He noted the heads turning in his direction. Sometimes he could go for a couple of days without being recognized, but not tonight. A few people in the crowd openly stared. Those damn End Zone commercials. He set down the suitcases at the front desk.
The clerk, a studious-looking Middle Eastern guy in his twenties, greeted him politely, but without recognition. The Beav jabbed him in the ribs and cocked her head toward the bar. “Your fans,” she said, as if he hadn’t already noticed the two guys who’d detached themselves from the crowd and were heading his way. Both were middle-aged and overweight. One wore a Hawaiian shirt that bunched over his belly. The other had a handlebar mustache and cowboy boots.
“Time for me to start work,” the Beav said loftily. “I’ll take care of this.”
“No, you won’t. I’ll—”
“Hey, there,” Hawaiian shirt said. “Hope you don’t mind the interruption, but me and my buddy Bowman have a bet you’re Dean Robillard.” He stuck out his hand.
Before Dean could respond, the Beav blocked the man’s arm with her small body, and the next thing he knew, she was addressing him in a foreign accent that sounded like a cross between Serbo-Croatian and Yiddish. “Acht, this Dean Roam-a-lot, he is very famous man in America, yes? My poor husband”—she curled her fingers around Dean’s arm—“his Eeenglish is veddy, veddy bad, and he does not understand this. But my Eeenglish is veddy, veddy good, yes? And everywhere we go, these pipples—pipples like you—they come up to him and say they think he is this man, this Dean Roam-a-lot. But I say, no, my husband is not famous in America, but veddy famous in our country. He is a veddy famous—how you say?—por-nog-ra-pher.”
He just about choked on his spit.
She furrowed her brow. “Yes? Did I say this with rightness? He makes the dirty moo-vees.”
Dean was changing identities so fast even he was losing track. Still, the Beav deserved his support for all her hard work—however misguided—so he pulled in his grin and tried to look like he didn’t speak English.
She’d thrown the ol’ boys for a loss, and they didn’t know how to handle it. “We’re, uh…Well…Sorry, there. We thought…”
“Is all right,” she said firmly. “Happens all the time.”
Stumbling over their feet, they made their getaway.
The Beav regarded him smugly. “I’m awfully young to be so gifted. Now aren’t you glad I decided to tag along today?”
He gave her high marks for creativity, but since he was in the process of passing over his Visa card to the clerk, her efforts to keep his identity secret were pretty much wasted. “I’ll take your best suite,” he said. “And a small room by the elevator for my insane companion. If that’s a problem, put her next to any old ice machine.”
The Merry Time Inn had done a great job training its people, and the desk clerk barely blinked. “Unfortunately, we’re very full tonight, sir, and our suite is already occupied.”
“No suite?” the Beav drawled. “Will the horror never end?”
The clerk studied his computer screen unhappily. “I’m afraid we only have two rooms left. One, I believe you’ll find quite satisfactory, but the other is slated for renovation.”
“Aw, hell, the little woman won’t mind staying there. I’m sure you got all the bloodstains out of the carpet. Plus, porn stars can sleep just about anywhere. And I do mean anywhere.”
He was having one heck of a good time, but the clerk was too well trained to smile. “We will, of course, give you a reduced rate.”
Blue leaned on the counter. “Charge him double. Otherwise, he’ll be offended.”
Once he’d countered that piece of nonsense, they headed for the elevator. As the doors closed, the Beav gazed up at him, her grape lollipop eyes round with innocence. “Those guys who came up to you knew your real name. I had no idea there were so many gay men in the world.”
He punched the elevator button. “The honest truth is, I play a little professional football under my real name. Only part-time, though, until my movie career takes off.”
The Beav faked looking impressed. “Wow. I didn’t realize you could play football part-time.”
“No offense, but you don’t seem to know much about sports.”
“Still…A gay man playing football. Hard to imagine.”
“Oh, there’re a whole bunch of us. Probably a good one-third of the NFL.” He waited to see if she’d finally call him on his bullshit, but she wasn’t in a hurry to end the game.
“And people think jocks aren’t sensitive,” she said.
“Just goes to show.”
“I noticed your ears are pierced.”
“I was young.”
“And you wanted to flash your cash, right?”
“Two carats in each ear.”
“Tell me you don’t still wear them.”
“Only if I’m having a fat day.” The elevator doors slid open. They headed down the hallway to their rooms. The Beav had a long stride for someone so petite. He wasn’t used to pugnacious women, but then she was barely female, despite those curvy little breasts and his stubborn hard-on.
The rooms were adjoining. He opened the first door. Clean, but a little smoky, definitely inferior.
She brushed past him. “Ordinarily, I’d suggest we toss a coin, but since you’re paying the bill, that doesn’t seem fair.”
“Well, if you insist.”
She took her duffel and once again tried to hold him off. “I do my best work in natural light. We’ll wait till tomorrow.”
“If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were afraid to be alone with me.”
“Okay, you’ve got me. What if I inadvertently step between you and a mirror? You might turn violent.”
He grinned. “See you in half an hour.”
When he got to his room, he flipped on the last half of the Bulls game, pulled off his boots, and unpacked his things. He already had more drawings, paintings, and photos of himself than he knew what to do with, but that wasn’t the point. He grabbed a beer from the minibar, along with a can of peanuts. Annabelle had once suggested he send some of the glamour shots people had done of him over the years to his mother, but he’d told her to mind her own damned business. He didn’t let anybody poke around in that twisted relationship.
He stretched out on the bed in his jeans and the white-on-white button-down Marc Jacobs shirt the designer’s PR people had sent him a couple of weeks ago. The Bulls called a time-out. Another night, another hotel room. He owned two condos in Chicago, one not far from the lake and another in the western ’burbs close to Stars headquarters in case he didn’t feel like fighting the traffic back into the city. But since he’d grown up in boarding school dorm rooms, no place really felt like home. Thanks, Mom.
The Tennessee farm had history and roots that grew deep, everything he lacked. Still, he wasn’t usually so impulsive, and he was having second thoughts about buying a place without an ocean nearby. A house with a hundred acres of land around it signaled a permanence he’d never experienced and might not be ready for. Still, it was only a vacation home. If he didn’t like it, he could always sell it.
He heard water running next door. A promotion came on for an upcoming story about the drowning death of country western singer Marli Moffatt. They flashed twelve-year-old news footage of Marli and Jack Patriot coming out of a Reno wedding chapel. He hit the mute button.
He was looking forward to getting the Beav naked tonight. The fact that he’d never had anybody like her made the prospect all the more interesting. He tipped a handful of peanuts into his mouth and reminded himself he’d stopped doing one-night stands years ago. The idea that he might be turning into his mother—a woman who’d been so busy snorting coke and giving head that she’d forgotten she had a son—had gotten too depressing, so he limited himself to short-term girlfriends, relationships lasting anywhere from a few weeks to a couple of months. Yet here he was about to violate a decade-long policy against casual hookups and not feeling one bit bad about it. The Beav was hardly a giggling football groupie. Even though they’d only been together for a day—and despite all the ways she raised his hackles—they had a real relationship, one forged by interesting conversation, shared meals, and similar taste in music. Most important, the Beav had proved herself a match for his BS.
The final quarter of the Bulls game had just begun when a knock sounded on the adjoining door. He needed to start the night out right by letting her know who was in the driver’s seat. “I’m naked,” he called out.
“That’s great. I haven’t done an adult nude in ages. I need the practice.”
She wasn’t biting. He smiled to himself and palmed the remote. “Don’t take this personally, but the idea of being naked in front of a woman is just plain repulsive.”
“I’m a professional. Just like a doctor. You can drape your privates if you’re uncomfortable.”
He grinned. His privates?
“Better yet, we’ll wait until tomorrow when you’ve had a chance to adjust to the idea.”
Game over. He took a swig of beer. “That’s okay. I’ll pull on some clothes.” He unfastened the top buttons of his shirt and watched the Bulls’ new guard miss a foul shot before he switched off the TV and crossed the room to open the door.
Chapter Three
The Beav’s contempt for fashion clearly carried over into nightwear. She wore a maroon man’s T-shirt and a pair of faded black track pants that hung in accordion pleats around her small ankles. Nothing remotely sexy about either of those garments, except for the mystery of what they covered up. He stepped back to let her in. She smelled like soap instead of a perfume factory.
He headed for the minibar. “Let me get you a drink.”
She yelped. “Ohmygod, you don’t actually use that thing?”
He couldn’t help it. He looked down at his crotch.
She, however, had her eye on the minibar. She dropped her sketch pad, shot in front of him, and snatched up the price list. “Look at this. Two-fifty for a tiny water bottle. Three dollars for a Snickers bar. A Snickers bar!”
“You’re paying for more than the candy,” he pointed out. “You’re paying for the convenience of having the candy exactly when you want it.”
But she’d spotted his peanut can on the bed, and he couldn’t talk her down. “Seven dollars. Seven dollars! How could you?”
“Do you need a paper bag to breathe into?”
“You should just hand over your wallet.”
“Normally I wouldn’t mention this,” he said, “but I’m rich.” And, barring the total collapse of the U.S. economy, he always would be. As a kid, the money had come from substantial child support payments. As an adult, it came from something one hell of a lot better. His own hard work.
“I don’t care how rich you are. Seven dollars for a can of peanuts is extortion.”
The Beav, he realized, had some serious money issues, but that didn’t mean he had to buy into them. “Wine or beer, take your choice. Or I’ll choose for you because, one way or another, a bottle’s going to get opened here.”
She still had her nose buried in the price list. “Could you just give me the six bucks, and I’ll pretend to drink the beer?”
He took her by the shoulders and set her aside so he could get to the minibar. “Don’t look if this is too painful for you.”
She snatched up her sketch pad and retreated to the chair across the room. “There are people starving in the world.”
“Don’t be a sore loser.”
She reluctantly accepted the beer. Fortunately, the room only had one chair, which gave him the perfect excuse to stretch out on the bed. “Pose me any way you want.”
He hoped she’d suggest the naked thing again, but she didn’t.
“However you’re comfortable.” She set the beer on the carpet, crossed her ankle over her knee tough-guy style, and balanced the sketch pad on her ratty black track pants. Despite her aggressive posture, she looked nervous. So far, so good.
He propped himself on one elbow and finished unbuttoning his shirt. He’d posed for enough cheesy End Zone photos to know what the ladies liked, but he still didn’t entirely understand how they could prefer something lame like this to a game shot of him throwing a perfect spiral. That was women for you.
A spike of inky dark hair had worked free from the Beav’s perpetually disorganized ponytail, and it fell across one of her sharp cheekbones as she turned her attention to her sketch pad. He let his shirt fall open far enough to reveal the muscles he’d developed over more than a decade
of hard work, but not far enough to reveal his fresh shoulder scars. “I’m not…,” he said, “…actually gay.”
“Oh, honey, you don’t need to pretend with me.”
“The truth is…” Slipping his thumb into the waistband of his jeans, he tugged them lower. “Sometimes, when I go out in public, the demands of fame get to be too much for me, so I resort to extreme measures to hide my identity. Although, in fairness to myself, I never lose my dignity. I wouldn’t, for example, go so far as to climb into an animal costume. Do you have enough light over there?”
Her pencil moved across the sketch pad. “I’ll bet if you found the right man you’d get past your denial. True love is powerful.”
She still wanted to play games. Amused, he temporarily switched tactics. “Is that what you thought you had with ol’ Monty?”
“True love, no. I have a missing chromosome. But a real friendship, yes. Would you mind turning to your other side?”
So he’d be facing the wall? No way. “Sore hip.” He bent his knee. “All those things Monty was saying about trust and abandonment issues…crap?”
“Look, Dr. Phil, I’m trying to concentrate here.”
“Not crap, then.” She wasn’t looking at him. “Me, I’ve fallen in love half a dozen times. All before I was sixteen, but still…”
“Surely there’s been somebody since then.”
“Well, there you’ve got me.” The fact that he’d never fallen in love drove Annabelle crazy. She pointed out that even her husband, Heath, a head case if there ever was one, had been in love once before he met her.
The Beav’s hand swept across the paper. “Why settle down when the world is your playground, right?”
“I’m getting a cramp,” he said. “Mind if I stretch?” He didn’t wait for an answer but let his legs fall over the edge of the bed. He took his time standing up, then stretched a little, which sucked in his abs and sent his jeans low enough to reveal the top of his gray stretch End Zone boxer briefs.
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