HOT NUMBER
NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLING AUTHOR
CARLY PHILLIPS
Copyright © Karen Drogin 2005, 2017
Kindle Edition
CP Publishing 2017
Cover Photo and Design: Sara Eirew
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www.carlyphillips.com
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Micki Jordan is a tomboy as much at home on the playing field as in a locker room full of naked guys.
But the star publicist is looking to prove she’s also an irresistible woman in order to get a second shot at professional baseball player and major league playboy, Damian Fuller.
Micki transforms herself into one hot number Damian can’t help but notice and together they burn up the sheets and find themselves falling hard. Until Damian’s past returns, threatening their future.
“Carly Phillips is synonymous with red-hot romance and passionate love.”
—Lauren Blakely, NY Times Bestselling Author
* * *
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
This book is dedicated to the most important people in my life:
My husband Phil, my number 22 and the sexiest guy in a baseball uniform. Didn’t you know that’s what kept me coming back for more?
My mother for raising me to be independent and to believe in myself and for renewing my love of baseball—even if she is a Yankees fan, I’m a Mets fan and my husband, from Boston, is a Red Sox fan. At least our family life is interesting and fun!
My father (RIP), who had no interest in sports but survived the bickering with a smile and who was my most loyal fan.
And as always my girls, Jackie and Jennifer, for just being you!
And an extra-special thank-you to Janelle Denison, who saved me midway through yet again. Where would I be without you?
I love you all.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Epilogue
Thank You
Keep Up with Carly
Carly’s Monthly Contest
About the Author
PROLOGUE
Thanks to a fatal plane crash in the Andes, Yank Morgan had been raising his sister’s children for the past two years, and as a result, even his chest hair had turned prematurely gray. Ages fourteen, twelve and ten, the girls were independent little scrappers and didn’t hesitate to tell him exactly what they thought. Which was why Annabelle, the oldest, stood before him, hands on her hips, her breasts pushing against the cotton of her too-tight shirt. When the hell had she developed boobs? he wondered and ran a hand through his wiry hair.
At the moment though, his niece’s face concerned him more than her chest. Black eyeliner was smudged around her bright blue eyes and though normally he didn’t mind letting the girls make their own mistakes, her raccoon-like appearance was too humiliating to allow, so he’d decided to step in.
Keeping Lola’s words in mind, he opted to tread gently with the girl. “Dang it, Annie, you look like Jim McMahon getting ready to throw a pass.”
Her blue eyes filled with tears and she ran from the room. He raised his gaze toward the ceiling. “What the hell did I do wrong now?”
“Way to go, Uncle Yack.” He glanced over to see the youngest, Micki, standing in the doorway, glaring at him.
“It’s Yank,” he muttered, though they both knew that the nickname she’d started to use the day she’d come to live with him gave them a special bond.
“You insulted Annie,” said Sophie, the middle one, joining them.
Figures they’d gang up on him. “You think so?”
He turned toward them for the first time and his gaze immediately zeroed in on ten-year-old Micki. Or rather his gaze zeroed in on her tits.
“What the hell are those?” he asked, pointing to the overly round, out of proportion, different-size melons poking from beneath her shirt.
“Like ’em?” She squared her shoulders.
Yank winced.
Lola, his assistant at the agency and one-time lover, strode into the room. She showed up on weekends to do the girls’ laundry along with her own. Although having her around aroused him and forced him to remember their short-lived affair, Yank was grateful for her help and couldn’t imagine life without her. Not that he’d ever admit as much. The woman and his feelings for her scared him worse than raising the girls.
“Who’s been stealing things out of the laundry basket?” Lola asked.
Sophie snickered. “Ask Micki.”
“Michelle?” Lola strode over and glanced down at Micki’s protruding chest. “Do you have my bra?”
Yank groaned.
“Nope. No bra.” Micki chewed on her lower lip, a sure sign the kid was lying.
“Yes you do too have it! You see?” Sophie reached a hand down the front of her sister’s shirt, pulling out the padding. Then she glanced down at her hand and frowned. “Hey, those are my socks you stuffed your boobies with!”
“Are not!” Micki said, crossing her arms over her now-flat chest.
“Are too!” Sophie retorted.
Yank felt a headache coming on.
“Well, you gave them to me,” Micki shouted, tears filling her eyes.
“Did not!”
“Did too!”
“Did not!”
“You know the rules. Once you give, you can’t take back!” Micki cried and darted out of the room, following Annabelle’s earlier lead.
Sophie took off after her.
Yank met Lola’s amused gaze and desire flared between them. A strong yearning flickered in her deep-set eyes, an echo of the spark he’d spent the past two years working hard to suppress. Though they’d once had a hot affair going between them, the girls’ arrival had put everything on hold. Now, knowing he was a father for life scared the pants off him. No way would he add a wife, as well.
“Micki’s something else,” he said and gestured to the doorway his nieces had stormed through.
“All three girls are something else. They need guidance.”
What she meant was a woman’s guidance. But Yank had no problem deliberately misinterpreting her words if it helped him put distance between them. “I think you got a point. Micki does need guidance. So maybe you’d better go give the young one a few pointers on being one of the guys. You’d probably be good at that.” He let that sink in. “She’s obviously trying way too hard to be a woman.”
She scowled at him an
d stormed out of the room, probably ticked off that he’d insulted her femininity. He let out a groan. Well, she’d steer clear of him for a while, which was exactly what he wanted.
And with those words, Yank sealed both Micki’s upbringing and his own fate for the next sixteen years.
CHAPTER ONE
Publicist Micki Jordan strode into the locker room of the New York Renegades, the sports world’s best prospects to win the World Series, and looked for her client. In her hand, she held a copy of today’s New York Post, which she’d folded open to the headline Nails, Nails, Nails. Will John Roper’s Manicure Interfere with his Willingness to Catch Fly Balls?
Most days she loved her job as the publicist for the Hot Zone, an offshoot of her uncle’s sports agency that she co-partnered with her sisters. And then there were days like these when she wondered why she always ended up handling the more high-maintenance players instead of turning them over to one of her sisters. Even if this high-maintenance player had ended up being her best guy friend.
Micki already knew the reason Annie and Sophie delegated the tougher athletes to her. You’re like one of the guys, Micki, and they respect you for it. She shook her head in frustration that had been building for a while, but she’d have to worry about her own image later. Right now she was worried about her client’s.
“Hey, Micki,” one of the players called as she passed the first row of half-naked men and their open lockers.
She waved and kept walking, keeping her gaze straight ahead. When people asked how Micki could be so at ease around a men’s locker room, she always countered with how could she not be comfortable since it was the atmosphere in which she’d grown up?
Micki had been eight, Annabelle twelve and Sophie ten when their parents had passed away. From then on, their uncle had provided them with the only stability they’d known. As the oldest, Annabelle had taken over as the mother figure and mediator whenever Micki and Sophie bickered, which had been often.
In an effort to keep their small family together, Annabelle had kept them both in line and attended to everyone’s needs, often at the expense of her own. As a result, Annie had been close with both of her siblings, but Micki and Sophie’s relationship had always been more distant.
While Annabelle and Sophie had been girlie girls, Micki had latched onto Uncle Yank, tailing after him everywhere he went. Locker rooms included. Growing up with her sisters, Micki had been the odd girl out, a pattern that had continued in school, where she found herself trying to keep up with the boys, playing sports and challenging them with her knowledge of all games. In fact, her comfort level never faltered with the opposite sex—as long as dating wasn’t involved. Then Micki became out of her element all over again.
“Hi, Mick,” Juan Sierra said, flicking her playfully with a towel and reminding her of her mission to find her client.
“Where’s Roper?” she asked him.
“Holding court at his locker.” Ricky Carter, the backup center fielder jerked a thumb toward the back of the room, answering a question she hadn’t directed his way.
Micki and Carter had never been formally introduced, but she’d heard plenty about his cocky personality. She’d also caught wind of his certainty that he’d replace Damian Fuller by the end of the season. Micki held back a snort. She’d pay good money to see Ricky Carter try to take on the team captain and come out whole. If Carter was lucky, he’d only be knocked down a few pegs. If he pushed too hard, he’d probably end up back in Triple-A.
That’s how much his teammates respected Damian Fuller. That’s how much his fans loved him, as did most women, Micki thought wryly. Herself included.
Especially since their New Year’s Eve kiss six months ago. She closed her eyes and could almost feel the star center fielder’s lips on hers. It had begun as Micki’s attempt to take him outside and sober him up before he made a scene destined to hit the papers. And it had ended up a kiss that had shaken her world and shown her what she was missing in her all-work, no-play life. Unfortunately, he’d either been too drunk to remember Micki’s magic moment, or the kiss had meant so little to him he’d put it out of his mind. Worse, maybe he wanted to forget.
And why wouldn’t he? The man was only seen with gorgeous women. The models, actresses, and even Playboy bunnies he dated were all well-endowed arm candy. All unlike every guy’s pal, Micki Jordan. And so she’d been tiptoeing around the secret kiss and its effect on her ever since. Because that kiss had shifted Micki’s perception of her world and forced her to face the unfulfilled feeling she had about her life.
Even Uncle Yank sensed she’d grown more edgy and restless lately and had begun to ask why. She didn’t want to hurt him and so she refused to admit the truth. That Damian Fuller was the one man who made her wish she’d spent less time with her uncle and his friends and more time with her sisters as they’d locked themselves in the bathroom, laughing, giggling, putting on makeup and talking about boys.
Hanging out with Uncle Yank hadn’t prepped Micki for flirting with men, nor had it taught her how to be one of those females who automatically caught a man’s attention in the ways that counted. Damian was drawn to overtly feminine women and his reaction to Micki, or lack thereof, reduced her to feeling worse than an awkward teenager.
She tried to hide her frustration with herself and her lack of feminine abilities, and as long as she didn’t deal directly with Damian face-to-face, she’d be successful. It helped that the Renegades players were generally Annabelle’s clients and Micki could avoid the sexy center fielder.
Leave it to John Roper to misbehave and put her directly in temptation’s path. So far though, she hadn’t seen any signs of Damian, and since she hadn’t tripped or fallen over a bench, Micki figured he wasn’t anywhere around.
She followed Carter’s direction and found Roper freshly showered and joking around with reporters. She halted behind them and waited, not wanting to read him the riot act in front of the press and cause any more problematic headlines.
The New York press was an entity unto itself, creating celebrities out of athletes and saving headlines for the players’ personal lives. Like their crosstown rivals, the New York Yankees, the Renegades players knew how to work the media and enjoyed keeping their names in the papers. None more than Damian Fuller, who frequently graced not only the sports sections but the gossip columns. His headlines kept him alive and vibrant in the public eye. If Damian had a slump, the fans came to cheer him out of it. He was a huge stadium draw and a necessary commodity to team management. Noting which woman he had on his arm, how often he’d dated her and when he’d move on was every New York columnist’s favorite pastime. The difference between Roper and Damian was that Damian’s press was always flattering.
As a friend, Roper was the best. As a client, the man was the ultimate pain in the ass. He’d hired her to help him maintain a masculine image yet he did everything possible to screw with her plan. He obviously liked the attention he received when he did something metrosexual and outrageous, but they’d been over and over the need for him to keep a low-maintenance profile, and keep the media’s focus on his baseball game.
“We’re meeting in ten minutes, so wrap up the interviews.” Coach Donovan’s voice boomed throughout the locker room and Micki knew she had a short time to knock some sense into Roper’s head.
She cleared her throat and stepped into the crowd. “I think Roper’s finished answering questions for today,” she said, asserting her authority.
He scowled. “But I was just—”
“Shutting the hell up,” a familiar masculine voice drawled. “Unless you want your publicist to kick your ass,” Damian Fuller said, laughing.
His deep tenor sent Micki’s body into sensory overload—her skin suddenly grew hot and prickly, her breath became heavy and her stomach churned with excitement. It might have been easy to ignore the other half-dressed men in the room, but not this man.
She tensed as Damian strode forward, sexy and sure. Freshly showered, he wo
re a towel hung low on his hips, revealing a tanned, muscular chest. His coarse hair had just the right sprinkling of gray.
Her breath caught and her throat grew dry. She was totally aware of all six foot three inches, two hundred and fifteen pounds of him. In a weak moment the day after she’d kissed those sculpted lips, threaded her fingers through that thick brown hair and scraped her cheeks against his short, scruffy beard, she’d read the stats Annie had in her press folder on number twenty-two.
Just thinking about that moonlit New Year’s Eve turned her on all over again. She cleared her throat and glanced into Damian’s chocolate-brown eyes, but he barely acknowledged her presence. Her stomach plummeted and her heart squeezed painfully in her chest, yet somehow she maintained her composure. Micki schooled her expression so that nobody would view her disappointment or realize she’d been hurt.
“Sorry, people. No more questions for today.” Roper’s voice drew her attention as he deferred to his captain and called an end to the impromptu press conference.
Before the media took off, Ricky Carter sauntered up to Roper and slung an arm over his shoulder. “I guess good old Fuller’s right about you, Roper. You’re afraid your publicist will string you up by your—”
“Shut up,” Damian said, abruptly cutting Carter off. “We’re in mixed company.” He and the rest of the guys stared beyond her to the newest person in the room, Veronica Butler from Esports Network.
The gorgeous redhead in the cream-colored suit with gold stitching co-anchored the cable network’s most popular prime-time show. She was also a friend of Micki’s and a colleague who booked many of the Hot Zone’s clients. Like Micki, as a woman in a man’s world, she demanded respect and received it. Unlike Micki, she also received the deference due a lady, at least where Damian Fuller was concerned. In his eyes, Veronica wasn’t one of the guys.
Micki swallowed hard. Considering her upbringing, foul language wasn’t a shock to Micki and yet she might have been grateful for Damian’s sensitivity anyway—had he been worried about her.
Hot Number (Hot Zone Book 2) Page 1