by Crowe, Liz
He swallowed hard and forced himself to focus on the goal. “Come on, Makayla. You won’t like me when I get hangry. Get in the car already.”
She wrenched the car door open. “Fair warning, I reek. Old beer, sweat, appletini, and now cheap ice cream. And why do you keep calling me that?”
He grinned at her, resisting the urge to yank her to him and kiss her. Go slow, Jon David. You need to play this one out more like your old self and less like some kind of horny teenager. You want more from her than another roll in the hay.
At that moment, he pictured a way different goal—one involving her, him, them together—documentary and rescue hero mission be damned. He closed his mind off to it. He had to get her to agree to the documentary, then to work for him. Then all would be managed.
Or so he hoped.
“It’s your name, isn’t it?” He put the SUV in gear and pointed it toward his favorite all-night diner in Greektown.
“Whatever. I figure you’re just being a contrarian since nobody calls me that but my Mama.”
“Nah, I like it.” He shot her a half-smile, pleased to see the confusion on her face before he pulled away from a traffic light. “Tell me about her.”
“Who?” She kept her face averted, her body curled away from him.
“Your mama.”
She glanced over at him at a red light. “Why do you care?”
He shrugged. LeeAnn had already contacted her parents and brothers to see if they’d be willing to go on camera, if Makayla agreed to be their feature. They’d filled LeeAnn in on the estrangement that had existed between her and her entire family since the injury. But he wanted to hear it from her.
“She’s … well, she and my dad and my brothers supported me through the whole crazy soccer dream. And I fucked it all up. That’s all you need to know.”
J.D. heard the catch in her voice. His well-trained, innate caretaker leaned into it, wishing he could say something about what he knew of the situation but realizing that to reveal that would only set her off. They traveled the remaining blocks in silence, the sounds of a city regaining its once proud glamor pouring in through their open windows. He parked and came around to open her door as she was opening it herself.
She glared at his hand, ignored it, and got down without his help. “Is it safe here?” She eyed the man who hadn’t moved other than to grunt when J.D. handed him the keys. “I think he might be dead.”
He draped his arm around her shoulder, loving the warmth of her sexy, strong body so much he almost tossed his new play-it-cool-go-slow plan to the wind. But he managed it, even when she turned to him, her lips so close he had no real choice but to kiss her. He kept it light, friendly, reminding himself of his final goal. “Hope you’re hungry,” he said, opening the door for her and allowing himself the extreme pleasure of ogling the shit out of her perfect ass as she proceeded him into the diner.
As head of a television network with only women in front of the camera, he got the whole non-eating thing. Having been married to a woman who’d nurtured an unhealthy obsession with every pound on her slight frame, he recalled sitting and eating his usual high protein meals while she picked at a lettuce leaf. He understood that women were held to a different standard when it came to their looks and weight. So it was refreshing when Mikayla ordered something with substance, a real meal.
He watched her dig in with amusement when it arrived at the table.
“Didn’t your mama ever teach you not to stare?” She sat back and patted her stomach with a soft burp once she’d finished. “God. You’re so rude.”
Barely able to suppress a grin, he picked up his fork and polished off his own version of the high calorie meal, complete with his favorite condiment.
“You really do have some kind of a sick thing with syrup, you know that?” she said as he poured more over the top of his scrambled eggs. “Did you get deprived of it as a poor little rich boy in Grosse Pointe or something?”
J.D. polished off his eggs and poured a bit more of the sweet stuff onto his English muffin without responding but for a fake O-face as he popped the last bite into his mouth. She rolled her eyes, but he was encouraged by the smile playing around her lips as she sipped her coffee.
As a matter of fact, he was rich. Had been born under a lucky star, with a silver spoon, a seven-figure trust fund, the works. But he’d earned his own way too, thanks to his hard work and God-given talents with the pigskin. Plus, he’d had killer investment advice from an old college teammate turned stockbroker. But that was a tale for another day.
“So, I need to know something.” She leaned her elbows on the table.
“Ask away,” he said, sated and more relaxed than he’d been in a damn long time.
“Why women?”
Amused, he dumped cream into his coffee, stirred, and took a sip, trying to figure out how to parse that. “Well, I’m not gay for starters. Not even curious. Never have been. Too much time spent in the ugly reality of how disgusting men are … you know, locker rooms and all that.”
She tossed her napkin at his face. “You know what I mean, ass.”
“No, I don’t.”
“Why start a new sports network and only have women in front of the camera.”
“Ah, yes. Okay. So…” He put the cup down and parroted her stance, leaning on his elbows and putting his face near hers across the small corner table. “I guess you could say that women have had a strong influence on my life.”
She snorted and moved back in her seat, taking her intoxicating scent with her. “Yeah, you’re quite the pussy magnet. Anyone who follows sports knows that.”
He sipped his water, then when he thought he could answer without sarcasm, he set it down. “But even before all that. My mother was—is—the strongest person I’ve ever known. She ran her family, full of angst-riddled girls plus me with little to no emotional support from my father. She got us all to our various sports and music lessons or practices without fail, helped with all homework, had delicious meals every night…”
“Oh super,” Makayla said when he trailed off. “The man has a Mommy issue too?” But her smile was gentle, belying her mocking words.
“Anyway, between her and my two sisters, I grew up pre-programmed to respect the hell out of women.”
“Huh. That doesn’t quite box with your Tomcat rep later in life, stud muffin.”
“I know, I know. But here’s the thing. I never let any woman I slept with think that I was in it for anything, but … what we were doing at the time. I was honest with them and myself.”
“Well, give the man a medal, ladies and gents.” She patted his cheek. J.D. had to remind himself not to touch her. “Wait. Isn’t there an ex-Mrs. Tomcat out there somewhere? A former cheerleader, if I recall correctly.”
“Yes. There is one of those. We…” He stopped himself before telling her about Gwen. He doubted Makayla even knew he had a daughter and his ingrained reflex was not to bring her up. Keeping Gwen’s existence quiet had been such a big part of the way he operated, overcoming it now, as much as he wanted to share the fact of her with the woman sitting across from him, was too much to ask of himself.
“Anyway, that one error aside, I’ve managed to stay friends with about ninety-percent of the women I … had sexual relations with. And when I decided to start the network, I never even considered any men as commentators or reporters. Most of the women knew as much if not more about sports and could provide compelling coverage in their own right.”
“It’s kinda gimmicky, dude. Not gonna lie.”
He sighed and stretched his legs out under the table, relieved when she didn’t recoil from him when their calves touched. “Maybe. It’s taken a couple of years for us to get past that titillation factor. But I empowered my staff to dig deep, to find real stories behind the stories, and to tell them, even if it meant showing the ugly underbelly of the sports world.”
“Yeah, that expose on Grant Hollingsworth was—” She whistled and mouthed the word “
boom” complete with fireworks fingers.
“It was. But it needed to be done. That guy was one of the worst abusers I knew. I played with him as my center for four years in Denver. He made for a great focus feature. And that documentary won an Emmy, I’ll remind you.”
“I know. I remember. But I’ll bet it also netted you a few enemies, too.”
“Yeah. Well…” He raised an eyebrow. “Do you remember it?” Her smile, so perfect and gorgeous, hit him right in the gut. “Were you a Broncos fan?”
“Um, hell to the no? I’m a Lions fan, true blue. But I do remember the documentary and the fallout. That had to be tough for you.”
“It was. But it was worth it. And has anyone reminded you lately how hard and consistently the Lions suck?”
“Don’t care. Real fans stay fans, ya know?” She put her foot on his thigh, surprising him, but also making him give himself a mental high five for his efforts. Chasing a woman around and convincing her he wasn’t some kind of sick stalker weirdo with a syrup fetish was something new to him. Women chased him, or at least they had, up to this point.
He put his hand on her bare calf, relishing the warmth and texture of her skin. Imaging being able to touch her, hold her, talk to her on a daily basis. He sighed and crooked his finger at her. She leaned on the table again, her grin taking on a wicked edge he wished he could take a picture of so he could look at it whenever he wanted. Words tumbled out of his mouth, surprising him, and completely negating his original, loftier, goal for tonight.
“I have a really nice place, not far from here,” he said, reaching over to wipe a crumb off her shoulder and using it as an excuse to let his fingertips trail up her neck to her jaw.
“Am I just another one then?”
“Another one what?”
“Another lady to conquer and toss into your TV harem.” Her voice was soft, almost amused-sounding, belying the words that should irritate him, but somehow didn’t.
“I thought we’d talked our way past that.”
She shrugged and smiled.
And at that moment, J.D. knew he was very close to being a goner over her. Alarmed, he waved for the waitress and held out his AmEx Black card for her to take. Makayla’s tempting lips were twisted into a frown when he made himself look at her again. “I’ll give you a ride home.”
They sat in comfortable silence while he signed and stuck his card back into his wallet. As they exited the diner, his mind was spinning with the most bizarre mix of emotions, all wrapped up with a spiky, horny bow.
He was a wreck. One minute he was about to bestow her with a new life thanks to his largesse, the next minute wanting to fuck her so hard neither of them could walk the next day. He sighed and watched her get in the SUV, shut her door, then got behind the wheel and touched the ignition button. He drove through the now-deserted streets and pulled up in front of her ramshackle building. He sat tapping the wheel and trying to force words out of his throat.
When she touched his arm, he flinched, jaw clenched against the irresistible need to pull her into his lap. “Okay, you win. I’m a lady-collector. You’d best hop out before I add you to my, what did you call it? Oh, right, my harem.” He met her gaze, which was as stony as he’d expected it to be. Frustration was making his throat tight, his ears buzz, and his skin crawl.
She sighed. Her fingers moved up, found his chin, and turned his face so he had to look at her. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean any of that. I don’t know what I was thinking, honestly. You’re … you’ve got me kinda turned inside out if you must know. But don’t let that go to your pretty little head.” She ran her thumb across his lips.
He took her hand, kissed her palm, and put it back on her side of the car. He was making a huge mistake, trying to get closer to her, to make her trust him enough to work with him. Even though everything in him was screaming at him to grab her and never let her go. The very fact of this bizarre contradiction, that he’d started out thinking he’d do one thing with her and ended up here, having to sit on his hands to keep from leaping at her, convinced him he was doing the right thing.
“Come to the office Friday. Meet with LeeAnn. Please, Makayla. This is going to … this will be as good for you as it is for us, for me, for the station. I swear, that’s all I want,” he said, biting the words off short, his face hot, heart racing, gut churning with a need to drive her to his place and show her a brand-new life.
H glanced over at her in time to see her chewing on her plump lower lip, which made him have to choke back another groan. “I don’t get you, J.D.” She got out and wandered around to his side of the car. He’d left the windows open to catch the summer night breeze on their ride from Greektown. “I don’t get you at all.”
She leaned on his arm, the firm press of her breasts ramping up his Def-Con five level of lust. Her scent, that hair, her lips… With a loud exhale, he turned to her, keeping the kiss light, teasing, as noncommittal as he could manage. But it was consuming him. She was consuming him in a way he—a grown ass man with his level of experience—really ought to resist. But damn him if he didn’t find himself wanting it. Wanting her with the sort of urgency that caused him physical pain. And not just in his bed. Although right now, that would be a fine start.
Again, all new experiences. And ones he knew he’d be well-served to avoid. He cast aside Mr. Cool, and his logical brain that was reminding him how much he might regret his next words, and slipped one hand around the back of her neck.
“Come home with me,” he mumbled into her lips. “God, Makayla. Please.”
“Well, if you’re gonna be polite…” She grinned and reached through the window to put her hand on his crotch. “All this for me?”
He grabbed her wrist and held her hand in place, pleased to hear her breath catch. “All that and a lot more. Now get back in the car and let me show you my place this time. Maybe skip the collapsing camp chairs and floor mattress?”
She drew away, her eyes stormy.
J.D. cursed himself for saying anything about her place, but he was damned to hell and back if he was going to make love to her anywhere else but his condo, on his giant bed with its zillion thread count sheets, his stereo playing, and on his terms. She’d have to deal with the real him. Take it or…
“You know what, I think we shouldn’t.” She pecked his cheek and trotted back to the sidewalk.
J.D. sighed and leaned into the passenger’s seat. Okay, he deserved this. Besides, he needed to get his head straight about her. Dragging her to his admittedly over-the-top penthouse and screwing in lieu of any more talk might not aid him in that quest.
Yes. This was for the best. He’d go home, take a long, cold shower, jack off, whatever it took. And tomorrow she’d come to his business, agree to his project, get hired, and then she’d be forced off his radar for good. He’d solve her problems and his own in one fell swoop. Once she was on the DSN payroll he’d have no choice but to leave her alone. He shifted in his seat, attempting to alleviate the painful pressure behind his zipper.
“Okay then, well … see you around the office,” he called out of the open window.
This was good. How it should be. She’d end up with a good job, move out of this firetrap of a building into somewhere nice and safe, maybe his own building. And he could move on with his life. Because employees were off fucking limits, so to speak.
He was already mentally calling Rick Gardner, coach of the Detroit women’s team, asking him to attend tomorrow’s initial production meeting. The one set by LeeAnn with every confidence he could produce the star. He’d get her in front of Rick. Hell, if he could swing it, he’d get Katrina Dawson, the newly hired coach of the U.S. Women’s National team there too. He had enough clout to pull that off. She’d been an assistant at the time of the injury. She knew Makayla’s story. He smiled to himself even as LeeAnn’s warning wafted across his brain.
She’s been through a lot and probably doesn’t want anyone tossing her over their shoulder.
She turned, k
issed her middle finger, and blew over to him with a wide grin that left him panting and hating his own weak ass self so much he had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from following her inside. He’d done that once. He couldn’t risk it again. It was time to get to work.
Chapter Eleven
“You’re not serious,” Marlo said as she leaned in the bathroom doorway the next morning.
“Deadly,” Kayla said, pulling the bandana back over her hair. “I got an appointment for this afternoon.”
“How long has it been since you did anything with it?”
“Almost five years,” Kayla admitted, gnawing on her lip.
“Then why now?”
“Because I can’t show up for this meeting or whatever it is looking like a Black Power recruitment poster.”
“Why not? I mean, it’s awesome, and you know it. Why not just leave it?” Marlo tugged at a lock of Kayla’s hair.
Kayla sighed and stared at herself in the mirror. The long, tightly curled strands now touched her shoulders. She did look pretty damn good if she said so herself. And besides, she should be able to wear her hair however she wanted. “Maybe you’re right.” Suddenly exhausted for no good reason, she flopped onto the bed.
“I know I am. Leave it. It’s not like it’ll keep you from being in their show.”
“I know. And that’s what’s bugging me.”
“Why? Shit, woman, I’ve been dying to work there. But couldn’t ever get past the phone screening stage until now. I say work those … uh … contacts. Right?”
“If you think I’m not conflicted as hell about this whole thing, you’re wrong.”
“Oh, I know you are.” Marlo dropped down next to her, facing the ceiling, and took her hand. She threaded their fingers together, kissed Kayla’s knuckles, then let their arms fall between them. “Leave it to you to hook up with the hottest dude in trousers, and then get you on a TV show and me a job, thanks to it. Keep up the good work, I say.”
“There hasn’t been any more … work. I told you that. It was just the one time.”