by Jill Shalvis
“Problem?” he asked, coasting into a parking space and turning to look at her.
“Are you kidding? It’s gorgeous. Pompous, but gorgeous.” She sounded the same, but her glow was gone, her voice quiet. “I’m sure the food’s great.” She smiled then, a self-deprecating grin. “Let’s just say I’d feel more comfortable in the kitchen than the dining room.”
Not expecting such a comment from the woman he’d thought confident and strong-willed, he felt taken aback, and oddly…protective.
But before he could say a word, Sam got out of the car into the warm evening, shutting the door and leaving him to hurry after her. Not easy to do with his knee aching like a son of a bitch—he’d overdone it this week playing with a bunch of hot-headed tenth graders. He came around the car, reaching for her hand to slow her down. “I was thinking maybe we could arrive together,” he suggested with a smile.
“Yeah. Okay.” She shot him a small smile back. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be.” God, those eyes of hers. They leveled him. “Look…” He turned her to face him. “You seem uncomfortable. How can I change that?”
She stared at him for a second, then smiled. “I think you just did.”
He touched her cheek, just one light stroke over her soft skin, a little startled to find himself feeling so…happy. “Good.”
“Excuse me, Mr. Knight, could I get an autograph and picture?”
The man with the large camera and press badge had come from nowhere, and Jack steeled himself. “No problem on the autograph,” he replied. “But if we could skip the picture—”
A bright flash went off in their faces. Nice. When Jack could see again, the guy was gone. “Sorry,” he said to Sam who stood there blinking, and took her hand.
“Who was that?”
“A pest. Come on.” A white-carpeted porch led into the club, while the deck above was covered with white awnings, from which hung planters dripping with colorful flowers. At the top of the carpet milled a group of paparazzi, no doubt waiting for the “celebrity” listed on the roster.
Him.
His skin began to itch, an old reaction to bad experiences. He knew he’d have to give them a sound bite once he got inside if he wanted any peace at all. “Stick with me in there.”
“What’s going on, Jack?”
“In a sec.” He pulled her off the walk into the thick grass. Sam gasped and wobbled as her heels sank right in. She lifted a startled gaze to his.
“Piggyback, or in my arms?” he asked.
“What?”
“We’re going around the back.”
Any woman in the history of his dating life would have stopped cold, stared at him as if he were crazy, and quite possibly even pitched a fit. At the very least, she’d have attracted attention by complaining about the ruining of her heels.
Not this woman.
She pulled the long strap of her little black purse over her head and one shoulder, settling it against her back. Then she tugged up the hem of her dress from mid-thigh to high-thigh. “Piggyback.”
He could have kissed her. Instead, he turned his back and bent down a little.
She hopped on. He felt her reach behind, probably checking to make sure she wasn’t flashing anyone. “Okay,” she said.
He gripped her legs at his sides, adjusting her slightly, and now his hands were each filled with a smooth, tanned thigh. They were firm and lean, and so were her arms, which encircled his neck. “Hold on,” he said, enjoying the feel of her toned body plastered to his and the loose tendrils of blond hair clinging to his neck and jaw.
“All set,” she said in his ear, her mouth brushing his skin.
A delicious shiver slid down his spine, reminding him that it had been a while since he’d indulged in what was too often thrown at him. In any case, the evening was definitely looking up. Despite the warm night, he began to move through the grass at a fast clip, ignoring the occasional twinge in his knee, concentrating instead on the athletic yet somehow perfectly soft body snugged so intimately to his.
They made it to the line of palm trees undetected, and slipped between them. Now they were far enough off the path so that if people glanced over, they’d merely see a couple walking, but would have no idea of their identity.
Perfect. “You okay back there?”
“Mm-hmm.”
The sound vibrated from her chest through his back, and his hands involuntarily tightened on her bare legs. What had started out so innocent had turned unexpectedly and pleasantly…hot.
“Are you okay?” she asked, her mouth close to his ear, causing more shivers down his spine.
Was he? He was melting, that’s what he was, and it had nothing to do with the weather. “Believe me, I’ve got the good end of the stick on this one,” he assured her, extremely aware of his fingers on her smooth, warm flesh.
They reached the building, and Jack moved alongside it. He headed around to the kitchen entrance. Finally he stepped out of the grass and onto concrete. He slowly—reluctantly—let go of her legs so that she could slide to the ground.
And slide she did. He felt every single inch of her, and when he heard her heels hit the deck, he turned. Before he could say a word, the door flung open and Heather stood there in a floor-length sheath of shimmery gold, her long dark auburn hair twisted in some complicated up-do. “You made it,” she said with relief. “Quick, inside.”
“You leaked this to the press,” he accused.
Guilt flashed quickly. “Yes, but only because this time the stalking little bastards are actually going to get the charity’s name out there and do some good, so screw them. Plus I made sure they paid the thousand-dollar price tag for the evening. Each.” Heather pulled them both into a large, bustling kitchen. There were servers rushing around, filling their trays from bins on the counters.
Heather shut the door behind them and hugged him tight. “You’re a sweetie for doing this.”
“Just remember that the next time you’re pissed off at me for something.” Jack pulled free and reached for Sam’s hand. “Sam, this is Heather Knight, my sister. Heather, meet Samantha O’Ryan.”
“The date I begged you to find.” Heather looked Sam over.
His tough, versatile, intriguing, beautiful beach girl looked right back.
“So. Are you real?” Heather asked.
“Excuse me?” Sam blinked. “Real?”
“Did he hire you, or are you his real date?”
“Hey,” Jack said. “Play nice.”
“Hire me?” Sam glanced from one to the other, and then laughed at Jack. “Tell me you are not that hard up.”
“I am not that hard up.” He shot Heather a glare, wanting to strangle her. “She’s just insanely bossy. You know, the much older sister routine—”
Heather growled at that. “I’m only eleven months older than you, you big lug.”
“So you’re admitting to being insanely bossy?”
Heather rolled her eyes. “Okay, yes. That part is true.”
“You’re both crazy,” Sam decided.
“Yeah. I’m sorry.” Heather actually even looked it. “I’m just a little protective.”
“I guess I can understand that.” Sam’s gaze hooked and held Jack’s. “Just as you should understand, I am your brother’s date. Real date.”
Servers continued to hurry past them, but all Jack saw was Sam—the adventurous woman with the contagious smile and amazing eyes in the sexy little black dress. “Definitely a real date,” he said, not taking his eyes off her.
Sam’s grin spread.
And Heather sighed with relief. “Finally, then.”
“Just make your money for the kids tonight,” Jack said before she could plan their wedding. “Make enough that I don’t need the monkey suit again for a while.”
“Thanks to a great lineup of auction items, I will. Oh, and I got your donation, by the way. You didn’t have to do that, not on top of all the money you’ve already—”
“Just tell
me you have food in there, lots of it, because I’m starving.”
“Oh, there’s food. Amazing piles of it,” Heather assured him. “It’s going to get every person in there in a check-writing mood, I hope.”
“Good.” But Jack’s smile suddenly felt a little weak thinking about the evening still ahead, and he braced himself to keep smiling until lockjaw set in.
Sam shot him a curious glance, but didn’t say a word. She just reached out for his hand, which he found himself grabbing on to like a lifeline.
At the moment, it was all he had.
3
SAM LET JACK lead her out of the kitchen and into the main area of the club, which was one huge open room with thick white pillars, gleaming tile floors and sweeping windows overlooking the hills of grass. Beyond them was a breathtaking view of the Pacific Ocean, aflame as the sun set.
Sam tore her eyes from the sight and prepared to be swallowed up by the crowd. She also expected to lose sight of her attractive date because apparently, Jack was a big draw tonight. Already women were staring, most of them with dreamy smiles on their faces, making her feel as if she were back in high school with the captain of the football team at her side like a piece of eye candy.
But even back then, she’d never cared about popularity. She was who she was, and she dated guys who felt the same. Things hadn’t changed much. She still didn’t care about image, and as a result, her dating circle, small as it was, involved mostly fellow surfers or customers of Wild Cherries. No one had come along and turned her head in a long time.
And yet she felt her head turning now.
Spinning, in fact.
She honestly expected Jack to excuse himself and catch up with her later. She hadn’t imagined he’d hold on to her hand with a grip of steel, or that he’d keep looking at her as if he were glad she stood at his side.
They were perfect strangers really, and yet…she held on to him as well, and felt a thrill go through her when he looked at her as if she were the most beautiful woman in the room.
The north corner was set up for dining, with rows of tables covered in white linens and china. In the south corner a band was playing, while people milled, conversed and danced.
Everyone was dressed to the hilt, sedate and professional in their partying. Sam and Jack passed a group of women in shimmery gowns, each with a man in a tux on her arm. Most stopped talking, shooting Jack more than a passing glance.
Interesting.
“Don’t look directly at them,” Jack murmured in her ear, still holding tight to her hand. “Smile, but keep your feet moving.”
“I think they want to talk to you…”
“Like I said, keep moving.” Obviously an expert at working a crowd, he weaved and dodged like a pro quarterback even when people turned toward him and tried to head him off at the pass. He kept smiling and nodding his head, but with admirable skill, avoided being detained by anyone with a camera.
“Impressive,” she murmured, and then began to catch snippets of conversation going on around them.
“My God, it’s him.”
“Mmm, looking hot as ever, too.”
“The Eels never recovered after he left. He shouldn’t have left.”
That one had Jack’s jaw tightening, and Sam felt an odd surge of protectiveness for the man. How dare these people act as if he couldn’t hear them.
“Who cares why he really quit. I just miss seeing his buns in basketball shorts.”
“Take a shower, Marge.”
The last was probably a disgusted husband, but Sam tripped over her heels as it hit her. Jack Scandal Knight. She was Jack Scandal Knight’s blind date. My God, how had she not realized? He had athlete written all over him—from the long, hard, rangy length of him, to the rigid yet easy control in every movement he made.
He wasn’t the quarterback she’d just imagined, but a basketball star.
He caught her. “You okay?”
She looked up into his startlingly handsome face and nodded. Why hadn’t he told her? What was it he’d said…? He’d retired. She supposed it had been easier to define it that way rather than as millions of others did—going out as a legend in his own time.
She imagined his reticence was because everywhere he went, people fawned over him, or just talked about him, as they were doing now, as if he wasn’t in the room.
This was crazy. Jack Scandal Knight, holding her hand, pulling her along.
“Jack, tell us when you’re coming back to the game.”
Jack sighed and squeezed her hand. “Sorry, but I have to say something or they’ll never leave us alone.” He turned to the group of reporters on their right. Ten mikes were immediately shoved in his face. Flashes went off. “I had a great run,” he said. “I loved every minute of it, but I’m not coming back to the game. I’m here to support this evening’s charity, which gives money and attention to underprivileged kids.” He smiled, held still for another moment for pictures, then backed away.
Sam moved with him, wondering how his life had changed since he’d stopped playing. Given the expert weave and bob he was executing, it hadn’t changed much. He didn’t want the press around him, he didn’t want any attention at all. There was something…cute about that.
If one could call a six-foot-six, tough-as-nails, hard-as-rock man cute.
In the middle of the large room now, he took a deep breath, and when a group of men came up to him, not reporters, but guests, Jack shook their hands warmly.
“How’s retirement?” one asked. “Great?”
“How could it not be?” Jack answered. “And how are you all doing tonight?”
Everyone murmured their answer, then someone said to Jack, “What are you doing with yourself these days?”
“Keeping busy, that’s for sure. Who’s actually played golf here? Is it any good?”
It went on like that for a few minutes, with Jack dodging and deflecting. She could see how private he was, and she wondered how a man like that dealt with such public pressure.
After a few minutes, Jack excused them and led her away. They passed a waiter holding a large tray of champagne. “Thank God.” He let go of her hand to grab two flutes, one of which he handed to her. Then he let out a long sigh and clinked his glass lightly against hers. “To the best evening we can make out of this.”
“Well, we’ve done pretty good so far.”
“Yeah.” A genuine smile touched his lips. “We sure have. And I think most of the press actually left after their photo op. Thanks for being so patient.”
Around them, the crowd tightened, closing in a little, and she was forced into him. “Sorry,” she murmured, backing away to give him some room, only to bump into a couple behind her, nearly spilling her drink.
“Come here,” Jack said softly, sliding his free hand down the length of her arm, entwining his fingers through hers. Shifting their connected hands to the small of her back, he gently urged her forward and once again into him.
Now her hips were cradled rather intimately with his, her breasts brushing his chest. The connection came on like a strong jolt, and her gaze flew up to his.
Jack felt it, too; she could see the heat in the dark depths of his eyes reflected back at her. “So maybe,” he murmured, “the toast should be to the rest of the evening.”
“Yes…” Dipping her head, she took a sip from her flute to cover her confusion at her unusually strong reaction to him, but then caught a movement over his shoulder. “Mob closing in at two o’clock.”
He swore, tossed his champagne down his throat and ditched the glass on a different waiter’s empty tray before getting them on the move again.
They headed toward the band, who’d struck up a Seventies disco beat. The lights went down and at least ten disco balls lowered from the ceiling swirling and sending flashes of light into every corner.
“Join us for disco hour,” the band leader said into his microphone. “And at eight o’clock, we’ll move into the Eighties.”
The cro
wd perked up, and many moved toward the dance floor.
Sam looked at the colored lights, at the people starting to move to the beat, and nerves leaped into her throat. Surely Jack wouldn’t expect her to dance in these ridiculous heels and tight dress…
He stopped at the edge of the dance floor, thank God. They could just watch—
“Okay, I think it’s safe here,” he said. “Quick, gaze into my eyes like I’m the only man you see. Maybe that’ll keep everyone away.”
She laughed, but dutifully looked into his eyes. “Like you’re the only man I see? And how does one give that kind of a look?”
He blinked, then laughed, too. “Actually, I haven’t a clue.”
“Uh-oh.” She winced. “Sorry to tell you, there are three men in cheap suits holding cameras, making their move.”
“Damn.” Grabbing her hands, Jack pulled her onto the dance floor, then glanced back at the photographers stymied at the side of the room. Heather swiftly moved in and shifted them out of sight, winking at Jack over her shoulder.
Jack smiled down at Sam. “Better.”
They were surrounded by couples gyrating to the music. “Unless you know something else we can do out here,” she said, “we actually have to dance.” She could surf wave after wave, she could stand on the counter of her café and sing at the top of her lungs when the mood struck her, but swaying in time to the music was hard. She had no rhythm.
With a smoothness that startled her, Jack slid one arm around her waist, took her free hand in his and pulled her toward him. “Dancing works for me.”
“Wait—” The air rushed out of her when she came up against his big, warm, hard body. He felt good, and that was before he began to sway in perfect time to the music. She stared at him. “You know how to do this?”
In the dark, his smile flashed white. “Why the surprise?”
Because athletes, famous ones, were usually good at only one thing—their sport. But he had rhythm, good rhythm, and moves that made her mind wander into areas she hadn’t expected to go this evening.
“What’s the matter?” he asked when she stood there in his arms, stiff and unmoving.