by Desiree Holt
Cover Copy
No Rules. No Limits.
Party girl Tyler Gillette has just one rule: no football players. As the daughter of the owner of the San Antonio Hawks, she grew up in the shadow of the sport and her father’s enormous wealth. She was even named Tyler because he wanted a boy. Life couldn’t have drawn up a better play for turning her into a wild child—until that same life is threatened by someone from the past . . .
Former Hawks running back Rafe Ortiz has a few rules of his own. First, no weaknesses. Second, no babysitting spoiled football princesses. But his new career as a bodyguard means he’s responsible for protecting the beautiful Tyler Gillette from her mysterious stalker. But keeping his hands off her might be harder than keeping her safe . . .
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Finding Julia
Game On Series
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Line of Scrimmage
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Pass Interference
A Game On Romance
Desiree Holt
LYRICAL PRESS
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Copyright © 2015 by Desiree Holt
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First Electronic Edition: April 2016
eISBN-13: 978-1-61650-733-6
eISBN-10: 1-61650-733-0
First Print Edition: June 2016
ISBN-13: 978-1-61650-734-3
ISBN-10: 1-61650-734-9
Printed in the United States of America
Dedication
First, as always, to the man of my heart
* * *
But for this book there is a second dedication. In 2013, my daughters took me to the Gristmill in Gruen, Texas, to celebrate my birthday. We were waited on by the most gorgeous man, who went out of his way to make my celebration lunch a special one. I told him one day I would model a hero after him, and I took pictures. He was very gracious, even though I’m sure he thought I was crazy. Well, Joshua Ramos, here it is. Rafe Ortiz is you come to life. Thank you so much for being such a good sport.
Acknowledgements
First a thank you to my sister, Sonya Langden, who first introduced me to the excitement of football. To my late husband David, who shared my love of the sport. Loved those weekend bets we had! And of course my son, Steven, who is the most knowledgeable person about this sport that I know and answers my endless questions. Huge thanks to my fabulous beta reader, Margie Mendel Hager. Where would I be without you? Also my incredible daughter Suzanne, and my granddaughter, Kayla, my assistants extraordinaire. To my daughter Amy, who will tell people about Desiree Holt at the drop of a hat. Thanks to my bestie, award-winning, multi-published author Cerise Deland, who is so great at brainstorming. To Paige Christian, editor extraordinaire. I will always listen to you. To Renee Rocco, without whom I would not be here writing this. I love you, sweetie. To the people at Kensington Publishing who take such good care of me. And last but far from least, to all my wonderful readers out there. Thank you so much for buying my books, for reviewing them, for telling me how much you like them and for passing the word. They are really all for you.
Author’s Foreword
Football has been not just my pleasure but my passion ever since I read a book on how to watch the game. And watching it has been my salvation through every crisis in my life. When I see the first kickoff of the season—be it college or pro—my brain stirs to life. Some of my best books were written during football season. I also have to mention the dean of sportswriters, Grantland Rice, whose book The Tumult and the Shouting gave me the quintessential look into the history and the psychology of the game. And to all the players who put their bodies out there week after week for six months of the year, thank you for bringing me a sport that I truly love.
Chapter 1
Tyler Gillette swirled the amber liquid in her cocktail glass and stared into it for a long moment before taking a slow sip. Savoring the bite of the alcohol, she looked around the bar. About her usual speed these days. Slightly seedy, but in the dark it carried an artificial veneer of polish. Small (but not exactly what she’d call cozy), with a long bar on one wall and the rest of the room filled with tables and chairs. A jukebox in one corner banged out tunes, but, thank the Lord, the volume on it was turned down. She’d had enough jukebox headaches in her life, and she wasn’t in the mood for one tonight.
Of course she wasn’t in the mood for much of anything tonight.
She caught the sudden cloying whiff of heavy aftershave seconds before someone slid onto the bar stool next to her.
“Is this seat taken?” His voice was raspy, like a smoker’s.
Tyler turned her head and looked at the man who had moved next to her. Dark hair, curling at the ends, hung to the collar of his black polo shirt, framing a face dominated by a crooked nose and thin lips. Why did men always think it was sexy to wear black? Didn’t they want a little color in their lives? She let her eyes skim over him and took in the muscular body just beginning to soften, maybe developing a little flab. Okay, so men did the black-makes-me-thinner thing, too.
“Well, is it?” he persisted, in what she was sure he thought was a sexy voice.
Tyler was tempted to just turn her back on him, toss down her drink, and get the hell out of there. But her persistent self-destructive streak made her look him up and down, curve her lips in a smile, and answer him in what she hoped was a seductive voice.
“It is now.”
The answering smile he gave her was part ego and part I think I’m getting lucky tonight. He hitched his bar stool a little closer. “Great. Just great, babe.”
Babe. Crap, she hated that little word. She’d heard it from too many lips and too many men just like this one. And far too many times, in places just like this.
“So.” He trailed a finger down her bare arm. Her shiver had nothing to do with a sexual response and everything to do with revulsion for the touch. “I haven’t seen you at Tequila Sunrise before. You here with anyone?”
“Just myself.” She gave him a sly wink and took another sip of her drink. God, she had this routine down pat, every comment, every single body movement memorized like a long-running play she’d starred in. How could she even stand herself anymore?
“Well.” He returned the wink. “Me, too. That’s quite a coincidence, isn’
t it?” He drained the rest of the liquid in his rocks glass and nodded at her empty one. “How about a refill?”
“Sure. Why not?”
Why not indeed? Tequila Sunrise was just one more dingy bar in the many she’d spent time in over the past few years. One more stop on her downward spiral. She could hardly tell one from the other anymore, and that went for the men, too. But it seemed to be the only way her father ever realized she was alive, albeit to tear his hair out at her behavior.
Tough shit.
The bartender cleared the empties and set up the refills. Tyler picked up her glass and waited until the guy touched his to hers before taking a sip.
“So,” he asked, smacking his lips, “you got a name?”
“Marie.” She always used her middle name. It offered a small amount of damage control and gave her a measure of anonymity. For herself, not for her father. It allowed her to separate the person she was from the things she did.
“Marie,” he repeated. “Nice name.” He waited for her to ask for his. When she didn’t, he said it anyway. “I’m Dewey.”
“Here’s to ya, Dewey.” She lifted her cocktail glass and took a healthy swallow. The alcohol burned as it slid down her throat and into her body, searing away her unhappiness.
“You live around here?” he asked.
Good Lord, were all his lines so stale?
“Sort of.” She took another sip.
“You’re sure a sexy little piece. I didn’t think I’d see any action in here on a week night, but lucky me. Here you are.”
Yes, lucky him.
“So, what do you do when you aren’t hanging out in places like Tequila Sunrise?”
She shrugged. “This and that.”
What did she do, anyway? Not a hell of a lot. She’d studied many things during her scattered college career but never pursued any of them. She’d thought about what she’d do if she completed her degree but —She took another sip of her drink, pushing those thoughts from her mind.
Glancing around, she noticed some of the people had left but others had wandered in to take their place. All of them looked as seedy and desperate as Dewey. When he coasted the tips of his fingers over her knee and tried to ease them beneath the hem of her skirt, she jerked, sloshing some of her drink on her dress. She grabbed cocktail napkins from a stack on the bar and blotted up the liquid. As she did, she brushed Dewey’s thick fingers away, too.
“Awww, don’t be like that.” He tried to touch her again, but she swung her body at an angle away from him. “You got really soft skin. Nice skin.” He leered at her. “I’ll bet it’s just as soft all over.”
Again he made an attempt to ease his hand up the inside of her thigh. Tyler gave a forced laugh as she grasped him by the wrist, her stomach roiling at the contact.
“No touching in public.” She made herself laugh again. “I have rules.”
“That so?” He took a deep swallow of his drink. “Any other rules I should know about?”
“Yes. No personal questions.”
“Uh-huh.” He studied her. “You got something to hide?”
“Doesn’t everyone?” She dug up a friendly look from somewhere. “I’ll bet you do. Right?”
He shrugged. “Maybe, but nothing all that interesting.” He shifted on his bar stool in an attempt to lean closer again. “I’d rather talk about you.”
She hated to think how many men like Dewey she’d been in this same situation with over the years. It was a game; one she played far too often. Tease but don’t give in. They can look but don’t touch. Don’t get too close unless she was desperate. Thank God she hadn’t been that desperate in a long time.
By the third drink, she was getting sloppy and Dewey was getting more aggressive. She needed to pull herself together because she had no intention of letting Dewey and his ego get any more private with her than the seats on the two bar stools.
Nor did she plan to leave with him or anyone else. She knew the prevailing assumption was she slept with anything that had a dick but they were so wrong. Oh, sure, she’d had a few lovers, but not nearly as many as people thought, and not for a long time. It was an act she’d perfected so no one could see who was beneath that slutty armor.
She’d begun to realize lately, though, that the slutty armor pinched. That even as a disguise, it didn’t seem to fit her anymore. She wasn’t comfortable with herself and that disturbed her. Had she gone so far over the edge she’d lost the core of Tyler?
Unexpectedly, he stopped trying to paw her. “Hey, Chuck.” He signaled to the bartender and pointed to the television mounted up in one corner behind the bar. “Turn that thing up, will you?”
“Aw, no one wants to hear that crap tonight,” Chuck argued. “They got the jukebox going.”
“I said turn up the fucking television,” Dewey challenged. “That is if you expect any kind of tip tonight.”
“Asshole,” Chuck muttered.
Tyler wanted to agree with him, but the man threw down his bar towel and reached for the remote. When she looked up at the screen to see what was so important to the jerk next to her, she really didn’t want it turned up. Behind the sportscaster was a huge rendering of the new logo of the San Antonio Hawks. Up in the corner was an inset of Kurt Gillette’s photo. Her beloved father.
“…still pouring in,” the man was saying. “The public is still divided almost equally on whether they want the team to remain the Bisons or keep the new name, the San Antonio Hawks.”
The female reporter laughed. “Like it or not, Kurt Gillette won’t be changing it back. Since the big switch, with a new logo, new colors, and new uniforms, the team has rebounded from the slump it’s been in since the loss of star quarterback Tate Manning.”
“Gillette says they’ll get used to it as the team keeps racking up wins. You have to admire the man for taking such a bold step, but it seems to be working.”
God! It seemed no matter where she went, Tyler couldn’t get away from her father or his precious effing football team. As the television reporters continued to discuss the topic, nausea roiled up into her throat. She needed to get out of here. Fast. Get away from both Dewey and yet another news blast about the vaunted Kurt Gillette.
She slid from the bar stool and grabbed the thin strap of her purse. “Be right back,” she said, slurring just a little.
“Hey, wait.” He grabbed her upper arm with his thick fingers. “You’re not gonna run out on me, are you? I got drinks invested in you, Marie.”
She forced a smile. “Would I do that? I just need to head to the little girls’ room for a minute.”
She glanced pointedly at where he held onto her. With a frown, he released her, but took the moment to stroke his fingers the length of her arm. Tyler managed to keep from spitting in his face. After all, the whole thing was really her fault. If she hadn’t been here in the first place, having her usual pity party—
She shook herself. “I’ll be right back. Promise.”
“You’d better be.” The tone of his voice had an unpleasant cast to it. “If you take too long, I might have to come after you.”
She lifted her eyebrows. “In the ladies’ room?”
“Wherever.” He grabbed her arm again. “I don’t let my women run out on me. Not until I get my money’s worth.”
“Your women? Damn, Dewey, all we had was a couple of drinks.”
“You gave me the come-on, sweetie. Don’t try to deny it.”
She yanked her arm away again and took a step back. Arguing with him would get her nowhere so she dug up a smile. “I told you. I’ll be right back. You just order us another round of drinks.”
As if he needed one. She managed to make it to the restroom although inside she was shaking. Usually she was a pretty good judge of the guys she met. If they got a little too aggressive, she could back off and they looked somewhere else. Apparently Dewey didn’t fit into that category.
Inside the ladies’ room, she too
k a good look at herself in the mirror. What a mess. The hair she’d arranged so artfully to fall just so to her shoulders looked as if she’d been combing it with her fingers. Okay, so she had. BFD. The black dress that she’d thought so sexy when she got dressed now looked like a cheap come-on. Her makeup, well, it didn’t look too bad, but her vision wasn’t quite as sharp as it had been early in the evening. All in all, she was bordering on a mess.
She was doing herself in. At this rate, she’d be dead before Kurt Gillette had a change of heart.
She had another little problem to deal with, too, one she hadn’t told a single soul about. Mostly because she had no idea who to bring it to. She really hoped it would just go away.
Yeah, right. Like that was going to happen.
Sighing, she took care of business, washed her hands, and pulled her cell phone from her purse. She’d taken a cab so she didn’t have to worry about driving, but she needed an alternative now. She was pretty damn sure good old Dewey would put up a huge fuss if he saw her trying to get into a taxi. No, she needed a better solution to the mess she’d gotten herself into.
Taking out her cell, she dialed her friend, Betsy. She’d definitely come and bail her out. But all she got was Betsy’s “Leave a message.” She tried ten more numbers, people she felt comfortably asking to help her with this ugly situation, but she only got their voice mails.
Damn! Damn! Damn!
Did no one have their cell phones on tonight, when she desperately needed to reach someone?
Bam, bam, bam.
The heavy pounding on the door startled her.