“That’s as far as it goes, buster.”
“You mean you’re not going to undress me?”
She laughed. “Good try.”
“Then, can I undress you?”
With that, he whipped his arm around her waist and pulled her to him. She fell on top, and he secured her there. With one rather large hand on the back of her neck, he guided her mouth to his. The hungry kiss took her off guard. He flipped them around so that he was looming over her, pinning her against the bed. When he came up for air, he smiled. He had her right where he wanted her.
“You son of a bitch. You’re not drunk.” Her eyes flashed.
“Nope.”
“You lied. Fooled me. Just to get me in here?”
“Yep.”
She beat her fists against his chest, until he grabbed her wrists with one hand.
“Ouch! You’re strong for a little thing.”
“Harley Brennan! You liar! You cheap seducer. You fucking phony!”
“Naughty, naughty. Mustn’t use bad language.” He bent to kiss her neck.
She squirmed, trying to get away. “Are you going to take me by force?”
He heard fear in her voice and let her go. Pushing up on his elbows and knees, he looked down at her. “You know I’d never do that. Did I scare you?” She nodded, tears welling. “I’m sorry. So sorry. Sweetheart. It’s okay. No is no.”
He sat up. Shyla smoothed her dress down and slid away from him. He faced her and tucked some strands of hair behind her ear. “You’re so beautiful. I just wanted to…well. You know. I mean, for old time’s sake. Just wanted to make love to you one more time. I knew you wouldn’t come up here if I asked, so…”
“So, you tricked me to get me into your room, to your bed. That’s low, even for you.”
“What do you mean, ‘even for me’?”
“Nothing. It’s late. I’ve gotta go.”
“Am I such a bad guy because I wanted to spend the night with you?”
“Tricking me isn’t exactly the way to win me over, is it?”
“I guess not. I knew you’d say ‘no,’ if I asked. And I figured, if you were up here, and if I could…well, it didn’t work.”
“Seduce me? You and your crazy schemes.” She shook her head.
“What do you mean, ‘crazy schemes’?”
She sat back down on the bed. “How quickly you’ve forgotten your plan to sneak into the pool at the hotel in Costa Rica?”
“I wanted a midnight swim.”
“You wanted to go skinny dipping at three a.m. and have sex in the pool.”
“Seeing you naked made me horny.”
“And we got caught. Flood lights. Alarms.” She laughed as color flooded her cheeks.
“You were even more beautiful in the floodlights.” He brushed blonde locks out of her eyes.
“I could’ve killed you.”
“But you fell for me, instead.”
The glow he’d seen so many times returned to her face. He’d missed that loving look. He eased her closer and kissed her. She responded, opening for him, and he angled his head to deepen the kiss.
“Shyla, honey, it’s you that I want,” he whispered into her hair.
She hugged him then let go. “Let’s not go down that road again. Nothing’s changed. You’re still playing football. I’m still traveling. You broke my heart once. I can’t do it again.” Shy pushed off the bed and stood up on wobbly legs.
Harley caught her and held her against his chest. “Would you have married me?”
“I couldn’t stop working.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
“If we’d married and I kept traveling, it wouldn’t have lasted.”
“Are you sure?”
“Who can be sure of anything?” She stepped away from him.
“But would you have? If I’d asked?”
“But you didn’t.”
“Evasive tonight. Very evasive. I make enough money. You wouldn’t have to work.”
“Yes, I would.”
“Why?”
“It’s same old, same old with Dad and Johnny. Don’t ask. Can’t you just let it be?”
“Maybe if you’d answer my questions honestly, then I could.”
“Look who’s talking about honesty!”
He laughed. “Just a little scheme. A ruse. Not a lie. Not really.”
“Tell yourself that.”
“You could retire, have kids, live with me.”
“Don’t forget why you’re here. To find all that…and the love of your life.”
“Or a woman who’s at least in the same city.”
“That might help.” She smiled.
He walked her to her room. They kissed goodnight, and he returned to his suite. There was a basket of fruit and flowers in the living room. He flipped on the TV, ordered room service, and grabbed an apple. Sleep was the farthest thing from his mind.
* * * *
Shyla Hollings let out a breath after she closed her hotel room door. She waited until she heard the ding of the elevator before she plopped down on the bed. As the reality of what she had done hit her, she knew the Kir hadn’t been enough. I need a drink.
Toeing off her shoes, she padded to the mini-fridge and plucked out a bottle of vodka. Opening the ice bucket, she was pleased to find they had filled it for her, at her request. She poured the clear liquid over ice and took the glass to her window. Sinking into a desk chair, staring out with unseeing eyes, she took a healthy swallow. It burned a little on its way down.
Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. What was I thinking? I’ll never be able to be behind the scenes on his show for two months and stay away from him.
She was surprised that two kisses from Harley Brennan made her want to tear off her clothes and jump into bed with him. Sure, he had been her best lover ever. But that was in the past. Wasn’t it? Now, her blood was hot, her body ready to rock and roll, but he was up there, and she was down here, frustrated.
Shyla prided herself on her common sense. She and Harley had had amazing chemistry from the moment they had met in Costa Rica at Penny’s wedding. Sure, she’d been in love with him, truly in love, for the first time in her life. But professional opportunity doesn’t knock on your door every day, especially when you have family obligations.
She and Harley had chosen their careers over their relationship, and she’d been convinced it was the only decision—although she’d cried her eyes out for weeks after they had parted. She had to support her father and brother. She was their only lifeline, so she couldn’t quit.
Her father’s words had never left her mind. “Your brother’s the one with talent. I’ll pay for him to go to art school. You? Get married. Have a dozen kids. What do you want to study design for? What could you possibly do with it?”
Then, he’d had a stroke, and her mother had left. Her dad had ended up with early onset Alzheimer’s. Johnny had studied at the Sorbonne with what was left of the family’s money, and their old man had gone to live with his “talented” son.
It wasn’t long before the money had run out. Johnny, a fine artist, did what he could to sell his work in Paris. But the cost of his studio and a place to live, not to mention the care for his father, ate up cash as a fire eats up gasoline. The two men had turned to Shyla, who had found lucrative assignments in her chosen field. She smiled to herself at the irony that she had ended up being the one who earned a good living.
Her generosity had become a trap, a prison, closing her in. There was no way she could have walked away from her work when she had so many mouths to feed. So, she kept it up, never explaining to Harley the real reason why.
She loved what she did, which made it easier. When Harley’d asked her to scale back, take fewer jobs so they could be together, she’d been tempted. She had reduced her own expenses by giving up her one bedroom and moving into a studio apartment in New York City. But it hadn’t been enough economy. And she’d be damned if Harley Brennan would foot the bill
for her father and brother. So, she kept working, praying Johnny would sell some pieces. As for her father—he was on a downward slope.
She stopped in when an assignment took her to Paris, otherwise, she had no desire to see the man who always put her as second to her brother. It wasn’t all bad. Italy, The Czech Republic, California coast, New Orleans, New York City, the French Riviera, Morocco—she’d flown to exotic places on someone else’s dime. The travel was exciting, educational, an adventure. The men she met on the sets were intriguing, often foreign, charming even, but no one could replace Harley in her heart.
As her salary grew, she began to put away a little money, keeping mum to John or her father about what she was actually earning. Her father’s words echoed in her head. “You’ll never get an Academy Award, so why waste your time? You’re a good-looking girl, Shyla. Find a man and stop this nonsense.”
She wasn’t sure her father was even aware that he was living off her generosity. “Just where would you be, Dad, if I had done what you suggested? On welfare, in some crummy nursing home,” she’d said to herself.
Shyla had been hired on this two-month gig as set designer for Marriage Minded. It would be her job to create settings so romantic that Harley would fall in love…with someone else. She’d be helping to find him the perfect wife. Coughing, she stood up. Idiot! What was I thinking?
A month ago, when she had taken this assignment, filling in for a designer who quit, common sense had told her it was over with Harley, so why not? The perks, like free travel, meals, and hotels in some lovely places she might never visit otherwise, had convinced her. And the pay was nothing to snort at.
The rules were strict. Any consorting with the “future husband” was grounds for immediate dismissal. Set design was a small industry. Ugh. How am I going to do this? She poured another vodka, sat back down, and propped her feet up on the desk. With one more glass, it became obvious. She’d have to hide from Harley. Not let him find out she was there. Avoid him at all costs. I’ll be behind the scenes. Should be easy. I’ll eat with the crew. Bunk with them. Our paths will never cross. No worries.
She yawned. The alcohol had taken the edge off, making her sleepy. She stripped off her clothes and flopped into bed. Visions of Harley Brennan, naked, invaded her dreams.
A restless night was interrupted by bright sunlight warming her room, kissing her face. Shyla turned away and put a pillow over her head, but it was too late. She gave in, though still tired, and dragged herself out of bed. It was six o’clock.
An hour later, after downing a small pot of coffee she made in her room, her cell rang. It was Penny Davis, her best friend, wife of Mark Davis, quarterback for the Delaware Demons.
“Hey, Penny. You’re up early.” Shy yawned.
“The baby. You know. How was the trip?”
“Piece of cake. Except I met Harley on the way. We sat together. Had a drink at the bar.”
“Is that all?”
“Not really. In fact…” While she threw on some clothes, she explained everything.
“You’re crazy. Why did you take the job?”
Shy launched into her plan to avoid Harley at all costs, but Penny didn’t appear convinced.
“If you fall on your face, call me. Good luck, Shy. You’re gonna need it.”
Not a minute after she hung up, room service showed up with breakfast. Food was the last thing on her mind, but Shyla managed to choke down some eggs, juice, and more coffee before she headed out to the hotel where the first encounters between Harley and the women, clamoring to be his perfect wife, would take place.
She practiced the lie in her head. Brennan? Harley Brennan? Don’t know him. No. Does he play football or something? She shuddered. I can do this. I’ve got to. My reputation is on the line. She took a deep breath, pasted on her brightest smile, and pushed through the door.
Chapter Two
Harley had woken up on the sofa at four and crawled into bed. A call at eight jarred him from a deep slumber. He dragged himself out to make coffee. Why did I do this? I’ll never find someone like Shyla. Wish I was back in Monroe, sleeping it off, with her.
But that wasn’t an option and wouldn’t be for two months. He shuddered. He’d signed a contract—no backing out now. The idea of meeting twenty-five young women who all wanted to marry him, even though he was a total stranger, terrified him. What was I thinking?
A shower, a shave, and a hearty, room service breakfast boosted the running back. He was ready to join the show’s host and producers. A limo awaited him when he hit the lobby. But the food and the pleasant ride couldn’t quell his escalating tension. Facing the show and the women was almost as scary as hitting the gridiron in the Super Bowl.
The host, Greg Carson, greeted Harley with a solid handshake and a smile. “Ready for your big adventure?”
The football player’s grin was tentative, his knees shaky.
“Some great looking women coming tonight to meet you. You lucky dog!”
“Yeah?” His hopes rose.
“Hotties, each and every one.”
“How am I going to remember all their names?”
“We have a cheat sheet—a board in your room with pictures and names. Look it over. You’ll get them before long.”
Greg took Harley to dinner. They talked about the show. Greg shared some pointers about the women and the itinerary, where they’d be visiting. Over coffee and dessert, the MC asked, “Are you ready to meet the girl of your dreams?”
“I think so.”
“Ready to make a commitment?”
The footballer nodded.
“Okay then. Finish up, and let’s do this.” Greg signaled for the check, and the men returned to the hotel for the big night, the first meeting of the women.
The wardrobe people were waiting for Harley. They fitted him into a tuxedo created to his specific measurements, which he had forwarded three weeks earlier. He ran his finger around the shirt collar, which seemed tight.
“These things are never comfortable. It’s just one night,” Greg said, smoothing the jacket across Harley’s broad shoulders with his palm.
They headed to a special section that had been roped off for the program. Sweat started around the collar and crept up to his forehead. Mimicking another popular show, Marriage Minded also had the women delivered by limousine, so each could make an entrance.
Harley shifted his weight, shoved his hands in his pockets, then took them out. The first car pulled up and a stunning brunette in a long, turquoise jersey gown, cut low over generous breasts, swung her shapely legs out. He rubbed his neck.
“Hi, my name’s Vanessa,” the young woman said, extending her hand.
Harley could hardly breathe. He clasped her bare shoulders and pulled her in for a hug. Her dark brown eyes widened as she looked him over. His gaze traveled her length quickly. I’d sleep with her in a heartbeat. Are they all going to be like this?
His nerves calmed down as woman after gorgeous woman eased from the vehicle and walked into a quick embrace. They looked good, they smelled good, they smiled and flirted with him. As he consumed glass after glass of champagne, all the pretty faces began to blur into one.
Greg Carson escorted him to a back room. “Time to make up your mind about who you want to stay and who should be kicked to the curb. Here’s the board. Study it for a bit and make your decisions.” The MC offered him a cup of coffee. “You might want to sober up a little before you decide.”
“Thanks,” Harley said, taking a sip of the hot brew, even though he wasn’t drunk.
Harley studied the board and tried to link conversations he’d had with faces. His stomach clenched at the idea of kicking anyone off the show. He’d given plenty of girls the brush-off in his day, but never face-to-face. He’d figured not calling again was a clear enough message. The idea of possibly watching a girl burst into tears when she didn’t get a nod from him made his knees weak.
He considered himself a brave man, who had dealt with many a two-
hundred-fifty pound tackle on the football field. But a crying female made him want to run. He picked up his cell.
“Trunk?”
“Harley? That you?”
The running back explained his predicament to his gridiron buddy, crack defensive lineman, Trunk Mahoney.
“I don’t have a fucking clue, man. Five crying females? You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“I wish I was.”
“Good luck. Let me know what happens. I hope none of them are armed.” Trunk chuckled.
“Thanks a lot! Deserter.”
“There’s nothing I can do from here, buddy. You decided to do this. Now, you’ve gotta see it through.”
“Yeah. I suppose. You’re right. Later, Trunk.”
The conversation ended, but Greg had been in the room for the last part. “Look, Harley, the time to get cold feet was months ago. You signed a contract. You can’t wimp out now.”
“I’ve never faced five crying females.”
“Most of ’em don’t cry until they get in the limo.” Greg stepped closer and closed his fingers around Harley’s upper arm. “You got this, buddy. You can handle it. You’re a pro athlete. Win some, lose some, right? So, five of the women’ll be losers tonight. It’s not like you actually know them and are tossing them out.”
“Do you have to say ‘tossing them out’, ‘kicking them to the curb’?”
“Okay, okay. You’re a softie. I get it. Do you want to find your soulmate?”
Harley nodded.
“To mix a metaphor—then, you’ve got to break some eggs. You can’t be mister nice guy to everyone. Let that go, or this’ll never work for you.”
“No one’s ever called me a softie before.”
“They were just being kind.”
Harley laughed. “I guess I am. I don’t like hurting people. If you don’t call a chick after a date, you never get to see how she feels about that. I’m sure some of them are relieved not to hear from me.”
Harley Brennan, Running Back Page 2