To Win Her Smile

by Mackenzie Crowne

  “Okay.” CC’s chest expanded on a shaky sigh. “What can I do?”

  Piper glanced down at the streaks of blood staining her sweater. “Have you a fresh jumper handy? I look like an extra from a horror film and don’t want to frighten the hotel staff.”

  The concern in CC’s eyes eased further with her laugh. “You don’t have to worry about the hotel staff. I’m taking you home with me.”

  “That’s not necessary.”

  “Yes, it is. You are not spending the night alone in a hotel room.”

  “Don’t be silly.” Piper tugged her fingers free. “I’m perfectly capable of caring for myself. Besides, I don’t want to impose.”

  “Please. It’s no imposition. The house has six bedrooms. We’re only using two.” Piper opened her mouth to make a further argument, but CC cut her off. “I should have insisted you stay with us from the beginning.”

  “Dearest, you know I appreciated the offer to be your guest then, as I do now.” She softened her refusal with a smile. “But really, you have enough on your hands with a new baby, not to mention your handsome groom.”

  CC dismissed Piper’s argument with the flick of her hand. “Tuck and I are hardly newlyweds and Huey is almost a year old. Anyway, bringing you home with me was Tuck’s idea. If you want to refuse, you’ll have to take it up with him.”

  Piper frowned. Having missed her friend’s wedding because of scheduling difficulties at the manor, not to mention a decided lack of funds, she’d yet to meet CC’s husband in person. “Why ever would he suggest such a thing? He’s never even met me.”

  “Because you’re my friend.” A muffled jingle sounded from CC’s purse. She bent over the bag and dug in search of her cell phone. “He didn’t realize you were the lady photographer who’d been hurt. When he heard your name after the game, he called me from the locker room and insisted I convince you to come stay with us.” She retrieved her phone and straightened, meeting Piper’s gaze. “He feels guilty for not catching the ball.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “That’s Tuck.” CC shrugged and checked the phone’s screen. Concern wrinkled her forehead as she answered the call. “Wyatt? What’s going on?” She listened for a moment, then held a fingertip over the cell’s mic to whisper, “It’s Wyatt Hunter.”

  The name meant nothing to Piper, and she arched a questioning brow.

  “The Marauders’ quarterback,” CC added, then spoke into the phone. “Besides a broken nose, she assures me she’s fine.” The deep rumble of Wyatt Hunter’s voice reached Piper’s ears. Whatever he was saying made CC laugh. “You can tell her yourself. She’s sitting right here.”

  The headache in Piper’s temples pulsed with renewed vigor. She waggled her hands in an I’m not here motion.

  “He just wants to apologize.” CC held out the phone.

  Piper bit her bottom lip. Well, bother. So much for limiting her exposure to the Marauders players. Still, refusing to speak to the man would be rude and God forbid the Baroness of Delaney ever be discourteous. Swallowing the familiar frustration that came with the need to always do the socially correct thing, she accepted the phone and held it to her ear. “It’s so kind of you to call, Mr. Hunter, but an apology isn’t necessary.”

  “I disagree, Miss…Darrow, is it? After all, I did break your nose.”

  She blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

  A moment’s hesitation, then, “CC said your nose was broken.”

  Piper met CC’s questioning stare. “Technically, yes, but the ball simply grazed me instead of hitting me straight on. The break, as well as the resulting damage, are minor.”

  “Well, there you go. I broke your nose.”

  She mentally shook her head at the satisfaction in his tone as if he were actually pleased to have his culpability confirmed. “Seriously, it’s nothing to be concerned about, and accidents happen. Please, don’t blame yourself.”

  “Why wouldn’t I? I threw the ball.”

  Oh, for heaven’s sake. Why was he arguing when she was clearly attempting to excuse him of any fault? “Are you saying you were trying to hit me?”

  CC slipped her fingers over her mouth, but her eyes twinkled with silent laughter.

  The Marauders’ quarterback was silent for a moment. When he finally spoke, his voice held a hint of humor. “Make no mistake. If I had meant to hit you, I would have. There would have been no grazing involved and the damage wouldn’t be minor.”

  CC dropped her hand to her chest to whisper, “What’s he saying?”

  Piper cupped her fingers over the phone’s mic the way CC had and whispered back. “If I’m not mistaken, he’s bragging about his accuracy and prowess.” A bark of male laughter came through the earpiece and Piper finished on a squeak, “in his sport.”

  “Nice clarification, sweetheart, but it ain’t bragging when it’s the truth.”

  Piper’s mouth dropped open and she barely suppressed a distressed whimper.

  CC’s wince slid into a helpless grin. “He heard you, didn’t he?”

  Wyatt Hunter’s deep voice came through loud and clear. “Every word.”

  Piper groaned and nodded, but CC waved her off. “Don’t stress it, Piper. Professionally, Wyatt has reason to brag, but he’s never been thin skinned, especially when the jab comes from a woman.”

  His easy laughter vibrated in Piper’s ear. “CC’s right. When it comes to jabbing women, particularly those who do so with sexy British accents, I’m a total pussycat.”

  Oh, dear Lord. Piper opened her mouth, but if there was an appropriate reply to his taunting gibe wrapped in a semi-flirtatious compliment, she couldn’t think of it.

  “You still there, sweetheart?”

  Beyond embarrassed, Piper nonetheless chafed at the teasing laughter in his question as well as the endearment. “Yes, of course.” Years of practice kept her voice even, controlled. “However, I’m afraid I must be going. It was lovely of you to ring me up, even it if was unnecessary. Good day.”

  “Wait, I actually called to...”

  Thumbing the screen, she cut off the call and handed the phone to her wide-eyed friend. “And that man is at the top of my list of jocks to avoid.”

  Chapter 2

  “I’m a huge fan, Mr. Hunter.”

  Wyatt paused in his search of the packed art gallery and turned his head. At six foot three, he towered over the petite blonde waitress with the smoky feminine purr. Arching a brow, he offered her his patented grin.

  “That makes my day, sweetheart. It’s always a pleasure to meet a fan.”

  She batted the thick fringe of her false eyelashes. “Can I get you anything?”

  He bumped his chin toward the tray of crystal flutes she carried. “Why don’t we start with one of those?”

  She fingered the lapel at her bust line, drawing his attention to the mouthwatering view framed by the deep plunge of her white cotton blouse. Dipping two fingertips into her impressive cleavage, she retrieved a card.

  “I work for the company that serves the private skyboxes at the Marauders’ complex, and I never miss your games.” She plucked a glass of sparkling champagne from the tray and handed him her card along with his drink. “Maybe we’ll run into each other sometime.”

  His grin broadened. Though his taste in women tended toward curvy redheads, variety was the spice of life. That, and he’d never been a man to ignore a pretty woman with an invitation in her eyes. “That’s a definite possibility,” flipping the card over, he read her name, “Bethany.”

  The pink tip of her tongue appeared, briefly licking the dip in her full upper lip. Anticipation gleamed in her brilliant blue eyes and she matched his grin. “If there is anything else you need, anything at all, you just let me know.” After a moment’s hesitation, she turned and walked away.

  As yet unnoticed by the milling crow
d, Wyatt brought the rim of the glass to his lips and followed the deliberate swing of her hips. Her slim, black skirt molded sweetly proportioned curves. He hummed in appreciation. Bethany might be a tiny thing but, damn. She had a great ass.

  For a moment, he considered taking her up on her blatant offer and to hell with the consequences. Shit, considering his playboy reputation, no one would be surprised if he tossed the pretty waitress over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry and strolled out the front door.

  His teammates, scattered throughout the crowd at tonight’s fundraiser art show, would appreciate the entertainment. Better still, the subsequent headlines would send his father’s anal retentive campaign manager into convulsions. Wyatt imagined the bulging vein in his father’s temple as he read the articles, and his smile was smug.

  Shaking his head, he dismissed the tempting fantasy and resumed his search for the lady photographer with the sexy British accent. He owed Piper Darrow an apology, but even if that task didn’t weigh on his shoulders, he wasn’t going anywhere. At least for the next few hours. First, because the success of tonight’s fundraiser benefiting Down syndrome research was important to him personally, and second, because dear old dad wasn’t the only one riding his ass at the moment.

  He frowned and sipped deeply. Thanks to a freak, off-season injury, the last month and a half had been a ball buster, and yesterday’s lackluster performance hadn’t helped matters. With the increased stakes this season, it was no surprise the Marauders’ front office was playing hard ball. Forget the hundred-grand fine the team had imposed on him for disregarding the no dangerous shit clause in his contract. Caroline Wainwright had personally promised to hit him up for some real money if he didn’t keep his nose clean and the press off her back.

  A derisive snort flared his nostrils as he glanced around the packed room. As if that was possible. From the day the Marauders had taken a chance on him, a two-year, untried backup quarterback who had yet to play in a single game, the skeptical press had been on him like stink on shit.

  In the seven years since, he’d proven his detractors wrong. Leading the Marauders to four Super Bowl games, he’d netted two league MVP titles and three rings in the process. And none of that mattered. A new season started every September—along with predictions of Wyatt Hunter’s failure to live up to the hype surrounding him.

  The collective doubt pissed him off, but was nothing new. Growing up under Richard Hunter’s maniacal insistence on perfection, a much younger Wyatt had discovered the best way to deflect the constant criticism was to never let anyone, especially his father, see him sweat.

  The key was to make everything he did look easy, even when it wasn’t.

  Football certainly wasn’t. Not when a brand new crop of rookies showed up at camp every summer, determined to make their mark. The truth was, Wyatt worked as hard or harder than anyone in the league. He just did it with a lazy, fuck you smile on his face.

  Consequently, he’d been tagged as a lucky slacker back in high school and the label had stuck. But hell, this was his tenth pro season. He knew the drill and the outside criticism only served to push him harder.

  The incoming fire from those he considered friends was something else.

  He grunted in frustration as his scanning gaze landed on one of those supposed friends. V, as everyone referred to the Marauders’ PR wiz, stood on the far side of the gallery. Sam Fitzpatrick, her husband of six months and the team’s new offensive coordinator, laughed at something she said and pressed a kiss to her brow. Wyatt scowled, then downed the remainder of his champagne in a healthy gulp.

  “Damn, Wyatt. Are you still sniffing in that direction?” Wyatt flicked a sidelong glance at Tuck who’d slipped up beside him wearing a taunting sneer. “She married the man, buddy. It’s time to move on.”

  “Fuck you.” Wyatt flagged a passing waiter.

  Tuck chuckled and eyed the couple across the room. “I don’t blame you for being pissed. It’s got to sting to know you let an old man steal her right out from under your nose.”

  “Sam is what?” Wyatt scoffed. “Two years older than you?”

  “Three.” Tuck shrugged and grinned.

  “Then I wouldn’t be calling him old, and he didn’t steal V from me.” Wyatt exchanged his empty glass for a fresh drink, then waited until the waiter walked away. “She’s a friend. Nothing more.”

  “Is that why you spent the entirety of last season begging her to sleep with you?”

  Wyatt snorted. “There was no begging involved and, technically, I only asked her out for real that first time.”

  “And she shot you down.”

  Tuck’s eyes flashed with satisfaction, but Wyatt shrugged good-naturedly. “Like a clay pigeon, and it was the luckiest rejection I’ve ever received.”

  He’d gone on to have the best game of his career that night. Of course, being a superstitious son of a bitch, he’d asked her out again the next Sunday. Once again, she’d said no thanks, and the Marauders added another W to the win column. Unfortunately, his dick had done his thinking on week three. While on the road in New England, he’d been distracted by a brunette ad executive he’d met in the hotel bar, and had temporarily forgotten about his current lucky charm. The Marauders suffered a crushing loss that Sunday.

  Throughout the rest of the season, his teammates had razzed the hell out of him, but a smart man didn’t question what worked. Whether by phone or in person, he’d approached V every subsequent game day, even after she and Sam had become an item. Come February, the Marauders completed their season at nineteen and one. In the process, they’d bagged their second consecutive Super Bowl win and V had become that rarest of things, a female friend.

  Wyatt scowled her way. “She’s still pissed at me for getting hurt.”

  Tuck followed his gaze. “You scared her. Hell, you scared all of us.”

  Wyatt’s chest surged on a harsh sigh. “Yeah, that wild-water rafting trip turned out to be a dumb ass idea, but shit. It was a couple bruised muscles. It’s not like I severed my throwing arm.”

  As the team’s PR consultant, diffusing the press firestorm over his off-season injury had fallen on V’s shoulders. But hell. She was his friend. He’d expected her to understand and cut him some slack. Instead, she’d looked at him with disappointment in her eyes, going so far as to question his sanity, and worse, his commitment to his career and his teammates.

  Weeks later, her accusation still stung.

  Tuck shrugged. “It’s Sam’s first season with the pros. Her interest in the team’s success just got personal. Besides, she can’t help it. She’s a woman. They carry a maternal gene that requires them to bitch bite a man if he does anything they consider dangerous.” He grunted. “Especially if that something is fun.”

  Wyatt smiled at his friend’s grumbling complaint. “Speaking from experience?”

  Tuck swirled the wine in his glass. “You missed the Malones’ barbeque last month so you didn’t see, but Jake bought a sweet all-terrain vehicle to use around the farm. One thousand cubic inches of muscle and speed.” Tuck hummed appreciatively deep in his throat. “CC took one look at it and said if I even considered getting one, she’d go straight to Caroline and narc me out.”

  Wyatt chuckled. Recently retired from the field, Jake Malone, the Marauders’ record-breaking tight end, was no longer constrained by the clause that had gotten Wyatt into trouble. Tuck was, however, and it was obvious his wife was familiar with the contents of his contract.

  Wyatt faked a heavy sigh. “Women. Can’t live with ‘em….”

  “Can’t kill ‘em,” Tuck finished for him, and they shared a grin.

  “Ain’t that the truth.” Wyatt shook his head. “Between Caroline and V, my hide is full of bitch bites.” Then there were his sister’s pleas that he call a truce with their father. Christ. He rolled his shoulders. “I don’t know what the problem is lately. It�
�s like the females in my life have all gone nuts. If I was smart, I would seriously consider steering clear of the softer sex for a while.”

  Bethany chose that moment to walk by. She sent him a smile sultry enough to leave a contrail of perfumed steam in her wake.

  Tuck sucked air through his teeth. “Yeah, good luck with that, buddy.”

  Wyatt’s answering grin widened as he caught sight of Tuck’s wife across the room. Partially blocked from his view by an elderly couple, CC Tucker stood in front of a wall of black and white photographs. Spotting Wyatt, she dipped her head to the side and returned his grin, wiggling her fingers in a wave.

  “Speaking of the softer sex. Your wife is looking...”

  Wyatt froze with his glass an inch from his lips as the elderly couple moved on, revealing the woman at CC’s side. The redhead’s simply cut ebony gown was in keeping with tonight’s black on black dress code. Her plaid silk scarf in bright blues and greens wasn’t. However, the unexpected splash of color wasn’t what made her stand out in the sea of black. Not for anyone who carried a Y chromosome, anyway.

  Raised in the elite halls of society’s one percenters, Wyatt recognized a debutante when he saw one. Her glossy auburn hair was slicked back in a severe twist at the back of her skull and her delicate facial features spoke of aristocratic roots. So did her precise bearing.

  Chin held high, her hands were folded properly at her slim waist. Whoever she was, she radiated sophisticated elegance, but the modest cut and demure boat neck of her silk-blend gown did nothing to diminish the impact of the body it covered. He ran his gaze over luscious curves designed to bring a man to his knees, then lowered his glass and puckered his lips in a silent whistle.

  Beside him, Tuck snickered. “I wondered how long it would take for Piper to catch your eye.”

  “Piper?” Wyatt whipped his head around to spear Tuck with a narrow-eyed stare. “The redhead is the lady photographer?”

  He grinned and nodded. “In the flesh.”