“Here he is,” she beamed. He stopped in front of her, unsure how to greet her. Should he shake her hand? Wave?
She decided for him, leaning in for a quick, friendly hug. It lasted only seconds, yet long enough to give him a vivid impression. Her slim, sturdy body. The crisp scents of strawberry and mint. The soft press of breasts that felt bigger than they looked.
He cleared his throat, shifted his weight. Desperately tried to ignore the hard-on pressing against his fly.
“Check out my souvenir.” She spun to show him his name and number printed on the back of the jersey. “What do you think?”
His smile felt as tight as his jeans. “I’m flattered.”
“Jared.” The owner of the name stuck out his hand, which Oz shook dutifully. “Thanks for the tickets. Interesting sport. What’re you drinking?”
Belatedly Oz remembered the smoothie in his hand. “Recovery shake. Mostly chocolate milk, with some peanut butter and banana.”
Jared shook his head. “You should never have dairy after an intense workout. Too hard on your stomach. I use this fast-digesting carbohydrate powder. Way better. I’ll give you the name.”
“Thanks, but—”
“I’m telling you, this stuff’s amazing. I barely even bother with recovery days anymore. It’s expensive but it’s worth it.”
His shoulders tensed, but Oz bit back his impulse to inform this moron that he was utterly incorrect. “Okay,” he muttered instead.
“Have you thought about bulking up at all? Might help you stay on your feet.” The six-foot-three muscle tower had the audacity to wink at him. Oz tightened his fingers on his sports bottle.
“I loved the game,” Kate interjected, diverting his attention.
“It wasn’t our best performance.”
“Could’ve fooled me. The whole thing was—wait, let me remember my vocab—box to box. Wasn’t it?”
He smiled. “It was.”
“The seats were amazing, and your friends are so nice. This may sound silly, but I loved all the running. You guys never stop! Not like football, where there are a lot of pauses.”
Jared snorted derisively. “Good call, Kate. Soccer is definitely not like football.”
Oz caught the flash of irritation in Kate’s eyes and the already too-taut spring of his temper coiled dangerously tighter.
He had to walk away before he did something stupid. His nerves were too raw, his emotions too amped. He really, really wanted to punch someone, and Jared became more tempting by the minute.
“I’m glad you had fun,” he addressed Kate directly. “Hopefully next time you’ll get to see us win.”
“I’ll be repping number eighteen no matter what. Thanks again for inviting me.”
“No problem. I need to say hello to a few people, then I’m heading home. Nice to meet you, Jared. Kate, I’m sure we’ll be in touch soon.”
He exchanged another handshake with Jared, while Kate inclined her head to say goodbye. He raised his drink in salute and bee-lined for the nearest familiar face.
It turned out to be Sean, standing a few feet away.
“Everything okay?” his friend asked.
“Of course. Why wouldn’t it be?”
“Because I spent all afternoon with that mass of musculus and you’re so high-strung you’re practically vibrating, so I have trouble imagining you two calmly discussing current affairs.”
“I walked away. Are you proud of me?”
Sean lifted a shoulder. “That depends.”
“On?”
“What you do when you find out your beefy buddy is getting handsy.”
Oz spun in time to see Kate leaning out of Jared’s grip, Jared’s hands settling on her waist, Kate removing them and stepping backward.
Oz planted his smoothie on a table and steamed in, his rational mind politely stepping aside to give way to a wave of white-hot anger.
“Keep your hands off her,” he seethed, shoving Jared with a flattened palm on his bulky chest.
Jared’s answering smirk was like a red flag to a bull. “Is that the best you’ve got, bro? Or should we take this outside?”
Blood pounded in Oz’s ears and he saw Tucson’s enormous center-back, felt the faint press of the man’s cleats against his calf in a borderline illegal tackle, relived the defender’s exaggerated effort to haul him back up onto his feet, and the boiling frustration when the referee ignored Oz’s appeal and motioned for them to play on.
Jared moved in. Got in his face. Set his jaw. Narrowed his eyes.
Oz stuck his foot behind Jared’s ankle, led with his shoulder, knocked the bigger man off-balance and sent him sprawling onto his back.
Jared’s head hit the floor with a thud and Oz instinctively raised his hands in innocence, fully aware he’d fouled his opponent.
Except he wasn’t on the pitch, he was at Glynn’s party. Where everyone was staring at him. And Jared lay gasping on the floor.
Too late, he looked at Kate. She glared at him as she knelt beside Jared’s supine form.
“Come on,” she urged Jared, although her glacial stare was clearly meant for Oz. “You just got the wind knocked out of you. Get up and let’s get out of here.”
He should apologize. He was out of line. But then he recalled the image of Kate removing Jared’s hands from her waist and he decided to follow the two of them out of the apartment instead.
“Kate, hang on, I—”
“Stop,” she hissed, spinning to face him just outside the door as Jared limped down the hallway, coughing and spluttering.
“He was bothering you. I was trying to help.”
“You were trying to make a scene, and you succeeded. Happy?”
Sheepish. Embarrassed. Maybe even a little guilty. But no, definitely not happy.
Oz’s complex discomfort crystallized into a simpler, more readily accessible emotion. Anger.
“You brought him here,” he countered. “You brought him to my box, pushed him on my friends. Don’t blame me for intervening when your bad decision got out of control, and certainly don’t trouble yourself to say thanks.”
She rolled her eyes. “The situation was under control. I can take care of myself. And if I did need someone to fight my battles for me—which I don’t—frankly I’m not sure you’d be the one I’d call.”
It stung, because it was so obviously true. Oz shoved his hands into his pockets. Why did every conversation he had with Kate turn into a fight—and why did he always lose?
She sighed, looked down the hall, then back at him. “I have to give Jared a lift home. Thanks again for the tickets. I had fun.”
She didn’t sound like she had fun, but he offered no reply as she jogged down the hallway and into the stairwell. Within seconds her footsteps echoed to nothing.
For a minute he stood, alone, listening to the dull thump of music through the door. His head throbbed. His shoulder ached. He should go home and try to sleep.
Instead he pushed back into the apartment, into the noise and movement and wide, anticipatory gazes of his friends.
“So,” Glynn remarked dryly. “That went well.”
Chapter 5
“And that includes installation? And a month’s subscription. Wow. No, I can’t match that price, but you know with us you get the benefit of—hello?”
Kate sighed, typed a note beside the client’s name in the database and dialed the next one. A female voice answered after two rings.
“Hi, this is Kate Mitchell from Peak Tactical. I’m calling to let you know that we’ve signed a preferred-provider agreement with your neighborhood watch association, and as part of that deal we’re offering twenty-five percent off in-home security—”
“No thanks, we have a Rottweiler.” The line went dead.
Kate coded the client’s name as not interested
, dialed the next. Waited. This time a man’s voice picked up.
“Hi, this is Kate Mitchell from Peak Tactical. I’m calling to—” Dial tone.
She groaned inwardly. She thought winning the contract with the neighborhood watch would open the door for sales to all the resident members, but after two hours on the phone she’d sold only one response-service subscription, and it was the barest-bones option at that.
Hopefully things would get easier the longer she was in the job as she grew her network and client base. The Skyline account was the only reason she’d reached this month’s sales target, but next month already loomed.
And chances were the Skyline account was bust before it ever boomed. She sat back in her chair, staring unseeingly at her computer screen.
Only forty-eight hours had passed since the incident at Glynn’s apartment, but she must’ve replayed it in her mind at least a hundred times.
Jared wasn’t exactly on his best behavior, but Oz’s response was worse. She hadn’t asked for his help—she hadn’t needed his help. She was a veteran, a security contractor—she’d spent a year in Saudi Arabia. Did he really think she couldn’t hold her own against one tipsy asshole in a room packed with people?
Of course she could. She was strong. Fearless. Tough as any of the men she’d served alongside.
Then why did it give her an illicit, guilty thrill every time she remembered the fury in Oz’s eyes? Or the unhesitating purpose in his movements. Or the cool, calm way he’d dumped Jared on the floor.
She shook her head in self-disgust and refocused on the database. For a self-proclaimed pacifist Oz was rude and aggressive, and she shouldn’t find that attractive. She didn’t need a protector, and this was just one more way her mother’s lifelong desperation for male attention had taught her that her own strength wasn’t enough, and that her value depended on how much a man liked her, and—
“Those guys are here for you again, Kate.” Lorraine leaned into the room she shared with five other sales associates.
Kate frowned at her over the top of her cubicle. “Which guys?”
“They were here the other week. Forgot what it was about.”
Maybe you should’ve asked their names. You’re only the freaking receptionist.
“Where are they?”
“Boardroom.”
Kate grabbed her notebook, stuck her feet into the high heels under her desk and clomped down the hall. Must be those guys from the cash-in-transit business, she concluded irritably. Because telling them for a third time that Peak Tactical didn’t want to form a partnership would really complete her already fantastic afternoon.
She swung open the boardroom door and stopped dead.
“Roland. Oz. Hello.”
The two men half-stood in greeting, but she waved them down as she took a seat on the opposite side of the long table. “What can I do for you gentlemen?”
Roland frowned. “Aren’t you expecting us? I spoke to your receptionist this morning.”
Goddammit, Lorraine. “I’m sorry, the message didn’t get through. How can I help?”
Oz wouldn’t look at her, focusing instead on the edge of the table. She couldn’t tell whether his stony expression veered more toward apology or hostility, and in the end she supposed it didn’t matter. His demeanor broadcast that he didn’t want to be here, and he didn’t want to see her.
Too bad for him, she decided, trying not to notice how exceptionally hot he looked. Black hair perfectly coiffed, cheeks smoothly shaven, T-shirt just tight enough to—
Roland interrupted her thoughts. “Oz says the personal security installation at his house was both sensitively and comprehensively done, so thank you. Unfortunately, we’re back.”
Had Oz really said that? She glanced at him for confirmation, but he was pokerfaced.
Roland continued, “Skyline is playing away on Friday, at Boise Amity. They’re a brand-new club, keen to make an impression, but they have relatively limited funding after one of their sponsors went bust. Their manager called me yesterday to let me know they’ve received several anonymous calls threatening both teams if Oz is allowed to play.”
She winced. “Citizens First?”
“Probably. They’ve got a pretty substantial following in the area.”
“Do the local police think the threats have any credibility?”
“Probably not, but none of us want to take chances. Amity is low on resources and I don’t want to embarrass the manager by making demands for personal security, so I wanted to ask whether you—or maybe a wider team from Peak Tactical—can accompany us to Boise.”
Kate tried not to grin. Cha-ching!
“VIP services are our bread and butter. I recommend we subcontract personnel in Boise once we have a more detailed understanding of the situation. That’ll be cheaper for Skyline as it prevents us potentially flying people we don’t need across the country.”
Roland nodded. “If possible, I’d also like you to attend, and compile a report after the trip that might help us develop a framework for player security going forward. I certainly hope this is a one-off, but in case it’s not, we should have a policy we can refer to.”
“Absolutely.” Sales numbers and a trip across the country. She fought the urge to raise her fist in triumph. “Let’s consider Boise a test case, after which I’ll draw up recommendations for the rest of the season.”
“Perfect. I also wanted to—” He pulled his buzzing phone from his pocket and frowned at the screen. “Sorry, this is urgent. I’ll be right back.”
Roland rounded the table, opened the door as he answered the call and then shut it again, his voice dulling through the wall.
That left her and Oz. Alone.
Silence stretched long and wide. She clasped her hands in her lap. She wouldn’t make this comfortable for him. Oh, no. If he had something to say, he could damn well—
“How are you?” He finally looked at her, raising those big eyes to fix her with an inscrutable gaze.
“Fine,” she replied primly. “Yourself?”
“Not great.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“My best friend threw a party on Saturday night. Everyone was having a great time, and then I acted like a little bit of a dick.”
One corner of her mouth lifted. “A little bit?”
“I acted like a dick.”
“How big are we talking? Five inches? Six?”
He put the edge of his left hand on the table and planted his right hand next to it. Then he slid his right hand over to make the space in between wider. And wider. And even wider.
“I’ll believe that when I see it,” she told him dryly.
He smiled, flattening his palms on the table. “My point is, I behaved badly and I’m sorry. I’ll apologize to Jared if you think it’s necessary.”
“He’s moved on and so have I. I appreciate your apology, though.”
“Good.” He paused, and the humor in his expression dimmed. “Can I show you something in confidence? I don’t want Roland panicking.”
Mentally she stumbled at his sudden switch from personal to professional, and it took her a second to shift gears. “Of course, go ahead.”
He pulled out his phone, tapped and scrolled, and then handed it over.
“More of these Ausonius comments,” she murmured. “Your privacy settings are all locked down?”
“As tightly as anything on the Internet can be. I triple-checked when these comments started appearing. Every time I block this person, a new username pops up with the same content.”
She leaned back in her chair, thinking through the problem as he asked, “Do you think I’m overreacting? I don’t want to alarm Roland if it’s just some stupid fan of a rival team who thinks they’re funny. For all we know this person might not even be in America, let alone anywhere near Atl
anta.”
“It’s always good to be overcautious, and I would tell you if it felt completely benign. The persistence, though, raises a red flag for me. This person doesn’t seem to be getting bored.”
Oz shook his head. “The opposite, if anything.”
“Let me talk to our cyber-security guy. We’ll keep it off the record for now, and I’ll let you know if he suggests we do something Skyline might have to pay for.”
“I’ll pay for it. It’d be worth it to keep Roland from freaking out any more than he already is.”
“I’ll give our guy a call and see what he says. Otherwise—Here’s Roland.”
The manager burst into the room, blatantly preoccupied as he glanced at his watch. “Bad injury news, I’m afraid. I need to get back to the training ground. Are we done here?” Then, softening his tone he added, “I mean, feel free to call me to follow up if you have any other questions.”
“I think we’re good.” Kate smiled brightly. “I’ll prepare the invoice.”
Chapter 6
“Paulo’s ball!”
Oz ducked at the center back’s instruction, avoiding an accidental deflection into their own net if they both tried to go for the ball at the same time. Instead Paulo comfortably cleared it with a header, one of their midfielders took possession and within seconds they were all running back toward Amity’s goal.
Midfielder Nico Silva made a nicely weighted pass to Rio, who took an audacious shot on goal that went wide. The clock ran down and Oz glanced at the fourth official, who raised a digital board showing the minutes added on for injury time.
Only two, thank God. He was tired, and Skyline’s two-nil lead was unlikely to be challenged in only a hundred and twenty seconds.
Skyline’s forward players passed the ball between them with deliberate sluggishness, and he vaguely marked an even more exhausted-looking Amity midfielder. Finally the whistle blew full time, ending the match and sealing Skyline’s victory.
“Nice one, good match,” he told the Amity player as they shook hands. He repeated a similar pleasantry to each player he encountered as he moved toward the away stand, and all of his opponents had similarly sportsmanlike—if slightly breathless—replies.
Defending Hearts Page 5