Back in the Game: A Stardust, Texas Novel (7 page)

He narrowed his eyes as if he didn’t believe her. Women were probably coming to the door all the time on one false pretense or another just to get up close and personal with Rowdy.

“The ghostwriter position. My agent, Kip Miller, told me that Rowdy . . . er . . . Mr. Blanton was conducting interviews today.”

The big guy stared impassively at her for so long that her muscles started to twitch. Finally, in a flinty voice, he growled, “He’s in the gym.”

Gym? Did that mean Rowdy was working out and not taking interviews right now? Or did it mean he was interviewing in people in the gym while he worked out?

At the thought of Rowdy’s body sweaty from a workout, her nerve endings lit up like city lights. She blinked, pressed a palm to her breastbone, right over the scarf and the blob of Dairy Queen dipped cone chocolate beneath.

“This way.”

She hesitated a split second, but he walked like he was headed for a fire, and she didn’t know what else to do, so she hurried after him.

The focal point of the cavernous living room was a massive limestone fireplace. Framed photographs of Rowdy in uniform and baseball memorabilia adorned the walls and crowded the shelves of a beefy glass trophy case celebrating an illustrious career cut short way too soon. From the beamed vaulted ceilings, to the overstuffed leather sectional, to a cowhide rug, to the King Kong flat-screen TV mounted above the mantel, everything about the room screamed testosterone
.

It smelled like testosterone too.

Her nose juddered, and a lazy shiver shook her spine bone by bone.

What would it be like to date Rowdy Blanton, and come back to his place for a nightcap? Sink down in one of the leather chairs. Feel the heat from a flickering fire. Drink some exotic cocktail like a Screaming Orgasm. Listen to sexy make-out music. Taste the salt of his skin. Hear his seductive voice whisper her name as he tugged her down onto that rug and had his way with her.

She fluttered a hand to fan herself. Oh dear.

Breeanne had no more grown accustomed to the dark, cavelike atmosphere of the living room than Bodyguard Dude pushed open the Santa Fe–style door that led into a sun-filled courtyard. The mix of honeyed scents intoxicated, and Breeanne shaded her eyes against the bright sun. Indigenous Texas plants filled the courtyard—the bluish green of Ebbinge’s Silverberry, the ruffled white crape myrtle blossoms, the scarlet plume of the bottlebrush, the spiky purple flowers of the hummingbird-attracting chaste tree.

Ahead of them lay an infinity pool.

The faint scent of chlorine mixed with the enticing smell of native pines. She longed to linger at the pool, dig in her heels, adapt to this environment, and investigate the zipline that ran from the crest of Rowdy’s property to Stardust Lake glimmering at the bottom of the hill. She’d always wanted to try ziplining, but whenever she mentioned trying daring physical activities, her parents freaked out. Afraid it would somehow stir up heart problems.

“Keep up,” Bodyguard Dude barked, and it was only then that she realized she’d stopped to stare at the zipline, picturing herself flying down it.

She scurried to catch up to him. “I’m Breeanne Carlyle. What’s your name?” she asked, striving to be friendly. It was a long shot, but if she got the job, she would be dealing with this guy every day.

“Warwick.”

“Warwick what?”

“Just Warwick.”

“Is it a family name or—”

“I was hatched from an alligator egg. Don’t try to get chummy. I bite.”

She raised both palms.
Ooh-kay
, this guy cracked hard as a macadamia nut. Got it. But she wasn’t giving up. “What is it that you do for Mr. Blanton, Warwick? Bodyguard? Butler? Chauffeur? Jack-of-all-trades?”

“This ain’t
60 Minutes
, lady.” He maneuvered her toward a solid glass enclosure that was bigger than a Gold’s Gym and housed top-of-the-line workout equipment. He shoved the glass door of the glass building open, pushed her inside, and left.

Abandoning her in this foreign environment.

Hard-pumping workout music blasted from the surround sound. The primal beat vibrated the floor and flooded her body with strange sensations. The pulse-revving smell of masculinity in peak physical condition steeped the room. Dazzling sunlight glinted off the glass, bathing the shiny metal in a cathedral of rainbows.

And there he was. His gorgeous bare flesh on blatant display.

Rowdy Blanton.

He wore a pair of black exercise trunks, a high-tech pedometer strapped to his wrist, red and black sneakers, and nothing else. He moved on an elliptical machine, each step a glide of hard muscles and sculpted sinew. His arms pumped the handles as easily as if he were brushing his teeth.

Her girly parts whispering a hallelujah prayer of gratitude, even as every shy bone in her body—all two hundred and six of them—squeaked,
Get out of here
, but her feet froze to the bamboo flooring, and she couldn’t have moved if gas well fracking had triggered an earthquake underneath her feet.

Not to sound like a gushy teenager or anything, but OMG, stripped of his clothing the guy was hotter than an active lava flow. Her fantasies went wild.

Him. Her. Exotic lotions. Acrobatic sexual position.

Regretfully, he wasn’t alone. Three beautiful women flanked him. A brunette, a blonde and a free spirit whose hair was a shocking shade of electric blue, all of them gazing at him as if he was Hercules, and they his willing concubines.

A fourth woman, a redhead, squatted near a sad-faced bloodhound. Breeanne wasn’t sure, but she thought the woman said, “Come on, Nolan Ryan, you know you want to sit on my shoes. Here boy, sit on my shoes.”

Huh?

It took her a second to realize that the dog was named Nolan Ryan, but obviously, she’d misheard the rest of it, because for the life of her, she couldn’t figure out why the redhead would want the bloodhound to sit on what were clearly expensive designer stilettos.

Breeanne glanced down at her own sensible, discount-store ballet flats, and cringed. What had she been thinking? Dressing like a schlump? She thought she looked professional, but apparently sexy was the order of the day.

Nut bunnies. If she had a do-over, she’d raid Suki’s closet.

“So.” The redhead giggled. “If I don’t get the job, can I apply to be your girlfriend instead?”

These gorgeous women were interviewing to be his ghostwriter as well?

Breeanne’s hopes grabbed the last train to nowhere as her chances of convincing him to give her the job dropped from slim-to-none to absolute zero. She might as well leave now. Except she wasn’t sure she could find her way back to her car without an escort.

“Sorry,” he told the redhead, but he didn’t appear the least bit apologetic. “That position is already filled.”

“You have a girlfriend?” The free spirit’s pierced lip poked out in a pout.

Duh, Blue Hair. Look at the man. Of course he has a girlfriend, probably one in every major city in the country.

“Yes, I do,” he said. “And here she is right now.”

Breeanne turned to see what extraordinary creature must have come into the room behind her, but instead of finding a Gisele Bündchen look-alike, all she saw was her own reflection in the mirrored wall. Mossy green eyes stared at her from behind black-frame glasses. The waistband of her skirt was slightly twisted, and there was a big fat run in the back of her pantyhose. Because yes, her legs were so pale she wore hose, banking on the fact that pantyhose were so far out of fashion they were now officially retro.

The only thing remotely chic about her was the cheetah scarf, which on second viewing did not quite cover the chocolate smear.

What a train wreck! She didn’t have a prayer of getting the job.

She closed her eyes, swallowed her shame. When she opened them, Rowdy was staring directly at her.

Correction. Not staring
at
her.

He was staring
into
her. As if he could see exactly what she looked like naked, and was enjoying what he saw. No man had ever looked at her as if she was the choicest cut of beef in the butcher shop.

And she liked it.

Rowdy climbed down off the elliptical machine, pulled a pristine white towel from the handlebars, and sauntered toward her, languidly mopping sweat from his handsome brow. As if on cue, programmed precisely for this moment, “Sexy and I Know It” pulsed from the speakers.

Breeanne’s knees liquefied.

If she were hooked up to an EKG right now she’d bet her last beta-blocker it would show she was throwing premature ventricular contractions like a diner waitress slinging lunchtime hash.

Did the guy keep a defibrillator handy. Because if he was going to strut around like that he damn well should.

Breathe.

Seemed logical. But somehow the advice was easier to give than take. Her lungs barely moved, allowing in only a thin sip of air. It wasn’t enough.

Run.

She couldn’t heed that advice either. Not between her noodle knees and her ice-block feet and her granite resolve to land the job. If she wanted to work for him she had to accept that he was the hottest thing on two legs, and just get over it.

Yeah, but how?

He bewitched her with a smile as smooth and creamy as Lindt’s milk chocolate truffles. His thick brown hair gleamed with virility. Dark eyebrows framed those stunning blue eyes fringed with long, midnight black lashes. She’d been close to him before, but it had been in the softer light of dawn. In the glass gym, sunlight glinting off his body, she could make out every pore, every whisker, line, and angle.

And nothing, absolutely nothing about him was soft.

Involuntarily, she licked her lips.

Closer and closer he strolled, as leisurely as walking a dog, but with more purpose. His stare was so sexual, so primal, that it crashed into her womb as intrusively as a battering ram.

With each step she took, her body grew tighter, and the room grew warmer, and her head grew lighter.

His gaze never relinquished hers.

She clung to it. Cherishing this moment so she could pull out the memory again and again, finger the specialness of it late at night when she was alone in her bed. Nothing existed but him. This moment. Exhilarating. Thrilling . . .

. . . and downright terrifying.

He was close enough to sniff so she did, inhaling and holding a long, deep breath.

He smelled like a predator. She smelled like prey.

“Hi, honey buns,” he said in an overly loud voice. “Did you enjoy your outing?”

Huh? She would have glanced over her shoulder again, on the lookout for Gisele, but his eyes wouldn’t let her go
.

He was speaking to
her
.

But what did he mean?

“I missed you.” His tone was a caress and she was a sucker for it. “I hate it when we’re apart.”

Everything clicked. Now she got it. This had to be a dream. One of her crazy sexual fantasies run amok. Or maybe it was a being-naked-in-public anxiety dream. Or it could be a worse-case-scenario preparatory dream, as her subconscious dialed up a how-bad-could-it-get-begging-for-a-job-you-aren’t-qualified-for bit of role playing for her to work through.

That had to be it.

A dream.

She was sound asleep in her bed. No dipped cone chocolate on her blouse. No devastatingly handsome, bare-chested baseball star striding straight for her. This moment existed only in her imagination.

Relax.

Since this was a dream, she might as well be ballsy and play along. If he needed a fake girlfriend she was game. She would certainly not have the guts to do it in real life, but in a dream? Hell to the yeah.

“Hey there, slugger.” She cooed and fluttered her eyelashes.

One side of his mouth crooked higher, dissolving for the first time into an authentic grin. He was within touching distance, and boy howdy did her fingers itch to do just that.

Go ahead. Why not?

Breeanne gulped, spread her fingers, reached out, and ironed her hand against the sleek ridges of his chest. A complex web of nerve receptors in her palm caught fire, sending tactile messages blazing up to her brain in a crazed Braille of details. Smooth. Warm. Hard. Solid. Flawless perfection.

Holy mother of all nut bunnies!

She dropped her burning hand, unable to bear another exquisite moment. This was the most realistic dream she’d ever had.

A mischievous light flamed in his blue eyes. He dipped his head and pursed his lips and . . .

Stole her personal space. His animal magnetism crowding in on her. She couldn’t understand how he could leave her both shivering and sweaty as if she had a hundred-and-ten-degree fever in an ice storm.

His mouth hovered, tempting and maddeningly just out of reach.

Where was that defibrillator? Slap the paddles on her chest. Charge to three hundred joules. Yell,
Clear!
And zap away.

He was not going to kiss her. Of course he wasn’t. He wouldn’t do that. Gorgeous, successful men who could have any woman they wished did not kiss plain girls like her. Facts of Life 101.

But this was her dream, right? Her fantasy. Why couldn’t he kiss her?

His head inched lower, and he murmured, “I am going to kiss you now. Don’t ask questions. Just go with it.”

What the frig? She blinked in confusion, staring at the sweaty male chest in front of her, and then peeping into those smoldering blue eyes. His intense scent tore through her like a freshly fired bullet. Her senses stumbled, reeled.

This absolutely
had
to be a dream. Soon enough Callie would jump on the covers, wake her up, and she’d be back in her bed like Dorothy home from Oz.

Gently, he lifted her glasses off her face, his fingers brushing against her temples. The world blurred, went fuzzy.

Helplessly overtaken, she parted her lips, let down her drawbridge, ceding to the marauding intruder.
Come on in, handsome. Make yourself comfy. Pillage away. Take whatever you want. It’s all yours.

His arm went around her waist, and he drew her closer to him, right up against his hard-muscled sweaty body, and engulfing her mouth with his.