Heather Graham (16 page)

But Sam was still there—in what appeared to be a somnambulant state in the shower.

“Hey, don’t drown,” Kent warned him, grabbing a huge bar of soap.

“Hmm?” Sam asked, startled. “Oh … Kent. I was just thinking.”

“About what?”

“Gambling.” He turned to Kent. “You know, last Sunday some of the guys took a junket out to Vegas.”

“Yeah?”

“They say there’s already a lot of money going down on the playoffs and the Superbowl.”

Kent shrugged and watched Sam curiously with narrowed eyes. “There’s always a lot of money going down on the games.”

Sam shook his head. “I mean real big money. Vegas kind of money. And it seems we’re supposed to hit the Superbowl along with the Titans. Then the betting is going against us.”

“Oh, yeah?” Kent said dryly.

“Yeah.” Sam hesitated. “There’s a rumor going around that some of the guys have been approached.”

“Our teammates? You mean to throw the game if we should happen to take the lead?”

“Yeah,” Sam replied. “I don’t think anyone would throw the game. Business types don’t always understand that the playing and winning can mean more than money to most guys. But …”

“But what?”

Sam shrugged and wrinkled his face beneath the running water. Then he shook his head, spraying droplets. “There are rumors that some of the Titans’ players have been approached with big bucks to kill the quarterback—and the Cougar.”

A ripple of unease touched Kent’s spine. He dipped his own head beneath the running water, then shook it strenuously. The water felt good. He gazed over at Sam. “They’re always out to get us, Sammy—that’s half the name of the game.”

“This just has a more vicious ring to it,” Sam murmured.

“Yeah, well, we haven’t reached the Superbowl yet,” Kent said dismissively. “If and when we do, well, we’ll just have to watch out, right? Come on—we’ve got a lady waiting on dinner out there.”

Dinner that night was one of the nicest occasions of her life, Katie decided halfway through the meal. She was with two of the handsomest men she’d ever met, and they were both on extraordinary behavior, carrying the conversation ball lightly, laughing, filling her in on all sorts of little quips and game plays.

The food was good. They had come to a little out-of-the-way fish place in what seemed to be the middle of an orange grove. It was an all-you-can-eat shrimp night, and she learned that football players could eat enormous amounts of shrimp. Some of the other guys on the team were already there when they had arrived, a few with their families. Katie wondered how the place could stay in business when Sam told her with a wink that the owner was a real Saxon fan, and that he had his all-you-can-eat nights just for the players.

“Wait until we lose a big game,” Kent said dryly. “These feasts will probably end quickly then.”

“Hey—who said we’re going to lose?” Sam retorted.

A teammate stopped by their table then, a young man with enormous, powerful arms. He had a nice farm-fresh face and a huge smile. Katie searched her mind quickly for his name. Patterson! Bobby Patterson, that was it. He was first-string offense, along with Kent, a friendly, pleasant man she had talked to at the party—before Kent had hauled her out.

“Hi, Katie,” he greeted her. “Hear you’re traveling out with the team tomorrow.”

“Am I?” she asked lightly. Raff had promised to fix it, but he was great for making promises that he really expected her to arrange on her own.

Kent was watching her thoughtfully, she sensed. He nodded to her, picking up his beer to take a sip.

“I think you’re a lucky charm,” Bobby told her, smiling, then turned his attention to Kent. “Heard some talk from the coaches today that they were going to prime you to go in as quarterback—just in case Sam has any problems.”

“What?” Kent asked sharply.

Bobby lowered his voice. “I don’t think I was supposed to hear it, but I think there’s some worry about Sam.”

Sam and Kent exchanged quick glances.

“For the game this week?” Kent fired quickly at Bobby.

Bobby shook his head as he leaned over the table. “I don’t know what’s going on,” he said, his voice low. “I mean, there’s always talk about killing the quarterback, but it seems the coaches are really worried this time. They need you where you are—but they’re gonna train you with Sam here, too.”

“Thanks for telling us, Bobby,” Kent said.

Bobby rose and patted Sam on the shoulder. Sam watched him walk away with a raised brow. “I’m not that easy to get!” he exclaimed indignantly.

Kent stared at Sam, then he shrugged. “I think we need a team meeting.”

The two seemed to exchange something secret in their gazes. Katie was perplexed. She knew Bobby had been right about the “kill the quarterback” talk; it was always rampant before a big game, especially when the quarterback was a Sam Loper with a golden throwing arm and notoriously fast feet.

“Why you?” she asked Kent suddenly. “You’re not a quarterback.”

He took a long draught of his beer. “No, but I was once.” He sat reflectively for a minute, then looked at Sam. “They’re really reaching if they’re even thinking of using me as a substitute.”

“Not really. You came from the draft as a quarterback.”

“That,” Kent stated flatly, “was years ago.” He threw his napkin on the table. “Are you two finished?”

Katie wasn’t really—she would have loved coffee, but there was a darkly brooding expression on his face that warned her his mood was a dangerous one. And she didn’t feel like tackling an argument tonight. She pushed back her chair and stood.

Both he and Sam were quiet on the drive back to her hotel. And Kent was distracted when he walked her to her door. He didn’t touch her when he said good night. All he did was warn her to lock her door.

By the next day his mood had changed completely. Fans had come from miles around to see the Saxons off at the airport, and then they were in a chartered jet, ready to head out for Denver.

Katie found herself between Sam and Kent. She had Mike the bellboy’s jersey with her, and she not only got Kent’s signature on it, but Kent sent the jersey flying around, and the whole team signed it.

If nothing else, she would have been instrumental in making one bellboy very happy. She’d mail it back to him as soon as they reached Denver.

If nothing else? she wondered starkly. No—she’d turned her own life completely around. The bitterness she had held on to for years was gone. She’d hated Kent Hart from a distance. And now … now, like the fool she kept denying herself to be, she was falling under his spell. She might not hate him anymore—she had given up that childhood grudge with remarkable ease—but damn! He was experienced, and she had entered the arena with cool and remote confidence, only to discover that she was playing with fire.

Still, she couldn’t deny the softening. She didn’t want to fight with him anymore. The past—her love for her father—would never leave her. But the Kent she knew now had little to do with that past.

She glanced up, aware that he was watching her with his intense dark eyes.

“How are you doing?”

“Pardon?” she murmured with a frown, then she said, “Oh,” aware that he was referring to the fact that their plane had just risen into the air. “I—I’m fine. Relaxed,” she told him, smiling. “I’m not afraid of flying per se, just flying in bad weather.”

A hint of demonic mischief touched his eyes. “If you change your mind, you’re welcome to my lap.”

“Thanks,” she murmured, coloring despite herself.

“Could you lay off the sensual innuendos?” Sam complained good-naturedly from her other side. “I must be crazy spending time as a chaperon between the two of you. You’re wrecking my libido.”

Kent laughed and mentioned the fact that Sam had only to snap his fingers and he could attract a harem.

Sam retorted that the same was true of him.

Katie pretended to read a magazine. She knew Sam’s words were fact—and she wasn’t fond of “fact” one bit.

Katie had dinner with Kent and Sam again that night. Then, although she sat in on all the very intense practices that took place on the Colorado field, she didn’t really see Kent again until Friday night when they ate at a small restaurant near the Saxons’ hotel, then walked slowly back to make Kent’s curfew.

He was a little on edge that night, she decided; his questions seemed to be taunting ones. He asked her how she was enjoying the team—and if she had come up with anything nasty yet.

“I’m a reporter,” Katie resentfully assured him, “and I can get nasty all on my own. You should bear that in mind.”

“Oh, I haven’t forgotten,” he told her.

She gazed at him sharply. He had on an attractive sheepskin jacket against the Denver cold; his collar was raised, making his features appear more severe.

“Are you nervous about the game?” she asked.

He looked at her, then shrugged. “I’m always nervous before a game.”

“Afraid if you don’t win you’ll lose a million a year?” she taunted, regretting her words as soon as they had been spoken.

His stare seemed to cut through her like the cold air around them. “No,” he stated simply. He slipped an arm through hers and speeded up his pace. “Come on, let’s get back. It’s cold enough out here without having to be with you, too.”

Katie wrenched her arm free. “No one said you had to be with me.”

He stopped, planting his hands at his waist, watching her with impatience and annoyance. “Katie—it’s night, and Denver may not be the crime capital of the world, but I’m not leaving you on the street alone.”

“I’ve been alone a number of years,” she replied dryly.

He smiled but with little humor. “You know I won’t leave you,” he said flatly. “Want to walk … or be carried?”

Katie compressed her lips tightly and started walking. She was able to keep silent for less than a minute. She muttered every name she could think of under her breath and cursed Raff strongly for having sent her out to interview the most egotistical bastard she had ever met.

She heard him laugh behind her, and that was the final straw. Spinning around, she slammed against him, then took a step back. “You want ‘nasty,’ Mr. Hart? Then if I’m so cold, what are you doing with me? Go warm up. What’s your love life been, Mr. Hart? I’m sure the women of America are dying to know. One marriage—was that it? Were you so determined to keep eternally warm that your wife couldn’t stand it anymore?”

He went so rigidly tense that she was paralyzed, terrified that his muscled arm was going to shoot out and flatten her. But she had underestimated Kent Hart.

He walked past her. “Why don’t you ask my ex-wife about that? We’re good friends. Very good friends.”

Regretting her outburst, Katie followed slowly behind him. He didn’t turn back to her until they had almost reached the hotel.

“I’ll give you Paula’s number.” He seemed perfectly at ease, perfectly in control. His eyes touched into her like fire, though, and despite his pleasant manner, she felt that she had never been more vehemently despised. “But then, perhaps you won’t need to bother. You should have everything you want after this weekend, shouldn’t you?”

“This weekend?” she repeated vaguely. Was he setting her up? Was he about to tell her that the last thing he would consider doing now was spend more time with her?

“Miss Hudson, are you chickening out? Dante Hudson’s daughter—the woman willing to burst into the showers—giving it all up now?”

“I’m not chickening out on anything,” Katie retorted. “If you think I’m afraid of you, you’re grossly mistaken.”

He laughed dryly, bitterly. “Well, if you’re not just a little bit afraid of me, Miss Hudson, you should be. And tossing your chin up in the air won’t change a thing.”

“Are you threatening me?”

“Warning you.”

Katie smiled icily and brushed past him. “Thank you, Mr. Hart, I’m forewarned. Now, if you don’t mind—”

His hand was on her arm, stopping her, spinning her around. When she fell hard against his chest, his arms wound tightly around her, pinning her to him. Katie saw the rapid pulse in his throat and looked up to see the living vibrancy of his eyes. She shuddered uncontrollably, not knowing then if she did hate him still or if she had really come to feel far more for him than she was willing to admit. Her heart rattled a furious beat; she was breathless and terribly afraid that she would buckle if he let her go. She was certain that he intended to kiss her; he did not. His lips paused just over hers, hovering there, and his whisper caressed her where his touch did not.

“You’ve taken on the pros, Kathleen. I really wonder if you’re ready for the game.”

She didn’t fight his hold. She tried to meet his demon’s stare without blinking.

“I came from the pros,” she told him in a heated whisper. “I know the game very well. And I’ll never be afraid of your type.”

A chill wind swept around them. Denver was cold now, winter cold. Such a short time ago, she had been lulled by a summer breeze. They stood in the scant shelter of a leafless tree, and for a minute, Katie did feel fright—as if she, like the tree, had been stripped of protection. She thought she had come to know him; she didn’t know him at all.

He smiled at her, and she realized then that his hold upon her had changed. His arms were still there, but his hand had moved beneath her jacket … beneath her sweater. His fingers were playing lazily and provocatively over the skin of her back. Moving as if they were lovers while they battled like enemies.

“Stop it!” Katie exclaimed defensively, and he instantly released her with a little laugh. She turned around to leave him but was still determined to have the last word. “I hope they stomp all over you tomorrow. I hope they destroy the great Cougar in the first quarter. I hope—”

“I’m so glad you’re a pro at the game, Kathleen,” he interrupted her coolly. “I won’t be afraid to play it anymore.”

She threw open the door and hurried into the hotel. Some of the Saxon players were still in the lounge, sitting around a roaring fire. Katie raced past them and rushed up to her own room.

The game tomorrow was the last thing on her mind. All she could think about were the things to come after the game.