Heather Graham (3 page)

“Thanks,” he murmured again as she came closer, extending her arm.

“Uh … sure. Listen, I’m really sorry about snapping at you.” She gave him a light—flirtatious?—laugh. “And I really am sorry about the scars. I was only twelve then.”

“Mmm. And you’ve matured.”

Was it a statement or a question? He had a husky voice, very deep. It seemed to touch her inside and ripple along her spine.

“Yes, well, it was quite a few years ago …”

“Yes, it was. A little closer, please, I can’t quite reach. And I’d love to get a better glance at a matured woman.”

Careful, Katie advised herself. He’s famous for his conquests, so let him think he can con you, too. You know how to be sweet while keeping your distance.

“Here,” she murmured, standing directly beside him. And then she gasped with outrage as she felt his fingers wind around her wrist, dragging her down to her knees beside him.

“Let go of me, you overgrown bastard! I swear every damn thing you hear about football players is true. And I knew from that first time I saw you that—”

“You knew what?” He grated out disdainfully, tossing her wrist aside. “You were a selfish little brat when I met you, and it doesn’t appear that you’ve changed much since. Don’t flirt with me, Miss Hudson. I like you better when you’re an honest bitch.”

Katie tossed the towel in his face. “All right. You want honesty? I think you’re an overflown ingrate—and when you fall, I hope you fall hard. I didn’t want to do an interview with you, but since my future seemed to depend on it, I thought I could overlook the past. Personally, I don’t think there’s anything to write about, but, yes, I’m selfish enough to want a career for myself. Let’s stick with selfish, shall we? I was wrong to dislike you for sharing my father’s time—but I loved him! When you were gone, when everyone else was gone,
I was still there!
And if we want to get frank about it, my father actually did more for you than he ever could for me—”

“Hold it!” Kent snapped. He might have preferred his towels dry, but he distractedly grabbed the wet one and rose, wrapping it tightly around his hips to step with purpose from the tub. Katie didn’t even realize that she watched him step from the tub, watched him as he strode angrily to her and sank his grip into her shoulders, shaking her as he had all those years before …

“You think I owe you because of Dante, is that it? Well, you’re wrong, dammit. You owe me! You didn’t have the courtesy to give him my letters. You didn’t even have the courtesy to let me know he was ill. You just carried on your little charade. You didn’t even let me know when he died—I had to read about it in the newspapers!”

“Let go of me—” Katie began, but the words died on her lips. Just as he had all those years ago, he shoved her away himself.

Suddenly, tears stung her eyes. Kent Hart
had
written many times. But she hadn’t returned the letters unopened—Dante had. “Tell him … tell him we keep traveling,” Dante insisted in his more lucid moments, and his beautiful Nordic eyes, turned rheumy, would sadden as if clouds had been flung over them. “Kent should never see me like this. Never.”

“Dad, if he’s your friend—”

“No.
No!”
Then Dante would be sorry that he had yelled at her. He would stare down at his hands, hands that shook. “I was a legend, Katie. A living legend. A true hero. I don’t want that fantasy to die.”

“Dad—”

“Ah, Katie! Did I ever tell you about the day when we turned around and beat the Redskins? It was twenty-one to three at the end of the third quarter, but we rallied! We rallied and beat them by two touchdowns. Two touchdowns! God, could I throw! And Kent … that man could catch anything and run like a jackrabbit. My Cougar. We were great together. What a game …”

Memory faded. So did Katie’s burst of temper. She drew herself up and stared at Kent Hart’s back, smiling bitterly. He did have more scars. Four that she could see, across his shoulders.

She spoke more raspily than she would have liked, but a quiet dignity seemed to have come back to her, and the words were barely whispered. “My father didn’t want to see you, Mr. Hart. He—he was very proud. He wanted the world to believe that he still existed with all his health and strength. I—I believe he always cared about you, though. Most.”

She turned around, plucking her notebook from the bench and heading for the door. Well, the article was shot, and she’d probably be back on a local paper soon, doing the obituaries and interviewing more ladies who cooked for a town fair or kids from the high school athletic teams.

She’d only been given this chance because she was Dante Hudson’s daughter. And the only person in the world Kent Hart might agree to do an interview with was Dante’s daughter.

Sorry, Raff, she thought. You didn’t know about the things that had happened. Dante’s daughter is the last person in the world the man wants to talk to.

“Maybe”—his voice, as hoarse as hers, muffled as his back was still to her, made her halt, turning before she reached the door—“maybe we both owe each other.”

Katie caught her breath, wondering if that meant that he’d do the interview. He turned around slowly, and she felt the heat of his dark eyes moving over her, as if he was assessing her. But before he could speak, the door opened suddenly and Sam Loper barged into the room.

“Kent—oh, sorry!” The young quarterback paused, looking curiously at Katie. “Hi.”

“Hi,” she responded a little uneasily. Women were gaining a grudged access to the locker rooms these days, and it had seemed all right to grit her teeth and walk into the showers to approach Kent when the other players had left. But now she felt totally out of place and deserving of the skeptical—and insinuative—way that Sam Loper was looking at her.

“Miss Hudson is a reporter from
World Magazine,
Sam,” Kent said. Katie cast him a quick glance. It appeared that he was trying to save her—just a bit.

Except that he’d called her by name. Would Sam Loper recognize that name? Probably not. Loper was about her age. It was unlikely that he’d make the connection.

Apparently, the name didn’t mean anything to him.

“Oh.
Oh!
Well, hello again, Miss Hudson.” Sam Loper stuck out a hand and gave her a charming smile. Katie accepted his handshake and returned his smile.

“It was a wonderful game,” she said. “You—uh—you were great.” Loper was a good quarterback, probably a great one, just as the media was proclaiming. To do anything other than congratulate the man would have been totally churlish—even if he was looking at her lasciviously. Sorry, Loper, I’m not available. I’ve been this route before, she thought.

Sam Loper frowned suddenly, and she felt as if she liked him a bit better—even if he wasn’t releasing her hand. “I hope this guy’s been decent to you, Miss Hudson. He refuses to give interviews to anyone, and I know he can get a bit crude.”

“Sam!” Kent snapped with aggravation.

Sam Loper was undaunted. “But listen, ignore him if he’s a headache. I think it’s old age setting in, you know? He gets cranky. But if you want—”

“Sam!”

“I’ll be happy to give you an interview.”

Katie tugged at her hand, smiling as she rescued it from his grasp. “Thank you, that’s wonderful, and I would like to talk to you.” She gazed across the room at Kent Hart’s towel-draped form with only a slight sparkle of maliciousness touching her blue green eyes.

“You see, it’s just because Kent is such an old-timer that we’re trying to get an interview with him. He isn’t the oldest player in the NFL, nor has he been playing the longest, but he’s lasted on top in his position for the longest period of time, and that makes him quite an anomaly. Oh, not that you aren’t. For a young man you’ve done wonders! And the future still lies ahead with lots of promise.”

Bemused and a little irritated, Kent watched the interchange between the two. Sam was at his charismatic best. He liked women, and he had learned that his position—added to his charm—made him almost irresistible when he was on the hunt. And he was definitely on the hunt.

But it appeared that Hudson’s daughter was wise and aware—and perhaps slightly amused herself. She was, in turn, charming, and yet there was a reserve about her that seemed to separate her from most other women. She was not the type to be swept off her feet by pretty phrases; she didn’t giggle. Still, Kent had quickly realized that when she chose to, she could play the femme fatale for all the role was worth.

Sam Loper was the more in awe of the two—the bedazzled at last, it seemed, rather than the bedazzler.

But then, it appeared that she didn’t think too much of football—or football players. Why should she? How could a mere player impress the daughter of the man whose name had once been synonymous with the game?

And she had lost him because of it.

“I can tell you a lot about our growling Cougar here,” Sam Loper offered almost beseechingly.

“Can you?”

“Yes. He didn’t agree to the interview, did he?”

She looked at Kent. He kept smiling, although he was beginning to feel like a piece of furniture being discussed. Old furniture at that.

“No, he hasn’t agreed,” she said softly.

“He
hasn’t made his mind up yet,” Kent said dryly.
“He
would very much like to get dressed if you two don’t mind.
He
will let you know, Miss Hudson, if you’d care to give him some time to think.”

“Certainly,” she replied sweetly.

Sam opened the door for her. She smiled at Kent wryly and went through it. Sam winked at Kent and followed her. The door closed, then opened again as Sam stuck his head back through.

“Will we see you at the party?” he asked Kent.

“Sure, why not?” Kent replied.

He didn’t move as he watched the door close a second time. He could hear Sam’s voice telling Kathleen Hudson something. He heard her laugh—not a giggle but a nice laugh, a little bit husky, with a feminine touch. An honest laugh, not a bit silly.

The sounds faded away, and Kent reached for his clothing. He was reflective as he dressed, wondering why he had agreed to go to a party he wanted nothing to do with.

He paused with a sock half on, fully aware of why he had done what he had.

It had been obvious. Sam was going to invite Hudson’s girl to the party, and Kent hadn’t wanted her there with him. Not alone.

Alone? The party would be full of people …

“What is this?” he wondered out loud, annoyed with himself. He answered himself in silence as he pulled the sock the rest of the way onto his foot. She was Hudson’s daughter, and she was very, very attractive. And because she was his friend’s daughter, he believed, he felt some kind of urge to watch out for her.

She really didn’t look as if she needed protection …

And Sam Loper was certainly no … no attacker of innocents. And who was to say that she was an innocent anyway?

If she wanted to have an affair with Sam Loper, what business was it of his?

I’m making it my business, he thought grimly.

His silent argument with himself continued, no matter what logic told him.

If she didn’t want to get involved with Sam, all she would have to do was tell him so.

But Sam Loper could be persistent. And he had a habit of taking women lightly because he was accustomed to them falling all over him.

Be fair. You’ve done the same thing yourself, he reminded himself.

Years ago! was his mental protest.

No, now, too, added the other faction of his silent, inner battle.

But only because his marriage had been such a disaster. Because not only had he and Paula been hurt; Anne was still suffering the effects of their breakup.

“Hudson’s daughter,” he said aloud. Yeah, whether she needed it or not, he was going to look after her. He owed Hudson, not because of his career but because of his friendship. Dante had shown him all the ropes; he’d been there when Kent had needed him. He had been more than a great quarterback; he had been a great man.

Kent’s mouth compressed tightly as he slipped into his shirt. Lady, you are wrong about one thing, he thought. If I’d known there would be any way in hell to help Dante—or even just to be near him—I would have been there. You denied the end to me.

He didn’t really know what the end had been, only what he had discerned from reading between the lines of the newspaper clippings. She’d had him cremated before anyone had known of his death; his ashes had been scattered somewhere in northern Wisconsin.

Anger took hold of him, a hot feeling that riddled and swept through him against his will or conscious thought. “Self-righteous bitch!” he muttered. Then he paused again, this time with his jacket halfway on. He knew he would do the interview for her. She was Hudson’s daughter. And she seemed to want it badly—very badly.

But, he decided grimly, she was going to pay a few dues to receive it.

Kent patted his pockets to check for his wallet and keys, then he turned to leave the showers behind. But as he neared the door, he passed the shaving mirrors and caught sight of his own reflection.

Dark eyes, dark hair, tanned, kind of craggy features. Some lines around the eyes …

And those tiny, almost indiscernible white scratch marks that ran down his cheekbone.

He touched them absently. He never thought about them anymore; who would have thought that the little wildcat would have come back all these years later to haunt his life?

“You
will
come to the party, won’t you?” Sam Loper inquired, stopping in the now almost empty stadium to catch her free hand and smile wistfully.

Katie hesitated, stalling. If there was anything that she really didn’t want to do, it was spend the evening with a bunch of triumphant football players. She’d had enough of that scene lately.

But Kent Hart had said that he was going; he had also said that he was still thinking about giving her the interview. Wouldn’t it be a good idea to stay as close to him as possible until he gave her a firm agreement?

Maybe not, she thought fleetingly. She didn’t seem to have a talent for controlling her thoughts when she was near him. Usually, she could appear pleasantly interested in anyone; Kent Hart seemed to have her number all sewed up.