Текст книги "Game for Seduction "

Автор книги: Bella Andre

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Текущая страница: 2 (всего у книги 12 страниц)

Chapter Two

Still reeling from her five minutes in Dominic's arms, Melissa locked herself in the ladies' room until she succeeded in wiping all the arousal and excitement from her eyes and face. Then she unlocked the door and headed over to Angie's desk. She'd known her father's executive assistant, a no-nonsense, borderline-scary, type-A woman, practically all her life. And even though she wasn't a little kid anymore, she was still a little afraid of the woman.

"Perfect timing. Tom's ready to have a word with you."

Taking a deep breath, Melissa turned her father's gold-plated doorknob and went in.

Her father didn't look up as she closed the door. "I just spoke with Dominic."

Melissa's heart thumped as she waited to hear what he'd said about her.

"He made it a point to tell me what a pleasure it was working with you today. Said you saved the day."

Masking her delight at the compliment, Melissa said, "He did great at the shoot, as always. Dominic is a real asset to the company."

Her father shrugged. "He was, but he's getting older."

She dropped her bag to the floor and advanced toward her father. "Are you kidding? Dominic is one of the most recognizable faces of football. No speeding tickets, no bar brawls, no hidden babies. He's a playmaker and a moneymaker. Companies are pounding down our door to get him to advertise their products."

Her father clicked on his email, listening with half an ear. "Times have changed. People want to see their favorite stars screw up, then repent. No one's interested in angels anymore."

Melissa's mouth opened, then closed. How could her father speak about him like this? What ever happened to loyalty? What's more, her father was dead wrong about Dominic's appeal.

"Look at Ty Calhoun," her father pointed out. "Fans are even crazier for him now that he screwed his image consultant, then saw the light and married her. Nothing's better than a bad boy turned good."

Melissa had met Ty a few times and found him to be a very charming lady-killer, but not at all her type. She preferred someone who didn't have anything to prove, who didn't use his sexuality to win over the world, who simply owned it as an integral part of who he was.

But now wasn't the time for her to bite her father's head off. She sat on the chair directly across from him. "What did you want to see me about?"

"Your mother called. Don't forget to bring potato salad to the barbecue this Sunday, or she'll be all over me for not telling you."

Her heart sank. She'd been so certain that he was going to bring up her promotion. Well, since she had his undivided attention, she'd take the direct approach and ask for exactly what she wanted—and make sure she got it.

"Actually, Father, I'm glad you asked to meet with me. I've been wanting to get on your calendar."

He briefly looked up from his computer screen. "Is there a problem?"

"No. My work has been going very smoothly, and I was extremely pleased by the endorsement deal I negotiated for Wilson last Friday." If ever there was a time to toot her own horn, it was now.

"I'll email you some notes on the Martin trade. You can take that over, as well."

She beamed. "Fantastic."

More work and responsibility without "Agent" on her business card. She was making a difference in players' lives and she was well paid for an associate, but she wanted to be recognized for her achievements rather than for being Tom McKnight's daughter.

He looked up at her, impatience on his deeply lined face. "Was there anything else you needed?"

She straightened her spine. "Yes, there is."

He finally took his hands from the keyboard and sat back in his chair, lacing his fingers across his stomach.

"I've been working here for five years," she began. "During that time I've taken on more and more responsibility, I've earned my MBA, and I've negotiated several big endorsement deals for key clients."

Her father nodded, and hope bloomed deep in her chest.

"I deserve to be promoted to agent."

She laid her damp palms on her lap and waited for her father to speak. As the silence stretched on, a knot formed in her stomach.

Her father threw his head back and laughed. "Honey, I thought you already knew this—no one in this business will ever take a female football agent seriously. Especially not a cream puff like you."

Melissa shot to her feet as he turned back to his computer. "What about all the deals I've worked?" she demanded. "I've done great things for our clients. I've made them—and you—a lot of money."

He waved a hand, dismissing her completely true claims. "They took you seriously because you work for me. Ultimately, everyone knows I'm the one backing the deals. Besides, you aren't tough enough for this business. Agents can't cry when they don't get their way."

He wasn't joking. Not in the least. And Melissa finally realized the truth: Her father had never, ever, not for one second, planned on her becoming an agent. If he had his way, she'd work as an associate for him until the day he retired.

Seeming to notice her dismay, he said, "Don't get me wrong, honey, you've been doing a great job. You're a top-notch associate. All the guys think so."

He was talking to her as if she were a little girl, which, she now understood, was exactly how he viewed her. They all did: his players, the other agents, his secretary.

"Thank you for your time," she said coldly, then walked across the room and closed the door behind her with a soft click. She held her head high as she walked past Angie's desk.

As she quickly navigated the hallway, Melissa's brain spun with plans. She wasn't going to waste a single minute sitting in her cubicle feeling sorry for herself. She wanted to be an agent, and if she couldn't be a McKnight agent, she'd do it someplace else. And she knew exactly where to start.

Barnum's. The secret bar for San Francisco Bay Area professional athletes. It was the only place where the very rich, very sought-after men could shoot some pool without groupies hanging all over them. Rumor had it not one single female fan had crossed the threshold in thirty years.

But she had no doubt she'd get inside. She'd made a whole lot of guys a whole lot of money. They owed her.

Ignoring the forty new emails in her in-box, she picked up her bag and headed for the elevator. On the street, she hailed a cab and gave the driver her best guess at Barnum's address. It was a widely guarded secret, but she'd been privy to enough drunken conversations to pick up a couple of clues to its location.

On a street corner a block from the water in a rather seedy part of town, Melissa paid the driver and stepped into the fading sunlight. She was beginning to wonder if this was such a good idea, just as the sound of laughter drew her attention to a door opening halfway down a dark alley. A rookie defensive lineman stepped out into the daylight.

Bingo! Now all she had to do was figure out a way to get inside.

She strode to the door and pounded on it with both fists. It was rather cathartic to beat the crap out of a metal door, even if the edges of her hands were starting to throb.

A man opened the door just wide enough for her to see his gold tooth. "Members only."

He closed the door in her face, but rage made her strong. She shoved it open an inch. "These guys know me. Let me in."

He opened the door a foot this time and checked her out from head to toe. He grinned lecherously. "I'm sure they do, babe. Go home. Find a nice boy to marry and make babies with."

She peered over his shoulder into the dark room. Jones Wilson was leaning over the pool table. She'd just made him a bucket of money, more than double the original offer he'd been made to hock tennis shoes. He owed her.

"Jones!" she shrieked over the throbbing rap music.

The bouncer recoiled and covered his ears, giving her the chance to push the door open and lunge past him. She was halfway inside by the time he grabbed her.

"Not so fast," he growled, and she had a feeling she was moments away from being literally tossed out on her ass.

Just in time, Wilson laid down his pool stick. "Melissa McKnight? What are you doing here, girl?"

The bouncer said, "Sorry, man. I told her 'no groupies.' I'll get her out of here."

"She's no groupie, man. She's my agent's kid. Let her go."

"What's up?" Wilson asked when the bouncer headed back behind the bar. "Some problem with the new contract?"

She shook her head. "No, your contract is fine. Let me get a drink and then you can introduce me to your friends."

He frowned. "Seriously? You're staying?"

"You bet I am." He looked shell-shocked, so she decided to give him a few minutes to get used to the idea of her being in the top-secret players' haunt. "Go back to your pool game. I'll let you know when I'm ready for your help."

He looked over his shoulder at the rest of the players in the club, then shook his head. "I don't think this is such a great idea, you being here."

She shrugged and looked around the joint. "Not much of a vibe, but I suppose it grows on you."

Waving him back toward the pool table, she headed over to the empty bar. At least a dozen pairs of eyes were on her. Football, hockey, and baseball players relaxed with beers and video games and pool. There were even a few pro golfers in the mix. She knew their names and teams, but apart from Wilson she didn't know any of them personally. Yet.

There wasn't another bar in the city where she would have felt as at home. She'd grown up around professional athletes, traveled with them, watched games with them, hung out with their families. Football meant family to her.

"Gin and tonic, please," she said to the beefy bouncer/bartender. "Make it a double."

Looking none too happy about serving her, he grabbed a tall glass.

She took a sip, which immediately turned into a gulp. "God, this is good," she murmured.

Even better than the drink was the instant buzz that worked its way from her head to her toes. She hadn't eaten since 6 a.m. It wasn't going to take long for the drink to work its magic.

"Honestly," she said to the large bartender, "I understand why you wouldn't let me come inside."

"You do, huh?"

She nodded. "These guys need somewhere to get away from everything. The press, the groupies, the big-money pressure. I think it's great that you turned this joint into a refuge." She crossed her fingers over her heart. "I'll never tell. Cross my heart and hope to die."

They'd gotten off to a rocky start, but another drink later proved that the bartender—his name was Ellis—was a very nice man. He was happy to listen to her plans to become the next great football agent. The next thing she knew, her second drink was empty and he was sliding another one across the bar.

When Ellis flipped the channel to ESPN, they were doing a profile on the greatest wide receivers of all time. Dominic was their top pick, and something warm and heady bloomed in Melissa's chest. She'd chat up the players in the bar later. For the next hour, she was going to nurse her drink along with her pointless crush on the most beautiful man in the world.

Chapter Three

Dominic sprinted the last hundred yards on the track, beating Ty Calhoun by an inch. They fell down on the grass inside the track and sucked in air. "I never thought I'd see the day when an old man like you would beat me," Ty said, panting.

Dominic laughed through the stitch in his side and the throbbing in his knee. "Marriage has made you slow," he ribbed, even though they both knew it was his job as wide receiver to be the fastest guy on the field.

"What can I say? I've got better things on my mind than a leather ball." Ty grinned. "Nothing beats an insatiable new wife waiting at home."

Dominic was happy for his friend, who was one of the best quarterbacks in the country. Things had been iffy there for a while. Fortunately, everything had ended up working out for Ty. Playboy no more, he was a happily married man.

"What about you?" Ty asked as he started a set of sit-ups. "Got marriage and kids in your future anytime soon?"

An image of Melissa popped into Dominic's head, all luscious curves and plump red lips and an almost accidental sensuality. Blood rushed to his groin.

His agent's daughter was as off-limits as they came. Even if she had looked better than ever this morning at the ad shoot, even if her lush curves had been a perfect fit in his hands, even if she had the softest skin he'd ever touched. He wondered for the thousandth time what she'd look like without her clothes on; if the skin on her breasts, her stomach– between her legs—would be as creamy and tempting as her beautiful face.

Shit. He needed to force the picture of Melissa naked and flushed in his bed from his brain. He rolled over and propped himself on his palms for a punishing set of push-ups. "The last girl I dated kept confusing baseball with football."

"Hey, I think I dated her, too," Ty said, laughing. "At least she was hot, right?"

Dominic held his final push-up an inch from the grass for twenty seconds to push himself to the limit. Letting his weight down slowly, he said, "I guess."

The girl had been too skinny and synthetic-looking, with the same overplumped lips and sili coned breasts and skinny ass as every other good-looking blonde that guys like him dated.

The sun was starting to set as they headed into the showers. Dominic stood under the hot spray for several minutes. An integral part of his job with the Outlaws was turning on the charm. Not just on the field, but at charity events and after-hours parties for the media. But he'd always kept a firm check on himself around Tom McKnight's daughter—regardless of the fact that he wanted to fuck her senseless. She might have been the best-looking woman for miles, but she was meant for some other lucky bastard. Not only would Tom never forgive him for touching his little girl, but Dominic was too old for her, too experienced.

He'd grappled with the darkness within himself one too many times, and come up on the losing end. She deserved better than him.

He stepped off the slick tile to dry off, then pulled on his jeans and a T-shirt. He didn't spend much time in bars anymore, having burned through that kind of behavior in high school, but tonight he felt like having a beer. Someplace out of the public eye where he could hang with the guys, shoot some pool, and stop thinking about the beautiful woman that he couldn't have.

The sun was sinking halfway into the Bay as he drove along the Embarcadero toward Barnum's. Every once in a while, a guy needed a place to get away from the fans. Heck, some of the guys went to get away from their wives and girlfriends.

To the rest of the world, professional athletics looked like a big party. In truth, millions were on the line with every play, every tackle. Sunday's game kicked the shit out of you and your body hurt like hell, with recovery taking the whole week. After spending Monday through Friday in ice baths and murderous massages after practice, you were lucky if you woke up Saturday morning feeling halfway normal, only to head into another grueling Sunday game.

But even though he hurt more lately than he ever had—his shoulder was throbbing from his workout and his knee kept popping—Dominic didn't have any complaints. He wasn't sitting behind a desk. He wasn't putting on a roof in 110 degree weather. He just wasn't healing as fast as he used to.

Dominic parked his car in Barnum's dark, cramped garage, then stepped into the dirty alley and punched in the security code next to the black metal fire door. The lock clicked open and he stepped inside, giving his eyes a moment to adjust to the dim lighting.

Several of the usual suspects were there—a handful of local hockey and baseball players, in addition to several Outlaws. And then his eyes landed on an unexpected sight: A woman with wavy hair was sit ting on a bar stool. Her back was to him and her feet were bare, her shoes haphazardly discarded on the floor beneath her seat.

Even as he wondered what in the hell a woman was doing inside Barnum's, his cock instantly reacted to her lush ass, her tight waist, and the ample breasts hinted at from behind the curve of her elbow. A voice in his head told him this woman could be the perfect substitute for Melissa—at least for the night.

The other players were watching her, too, mountain lions silently hunting their prey, ready to sink their teeth into her neck at the first sign of weakness. Protective urges warred with arousal within Dominic, and he accepted his inevitable decision. It was his duty to get her out of there before something bad happened.

These were mostly good guys, but every now and again a bad seed slipped in, particularly among the rookies, who no one really had a good handle on for a couple of years. They were too fresh, too excited about their new pro status. Sometimes they did stupid things—picked up the wrong kind of girl, turned a video camera on, or posted something indecent on the Internet, especially when they were drunk.

Dominic knew firsthand about fucking up, about how a string of stupid decisions could come to a head in a single moment and almost ruin everything.

His face grim, he headed for the woman. She was talking with Ellis, laughing about something playing on the TV. A warning bell went off in his head, the same kind that he heard on the field just before he got crushed by a defender when coming down with the ball.

Her laugh was husky. Sensual.

And oddly familiar.

Oh, shit.

Melissa McKnight, the woman he wanted to chain to his bed and not let loose until he'd fulfilled every last one of his sexual fantasies, had infiltrated Barnum's.

Anger rode him as he crossed the barroom. She'd been in this business long enough to know that any girl who got drunk around a pro would be easy prey. Sitting there looking as incredibly hot as she did was simply asking for it. She might as well get up on one of the pool tables, strip off all her clothes, and beg one of these guys to take her any damn way he wanted to.

He was nearly at her side when she turned and saw him. "Dominic!" she cried, his name blurring around the edges. "I was just watching you on TV." She blinked up at him like he was her birthday and Christmas presents rolled into one.

He followed her loose-limbed gesture to the large screen hanging above the bottles. ESPN was showing a clip of him making an over-the-shoulder touchdown reception.

"You're so amazing," she murmured, leaning toward him. "So fast. So big."

Her innocent compliments gave him a sudden, raging hard-on. Trying to ignore his body's instinctive response to her nearness, he wrapped his fingers around her upper arm.

Her skin was too warm. Too soft. Too inviting.

His fury at the way she was putting herself in danger merged with his frustration over losing the battle with his dick. "What the hell are you doing here?"

Her tongue flicked out to the corner of her mouth. Sweet lord, he had to look away from her mouth. That way lay madness.

"It's a secret," she whispered.

She tilted her head back to giggle, and his eyes got stuck on the rapidly beating pulse in her long, smooth neck. Her skin was rose-tipped perfection, her hair a mix of blond and brown and auburn that made him want to run his fingers through it for hours just to determine which color it really was.

"I'm taking you home," he said, his voice gruffer than he'd intended. "Now."

Melissa didn't budge. "No, thanks." She picked up her glass and drank the last drop, her tongue snaking out to lick it up.

Dominic's dick twitched as she ignored his command. He'd always assumed that she was soft, pliant. Her easy refusal of his wishes actually made his dick harder. He forced images of her tying him up and straddling him out of his head. A wiser woman would have known not to mess with him. But she'd obviously spent too many years surrounded by big, burly football players who treated her like a little sister. She thought she was safe from him.

She wasn't.

Chapter Four

Waggling her fingers at Ellis, Melissa lifted her empty glass. With her other hand, she patted the busted-up leather bar stool next to hers. "Sit down, Dominic. Keep me company."

Her long lashes covered her guileless eyes as she stared at his crotch. Shit, she wasn't actually assessing his package, was she? His cock grew another painful inch beneath his jeans. If his fans could see just how badly the "master of control" was losing control, they'd boo him off the field.

"We can do this the easy way," he said in a low voice, "or we can do it the hard way."

She spun slightly to face him, her full mouth curving up slightly. A mouth like hers should be illegal. He had a distinctly uncomfortable memory of her coming home from college five years ago transformed into a goddess with sinfully plump red lips and curves that could make a man crazy.

Curves that did make him crazy.

Lifting her gaze from his crotch, she murmured, "Tell me more about doing it the hard way."

Focused on how badly he wanted to taste her lips, it took him several seconds to realize that she'd infused the word hard with a sexual undertone. Quickly, he reminded himself that it was because she was drunk.

Melissa always maintained an impressive professionalism around the guys. The way she was acting had nothing to do with him. After lord knew how many drinks, she would have probably come on to any guy in any bar. Which was all the more reason why he had to get her out of there.

In a flash, he had her up off the bar stool and hoisted over his shoulder, her sweet ass in his hands, her breasts pressing into his shoulder blades. He expected her to scream, to insist that he put her down. Instead, she shifted her hips more firmly into the curve of his palm.

"Mmmm, you're strong," she murmured as he strode across the cement floor.

Several of the guys whistled, and some had the nerve to clap. "You go, Dom," one called, and Dominic scowled fiercely at them, making a mental note to kick each and every one of their asses for thinking dirty thoughts about Melissa.

Wilson smiled at him. "Thanks for taking her out of my hair. Watching over her ass was too much responsibility for me."

In less than sixty, they were out of the bar and he'd strapped her into his passenger seat. He tried to keep contact to a minimum as he leaned across her body to click her seat belt into place, but he couldn't avoid pressing his triceps into her breasts. By the time he got behind the wheel, warning himself for the hundredth time to cool off, she was curled up in the leather seat, looking like a cat nestled in a comfortable blanket. Her eyes were warm honey as they raked over him. He'd never seen her like this, with her guard down.

She was all woman . . . and on the prowl for a man.

Deciding that his wisest bet was to play the role of concerned friend, he said, "I'm taking you back to my place for coffee. You're going to sober up, and then you're going to tell me how the hell you ended up in Barnum's."

Something must have happened between the photo shoot and Barnum's—probably something at work. As soon as she filled him in on the details, he would fix the problem.

He wasn't a fool, though. Women hated men who tried to solve their problems, so he just wouldn't let her know about it.

In a warm voice Melissa said, "I've always wanted to see your house."

She wrapped her forearms around her shins. He'd forgotten to grab her shoes on the way out, and his erection grew yet again at the sight of her red toenails peeking out from beneath her very sexy fishnets.

He cleared his throat, working to obliterate all signs of lust from his tone. "I'm taking you now."

She all but purred, "Goodie. I've been waiting a long, long time for you to take me."

Jesus, if she only knew all the ways he wanted to take her, she'd throw herself out of his car. She was innocent and pure, and had no idea about the dark side of life—or men.

He turned into his building's parking garage a couple of minutes later. Melissa was silent; maybe she'd fallen asleep, he thought. Sick bastard that he was, he wouldn't mind having an excuse to pick her up and carry her upstairs. She could have his bed. Potent images filled his brain: of her naked between his sheets, standing beneath the spray of water in his shower, drying between her legs with a towel.

Working to shake off the X-rated images, he looked over, surprised to see her staring right at him, her amber eyes wicked and wanting.

It was pretty obvious that she'd had a crush on him in her teens, but she'd never looked at him like this before—like she wanted to unzip his pants and throat his cock right then and there.

Fuck.

"Stay there," he cautioned as he came around to her side. The last thing he needed was for her to fall out of his car and smack her head on the cement floor. He opened the passenger door and held out his hands. Once they got upstairs, he was going to make her a pot of coffee, then sit on the opposite side of his living room while she drank it.

She wobbled a bit and he instinctively pulled her into his chest to steady her. Her breasts were criminal, the way their full weight settled against him.

"You know what?" she whispered as she slid an arm around him, gliding her fingertips over his triceps and lats. "I think I like doing things the hard way."

She lowered her face to his shoulder and her hair tickled his chin. It was killing him to keep his hands off her.

Purposefully ignoring the seductive intent of her words, he said, "You'll feel much better once you've had some coffee."

Her smile was lazy as he propelled her into the elevator. She relaxed into his body, and he was amazed, despite himself, at how well they fit together, her soft heat the perfect foil for his solid mass.

"I already feel better," she said with a soft smile.

If he hadn't been so attuned to her every heartbeat, to the way her nipples had peaked beneath her black dress, he might have missed it when she added, "Now that you're here," in a near whisper.

His cock grew another inch beneath the zipper of his jeans. She wasn't making this easy for him. He unlocked his front door and led her into his foyer. Dropping his keys on the front table, he guided her into his large kitchen. Both his kitchen and living room were fronted with floor-to-ceiling glass. Lights from cars, boats, and houses across the Bay gleamed into the granite-and-cherrywood-clad room. True to his Italian roots, Dominic prided himself on being a great cook. Not that Melissa was ever going to find out. If he could barely control himself over coffee, he sure as hell wouldn't be able to keep his dick in his pants through an entire meal.

Melissa moved out of his arms and headed straight to the windows. He put on a very strong pot of coffee, and when he turned back to her he nearly laughed out loud. She'd pressed herself up against the window, her palms flat against the glass. The laughter died in his throat as he imagined coming up behind her, yanking up her skirt, sliding down her stockings, and sinking into her wet heat. Her full breasts would be heavy in his hands, her nipples hard between his fingertips.

His famously steady hands were shaking as he brought over a large mug of coffee. Hearing his approach, she turned and said, "What a beautiful view."

She was far more beautiful than any view, and he couldn't take his eyes off her—couldn't stop the increasingly pornographic images of the two of them naked and sweaty from running through his head.

"Yeah," he finally replied, "it's nice." He took her hand and guided her to the plush couch. "Drink."

God, he sounded like a caveman. He'd never been nervous in front of cameras or out in a stadium playing in front of one hundred thousand screaming fans. So how could one curvy woman make it so hard for him to string more than two words together?

She tucked her legs beneath her and picked up the mug. Bringing the rim up to her lips, she took a sip, staring unabashedly at him over the mug.

"I really do like your place," she said, "but something's missing."

You're missing.

The words jumped uncensored into his brain. Because even with the views and the nice furniture and the gourmet kitchen, she was right: His house had never quite felt like home. Until now, with Melissa curled up on his couch, eating him up with her eyes.

Bringing her here had been a bad plan. A very bad plan.

Because he didn't need to save her from the other players in Barnum's. He needed to save her from himself.