Текст книги "Against the Ropes"

REAGAN sent the reporter on his way, after lying through her teeth, repeatedly, about sabotage in the gym. It was her worst nightmare. She’d expected questions about violence in athletics. About wasting taxpayers’ money on sports when they should be training for combat or downsizing the budget. About a dozen other potentially negative-seeming stories any media might throw at her, to give it all a positive spin.

But no. She didn’t get to do any of that. She got to wipe paint off a newspaperman’s face and apologize profusely, then lie outright about not having a clue what had happened or why.

Well, not entirely a lie. More of a fib. She certainly had no clue why the boxing team was being targeted, or by whom. But when he’d asked about the slashed tires and the wrecked training room . . .

Oh, everyone has to deal with a flat tire now and then. I had one last month! Yes, yes, the training room was broken into, but nothing was stolen. Just some mischief. The MPs—that’s military police—yes, of course you know that—are on it, but think it was just teenage pranks.

Okay, she’d evaded with creative storytelling. That sounded better, didn’t it?

She stared at herself in the mirror of the locker room. Her eyebrows were crusty with dried paint, her hair was a crunchy mess around her shoulders, her suit was definitely ruined, and her shoes . . . Oh, her beautiful shoes. She rose on her toes, experimentally, and then settled her weight back down. The squish echoed through the empty bathroom. They were full of paint, despite having wiped them down with damp paper towels.

No, nothing about this sounded better, no matter how she spun it.

She took a deep breath, then stepped out into the gym. And realized the men had completely vacated the premises. She walked over to a maintenance worker who was on his hands and knees, wiping up a trail of paint close to the exit. She didn’t envy him his job. “Excuse me, did you see where the boxing team went?”

He looked up for a moment, then hooked a thumb toward the back exit of the gym. “Out back.”

Okay, they were still here. She still had time to ream three baby Marines and give the entire team a crash course in What Not to Say 101. She hustled toward the back, wincing as each step squished a bit. Ew.

And opened her door to what might be considered the single girl’s paradise.

Marines, stripped down to their skivvies, were hosing each other down in the employee parking lot. The few who hadn’t gotten paint-bombed were manning hoses while wearing their gym shorts, barefoot. Those they blasted with water stood on towels as the strength of the garden hose power washed the paint away. Nearby, others toweled down from a recent spritzing. Their clothes lay in heaps of color, soaked.

As she watched, the Marines rotated and still-paint colored men took their places on the towels while the others shuffled off to dry.

The door behind her opened and closed again, and she heard Marianne laugh. “Where’s a girl’s camera when she needs one?”

“It’s like a freaking calendar out here. There’s February,” Reagan said, nodding in the direction of one Marine who bent at the waist and tunneled his fingers through his hair to rinse it out.

“Looks like he’s giving September a run for his money,” Marianne added, using her elbow to indicate a good-looking man whose dark skin gleamed while he toweled from the feet up.

Brad wandered over, walking carefully over the pavement in his bare feet. “Are they grabbing our bags from the gym?”

“Yup.” She patted his cheek—blessedly clean—once, then looked at Reagan. “My interns are gathering up everyone’s bags, which should have their street clothes and hopefully some shoes.

“Good idea.” Reagan fought to keep her eyes on the men’s faces as they moved around her. Hard . . . so hard. “Whose idea was this to come back here instead of using the locker room?”

“Coach Ace’s. Said he didn’t want to cause more a mess than we had to.” Brad vigorously rubbed a towel over his short-cropped hair. It dried almost instantly. Not fair. “Cold, but effective. Plus, saved the drains in the locker room. They already suck. I can’t imagine what putting this much paint down them would do.”

“Considerate,” Marianne added. “Oh, look, November’s getting started.”

“Huh?” Brad turned—well, they all turned—to watch the Marine Reagan thought was named Tribalt step into the spray. “Oh, Jesus H. You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Don’t worry. You’re the only calendar I want, January through December,” Marianne said with an amused gleam in her eyes.

“Better be,” Brad muttered.

“But I have to help Reagan build her own calendar. Just because I’m a one-man planner doesn’t mean she can’t diversify her months.” Marianne laughed as Brad growled, dancing out of the way as he threatened to toss his sopping wet towel at her.

“I’m good being a one-man planner, myself,” Reagan said absentmindedly, watching Greg take his turn under the water. It was like he didn’t even feel the icy blast, the way he turned around, his movements economical and efficient. He was a get-in-get-out shower taker, she guessed.

But that didn’t mean, for the short time he doused himself off, she couldn’t marvel at the scenery.

The way his biceps bulged as he stretched to wash off all the paint, how his fingers disturbed his almost too-long hair, spiking it up as he scrubbed through, the way his butt tightened under the black boxer briefs when he turned to wash his front . . .

“Uh-huh.” Marianne snorted. “I think you found your calendar already.”

Reagan chose to say nothing, lest she incriminate herself. She patted her flaming hot cheeks. “It’s so warm out here.”

“Right. I often think fifty-nine and partly cloudy is so warm, too.” With a dry voice, Marianne added, “It’s not the weather that’s got you all hot and bothered.”

Coach Ace walked over, his own tennis shoes squishing a little as he came by. He was dripping wet but still wore all his clothes, as if he’d chosen to keep them on while hosing off. “How pissed was the reporter?”

“Not too much,” she started, then shrugged when he lifted one brow. “Okay, very. I have a feeling our byline at this point will be less than complimentary.”

“Don’t care about that too much, as long as it doesn’t affect the team.”

“But it might,” she pointed out. “If the boxing team is considered a liability, they could always shut it down without warning.” And that would be the worst-case scenario for Reagan. Her first adult job, and she’d managed to run the entire program straight into the ground. “Or they could change up coaching staff, or make you start all over with new Marines, or—”

“I get the point. We need to remain in the good graces of the reporting population.” With a heavy sigh, the coach crossed his arms. Arms that were, in Reagan’s opinion, more like tree trunks than limbs. “What next, PR expert?”

She almost argued at the “expert” label, then decided not to. “Before they leave, I need to speak with all of them. Very quick, just a short spurt on how to handle this little”—she looked at the colorful pile of abandoned clothes—“snafu, shall we say.”

“We shall.” His voice said he caught her sarcasm.

“From there, I’ll meet with everyone individually this week and do a quick coaching session one-on-one. I’d only planned to do that with the guys who were getting the most airtime, but thanks to a few somebodies,” she added, staring daggers at the three idiots with big mouths who stood off to the side, handing out towels, “we need to be more proactive. I’ll try not to disrupt your practices too much.”

“I think we’re past that.” With another heavy sigh, he pushed away from the wall and walked toward the center of the drying Marines. “Gather round, everyone. You, too, once you’re finished rinsing him off,” he added to the last pair using a hose.

After another three minutes, they all waited. “Ms. Robilard has some stuff she needs to share with you. You’re going to listen, you’re going to absorb and you’re not going to make another mistake on sharing the inner workings of this team with an outsider again. Understand?”

The group gave a combined “Oo-rah!” in answer, and Reagan felt the hairs on her arms stand. She loved it when they did that.

Coach Ace stepped to the side and motioned for her to take his spot. She did, cleared her throat, then realized she was now speaking to a group of mostly naked, dripping-wet Marines.

This was so not covered in her public speaking courses.

“You know,” she began, going on instinct, “when people say to picture your audience in their underwear, I don’t think this is what they had in mind. If they did, we’d never get through our speeches.”

The group laughed, and she caught Greg watching her with an approving gaze. He winked at her, and she knew she’d made the right call to start with humor.

If he kept looking at her like that, she might think she could do just about anything.

*   *   *

GREG set down his laundry basket and groaned. That paint had been a bitch to get out of his clothes. Three rounds in the washer—not including the prerinse in the bathroom sink—before he’d been able to dry them.

He caught himself about to put them in a duffle under his bed, hesitated, then started to put his clothes in the drawers instead. Not two weeks ago, he would have repacked it in his suitcase, just in case. There was no sense of permanence with the team, with these men. Just fun. Now, he’d be damned if they sent him home.

A quick knock on his bedroom door heralded his roommate. Turning, he pushed the drawer closed with his hip and found Brad, hair still wet from a shower, watching him. “How long did it take you to get the paint out of your ears?”

“Ears were no problem. It was the gap in my waistband where it seemed to seep in and make its way to unfortunate places.”

Greg sucked in a breath. “Ouch.”

“Yeah. No kidding.” With a shake of his head, Brad wandered around Greg’s room a bit.

Greg waited, but his roommate said nothing. “Need something?”

“You used to do this to me all the time. Just returning the favor.” With a smart-ass smile, Brad plopped down on the bed and crossed his ankles, making himself comfortable. “Plans tonight?”

“Yes and no.”

“Sounds like you haven’t asked her out yet.”

“Her?” Greg went for innocent, maybe slightly confused, but one look from Brad had him giving up the charade. “I haven’t called her, no. She’s got a lot on her plate with the paint and the reporter and fixing that whole issue.”

“Damn big issue. Gonna take her longer than one night to get to it.”

“No kidding.” Greg waited a beat. “What’s your point?”

“My point is, a night off’s not going to kill her. Call her.”

“Hey, Captain Cupid, who are you and what have you done with my roommate?” He ducked the pillow Brad threw at him. “Come on, man. I just made the bed.”

“Good Marines make their beds when they first get out of them.”

“I’d state the obvious, but I won’t.”

Brad seemed to shrug that off. They both knew he would have just made fun of Brad’s anal retentive tendencies. “She’s smart, she’s hot—”

“Watch it,” Greg growled.

“Oh, piss off. You know I’ve got my own woman. Just stating a fact. And for some reason, she isn’t totally repulsed by you.”

There was more between them than just “not repulsed.” But he kept quiet.

“So go call Reagan Robilard and take the lady out. She could probably use a good distraction tonight after the day she’s had. Let her get loose. She’ll have enough shit to deal with tomorrow.”

“She’ll just bitch at me about some conflict of interest or other bullshit.”

“We thought that. Marianne and I hid our dating for way longer than necessary. And now you have no excuse.”

“Damn,” he muttered.

“Afraid of rejection?”

Greg threw the pillow back at his smirking roommate. “I think I liked you better when you were a standoffish jerk.”

“Me, too. But here we are. And it’s your fault I’m more chatty, anyway.”

“I’m asking her, I’m asking her.” Greg pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and waved it. “But if she says she’s tired, I’m not pushing. She’s had a rough day.”

“I don’t doubt it.” Brad waited a beat. “But she won’t say she’s tired.”

That made Greg think twice. “Why?”

Brad stood, and Greg noticed him favoring his knee just a little on one side. “Because you’ll find some way or another to convince her to throw caution to the wind. To seize the moment. To carpe diem. It’s what you do. You’re the social one. So”—he finished as he went to the door—“go be social.” With that, he closed Greg’s door behind him.

“Go be social,” he mocked. After letting his thumb hover over the call button on his phone, he switched to text and sent her a message.

Coward? You betcha.

She responded less than sixty seconds later, exactly how he’d guessed. Tired, overworked, needed some rest and time to go over notes.

Greg: All work and no play makes Jill a dull girl.

Reagan: I can handle being dull. I can’t handle putting work off. Thanks, though.

See, Costa? You don’t know everything. She was going to reject his offer. But at least he’d put it out there.

Just as he was about to put his phone down, he tried one more thing.

Greg: You can ask me one more question, if you let me buy you dessert.

There was a long pause, to the point where he wondered if she’d put her phone down and didn’t hear it alert with the text. He gave up and set his on the bedside table and went to the drawer where he kept takeout menus.

And nearly broke land speed records racing back to grab it when it beeped with a text.

Reagan: Dessert only, my pick and we call it quits early.

Bingo. Before he could stop it, he felt a smile creep across his face. The one thing destined to get her out of her work funk was . . . work.

He could choose to be offended by that, and see it as a negative that she only wanted to spend time with him if she could call it productive. That being out with him wasn’t reason enough. Or he could see it as a positive that she was too tempted by him, and using work as an excuse made her feel better about stepping over that boundary.

He was an optimist, after all.

Greg: DEAL.

CHAPTER

8

Reagan waited in the back corner of the popular café-style yogurt bar. She’d arrived early, notebook ready, and scoped out the offerings. Frozen yogurt was the least of the dessert sins she could think of. There was a fat-free, dairy-free yogurt that looked tempting . . .

Oh, who the hell was she kidding? That thing looked like pink glue.

But hey, anything fat-free, dairy free, shame-and-guilt free had to be good for you, right?

“This is an interesting choice.”

She jerked her head up as Greg slid into the small chair across the tiny bistro-style table. Why did the man have to make a simple polo shirt and jeans look sinful? “What’s wrong with it?”

“Nothing, I guess. I just thought you’d be someone to pick something a little more . . .” He glanced around the room, at the bright lights, brighter colors and several tables full of screaming kids. “I don’t know, adult?”

“Frozen yogurt is very adult,” she said, biting the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling. “It’s practically a health food.”

He stared at her. “Uh-huh. And that’s why you can dump a bowl of peanut butter cups on top of it and they weigh it by the pound? Because of the health benefits?”

“Exactly.” She left her purse and notebook there—the café was small enough she didn’t worry about it—and went to the starting line where the cups were. “Have you been here before?”

“A few times. You?”

“First time here. But there was one near my apartment in college. Very popular place.” She’d gone there a few times to study, when the lights in her apartment had gone off for nonpayment. The owners had been sweet and let her sit at a corner table to work even though she almost never bought anything.

Greg waited for her to grab the provided cups—which were big enough to hold three baked potatoes—and pick out her flavor. She let three seconds’ worth of pink glue plop into her cup and walked to the register. She passed by Greg, who was on flavor number two, when he snagged her elbow.

“What the hell is that?”

“Strawberry,” she answered defensively.

“That is definitely not strawberry. That’s nothing. There’s, like, a thimble-full in there. Go get more.”

“I don’t need more.” Really, the man was exasperating.

He finished the flavor he was on—cookies and cream—and stepped over to layer on some key lime pie yogurt.

“Uh, that combo doesn’t sound appetizing,” she pointed out, in case he had misread the sign.

“That’s half the fun. Coming up with some weird combination that will make the employees gag.”

She stared at him blandly. “You were one of those children who enjoyed putting some of every soda in his cup at concession stands, weren’t you?”

He winked. “Bet you can’t top this one.”

She could. But really . . . “I’m good.”

“Oh, man. And here I thought you’d be more creative than me.” His disappointed voice grated against her nerves. “Sucks to be wrong. Oh, well.”

“Look, it’s not that disgusting. There’s worse combinations out there.”

He looked her in the eyes, nearly nose to nose, and whispered, “Prove it.”

Something inside her clicked, and suddenly she was seven years old with her two older brothers double-dog daring her and her younger two brothers betting she would chicken out.

Oh. Oh, it was so on. She pulled away from him and started the hunt for the most repulsive combination of flavors. No, not just flavors, she reminded herself. They had syrups and toppings, too. The nastiness could not be avoided.

Ten minutes later, with her massive cup nearly overflowing with yogurt, she put it on the scale at the register. Next to hers, Greg set his own malformation of dessert. They both burst out laughing as the cashier made a Mr. Yuk face at their creations.

“Now the trick is,” Greg said as they carried their beloved treats to their table, “we have to eat this thing without choking.”

Oh, God. She hadn’t actually thought that through when she’d been swirling vanilla fudge with tropical punch and topping it with Jujubes, hot fudge and making what first looked like a smiley face in whipped cream but now that it had melted, sort of resembled a phallic symbol.

“Your face,” Greg said on a gasp. “Seriously, priceless. We don’t have to eat it.”

Well, now it had become a thing of honor. She did her best to brave the coming storm, scooped up a healthy bite and tasted.

“You don’t have to—”

“Oh,” she breathed. “That’s not bad.”

He raised a skeptical brow. “That’s a joke, right?”

“It’s not my first choice, but it’s not as horrific as I thought it would be.” She grinned and took another bite. “Try yours,” she added, pointing to his concoction with her spoon.

He didn’t look convinced, but she could tell he wasn’t about to be shown up. So he closed his eyes, took a heaping spoonful of yogurt and toppings, and put it in his mouth.

And nearly gagged. He managed to swallow what he had in his mouth while the plastic spoon clattered to the table top and his eyes bugged out.

Reagan tried—she really did—to keep a straight face. But she couldn’t help the snort that squeaked by. Then the chuckle. Then the laugh that came from so deep down she thought she might pee her pants before she got control of herself again.

She wiped her eyes, aware there were more than a few parents staring. One shushed her daughter and forced her to look the other way. Don’t go near the crazy lady, sweetie. Just leave her alone. Totally worth it.

Then she caught the way Greg watched her. Like he was a starving man watching a waiter put down a porterhouse steak. He took ahold of her hand, calloused fingertips brushing against the inside of her wrist. There was no way he could miss how her pulse thundered under his touch.

“Told you there was a wild side under there.”

She furrowed her brows at that. “Mixing gross yogurt combinations equals having a wild side?”

“No, but taking up the challenge to try does. Lying to me and making me think you enjoyed yours to get me to eat mine is a close second.”

She flushed. “Caught.”

He picked up her hand and nipped at her knuckles, then pressed a kiss to the same spot. “I’m impressed.” He let her go—why did her fingers instinctively curl to keep his hand with hers?—and settled back for another small bite of yogurt. “Not so bad, if you concentrate on one flavor at a time.”

She wrinkled her nose and pushed hers to the side.

“How did the Great Paint Spill end up after we left?” He took another bite, and she watched his tongue lick the last of the yogurt from the curve of the spoon.

That tongue could do wicked, wicked things to the curves of a woman’s body. Say, her body, for example . . .

“Earth to Reagan.”

She blinked. “Sorry, what?”

“The paint spill thing. What came out of that?”

“Ruined shoes, and probably a ruined suit, too.” She was still smarting over that. It had taken her months to find those shoes on sale. Months. She grabbed the yogurt back. Even the gross flavors were better than thinking about those shoes. “Otherwise, a very upset reporter, and a big bucket of ice in my belly over how he’s going to write up this little piece of ‘mischief.’” She used air quotes on one hand—the one not gripping the spoon that was currently going in for another bite.

“How are you still eating that thing?” Greg looked appalled.

“It’s not as bad, if you try to stick to one flavor on your spoon at a time.” She scooped out some fudge brownie with a little whipped cream. “See? Yours was all mixed up. I kept mine in nice, divided sections.”

“You couldn’t even go wild without putting order to it.” Looking disgusted at her lack of spontaneity, he grabbed her spoon and licked the yogurt off. “Serves you right.”

“Probably.” Plus, she didn’t really need all the added calories. Gross taste or not, it all stuck straight to her hips. She’d be a walking cello if she wasn’t careful. “What’s your favorite part about boxing?”

He blinked, then settled back in the wrought-iron chair that looked too small to hold his weight. “Where’d that come from?”

“You said to be able to ask you another question and coach you through it, I had to go out with you again.” She spread her arms wide. “We’re out, dessert and all.”

She saw the moment he realized she had him. He scowled, then stabbed his spoon into his yogurt and pushed it to the side. “I’m good at it.”

“You are,” she agreed. Then when he said nothing more, she prompted, “And?”

“And . . .” He shrugged and used the handle of the spoon to push his yogurt cup around the table. “I like to win. I like to have fun. Winning is fun, so . . . yeah.”

Reagan tapped her finger to her lips. His entire demeanor changed when she questioned him as Reagan Robilard, Team Liaison than when they were simply chatting. Was that a good thing, or bad? “If a reporter asks, you’ll need more. That answer will come off in print sounding cocky, though I doubt that’s actually how you mean it. Try something like, ‘I took to the sport of boxing naturally, and as I became better, my enjoyment for it grew.’”

He sneered. “That sounds like twisted PR crap.”

“It is twisted PR crap. But it’s my job to twist the crap until it can’t get you into trouble in any way.” She stood and tossed her yogurt in the trash behind her. “I’ve got to get back to my place and start figuring out how to play serious damage control. Plus, I’ve got an interview with the head leader guy of the MPs to figure out exactly how people keep breaking into the gym—if that’s what is happening.”

“The head leader guy?” he asked, lips twitching.

“Whatever.” She scowled and stood. “Military jargon is still ninety percent lost on me.”

He stood and followed her out toward her car. One large hand patted the trunk of Dolly Madison fondly. “If nobody is breaking into the gym, how else could all this crap be happening? A ghost?”

“Someone with a key, maybe an old employee who never turned one in. Or a roommate of an employee who made a copy. Someone who currently works with the Rec department and has access. Or even someone on the team.”

That stopped him in his tracks, and he gripped her elbow so she flailed to a halt a step ahead of him. “Nobody on the team would pull shit like this.”

She wouldn’t warn him about the language right now. He was worked up. “I can’t discount the possibility that—”