Quarterback Casanova (Kansas City Griffins #1) Read online

  A long, noisy breath escaped her. She dropped her head to the faux wood table, its surface warmed by the afternoon sun slanting through the windowpane, and rapped her forehead a few times against the toasty laminate. She should have seen this coming. Her editor had never liked having a female on his staff. Her relationship drama with Dash had only reinforced his opinion that women and professional sports don’t mix, and the leave of absence she’d taken shortly after the breakup hadn’t helped matters.

  Her phone rang. She glanced at the screen. Great. Speak of the devil.

  She picked up the phone and accepted the call. “This is Naomi.”

  “So, what’d you find out?” Her boss got right to the point. No preamble. No hello. The man had the personality of a dead fish.

  “Dash is inside Report headquarters at the moment. He gave no comment on the way in.”

  “If you wait for him to give a comment, every paper in the nation will have the story. What’s the point? I figured you’d have a leg up. Use your influence with him.” He snickered. “Or maybe that’s not so easy now that you’re not sleeping with him.”

  Her hand tightened on the phone. Prick. “I’ve got this, Bill. I’ll meet with Dash when he comes out.”

  “See that you do. It’s been a while since you’ve turned in anything of substance.”

  And whose fault was that? she wanted to say. He’d intentionally kept her busy since her return with assignments that amounted to nothing but fluff pieces. “I’ll get the story. You can count on it.”

  “Good. If you can’t get me an exclusive on this story, you’re really of no use to me.”

  Yeah. Yeah. As if she hadn’t heard him the first time he’d dropped that hint. She closed her eyes, willing her voice to a tone that would disguise her budding temper. “I need to go. Dash will be out any minute.” She clicked off without saying goodbye. She knew how to ferret out a story, and she didn’t need the threat of unemployment to do it.

  Fuming, she reached into the portfolio folder peeking out of her tote and pulled out a color printout of the infamous photo. She was torn. She knew how much Dash hated being in the spotlight for this type of nonsense. Despite the way they’d ended things, the last thing she wanted was to cause him any additional turmoil, but she couldn’t afford to lose her only source of income with no other job prospects on the horizon. She made a nice salary so she’d stashed a bit of savings over the years. With this economy and her current obligations, however, she’d be hard-pressed to live for very long off those savings alone.

  This story was news. It wasn’t going away anytime soon. If she didn’t report on it, someone else would. Someone elses already were. They just hadn’t delved beneath the surface. Didn’t she owe it to Dash to get the story right? It would be in both their interests. Surely, he’d understand that and give her the chance to play it upfront this time.

  She studied the photo closely. Everyone had accepted what it showed at face value. She didn’t buy it. Something wasn’t right about the picture. Dash’s image was off somehow. She couldn’t quite put her finger on the discrepancy, but her gut gnawed at her. Trusting her instincts this time, she pushed away the uncharacteristic self-doubt that had spawned her prior wishy-washy thoughts.

  Dash Janssen gay? Like he said, she knew better. A bigger story lurked behind what everyone else had accepted as obvious. She’d stake her career on it.

  “And you’re about to,” she muttered under her breath before checking the time.

  Nearly fifty minutes had passed since Dash entered the building. Time to get moving and figure out a way to get him alone. She planned to find out the truth behind that photo, and she had no intention of letting a pigheaded jock of an ex-boyfriend stand in her way.

  Chapter 2

  Butt propped against the sill of the double-wide conference room windows, Dash barely listened to the sound of Pete’s voice spike in the background. Pete ranted about retractions and lawsuits and irresponsible journalism. Dash should have been paying closer attention to what was going on in the room, but his eyes kept dropping to the crowd that lingered in front of the building.

  How did the press know he had a meeting here today? He hadn’t told anyone, and unlike many other agents who took every possible chance—including manufacturing some of those chances—to thrust their athletes into the spotlight, Pete wasn’t a publicity hound. Pete respected Dash’s wish to keep a low media profile. He wouldn’t have leaked information that could put Dash at the top of the breaking story cue for the nightly news.

  Dash wondered if Naomi was still down there amongst the storymongers. The sight of her had thrown him. Why he’d been surprised to see her, he couldn’t say. She was a sports reporter after all, one of the few women in the nation who covered football for the printed press on a regular basis. Logically, her presence made sense, but he hadn’t seen her face at a free-for-all press hunt like this in ages.

  Why now?

  Why had she suddenly surfaced to haunt him at this particular time, for this particular story?

  The clear door to the all-glass conference room opened. Dash tore his eyes away from the view outside the window to watch a petite executive with a short, meticulously cut ‘do stroll into the room. She walked over to a seated Deborah Ellison, the Kansas City Report’s editor-in-chief, and dropped a folder on the table in front of her.

  Ellison thanked her and lifted a hand in a Vanna White move. “Gentlemen, meet Laramie Mitchell.”

  Dash had never been a man who went for the petite type. Something about having to bend like a pretzel for favors as simple as a kiss seemed like too much work. The confidence and poise exuded by the lady when she walked into the room, however, gave her a stature way beyond her height. He suspected her own-it comportment—along with the gorgeous face that went with her hourglass curves—made many a man look twice.

  “I’m not an idiot, Pete. I told you I had the photo authenticated before we ran it.”

  Ellison’s comment drew Dash’s attention from Mitchell’s figure.

  The editor flipped open the folder Mitchell had delivered and grabbed a thin stapled sheaf of papers from the open file. She tossed it towards the spot in front of Pete’s chair. “Here’s the expert report. The picture is legit.”

  Dash’s shoulders jerked upright and his butt left the windowsill before his brain processed the thought to move. “What do you mean it’s legit? There’s no way in hell—”

  “Let me handle this, Dash.” Pete lifted his hand at the same time he spoke, though his eyes never left the pages he was scanning.

  The tiny messenger-woman gave Dash a dismissive smile before taking a few steps back from Ellison’s shoulder. She propped herself with crossed arms against the credenza against the wall behind Ellison’s chair at the head of the table.

  “I’m warning you now, Petie, old boy. You slap me with a lawsuit, the countersuit I’ll file will cost you ten years’ worth of commissions … at least.” A full-figured woman, Deborah Ellison leaned back in her chair, crossed her arms over her ample breasts, and grinned. “Might be kind of fun, actually. Laramie here—” She gestured behind her. “—hasn’t had to go to court in a while. I have a feeling she might be getting bored.”

  Laramie gave a brief, hard laugh. “Hardly.”

  Dash shook his head. Ms. Hourglass Figure was a lawyer, a media lawyer. They were almost worse than the reporters they represented.

  The lawyer stood. “I assure you gentlemen that our source was thoroughly vetted, the photographer checked out, and the photo’s authentication followed proper procedure. Since I saw to those items myself, I know for a fact each was handled correctly. So, there will be no retraction. And unless you can provide us with some additional information other than your say-so—” She shrugged and gave Pete a pointed stare. “You know I don’t do anything based simply on your say-so.” Her eyes flashed.

  Pete’s eyes flashed right back. “Cut the bitchitude, Laramie.”

  Dash watched the exchange and
wondered at the history between them. The two knew each other though they didn’t appear to be on the best of terms. He knew for certain Mitchell wasn’t Pete’s type so whatever had transpired between them in the past hadn’t been romantic in nature.

  Laramie straightened and glanced at Dash. Her lips pressed into a thin line. “There’s no reason to believe that picture isn’t just what it appears to be. You making out with your lover—your male lover.” She strutted to the door and pulled it open. “This meeting is over, gentlemen. Have a nice day.”

  Neither Dash nor Pete moved. They stared at each for a moment. Dash waited to take his cue from the agent.

  Pete finally unfolded his tall frame from the chair. Creasing the expert report in half vertically, he tucked the papers into the inside pocket of his designer suit. He glared at Ellison. “This isn’t over, Deborah. When I find out how you managed to deal this from the bottom of the deck, Dash here will end up owning this damn paper.” He buttoned his suit jacket and headed for the door.

  When he reached Ms. Mitchell, she said, “Why is it so hard for your client to admit he’s gay? In this day and age, it’s no big deal. Maybe the truth came out before he was ready, but why not cut your losses and simply tell the truth? Everyone will respect him more.”

  Ellison jumped from her chair. “Wait! That’s a fabulous idea. Why not give us an interview? Let the paper who broke the story tell the human side of things. Give the public a glimpse of what it’s been like for you behind the scenes. Or, more accurately,” she chuckled, “inside the closet.” She said the last with a dramatic voice-over tone.

  Dash sighed. “Even if there was such a story to tell, you people would be the last ones I’d want telling it.” He moved to follow Pete, but stopped when Pete stood blocking the door.

  Pete studied the lawyer. Despite wearing heels, she barely reached Pete’s shoulder. Surprising Dash, Pete reached out with a hand that matched her almond-brown complexion and smoothed an imaginary strand of wayward hair. She jerked her face away from his touch, causing him to chuckle.

  “Trust me, sweetheart, if Dash were gay, I, of all people, would certainly know about it.” Dropping his hand, Pete slid it into his pants pocket. “You and your paper fucked up with this little stunt, Laramie. I hope your resume is up-to-date.” He turned and strutted out the door.

  *

  Twenty minutes later, after a brief, private pow-wow with his agent, Dash slid out the back of Kansas City Report headquarters. He couldn’t believe the crowd of journalism piranhas out front had waited a full two hours for his meeting to finish. He moved swiftly down the block. As he approached the corner, he glanced over his shoulder. He didn’t see anyone following him so he darted around the corner and set off at a jog across the middle of the street.

  He weaved through the parked vehicles in the public parking lot situated on the opposite corner then crossed another street and darted into the alley between two red brick buildings at least eighteen stories high. He looked both ways to confirm no one followed him. Reassured, he slowed his pace and strode towards the nondescript white Hyundai SUV he’d tucked behind a large, hunter green trash dumpster. He kept the Hyundai for outings such as these, outings during which he preferred to remain invisible. No one looked for a QB of a top-tier team to drive around town in one of these. Plus, the heavy, smoky-black tint dressing the windshield and windows kept him shielded from peeping eyes.

  His hand shoved into his pants pocket for his car keys. The jangle echoed in the shaded silence of the alley. When he stepped around the dumpster, he froze. His fingers pricked against the sharp angles of the keys he choked with an annoyed fist and his jaw tensed.

  He studied the surprise propped against the hood of his car. “Naomi.” His voice came out like crushed gravel beneath the wheels of an angry eighteen wheeler. “Just as resourceful as ever I see.”

  She crossed her arms against her chest and her stylish boot pumps ankle over ankle. “Hello again, Dash. How about you answer a few questions for me now?”

  “No.” He stepped behind the dumpster, passed her perch against the hood of his car, and slid between the brick of the east building and his driver’s side door. He unlocked the car remotely with his key fob. “You’ll have to find another way to get your story, just like the rest of the vultures.”

  When he moved to get in his car, Naomi darted to the opposite side and hopped in, too.

  Dash dropped his head against the tan leather headrest and gripped his nose with his thumb and index finger. He released a sigh. “Not now, Naomi. This isn’t a good time.”

  “When will be a good time, Dash? You give me a firm commitment to talk to me any time in the next twenty-four hours, and I’m out of here.”

  He stared at her silently.

  “That’s what I thought.” She placed her tote on the floor. “I’m not getting out until you talk to me.”

  “Fine.” He grabbed his mirrored sunglasses from the flip-down cubby above the rearview mirror and positioned them on his face. “Have it your way.” He started the car and looked out the back window as he zipped in reverse away from the dumpster.

  Naomi snapped on her seatbelt. “Where are we going?”

  “I’m going home. You—” He looked her up and down. “You can go wherever the hell you like when I stop, but you’re not coming in with me.”

  She stiffened beside him. “Don’t do that, Dash,” she said quietly.

  “Do what?” He put the car in Drive, but didn’t pull off.

  “Play the asshole.” She didn’t look at him. “I don’t deserve it. Whatever you think about what happened between us in the past, let it go. It’s over. Right now, you’re a professional football player in the middle of a breaking story, and I’m a reporter who wants the scoop. No more, no less.” She finally turned her head his way. “How about we both act like grownups and take it from there?”

  Her eyes darkened to a deep jade, a color experience had taught him to associate with her rising ire. Naomi turned fierce, and sexy as hell, when her Louisiana Creole blood got riled. That familiar tingle that started in his chest and settled in his groin whenever he got near her reasserted itself, unsettling him.

  Naomi squinted when he didn’t respond. She couldn’t see his eyes behind the shades. She’d always made him take off his sunglasses when they talked so she could see his eyes. She’d said his eyes told her so much more than his words. Knowing this, he kept them on to spite her.

  Eyes back on the road, he drove out of the alley. Through the quiet left by the off radio, he felt her continued stare. Flicking his attention back to her face, he caught something soft and vulnerable in her eyes before she looked away quickly.

  Thrown by the havoc her expression wreaked on all the cells that made him male, his hand flexed on the steering wheel. He stopped himself from audibly hauling in a breath over the punch of desire that hit him like a demolition ball to the gut. He still wanted her.

  After Naomi, he’d had no steady woman. No matter with whom or how long he had sex, he couldn’t get satisfied. Naomi had always satisfied him. In fact, sometimes being with her had made him feel too … everything. It had scared him a bit. A loner by nature, the thought that he might need her in his life had put him on edge in their last days together. When she’d shown her true colors, he’d almost felt relief at the knowledge that—like everyone else—she couldn’t be trusted.

  After he broke things off with her, he’d gone back to being alone. His meaningless, periodic sexual hookups didn’t count. Naomi’s presence in his car, the heady fragrance of her perfume, the thought of what lie beneath the fabric of her slacks, combined to make him want something other than his usual empty interludes. They didn’t need a love match. The biology of it, he had no doubt, would still be explosive. His manhood perked at the thought.

  Damn. How could he not be over this, over her, after all this time?

  His gaze swung to her legs. He reached over and slid his palm down her panted thigh to her knee. She flinc
hed. He grinned. He still got to her as well. Good.

  Without looking at him, she removed his hand and dropped it on the leather-wrapped gearshift. Her warm touch made him remember the strength and seductive power in those long fingers of hers. He wanted to feel them all over his body again if only for a brief rendezvous.

  He pulled up to the two-story, black wrought iron gate that guarded the driveway to his Johnson County show home. He hit the automatic gate opener and watched as the gates groaned open. Anticipation rippled over him at the thought of entering his home with Naomi in tow. He should make the most of this opportunity. He could get the reporter in her off his back and take the edge off this oppressive sexual need in one fell swoop.

  Could she feel this unresolved … something … between them?

  He glanced her way before he put the SUV back in motion. “This is your last chance to make a gracious get away. If you come in, you’re not leaving until you get naked, horizontal, and wrapped around me for at least three hours.”

  She gave him a look that said yeah right.

  He drove up the stone circle drive and parked opposite his front door. His mouth slid sideways in a crooked grin. “Okay. The horizontal part is optional. I always did love taking you standing up.”

  She shivered, but lifted her chin. He secretly enjoyed knowing he’d gotten her dander up. Naomi never could back away from a challenge. He waited to see what she would do, curious as to how bad she wanted this story.

  “Naked, huh?” She got out of the car and looked across the top as he unfolded himself from the driver’s seat. “It’ll take a better bluff than that to scare me off, Dash.”

  “Bluff?” He fingered his sunglasses to the edge of his nose, tilting his head down to look over the frames at her. His eyebrow peaked. “You think I’m bluffing?”

  “Yeah, I do.” She turned and headed for the front door.

  Dash watched the sweet outline of her butt in those high-end slacks she wore. The sway of her hips mesmerized him. His body’s enthusiastic response to the sight filled the space behind his zipper until the painful press of his jeans made him want to groan out loud.