ONE
SWEAT DRIPPED DOWN MICK RILEY’S FACE AND ARMS. The field workout he’d just endured had kicked his ever-lovin’ ass. He leaned against the wall of the locker room, the cool brick and ice-cold water in his hands not helping at all to lower his temperature. He was hot and sweaty, and he’d been knocked on the ground so many times he’d probably eaten half the dirt on the field.
He was exhausted and not in the damn mood for a party tonight. What he’d really like to do is take a cold shower, go home, and order a pizza. Instead, he had to put on a tux and a smile, and hang out in a ballroom with the rest of his team, the San Francisco Sabers of the National Football League. There’d be photographers, television cameras, and probably a horde of women who wanted to hang on him.
Years ago that would have been the highlight of his night.
Not anymore.
When had he gotten so tired of it all? Hell, when had he gotten old?
He stripped off his practice jersey and tossed it to the ground, pulled off his pads and breathed a sigh of relief, then grabbed a towel and wiped the sweat from his face. He unlaced his pants, drained the water from his jug, and went to the fountain to refill it.
That’s when he heard a voice outside the locker room. A woman’s voice.
What was a woman doing down here? He popped the door open and saw a gorgeous blonde standing a few feet down the hall, twirling around in circles and mumbling to herself. Man, she was a sight with her business skirt that skimmed her knees, her high heels showcasing her gorgeous legs, and her crisp white blouse and pulled-up hair. All prim and proper, and she made him think dirty thoughts about getting her crisp white shirt all mussed up.
“I should have taken a left. I know it was a left. You dummy, now you’re going to be lost in this cavern forever, and you’re going to get fired.”
He leaned against the doorway as she stared down the long hall, tapped her high-heeled shoe, and mumbled some more.
“Where the hell is the office, anyway? It can’t be in the friggin’ basement of this place.”
“No, it’s not down here.”
She whirled, seemingly embarrassed to be caught talking to herself. Her eyes widened for a fraction of a second, then she headed in his direction. “Oh. Thank God. A living human being. Can you help me? I’m so lost.”
“Sure. You need the office?”
“Yes.”
She stopped in front of him, and she smelled so damn good—like spring and cookies or something—that he was embarrassed, because he sure as hell didn’t smell like anything appealing.
“Take a right turn, then at the first hallway go left. You’ll find the elevators. Punch the button for the top floor. When you get off, turn left again and go to the end of the hall. The main office is there.”
She studied him, then gave him a wide smile. “You’re my hero. I was afraid I was going to be lost down here forever and I’d never get these contracts signed. I have to run. Thank you!”
She turned and practically sprinted down the hall, though how she could run on those shoes was something he’d never understand about women.
She sure was beautiful, but not in the way he was used to. She wasn’t overly made up, so her beauty was natural. She wasn’t the kind of woman he usually went for. Maybe that’s what he liked about her.
And he hadn’t even bothered to introduce himself. Or get her name.
Too bad, because he could have sworn there’d been a spark between them.
Then again, it might have just been his imagination. He could just need a slap of cold water to lower his body temperature. Too much heat today.
He went back inside, grabbed the towel, and headed for the shower.
AS KICK-ASS EVENTS WENT, TARA LINCOLN THOUGHT this one might be the best she’d ever put together. And it damn well better be, because it could generate more work for her, and The Right Touch needed all the business it could get.
Event planning the team summer party for the San Francisco Sabers had been a stroke of luck. The owner’s assistant had gotten her card from the usual team planner, who was booked solid on the date they wanted to have the party.
It had taken four months of nearly nonstop work, but as Tara took another turn around the ballroom, she nodded in satisfaction. They’d pulled it off. From the glittery yet understated NFL team decorations to the amazing food to the bar setup to the incredible band, it was perfect, and everyone seemed to be having a great time.
Tara mingled, earpiece tucked unobtrusively in her ear so she was only seconds away from hearing about a disaster, answering any questions, or getting help if someone needed it. So far, all the crises had been minor ones. She monitored bar stock, checked with catering to be sure the food was hot and plentiful, and meandered in and around the crowds. No one complained, and the smiling faces all around her told her everyone was focused on what they should be focused on—football and having a good time—which meant she could take a step back and simply observe.
The band was kicking, the crowd was thick on the dance floor, media was in attendance taking pictures of the star players, coaches were giving interviews, and for the first time that night, Tara exhaled as she leaned against the floor-to-ceiling glass windows that showcased the beautiful city.
“Why aren’t you out there dancing?”
She lifted her gaze to the six and a half foot hunk of gorgeous man in a tux who’d stepped up in front of her. Black hair, striking blue eyes: she knew exactly who he was—Mick Riley, San Francisco’s star quarterback, and her savior from earlier today. She’d been so rattled after having gotten lost in the basement of the team’s practice facility that it hadn’t even registered who he was until the elevator had taken her to the top floor. Okay, not just rattled, but a little tongue-tied. Who wouldn’t be when faced with a shirtless, sweaty, gorgeous hunk of muscle? God’s gift to women. Good Lord, he’d looked sexy. Unfortunately, all she could do at the time was ask for directions.
Idiot.
But then her synapses had fired, and she’d realized who she’d been talking to.
Mick Riley. The Mick Riley. Everyone who lived here knew who he was. Everyone who watched football knew him, too, no matter where they lived. His endorsement contracts put him on every television in America, and probably overseas, too, hawking a variety of products from deodorant to power tools. He was an icon, the all-American success story. And damn fine looking, too.