In other words, accept the decision that had already been made for her.
◆◆◆
Jeremiah was watching the field when a man’s shout of agony brought everyone’s attention to Brock Corday, who suddenly hunched and dropped to his knees. Getting to the quarterback in a short sprint, he pinpointed the site of injury—rotator cuff, or “My motherfucking shoulder!” as Brock had exclaimed, his face contorted in pain. With the aid of a coach and another trainer, he guided the man to the sidelines as someone paged Finn. The head coach and head trainer hadn’t returned to the field since before Veronica Greer stomped across the field and retrieved her sister as if she owned the place.
In a way she did.
Waverly hadn’t returned yet. This wasn’t good. Dread worked through his gut. At worst, administration had somehow found out he was banging her, and at the end of the day he’d be out of a job. At best, Veronica’s business with Waverly had nothing at all to do with him and he could continue seeing her—in secret. That option was better than the first, but not by much.
Waverly was bold and took him by surprise and could make him hard with just the right look. A woman like that shouldn’t have to be tucked away or have to settle for a secret relationship. He knew the escape they found in each other couldn’t last forever.
Jeremiah tried to push his scattered thoughts about Waverly out of his mind as he concentrated on tending to Brock’s injury. When the man ceased his brutal curses and sporadic groans of agony, Jeremiah placed a call to the physician’s offices to alert them: quarterback down. The situation was easy to grasp. Significant damage meant Brock might face surgery and recuperation during the remaining exhibition games and wouldn’t get in nearly enough practice to establish reliability for game one. The Villains could be in deep shit, as the owners were banking on Brock, who had the skill and image they wanted to represent the franchise.
“Coach, where the hell have you been?” the quarterback growled as Finn raced to them, followed by Whittaker Doyle and J.T. and Joan Greer.
“Taking care of a personnel situation. What happened to you?”
Brock explained how he’d launched the football and in the next instant had felt pain rip through his shoulder. Then Jeremiah added, “It’s his rotator cuff.”
“A sprain? A tear? What?” Joan inquired, not satisfied with the limited diagnosis. “Whittaker, examine him. I want Brock on the field with a football in his hands for the next at-home exhibition game. Ticket holders aren’t paying top dollar to get acquainted with our backup. He’ll need to make an appearance.”
“Joan, no one can confirm the extent of the damage without proper imaging,” Whittaker told her, and J.T. grunted in agreement. “I taught Jeremiah Tarantino. He’s an award-winning trainer. His judgment’s sound. You know that he’s my second.”
Jeremiah pretended not to see her frosty look, though he was sure that only by some miracle had Waverly become such a nurturing person. Joan had the warmth of an icicle in the back. “I called ahead to the docs. Let’s get him inside and you can get the specifics.”
As the quarterback was transported off-site to the hospital, the practice field began to clear as men trooped inside for showers and food. Jeremiah found Waverly in the weight room, relieved to see that they were at least momentarily alone.
“Any word on Brock?” she asked.
“Not yet. Whittaker said he’d get in touch with the staff when there’s word, before anything’s released to the media.”
Waverly nodded slowly. “There’s a rumor that I’m involved with Omar Beckham. It’s probably more to get everyone hyped up and talking about the new season but at my expense. Anyway, the owners want me to steer clear of Omar for a while, until a juicier rumor about another team works its way through the media. I don’t want to abandon him, but my choice is to either keep away temporarily or go against a direct order and get cut from the staff for noncompliance.”
Referring to J.T. and Joan as “the owners” rather than as her parents—there was something fucked-up wrong about that. “They cracked down a little hard, didn’t they?” Jeremiah remarked.
“It’s their managing style,” she said, her face void of the heat and humor that usually touched her features when they were together. “At first it seemed they’d found out about you and me. As pissed as I was about their overreaction to gossip, I was twice as glad that we could stay the same.”
But they couldn’t stay the same. He wanted to erase the line he and Waverly had drawn in the sand regarding their relationship. At night he wanted to fit his body to hers. At work he wanted to pin her to a wall and bury himself in her. He wanted to have her back, without costing her what she wanted: her career.
“We haven’t burned ourselves out yet,” she commented softly.
“Training camp’s coming to a close soon. Are we going to take this into the season?”
Waverly sighed. “Know when the best time is to worry about tomorrow?”
“When?”
“Tomorrow.”
Jeremiah clasped her hand as he had at the Grimaldi Royal Casino. “Then be with me tonight.”
◆◆◆
Waverly left Desert Luck at eight-thirty, after the head coach pulled her aside and urged her to go home. “This was a tough day for you, Waverly. The sooner you put an end to it, the better.”
Problem was, the next day wasn’t guaranteed to be any brighter than this one had been. That was why without objection Waverly showered, threw on the beige lace flare dress and thin black leather jacket she’d worn for her interview, and split. She was determined to end today on a better note.
The text Jeremiah had sent her asked that she meet him at eleven, so when she drove the Fiat into Las Vegas, she went straight to the modest ranch-style house that boasted a trio of palm trees on either side of the structure.
Waverly rapped on the deep green door with one hand as she used the other to root around in her duffel for the house key Meg had given her. Pushing the door open, she shuffled in, then set her stuff down in the living room. Even with no one home the place felt cozy and lived in, with vibrant wall colors, mismatched throws draped across the rich leather sofas, artwork that had been acquired not because it was popular or conveyed any specific message but because Meg simply liked it. Plus, the place always smelled like cake hot from the oven, which was weird, since her friend didn’t bake.
Waverly was about to commit herself to crashing on the sofa for a good hour before meeting Jeremiah.
Until a half-naked Greek god came swaggering out of the kitchen with a bowl of Froot Loops. Finding Waverly frozen in place, the shirtless man cursed while fumbling to zip his pants, which barely hung on his hips and put his pubes on display.
At the commotion Meg came limping in with her cane and stumbled to a stop in white panties and an unbuttoned LVMPD shirt.
Well, that explained where Parker the Cop’s uniform top had wound up.
“Ay, Dios mio!” Meg shrieked, yanking the shirt closed. “Waverly, you cannot walk in unannounced on two people who are in law enforcement.”
Waverly smirked. “From the looks of it neither of you is carrying a weapon.”
“Don’t underestimate my cane.”
“I did knock. You just didn’t hear. I used my emergency-safe-place-away-from-crazy-family spare key to get in.” She waved at Parker, who’d zipped up but appeared to be in search of something. “If you’re looking for your shirt, Meg’s wearing it.”
“Thanks.” The laugh he shared with Meg was candid and intimate. They hustled down the hall and within a few short minutes Parker was dressed and heading out.
“I’m sorry, Meg,” Waverly said when her friend reemerged in her own clothes and eating Parker’s cereal. “I had no idea he was here. I didn’t see his car.”
“He parks it in my garage.”
“Get out!” Eyes wide, Waverly rushed to the picture window to see a squad car backing out of the driveway. “You’re obsessively picky about who you let
park in your garage.”
Meg munched on a spoonful of Froot Loops. “I’m sensing a double meaning to your use of park and garage.”
Waverly grinned, moving away from the window and into the kitchen for a bottle of sparkling water. A pen-and-ink still-life drawing secured to the refrigerator with a D.A.R.E. magnet took her attention. Popping back into the living room, she perched on the arm of the sofa where Meg sat. “Amazing picture on your fridge in there. Who’s the artist?”
“Parker’s son. He’s learning crosshatching in an art program.”
“Maria Elena Guadalupe Reyes. Congratulations. You’re hooked on this cop.” When Meg opened her mouth to deny it, Waverly listed the facts. “You’re comfortable enough to wear his shirt, he eats cereal from your cabinet, you hung his son’s artwork on your refrigerator and you’re letting Parker park it in your garage on a regular basis.”
“Okay, the double meaning was loud and clear that time.”
Waverly leaned forward. “The guy makes you smile.”
“It’s just sex.” Yet she sounded unsure. “You know how these things are—hot at first but they fizzle out.”
“What if they don’t? If this thing you didn’t expect and can’t really control morphs into something bigger than sex…how do you give it up?”
Understanding blossomed on her friend’s face. “You and Jeremiah.”
Waverly nodded and the truth—about Jeremiah, about Omar, about the heated talk with her sister and parents—came gushing out. When she finished, she was close to crying but prided herself on the fact that the tears wouldn’t fall.
“Can Jeremiah Tarantino be trusted? Don’t answer that with your heart, Waverly. Answer with your brain. Your logic. Being with a man like him in a situation such as this means you have to keep your eyes wide open.”
“And my heart on lockdown, right?”
“Yes,” Meg said bluntly. “I don’t want you to get hurt. What’s happening with Omar Beckham is just a preview of what will happen if J.T. and Joan find out Jeremiah Tarantino’s scratching your itch. More important, Waverly, a heart that loves to its fullest will for damn sure hurt the worst once it’s broken.”
“Who said anything about love?”
“Love is that hookup that won’t stop…that thing you can’t control.” Meg set her half-full cereal bowl on the coffee table. “The sooner a chica recognizes the warning signs, the better chance she has of saving herself from it.”
Love was also a dare that even Waverly doubted she could take on triumphantly. But as she left her friend’s place and let the Fiat’s GPS guide her to the address Jeremiah had texted to her, she wasn’t sure that she’d ever want to be saved from it. More like saved by it. She imagined that love was warmer than fuzzy slippers, more exciting than a sweet kiss, stronger than any forces that tried to get in the way.
Yeah freaking right.
Waverly’s laugh was dry as she hooked a left onto South Rampart Boulevard. The beautiful Mediterranean architecture of Tivoli Village had her slowing just a bit to admire the view before she turned right onto Alta Drive. The residential towers of exclusive One Queensridge Place pierced the star-dusted sky and rained golden light onto the streets below.
So. Jeremiah’s hideout was a castle in the sky. Hers was a running trail roughly an hour away from her family. Like her, he depended upon a sanctuary that distanced him from his family—the people gave unconditional loyalty.
Jeremiah met her in the great room. It had taken her all of three seconds to walk into the luxury lounge and spot him among the guests who were unwinding over drinks and billiards.
In black slacks and a dark blue shirt with the sleeves pushed up, the man was an invitation to the dirtiest sins.
He didn’t touch her until they were in the private confines of his lavish condo, on the terrace that treated them to a panorama of the city’s late-night glimmer. Expecting a kiss, one full of heat and urgency because their time together always seemed so limited, she was startled when he snaked his arms around her waist and pulled her into a hug.
Her feet were still on the ground, but she felt boneless, weightless. Cared for.
“J.T. and Joan shouldn’t have come at you like a goddamn firing squad,” he said, withdrawing to search her face with an expression of compassion and empathy.
My heart doesn’t care that you’re a Tarantino. Too bad she couldn’t trust her heart to govern her life. In past relationships she’d given until she could give no more, but none of those guys protected her when it counted. So her heart was out of the equation, for her own good.
“The owners’ priority will always be the team,” she said carefully.
Jeremiah was too sharp to miss her hesitation and how she’d responded to him the way someone in PR might want to pacify a reporter. “To some people, family is priority.”
“It’s more complicated than that for the Greers. We’re building a legacy.”
“I’m familiar with that, Waverly.”
Because it had in the not-so-distant past been his legacy. Details like that were what nudged them apart when they wanted to take a chance on getting closer. Late-night hookups and phone sex weren’t enough, and Waverly couldn’t imagine what could be enough. Rather than burning themselves out, they were adding fuel to the fire. Yet considering the option of making a clean break made her feel raw inside.
Jeremiah escorted her through the spacious condo, which was furnished extravagantly but devoid of many personal touches. At last he pushed open a finely carved door to reveal a master bedroom large enough to have its own sitting area, basin, and a four-poster spectacle that was larger than any bed she’d ever seen.
Continuing into the room, he stopped at the foot of the bed and glanced over at the doorway where she stayed put, resting against the frame. “This is my hideout, and we’re off the record here.” As his words wrapped around her, he tugged loose his belt while stepping out of his shoes. “I want you to be comfortable with what we say to each other—” he rid himself of his socks, shirt and pants “—what we do…”
Waverly’s breath thinned as he dropped his wristwatch onto the scatter of clothes and went for his boxer briefs. The idea of seeing him totally bare, with all the lights glowing, seemed new to her. Their time together over the past few weeks had all been forbidden and had deprived her of the opportunity to memorize his skin, the cuts and angles of his muscles, the contours of his hands. “What else?”
Pausing long enough to make her wonder whether he’d heard her whisper, he said, “What we want.” And he removed the final garment in a motion that had his biceps bunching and thigh muscles tightening.
Jeremiah lowered onto the mattress, piled high with deep-colored linens. Brazen, she looked her fill, then left her high-heeled sandals at the door and crossed the room to him. Unable to touch him everywhere all at once, she settled for stepping between his legs and stroking her fingers over his jaw and through his dark hair. “I like your hideout.”
“I like this lace on you.” His palms roamed the fabric, then sent the flared skirt of the dress billowing up to her hips as he felt his way to her thong. Down it went, and he murmured, “Waverly, you deserve to know what it feels like to be put first.”
Her mind, clouded with the sensations short-circuiting her system, couldn’t seem to catch up when Jeremiah sprang to his feet and nudged her backward onto the softness of his ginormous bed.
The lace of her dress flirted with her thighs, blocking her view. There was the vaulted ceiling high above, the scent of spice and citrus around her, and the sounds of his profane promises tattooing her eardrums. Then there was pressure—delightful and a little scary—of his hands drawing her legs up.
The room’s crisp coolness caressed her pussy, only to be replaced with the sensation of warm, wet velvet.… Then he kissed her.
Waverly jolted, grappled for something. Her leather jacket was littered with zippers that felt cold to the touch. The linens were too silky and she might claw right through th
em if he continued eating her.
As she arched up at the intensity of his lips and graze of his teeth on her clit, his name fell from her mouth. When his hand gripped her dress where it bunched across her stomach, she grabbed his wrist with both hands, shutting her eyes and closing herself off to everything but feeling and sound…until pleasure broke free.
In moments, he was covering her, pushing the jacket off her shoulders. “There’s no one here but us.”
The dress followed, in a blur of beige lace launched across the room. “Nothing to think about but this.”
“Jeremiah.” Eyes open, she let go of all caution. “I want you.”
He reached into a nightstand drawer, plucked out a condom and eased back onto the pillows. “Show me.”
Waverly straddled him, rearing forward to clasp the back of his head and fit her mouth to his. In answer he curved his hands possessively over her breasts, grinned when she threw her head back and sank her teeth into her bottom lip.
Navigating his sweat-slicked taut abdomen, Waverly held his gaze as her fingers dashed to his crotch. His flesh was hard yet the skin was soft as silk, so powerful yet hers for the taking with fingers and lips and tongue. When she settled onto him, anchoring her body to his, she saw in his eyes a man who would love her if she let him.
◆◆◆
“You can take back what you said earlier.”
Hours later, Waverly was too sated to leave Jeremiah’s bed. Plied with an exotic martini and the freshest damn peach she’d tasted all summer, she let herself be a little lazy on that big soft mattress. Their conversation had drifted to work and he’d shared with her stories about his own experience wading through media lies and working for a team that was owned by a relative. His honesty had comforted her. Now she lay on her belly, naked except for a sheet tangled around her legs.
Bracing his weight on his forearm, Jeremiah hovered over her and leaned in to whisper, “Did you hear me?”
“Yeah. But why take back the truth?” She closed her eyes against the dark empty sky outside the room’s large windows. “I want you. How do you feel about that?”
The Penalty Page 15
