by Zoe Dawson
He was caving. I could see it in his dark brown eyes, the residual pain of the loss of his mom pretty clear. Who the hell were these women? Lena had the same persuasive skills. He said with a growling challenge, “WW, I’d like to see you make me.”
WW? Short for Wonder Woman?
“Oh, Road Block, you’re about to eat some asphalt.”
Now he smirked and set his hands on his hips. “Oh, this is gonna be good. Give it your best shot, babe.”
She pushed off the frame and started across the polished wood floor, her walk sexy and confident. She stopped in front of me. “Gunner Smith.” She reached out her hand. “Trista Jordan.” Her grip was firm and short. “You made a good decision.” Then she leaned forward and whispered, “You were freaking awesome.” She winked at me, walked up to Road Block, all 175 pounds of him, bent down, and pulled him into a fireman’s carry over her shoulders.
His teeth flashed white behind her back, and a strangled laugh sounded from his throat. Without another word, she carried him into her office. I could hear his loud howl of laughter as she smirked at me and shut the door.
“Gunner!” Lena’s enthusiastic shout pierced the quiet murmurings and laughter emanating from the open office doors. I turned to see McHotstuff looking fierce in a black leather skirt, plain white button-down, black-and-white striped jacket, and fire-engine-red heels. Her flaming hair was pulled severely off her stunning face, her green eyes framed by black eyeliner, and just enough makeup to enhance what God had given her. Damn—she was as smokin’ hot as I remembered.
I was used to girls more like Falcon’s sister Kite. Tall, willowy blondes and brunettes with long hair and even longer legs whose only makeup was a tan and whose idea of fixing their hair involved a ponytail holder or the wind. They wore cut-offs and short shorts and T-shirts that said save the whales, and the guys that surfed were ridden more than their Jeeps.
She surged forward and said in a rush, “I’m so glad you’re here.”
A sudden wave of apprehension went through me, followed by an equally chilling surge of self-doubt. She clasped my hand, hers small and warm. Her touch set my pulse to pounding. I smiled down into her bright eyes. A thought hit me that left me a little dazed. I have nothing to fear here. I didn’t know how or why I knew that, but I did. Suddenly feeling way too exposed, I eased a breath past the funny sensation behind my breastbone.
“Come to my office and we’ll talk,” she said, walking back the way she had come. I could either break and run, or follow her and embrace the future I had decided on yesterday. Thoughts of my mom and sister, I compartmentalized; thoughts about my dad, I shut down.
Her eyes met mine. There was something oddly disconcerting about the way she scrutinized me, as if she was peeling away layer after layer, looking for the person within. I didn’t move a muscle. My breath stuck in my chest.
She reached up to brush at a loose, wayward curl that had fallen against her temple.
Awareness churned through me, making my heart labor even harder, and I was struck by a nearly paralyzing fascination with her delicate fingers, wondering what it would be like to be touched by her. It was all I could do to keep my eyes from drifting shut as need—need so strong, so overwhelming, that I felt suffocated by it—coursed through me. I wanted to reach out and smooth my hand over her, to feel the texture of her skin.
Instead, I followed her through the impressive office, taking in the views, expensive wood furnishings, walls of glass, and photo after photo of star athletes.
Hers was a corner office, her name clearly etched on the door, and stunning views of Coronado Bridge, Point Loma, the bay, and the ocean through her windows. It was like walking through a portal into a different dimension, compared to the low-key existence of my previous representation. Her modern desk, her diplomas, and the way she settled into the comfortable chair like a princess on the throne all brought it home to me.
What the hell had I gotten myself into?
Chapter 6
Helena
I was beyond excited that Gunner was standing in my office. It made my heart sing that I could make Max happy. Now, if I could stop looking at him like I wanted to devour him and he was all for it.
He was scruffier than when I’d seen him in San Clemente, his hair tousled, beard stubble darkened his jaw, and he was dressed on the loose side of casual. I must have been completely distracted by my single-minded mission when I’d seen him before because now, this close, with him being cooperative, I was struck by the almost-perfect angles of his face; the little bit of slope on the nose that bordered on cute; a firm, sexy mouth; and those eyes, a sensual brown under dark lashes, absolutely clear, absolutely unwavering…absolutely locked on mine.
“Have a seat,” I said, meaning for him to take the other chair, but I was forced to scoot back when he planted his tight, jean-clad butt on the edge of my desk, crossing his ankles and dropping into a relaxed, cool pose.
“Oh.” The little gust of sound escaped me on a gasp. And when I inhaled, the scent of Gunner exploded through me, and all of me wanted to get closer to all of him, the man’s powerful aroma filled with cinnamon, warmth, and sin. “An actual seat would be much more comfortable,” I suggested. I needed him to back up if I was going to keep my mind on why he was here.
“Then my…view would be obstructed,” he murmured.
He wasn’t looking out the window, his gaze was locked to mine, and it was crystal clear he was talking about me. I didn’t normally react to men this way, like a schoolgirl with a crush. My whole body was tuned in and on alert. That was a fact, and I would have to somehow work with it, diffuse it. This would have to be a professional relationship and nothing more. I groaned. So damned unfair.
Even without my father’s mandate, I couldn’t get involved with a client, especially one tied to Max.
I pushed my chair back, releasing a puff of air, and rose, going to the window and leaning my back against it. Consciously resisting the urge to fold my arms, my voice not quite steady, I said, “Let’s get started.” I tried to smile, but the nerves beating around in my belly made it almost impossible.
He watched me intently. Working in this business, I often dealt with big, stern men, a good many of them buff and gorgeous—but none of them ever unnerved me the way Gunner did. It was all in a day’s work, but with Gunner there was something irresistible that kept my eyes moving all over him.
“The contract is pretty clear-cut with boilerplate language. I’ll give you time to look it over and ask me any questions before you sign.”
“What is your commission?” he said, his tone anything but businesslike; it was husky as hell and I responded to him on such a basic level.
Plastering what I hoped was a reasonably normal expression on my face, I met his gaze. “For an amateur athlete, my agency mandates five percent for your skating contract and ten percent for your endorsements.”
He nodded, saying that the terms were acceptable to him. He looked away from me, glancing out the window, then back to me. “Who is this sponsor you have interested?”
“His name is Max Wilder, and he wants to meet you today if possible.”
“What is he offering exactly?”
“A house and a monthly stipend.”
He straightened, his eyes flashing. “For real?”
“Yes, he was very impressed by your video, and when I explained that you hadn’t competed before in skateboarding, he wanted you to be able to train fully for competition without worrying about funds.”
“I have some money of my own—”
“I understand, but you will be switching gears, and you’ll need the time to train as well as define what you’ll be doing in competition. And I know you are pretty fit, since you’re already a top athlete in a competitive sport, but I want a nutritionist to evaluate your needs as well. We will talk about competition and strategy when we have your first planning meeting. For now, it’s about getting you settled.” I shifted, wishing for a little more space. “So
what Max is offering you is worth taking. He’s a mid-range sponsor and will get you good exposure. Again, we’ll talk about strategy with him as well. I think you’ll like him.”
“I trust your judgment, Lena, or I wouldn’t be here.”
“So, no skater ‘fuck you’ mentality here?”
He smiled. “I’ve been doing this since I was nine. I know the score and the schmooze. I’m agreeing to this because I want to see where it can take me.” He was still looking at me and not out the window.
“When you sign that contract, you’ll effectively be going pro. Do you have any questions for me?”
“Yes. I know you were intent on convincing me to sign with you back at the coffee shop, but you spoke using a lot of generalities. Why don’t you tell me why you want me as your client? A lot of people think skateboarding isn’t even a sport. I waffle on that myself.”
There was no doubt in my mind that skateboarding took some muscle. Gunner had that in his shoulders, chest, legs, and arms. Oh, yes, those hard rounded biceps made my mouth water. My eyes went over him in a slow slide from top to bottom: navy-blue skater sneaks, tight black skater pants, and the rest of all that muscle wrapped in a navy-blue T-shirt and an unexpected light blue and pink flamingo shirt. Messy shock of black spiked hair like he’d just rolled out of bed; sexy, scruffy stubble along his jaw, that damn cute nose, high cheekbones, dark eyebrows, and those luminescent brown eyes.
I let my breath out slow and easy and softened my gaze. How I loved the confidence in his tone. “I think skateboarding is more art than sport, but that doesn’t matter. Specifically, we’re going after Nitor as the big fish for shoes, apparel, and a slot on their team, then Hawley for apparel, TGear for trucks, and First Invention for wheels. You’re going to be part of it and that will be big business. Endorsements will be lucrative for you, and the popularity of competition is huge. I expect you’ll draw them in droves.” He got that small half smile like he thought I was cute. I cleared my throat. “Like I said, I want to sit down with you and map out a career path for you. Find out what aspirations you have and where you’d like to be in ten years, twenty. We want to grow you as an athlete, managing your career and assets.” I smiled.
He frowned. “Ray didn’t talk to me about those things, although I brought them up.”
I couldn’t hide my shock. “Ray? Do you mean Ray Canton?”
“Yes. He was my agent—until he dropped me.”
“Dropped you? When?” A fierce, protective sensation rolled over me, clutching at my heart. I got the feeling that he had no one in his corner right now. Ray certainly wasn’t the right person to bolster him. His reaction was so typical of the way Ray worked. He jettisoned athletes he thought were losing their edge instead of working it out with them. Now he wanted Gunner again because he was a hot commodity. I had no illusions about how much of a commission I would make on him. His talent was extraordinary. Anyone who saw that video would agree with me. But, in this case, I wasn’t just motivated by money. From the moment I laid eyes on him, I felt on fire.
His eyes narrowed at my response as if he didn’t understand the strident tone to my voice. He probably wondered how I knew Ray. “When I lost Hawley, my sponsor. Since that video aired, he’s called me repeatedly.”
Letting my breath go in a rush, I smoothed my hair back with both hands, my heart pounding. Realizing I was going places in my mind that I had no business going, I took a deep, uneven breath and held it, forcibly pulling myself together. “I bet he has,” I snapped. “Is that why you quit surfing? Because Hawley dropped you?”
His gaze was level and somehow reassuring. “Part of it. As you said, my heart wasn’t really in it.” His eyes went blank. I could tell there was more he wasn’t saying, but I would tease that out of him when I got to know him a bit better. He looked exhausted, but he was taking everything in stride. Quietly beautiful.
I stepped toward him, conviction in my voice, my fists clenched at the way Ray had treated him, wanting to make him understand that I was nothing like Ray. Would never drop him when the chips were down. “I have no doubt Hawley will be back, too. In fact, they have a skating division as well.”
He arched a brow. “I know the score. It’s all about winning.”
I nodded. “Winning is everything. Did you burn any bridges there?”
“No, took it on the chin and walked away. I know the value of picking my fights.”
I had no doubt. Street fighter fit him like a second skin. “Gunner, you will be able to write your own ticket once I’m done promoting you,” I said, touching his arm, wanting to connect with him on more than just a professional basis, wanting to understand what drove him as much as what moved him. I knew it was dangerous thinking, but when it came to him, I couldn’t seem to stay on track.
At my touch, his expression went still. “I have no doubt about that,” he said with a husky cast to his voice. “Mavrick has a good reputation in the business.”
I backed off, realizing I was close enough to him to feel the intoxicating warmth of his body. “Let’s just say our style is a little different than Ray’s.” That was for sure. It didn’t surprise me to hear the snake had abandoned Gunner when he needed him the most. “He used to work for us and we fired him.”
He grinned then, and I felt dazed for a second. He rose and came toward me. “You do have style then. My dad hired him and I really didn’t think he was on the up-and-up. Looks like my instincts were right.” He braced his shoulder against the glass, standing way too close to me again. Was it because we were so drawn to each other? “You’re the one taking a risk on me. All I have is a video with nothing to back it up.” He reached out and tucked a stray hair behind my ear, his touch warm and gentle.
He was hitting on me again, and I couldn’t help but feel flattered. So damn easy on the eyes. I leaned toward him, letting his hand slide along my jaw.
Professional conduct.
Those two words somehow made it through my mental haze. I jerked away, feeling my face heat up. “I think…I think we both know there is chemistry between us. But this has to be about contracts, negotiations, signing, pens.”
“Pens?” he repeated, clearly amused. He stepped closer. I so wanted to kiss those lips, and I barely knew him. He made me feel like I was drowning half the time and dazed the other half. But keeping my role firmly in mind, my hand came up and pressed against his chest. I saw the disappointment in his eyes. He stepped back and shoved his hands into his pockets. I wondered if that was a move to keep from touching me further. The thought of those long-fingered, graceful hands on me was distracting.
“I don’t much give a damn about what’s proper or good,” he said, his voice gruff. “I would like to get to know you on a deeper level. I think you want that, too?”
My knees went weak, and my breath jammed up in my chest. It was all I could do to keep from folding into his arms. And all those feelings I’d tried to hold at bay came rushing through me, sending me into a tailspin, surging up inside me. As if trapped by his gaze, I stared back at him, unable to break away—not really wanting to. I was so lost in his eyes, in the breath-stealing weakness…“Since I’m going to be your agent, it’s best we keep this professional. Can you agree to that?”
There was no returning smile, not even in his eyes. Instead he was watching me with an intent, steady look, as if assessing the situation. His voice was quiet and low when he spoke. “No, I can’t.”
It wasn’t what I wanted either. What I wanted was to spend hours getting to know him better in every way. “You can’t?”
Gunner’s face got a strained, intense expression on it. “Part of the reason I came here is because of you.”
Regret as heavy as a wrecking ball settled in my gut. “It’s nonnegotiable, I’m afraid. My father is worried about bad publicity.”
“Is he? He thinks if we hook up that will be bad for Mavrick. Why?”
I had to step away from him, and I moved around him to be able to draw a breath without bre
athing in a primed, heated male. Bracing my hands on the windowsill, to ground myself and tell him the bad news about how this relationship and situation came about, I turned my head and met his inquisitive and equally regretful gaze. “When my father met my mom, she was a young tennis player. He was a bit older, but he dated her anyway. Her dad made a stink about it. The news played it up, made it seem as though she got special treatment. It almost destroyed the business, even after they were married. So we steer away from personal relationships with our clients.”
“Then I guess I shouldn’t call you McHotstuff in public,” he said, his voice very low and rough.
I got nailed with an immobilizing rush. My mind spinning, I rested my face against the cool glass. “No. What’s with that nickname anyway?”
He chuckled, his expression softening into a half smile. “Do you know who Mike McGill is?”
I closed my eyes. “No.”
“He was this half-pipe vert skater. He invented a trick where you front-flip in combination with a 540-degree rotation.”
I opened my eyes and got another wonderful rush at the way he looked at me. “I mean, I guess that’s cool, but how does that apply to me?”
He grinned. “You spin me around and make me go head over heels at the same time—hot stuff with a twist.”
The feeling was mutual, and he was making my heart flip over right now. I did my best to ignore all the tingles. “That prompts me to ask—anything about you that could cause issues in the media? We should know about it now.”
“Yeah, I might have something,” he said, his voice tight.
Alarmed, I pulled away from the glass and faced him. “What is it?”
“My dad,” he said in a hard voice. “He wasn’t happy when I quit surfing and walked away. He might cause problems.” Once again, I sensed that terrible aloneness in him, a kind of self-imposed isolation. Now I knew the source.
I bit my lip. This could be a problem, but I wanted Gunner for his sake and Max’s. Could I take the risk and sign him?
