by Joanne Rock
“That was some serious grace under pressure, dude,” Tevon muttered in Jean-Pierre’s ear as he clapped him on the shoulder. “You’re my idol with the hacks.”
“I’m used to facing the meanest defensive ends in the NFL every week,” he told him. “The hacks aren’t nearly as scary.”
Jean-Pierre stepped into the private tunnel leading toward the players’ lounge, but midway through, he doubled back toward the Coaches Club. He’d approach it from the private entrance, close to where the Gladiators administration kept a couple of offices.
Because there wasn’t a chance in hell he was leaving this stadium without talking to Tatiana first. She might have successfully ducked him since last winter, but with her remark to the media tonight, she’d put herself right back in his world. Now he planned to keep her there for however long it took for this new scandal to die down.
* * *
In her professional life, Tatiana Doucet had often been praised for her cool head and ability to organize her thoughts into a reasoned, intelligent argument. So it seemed unfair that on the day when she needed to make the most important and private announcement of her life, she’d wound up nervously babbling to a reporter, of all people. In public.
Standing outside the New York Gladiators postgame press event, Tatiana folded a cocktail napkin into her palm and mopped it across her forehead. What had she been thinking to spout such an offhand comment to a stranger across from her at the ice-cream-sundae bar? She hadn’t seen the reporter’s press pass—he must have taken it off. Although clearly he hadn’t turned off his recorder. Looking back, it seemed obvious the guy had been baiting her to make a comment about the upcoming Hurricanes game.
And she’d played right into his hands because she’d been nervous about seeing Jean-Pierre. She’d accidentally given a sound bite that would be all the New York sports media talked about for weeks. Her father would strangle her when he found her. But so far, she’d eluded him. The subterranean hallways of the Coliseum were narrow and echoed, making it easy to stay one step ahead of a coach charging around like an angry bull.
But while she’d put off a confrontation with her dad, she couldn’t afford to delay the conversation she needed to have with another man who would have every reason to be angry with her.
Gladiators starting quarterback, Jean-Pierre Reynaud.
She hadn’t stayed in the Coaches Club long enough to hear how Jean-Pierre responded to the reporter who’d blindsided him with her remark. She’d turned on her heels and booked out of there. But somehow, she needed to find Jean-Pierre before she left tonight. Her private announcement was for his ears only.
She’d justified staying away from him after their one night together last winter, since their parting had been as passionate as the sex, although not nearly as fulfilling. They had a tumultuous history, considering their prep-school romance that had failed thanks to their families’ well-documented enmity. Then, after meeting up years later, they’d been on opposite sides of a prominent sexual harassment case she’d prosecuted a year ago against Jean-Pierre’s former teammate. Jean-Pierre had been in the courtroom almost every day after practice until she’d won a verdict against the retired football player. She’d been flush with the professional victory until a coldly furious Jean-Pierre confronted her to inform her she’d ruined an innocent man’s reputation.
Even now, she didn’t understand how their argument had turned into the most passionate encounter she’d ever experienced, but she sure understood his icy parting words the next morning.
That mistake will never be repeated.
She’d been cooking him breakfast at the time and hoping for...what? That they might have a shot at understanding each other even though their romantic history had proved them incompatible before they were twenty years old? Stubborn pride and embarrassment at her foolishness had kept her mouth shut for months. But tonight, she needed to set aside her old hurts and face him once and for all.
The sooner she got this over with, the better, since she needed to head home. Standing on the narrow threshold of a closed door in a deserted corridor of offices, Tatiana debated where to find her quarry. Surely he wouldn’t have lingered around the Coaches Club. Maybe she could ask the security guard outside the players’ lounge where Jean-Pierre was. Or would she be better off staking out his car in the parking garage? That way she could be sure she wouldn’t miss him.
Darting back the way she came, she turned a corner and nearly plowed right into none other than Jean-Pierre himself.
“Oh!” With a yelp of surprise, she gripped his forearm to stay upright.
“Shh,” Jean-Pierre warned her, tucking her under his arm and pressing a finger to her lips. “There’s a camera crew just down that hallway.” He nodded to the ramp just ahead on his right.
Tatiana tensed at his touch. His scent. His maleness. She’d spent so long avoiding him, but in spite of all logic, he affected her. At six-three, and at this close range, he had to peer down at her, his brown eyes flecked with hints of gold and green. She’d fallen for him hard back in prep school, a young love that had only felt more poignant after they’d been torn apart by their families’ sudden rift. They’d both moved on, of course, two thousand miles of separation proving as effective a deterrent as the well-publicized feud. But when he’d joined the Gladiators and she’d seen him at the occasional party, she’d been as drawn to him as ever. It had been an attraction that hadn’t been reciprocated, judging by his cold words about her court case last winter. She still didn’t understand how that terse confrontation in the courtroom had turned so heated.
Now, heart hammering, she simply nodded, knowing they needed to avoid the press. Heaven forbid the media were to overhear what she had to tell Jean-Pierre.
He frowned down at her, not moving.
“What?” she whispered, shaky and off balance as she peered up into his shadowed face.
“We could let them find us,” he suggested, his gaze roving over her as he seemed to weigh the idea. “They could photograph us kissing.”
The mention of kissing should not have sent a bolt of lightning through her. Especially when Jean-Pierre seemed to be mulling over the idea with the same attention he might give a playbook. Dispassionate. Assessing.
“Are you insane?” Her whisper notched up an octave as she grabbed his sleeve and tugged him in the other direction.
Not that he moved.
“It would end the speculation that we’re enemies,” he said. They stood facing each other in silence for a moment until she could hear the echo of footsteps in the northern corridor.
“We are enemies,” she reminded him, tugging his arm with more urgency. “Just because you and my father patched things up enough for you to play in New York doesn’t mean the Reynauds and Doucets suddenly became friends. When your grandfather fired my father from his old director-of-personnel position with the Mustangs, it might as well have been an act of war.”
Her father had moved the whole family across the country, pulling her out of school and demanding an end to her relationship with Jean-Pierre. And if her father hadn’t been adamant enough, her mother had been downright immovable on the subject. Seventeen at the time, Tatiana had fallen in line and put Jean-Pierre in her past...right up until that day he’d approached her after court and her old feelings had spun out of control for one passionate night.
“You think I don’t remember?” He fell into step beside her now, guiding her deeper into the private areas of the stadium. “But I’d call us casualties of that battle, not enemies. And either way, I would have preferred to lock down any mentions of bad blood to the media.”
He nodded to one of the guards outside the locker rooms as they passed a secured area.
“I realize that.” Her heart hummed along at high speed even as she warned herself to be coolheaded. To ignore the feel of his hand on her waist when he
ushered her through the heavy steel door that led to the parking garage. “I’m out of practice dealing with the media or I never would have been so flippant with a stranger. Obviously, I know better. I apologize.”
His terse nod gave away nothing.
“I’m parked over here.” He hit the fob on his key chain and the lights on a nearby gray Aston Martin coupe flashed twice. “I can give you a ride home and we’ll...talk.”
She wondered at that meaningful pause. Was he still stewing about her comment to the reporter? Regardless, she needed to do some talking of her own.
“Thank you.” The clamminess that she’d felt on her skin earlier returned. Her time to tell him was running out. “I took a car service to the game so I appreciate the ride.”
She’d timed her arrival so that she wouldn’t set foot in the stadium until a few minutes before the game ended, hoping to avoid her father and spend as little time away from home as possible.
The tail end of the silk scarf she’d tied around her head caught on one of the sequins of her dress and she struggled to untangle it as she walked to his car. She was hot, tired and out of sorts, so it was no surprise that she popped a whole row of sequins off. They bounced around the floor of the parking garage while Jean-Pierre held open the door of his sports car.
It wasn’t fair that he looked impeccable in a custom Hugo Boss suit while her life frayed at the seams. With an impatient swipe, she slid the scarf off her hair and lowered herself into the leather seat.
When he came around to the driver’s side, he wasted no time putting the car into Reverse and heading out the exit. Game traffic had thinned out by now, putting them on the highway in no time. At this rate, in ten more minutes they’d be at her front door. Her stomach tightened at how fast her time was running out to make her cool, calm announcement. If she could even remember that speech she’d practiced in her mind a thousand times. She toyed with the fringe on the edges of her silk scarf, watching the play of pink, green and blue threads over her fingers.
“You didn’t hear my answers in that interview, did you?” Jean-Pierre said suddenly, diverting her thoughts.
“No, I’m afraid not.” She seized on the reprieve with both hands. “I ditched the Coaches Club the second I recognized that reporter’s face on the big screen over the bar. I knew he was about to corner you with what I’d just told him, so I left before my father could blow a gasket and blast me in front of five thousand fans.”
She studied Jean-Pierre’s expression in the dashboard lights, his chiseled profile deep in five-o’clock shadow and a fresh scrape visible on his right cheekbone. He’d been lucky today. She’d spent enough time in her father’s world to see the toll that football could take on the strongest men.
“I told the media you were joking.” He glanced at her as they neared signs for the Lincoln Tunnel.
“Of course I was. I thought I was talking to a Gladiators fan and I was just messing around.” She knew from experience she didn’t need to stroke this man’s ego, but she also didn’t like the idea that he might think she’d been in earnest. “Obviously you and Henri are supremely well-matched. If you played ten games, I’d give you each five.”
“Very generous of you.” He downshifted as traffic slowed in a sea of brake lights. “And probably accurate given our stats in backyard games. But back to the interview. I not only told the reporter you were joking, I also assured him you were going to be my guest for the bye week and that you couldn’t wait to return to Louisiana for a visit.”
He said it so tonelessly that she hoped she’d misheard. Surely he wouldn’t have done that. He didn’t even like her anymore. He’d made sure she knew as much when he’d walked out of her home the last time.
“No. You. Didn’t.” The words were a soft scrape of air, her voice vanishing as they entered the tunnel, the regular intervals of fluorescent light flashing through the car and making her dizzy.
“Oh, yes, I most certainly did. What would you have suggested I say, Tatiana?” His grip on the wheel tightened for a moment before he loosened his hold again. He removed one hand from the wheel altogether and flexed his knuckles, as if forcing himself to relax. Or maybe he was nursing an injury.
And, oh, God, how could he have just told the whole world they were going to be spending a week together?
“I just—” She swallowed hard. Tried to channel her inner lawyer and come up with a quietly reasoned argument. But all the arguments that came to mind were conversational dynamite. “That can’t happen,” she said lamely.
“And yet, we’ll have to make a good show of it since your comment could cause the kind of media uproar that steals focus away from a team. I can’t afford that distraction right now.” He lifted a hand to his tie and loosened the knot, looking for all the world like a dissolute playboy with his unshaven jaw in his sexy car.
But looks were deceiving, and nothing about this man was dissolute or inclined to play. It didn’t matter that his weekly contests were labeled “games,” Jean-Pierre Reynaud was one of the most serious and hardworking men she’d ever met. He was relentless in achieving what he wanted, in fact. So she understood immediately that he wouldn’t back down on the good show for the media now that he’d promised it.
“You don’t understand—” she began, only to be cut short.
“It might be you who doesn’t understand.” He steered off the exit toward 42nd Street and she wished she could turn back the clock on this evening to make the outcome different. To give her more time. She took in his tight jaw, his tense shoulders. “I didn’t have time to consult you for a plan. You put me on the spot in front of my team, the league, the media and the fans.”
“You’re right. That part, I do understand.” Her breasts ached beneath her dress, the need to return home a sudden, biological need. Thankfully, all the lights on 10th Avenue went green and they surged through one after the other as they headed north.
“Excellent. You are already invited to my brother’s wedding.” He resumed laying out the calm, controlled plan that she knew would never happen. “We can attend the ceremony together and then you will stay in New Orleans until the Gladiators game against the Hurricanes the week after. I’ll have to commute back and forth for practices, but I’ll be around enough to ensure we’re photographed together. We can put a quick end to the old rumors about our families. And about us.”
Only a Reynaud would seriously contemplate “commuting” between New York and New Orleans. She would have laughed if she hadn’t been so upset, rapidly bordering on panicked. But she’d certainly learned how to deal with unexpected consequences. Now, Jean-Pierre would have to learn, too.
“Fine,” she agreed rather than waste her breath arguing, already knowing whatever plans he made now were about to be blown up anyhow. “You may not want me in New Orleans with you once you hear what I have to say.” She gritted her teeth as they hit Central Park West and neared her building. The ache in her chest shifted painfully. “Would you come in with me so we can continue this discussion inside?”
“Of course. We have a lot of plans to make.” He pulled in alongside the valet and handed over his keys.
On the elevator, she realized she had effectively put off her important announcement so long that very soon no words would be necessary and she would lose her window to tell Jean-Pierre herself. She wasn’t proud of that. But she was tired, aching and uncomfortable. And didn’t he bear half the blame for this impossible situation?
Yet, as soon as the elevator stopped on her floor and the doors slid open, she knew she couldn’t let him find out this way.
“We do have a lot of plans to make.” She spun to face him, the words spilling out fast. “But not the kind you think.”
“I don’t understand.” His jaw flexed, his gaze narrowing.
She drew in a deep breath.
“Remember that night last winter?�
� She didn’t wait for his reply, as she heard a long, high-pitched wail from inside her apartment. “I should have told you sooner, but you walked out the next day and said it was a mistake. Talking was all but impossible after a parting like that and then, well—” She shook her head, impatient with herself and the excuses that didn’t matter now, with her baby crying on the other side of her front door. “Come and meet your son, Jean-Pierre.”
Two
Son?
Jean-Pierre had taken hits from the toughest, strongest, meanest players in the NFL. Afterward, as he lay in the grass with his ears ringing and his vision blurred, he would struggle to snap out of the slow-motion fog that felt kind of like being underwater.
That was exactly how he felt walking into Tatiana’s apartment, her words slowly permeating his consciousness along with the cry of an infant. Dazed, confused and trying to stand up straight despite the floor shifting under his feet, Jean-Pierre stood in her foyer and waited for her to return from wherever she’d disappeared.
“Mr. Reynaud?” An older woman in a simple gray dress stepped into the living area to his right. “Miss Doucet asked if you wouldn’t mind joining her in the family room. It’s just past the staircase on the left.” She pointed the way and then went about her business, picking up a few things in the living room.
A bright blue blanket. A baby bottle.
Seeing that bottle was like the second hit when you were already down.
At the same time, it was enough to make the mental fog evaporate and get his feet moving.
Fast.
He needed answers now. Hell, he needed answers months ago. Tatiana had done a whole lot more than throw his career into a tailspin tonight with her unguarded remark to a member of the press. She’d been hiding the biggest possible secret that was going to bind their lives together forever.
“Tatiana?” Her name was a sharp bark on his lips as he entered the spacious suite overlooking Central Park.
