Down Deep (Going Deep Book 1)

by Virna DePaul

  “You deliberately didn’t laugh.”

  Camille took a picture of him, liking the way he frowned when she ignored him.

  When she kept snapping pictures, he approached her and held his hand up in front of the lens.

  “Come on, admit it. You thought it was funny.”

  Camille sighed. He hadn’t even given her the time of day years before, and now he couldn’t stop flirting. Why? Because she was so different from his blond cheerleaders? Because she represented a challenge? That had to be it. But she’d teach him that even sexy football players didn’t win every challenge. “The only thing I’ll admit is you like to hear yourself talk too much. I’m surprised you can stop doing it long enough to score.”

  They were having a good old-fashioned showdown, and many of the other football players and cheerleaders had gathered around them. Kyle Young whooped and congratulated Camille for her putdown. Then Alec shouted out, “Looks like you’re definitely not scoring today, Dawson!”

  Heath, though, wasn’t one to let up that easily. “How’s about we bet on that?”

  Camille frowned. He just wanted to get a rise out of her. And he was: her nipples prickled with his words and she had the stupidest desire to let him touch her all over. She’d never felt like this with any guy—not even her ex-husband—and she still didn’t understand the hold Heath had over her.

  “Here’s a bet,” Camille finally replied. “I bet you can’t keep your mouth shut for an entire hour. If I win, you have to be quiet for the rest of the day.”

  “And if I win?”

  “It won’t matter, since you won’t be able to do it.” Of course he wouldn’t, Camille thought, truly convinced. The guy was a total attention hound.

  “But if I win?”

  “You get whatever you want.”

  Camille instantly regretted her words, especially as the girls tittered. Heath’s eyebrows rose, and his gaze landed on her breasts before moving to her lips. Then he moved closer to speak in her ear. “I get a kiss,” he finally said slowly, and surprise and heat filled every inch of Camille in equal measure. It was the last thing she’d been expecting him to say given the tall blond that had been hanging all over him. Wasn’t she his girlfriend? Could he be that much of an asshole?

  She glanced at the blond, who was glaring daggers at her. “But—”

  “Genevieve likes to flirt with me, but we’re not together, so you can’t use her as an excuse. So as I was saying, I get a kiss whenever I want,” he clarified. “Or does that scare you too much?”

  Camille felt stupid for falling into his trap. She wanted to backtrack. Tell him absolutely not. But everyone was staring at them, and she just couldn’t give him the satisfaction of surrendering. “Fine. It’s a deal.” She knew she sounded snappish, but Heath never failed to get a rise out of her, even a decade later.

  Heath fell silent and she continued the photoshoot. She counted the minutes, glancing at her watch every so often, and each time she did, Heath looked at her with a “Did you think I couldn’t do it?” kind of look. Camille just glared at him as she moved onto the next group.

  The minutes passed, and she kept tabs on Heath throughout, to see if he were, indeed, keeping their bet. He remained silent, not even laughing, not even talking when the leggy blond whined at him to say something. Camille had to admit that the man was stubborn.

  After finishing up over an hour later, Camille realized that Heath had won. Flustered, thinking about him kissing her, she began fingering her hair while looking through the photos.

  Heath stepped up to her, and Camille’s heart pounded. Would he claim the kiss now, in front of everyone? Lowering her camera with shaky hands, Camille was about to ask him what was up, when he said in both amusement and surprise, “Is that you, Waterboy?”

  Chapter Two

  Heath should have recognized her from her bright green eyes but it was the gesture—fingering her hair self-consciously—that brought back a flood of memories. Camille Pollert had certainly grown up, all curves and long hair. Gorgeous and seductive. She was beautiful, so of course he’d noticed her the second he’d walked up with Genevieve, and there was something about her prickly attitude that had attracted him right away. But now that he knew it was the infamous Camille of Yearbook Gate? He was even more intrigued.

  And determined to claim the kiss he’d just won.

  She took a step back. “Why would you call me that?” She was flustered, her cheeks a sweet pink, and Heath grinned.

  “You’ve become a fine woman, Waterboy.”

  She scrunched up her nose in distaste. “If you’re going to insult me, at least call me Watergirl. I wasn’t a boy then and I’m not a boy now.”

  Heath eyed her up and down again. No, she was definitely all woman. “Who said I was insulting you?” he said, even though he knew damn well why she’d think that.

  Rolling her eyes, Camille replied, “Back then you talked about how skinny I was and how I had no curves—” she gestured to her torso, “—and we both know you meant I had no boobs. Plus my hair was too short and I needed to grow it out. Remember that?”

  Yeah, he remembered; he’d just been hoping she’d shaken that off by now. An old but familiar guilt assailed him: for what he’d said as a dumb teenager, and how it clearly still hurt her even now.

  That day in high school—the day he was such a stupid asshole—he’d insulted Camille before he’d even realized he was going to do it. What had been his intention, telling her she needed curves and longer hair? Teenage Heath thought he was being helpful, in his offhand, immature way. She was pretty, her eyes amazing, and she could be hot if she just did those two simple things; wouldn’t a girl want to know that? But he hadn’t accounted for the fact that such words could hurt her, which they clearly had. He’d been about to apologize, but his dad had shown up, making matters worse.

  His dad had been so angry at him. What had it been for that time? Oh right, he’d dared to fumble the ball. Heath knew his dad had wanted him to play his very best, but the old man could be relentless. Heath never knew when his dad would lose his temper and take it out on him, and he’d gotten used to trying to dodge the bombs—and sometimes failing. That had been a day when he’d failed, and he could hear his dad’s words in his head like he’d said them yesterday. When are you going to get it into your thick skull that without a scholarship, you aren’t going anywhere?

  After his dad had compounded an already awkward situation, Camille had run off before Heath could apologize. The humiliation on her face and the tears in her eyes had twisted his heart, and that was even before he’d learned Camille’s last name, and that she was the daughter of a man he truly admired—his former Little League coach, Cal Pollert, who would later pass away from cancer when Heath was at UCLA.

  Inwardly, he winced, knowing how tough losing her father must have been for Camille. It wasn’t like she’d plagued his thoughts for the past ten years, but even so, he’d truly regretted hurting her. He’d tried to apologize, but she’d made avoiding him an Olympic sport. Heath couldn’t blame her, really, and after a few attempts at talking to her and failing, he’d decided to let things lie. If she didn’t want to talk to him, he’d respect that.

  Then she’d published that yearbook photo—he’d known exactly who’d done it the moment he’d seen it—and although he got teased mercilessly for it the rest of the year, he’d respected Camille’s gumption. Jason hadn’t taken it nearly as well, whining about it even after the dust had settled. Heath, though, had wanted to take Camille aside and shake her hand. Well-played, Waterboy. Well-played.

  “Camille, I was sorry to hear about your father’s passing.”

  “Thank you,” she said stiffly.

  He touched her arm but she shook off his touch, glowering at him before she rejoined the others. In spite of his regret and her anger, he suppressed a smile, infinitely glad that fate had brought them together and that he’d been able to goad her into playing with him. Because whether she realized it o
r not, he was going to collect his prize eventually…and, he hoped, a whole lot more.

  “Okay, if I could get you guys to pair up… These are still going to be fun, but a little sexier. Nothing too raunchy, though,” Camille said, eyeing all of the guys as they hooted and hollered. The cheerleaders, though, seemed the most excited by her directive, practically hooking themselves onto their football player of choice and not letting go.

  “Be my partner?” Genevieve asked Heath, her arm already linked with his.

  Heath glanced down. Genevieve was a pretty blond with great tits and an ass to die for, and Heath couldn’t lie and say he hadn’t been tempted by her interest. But he’d also known other players who’d gotten entangled with Genevieve and had only barely survived to tell the tale. “Of course, darlin’,” Heath replied. “How should we make this thing sexy? Maybe strip down and get into the ocean?”

  Genevieve giggled, batting her eyelashes. “I’m game if you are.”

  Glancing at Camille, who was now shooting him a death glare, Heath laughed. “I think our photographer here might kill us if we try something like that.”

  Camille rolled her eyes at him and walked away.

  “She’s so boring,” Genevieve mock whispered. “Who wears a blouse like that to the beach?” Genevieve pulled Heath’s arm when he continued to look at Camille—he was totally wondering what she was thinking at that very moment, how soft her hair must be, what she smelled like—but he forced himself to look back down at Genevieve.

  “Maybe she doesn’t want to get sunburned. She’s pretty fair.”

  “She’s pale as a ghost! She probably owns one bra, white cotton.” Genevieve smoothed a hand down his side. “A real woman has all kinds of lingerie to show her man, if he’s a good boy.”

  He knew he could be that good boy with Genevieve. But when he looked down at the cheerleader, he found himself wanting to look at Camille instead. He wanted to unwrap that pretty blouse and see her curves and pale skin. She’d probably smell of flowers. Jasmine and honey. Heath hardened at the thought, licking his lips.

  “You two are next.” Camille stepped up to Heath and Genevieve, and Heath couldn’t help but laugh when Genevieve proceeded to be all over him. She sure wasn’t subtle, was Genevieve.

  Within an hour, the photoshoot wound down, and Heath just wanted to get Camille alone so he could talk to her. He wanted to apologize for being a stupid asshole as a kid, and for how he and his dad had hurt her.

  Everyone began to get ready to leave, talking about going somewhere for lunch. Heath watched as everyone started to disperse—Genevieve included, who he’d told he’d see later—and walked up to Camille, who was putting away her equipment, bent over her stuff. She looked tired, and Heath noticed a patch of pink on the back of her neck where she’d gotten sunburned. He barely resisted the temptation to drop a kiss on the vulnerable flesh. “Will you be joining us for lunch?” Heath asked, hoping she’d say yes but not trying to sound too hopeful, either.

  Glancing up, Camille shaded her eyes against the sun. “No, I need to head back to my hotel and call my daughter.”

  Wow. She had a daughter. Was she married then? He looked at her left hand: no ring. So maybe divorced? Testing the waters, he asked, “Is she with your husband?”

  “I don’t have a husband.” Camille stood up, shouldering her gear before showing Heath her bare fingers. “But my ex, her father, is around; Emma’s with him for the week.”

  “So you’re not married. How about a boyfriend?”

  “You are persistent, aren’t you?” Camille began walking away, and Heath followed. “No, I’m single, if you must know, but that doesn’t mean I’m looking for a man.”

  “Why not?”

  Camille glared at him. “Because I’m just not. I have Emma to think of, and my career. I’m busy. Besides, you aren’t my type.”

  Heath noticed that Camille had looked away from him when she’d said that, and he grinned. After the disastrous night at the football game, he’d asked around about her. Someone reminded him that she’d been his locker buddy back in freshman year, and out of nowhere, he’d been hit by the memory of helping her with her books one day. She’d stared at him with obvious hero-worship for weeks after that and though he’d ignored it at the time, he wondered now how long her crush had lasted. If she’d been crushing on him before he’d so callously hurt her or even afterward. To try and soften the blow of that night and make his intentions clear, he said, “That’s too bad. Because you’re exactly my type.”

  She snorted. “Right. But cut my hair and put me in a T-shirt and jeans? You said I looked like a boy. And your dad agreed.” Camille sighed, shaking her head, her gaze on him again. “Like father like son, I guess.”

  Heath winced. He had a lot of his old man in him—he wouldn’t disagree with that—but he hoped he wasn’t that big of an ass.

  Seeing his reaction, though, Camille stopped. “Hey, I shouldn’t have said that. I’m sorry,” she said in a soft voice. “I remember my father coached you in Little League, and he liked you a lot. He thought you were a good kid, and he proudly followed your career in high school, and even at UCLA before he…” As memories of her father assailed her, she blinked back tears.

  Wanting to take away her pain, he placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Your father was a great man. And you’re not wrong. I acted like an ass that day, just like my father did. But I’m truly sorry for what happened back then: for what I said and for what my old man said.” He shrugged, not to brush off his actions, but to try to communicate how he still found his immature behavior back then so perplexing. “I guess I didn’t know how to talk to women then,” he finally said.

  Camille gazed at him, silent. Then she reached up and covered his hand with hers. His heart beat faster, and he was about to lean forward and kiss her when she stepped back. His hand dropped and she said in an exasperated tone, “Heath, you still don’t know how to talk to women. But if you really want to apologize for ten years ago, how about this? Sign an autograph for my daughter? Because at least you’re her favorite player.”

  He winced at the emphasis she placed on her words. So she wasn’t going to forgive him. Yet. Never let it be said that Heath Dawson ever backed down from a fight. Not when it was about something—or someone—important, anyway.

  “Sure, Watergirl. I’ll sign an autograph for your daughter. And I’ll give you anything else you want, too. All you have to do is ask.”

  Chapter Three

  “Do you want a pirate party or a tea party?” Camille asked Emma on the phone later that night.

  “Both!” Emma said.

  Camille hesitated, mostly because it would involve buying two types of decorations, and Camille always preferred to save a little money if possible. But her baby only turned eight once. “How about we have tea and cake and you can dress up in your prettiest dress and also wear an eye-patch. How about that?”

  “Will Heath be there? Since you met him and you’re friends now, right?”

  “We’re not really friends,” Camille said, “and he’s a busy man, Emma.”

  “But you’ll at least ask, won’t you? I swear that’s the only gift I want.”

  “I’m sorry, Emma, it just wouldn’t be appropriate.”

  Emma sighed. “Okay, then can you get me a parrot to wear on my shoulder? I know pirates always have parrots.”

  “Maybe a stuffed one.”

  After some more negotiation with Emma about what she could and couldn’t have at her party—no real parrots, no real swords, but she could wear a hook for a hand if she wanted—Camille bid her daughter goodnight and hung up. Then she called Sheila, who answered her phone with, “So is Heath as hot as he was in high school?”

  Camille laughed, once again thankful that she and Sheila had remained friends since graduating high school. The other woman was a rock when Camille needed one, but she always ensured Camille didn’t get stuck in her head or take things too seriously for long. “Yes, and no,” she final
ly replied.

  “No?”

  “He’s hotter. Back then he was just a kid. Now he’s a…man. But it doesn’t matter: I’m not going out with him.”

  “Whoever said anything about going out or dating? You can get into those tight football pants of his and see if what everyone says about him is true. You’re a single mom, Camille—not dead. You should ask him out.”

  “And hope that he comes with a gift receipt in case I want to exchange him later?”

  “Why not? He’s familiar with the concept.”

  “You’re terrible. You know I’m not the type to get into any guy’s pants, tight or otherwise. I have Emma to think of, and my career, and—”

  “And world peace and your wardrobe and every senior citizen—yeah, I get it. You can’t do it. Jesus wouldn’t approve.”

  “This isn’t about being good. You know that. Heath just isn’t my type.”

  “So John wasn’t your type? Or Terrance? Or Peter? Or Daniel? All of these guys just ‘weren’t your type?’”

  Camille squirmed a little. She really didn’t want to have this conversation, but she also knew how relentless Sheila could be. Camille had dated very little since her divorce from Rich, only sleeping with a total of one guy. Sex had never been a big deal to her—with Rich it had been okay, not great—and she’d never found a guy who could inspire the kind of butterflies she imagined went along with great sex. Sometimes Camille wondered if she were broken, when she lay alone in bed, wondering how she ended up almost 30 and single with a young daughter. The Camille who’d been so set on snapping photos at that football game in high school had had bigger dreams for herself; the Camille now had taken the lemons she’d been handed and made the best lemonade she could.

  Camille could never regret Emma: her daughter was the light of her life and gave her more joy than she thought possible. But that didn’t stop her from wishing she’d waited to have kids, wishing she’d made Rich wear that condom, wishing that her life had gone a little differently than it had.