Crossing Hearts

by Rebecca Crowley

  One last sip. She pushed aside her maudlin mood as she finished off the tequila. She loved her job, and she was lucky to have it, and she had no excuse not to be content. She’d go back to the hotel, read a book and be refreshed for tomorrow’s early-morning flight back to Atlanta. Meanwhile Rio would get the space he needed to develop his friendships, and hopefully pick up a bit of motivation to work harder on his English and loosen his reliance on her.

  “I think I’m going to call it a night.” She placed her glass decisively on the table and stood up. “It was a pleasure meeting—”

  “¿Adónde vas?” Rio appeared behind her, his timing uncanny.

  “I’m tired,” she lied. “I was going to head out. Unless you need me?”

  “I don’t need you to stay, but I would like you to.”

  That begging-puppy look of his had to be practiced. No human face could inadvertently be so endearing.

  “I’m exhausted.”

  “Can I walk you out?”

  “Sure.” She waved goodbye to the four women, hyperaware of the two randoms’ watchful gazes as she followed Rio out of the private room.

  She was hit with a wave of music as soon as they stepped into the main part of the club, where the dance floor was even busier than when they arrived. She had a pang of envy, wishing she could be so carefree and full of joy, losing herself in a salsa beat on a Saturday night.

  Maybe she’d go wild back at the hotel and order an Irish coffee and an ice-cream sundae from room service. She could really live on the edge and charge it on expenses.

  Rio leaned in and spoke to her, but she couldn’t hear him over the music. She gestured for him to repeat himself, and he slipped his arm around her waist and brought his lips close to her ear.

  “You’re not leaving until you dance with me.”

  She shot him an incredulous look, shaking her head. “I’ve never danced to salsa before, I wouldn’t know where to begin.”

  “It’s easy.” He slipped his hand into hers and tugged her toward the dance floor. “Follow my lead.”

  “Rio, I literally have no idea how to—” But her words were lost in the music and his smile and her resistance died a well-deserved death. She let him pull her onto the dance floor, let him raise her arms and angle them so they made the right frame, and then she let him guide her into the sensual rhythm of the song.

  “I don’t know what to do with my feet,” she called. “Do I try to step where you’re—”

  He shook his head to silence her, and within seconds she realized just how well his nimble-footed certainty on the pitch translated to dance. She’d heard that salsa was all about leading and following, but she had no idea how easy being led could be. He pivoted her, turned her, spun her and dipped her, until she lost all self-consciousness about her movements and gave herself over to the experience.

  The tequila burned low in her belly and she matched Rio’s grin, relaxing into his grip and adding her own embellishments to his patterns. He nodded encouragingly and soon she forgot all about her job, her mother, the money she owed the private investigator, the end of her vehicle service plan, all of it. There was only the music, and the movement, and Rio’s hands, strong and safe and steady. Each press of his fingers told her he knew how to hold a woman, and a hot, sinful shiver shimmied from her shoulders to her toes.

  She noticed one of the other dancers raising her arms and crossing her wrists and copied her. Rio gripped her waist and pulled her close, and when she lowered her arms again her fingertips almost touched behind his neck.

  Their thighs bumped and their hips met and their proximity made dancing much harder and far better. Serious intention replaced Rio’s boyish grin as all traces of humor disappeared from his eyes, leaving only hunger behind.

  She knew she should pull away, jerk out of his grasp, and make the exit she’d decided on fifteen minutes earlier. She should laugh off this brief interlude on the dance floor, take a taxi back to the hotel, and flip through the channels until she fell asleep. She should ensure this brief lapse of judgment had no consequences, because she had walked away in the nick of time.

  But he smelled so good, salty sea air and tea tree oil. His body was so warm, so hard, his arms like steel cables beneath her hands. She slid her fingers up the back of his neck, into his close-cropped hair, thick and short and soft. He tightened his arm across her lower back and she felt his arousal, saw the way his eyes changed when she pressed against it, sensed the force of his self-restraint as he gave her plenty of time to stop him, to move away, to say no.

  Instead she met his gaze, telling him yes.

  The music swelled. The dancers surged and spun around them, a sea of color and motion. Rio stilled, raising one hand to her cheek.

  He kissed her.

  * * * *

  The ringing in Rio’s ears drowned out the thumping salsa beat, and his pounding heart competed with its vibrations pulsing under his feet. His awareness shrunk to the space around the five-foot-one woman beneath his hands and little else, until what shreds of consciousness flared in his brain consisted only of her scent, the soft tendrils of her hair sliding over his hand, the taste of tequila warming her mouth.

  Damn, she felt so right. Her body fit snugly against his, every dip and curve lined up perfectly. He pulled her closer and she pressed into him, her nipples hard points in the softness of her breasts. He dared the hand on her waist lower, tracing the swell of her hip, following the delicious line of her backside.

  He suppressed a shudder as he toured the contours of her figure. Full breasts, softly rounded stomach, and a rear end that could fill both his palms. He wanted to see her skin, discover whether her nipples were the same lush, dusky pink as her lips, trace the valley of her lower back with his tongue. He hardened with each thought, knew she could feel his arousal against her abdomen, and hoped he excited her as much as she excited him.

  As if in answer to his quandary she parted her lips and widened her jaw, granting him access. He responded almost too eagerly, holding himself back after the initial thrust of his tongue, forcing himself to slow his movement and follow her cues.

  Slow down, he cautioned himself. Don’t rush. She felt too right to hurry, tasted too good—tequila and high hopes and sweet, seductive temptation.

  He hadn’t struggled with his self-control this badly since he was an awkward teenager with a bad haircut and crooked teeth. His confidence had grown with his fame, and now it should be at its peak—so why this sudden reversion to his jittery adolescent self?

  Because Eva intimidated him, that’s why, and it had been at least ten years since any woman had.

  He’d dated women who were smart. He’d dated women who were beautiful. He’d dated women who didn’t fall for him right away, whose interest he had to work for. He’d dated women who were all of the above. None of them made his hands shake and his heart race like Eva.

  He broke the kiss in an attempt to steady himself, to draw some air, calm his nerves and start over. He smiled at her, trying to communicate the charm and self-assurance he was working to pull together, enjoying the way her lids rolled open sleepily above her pouted lips.

  Then one of the other dancers bumped into her, and ice-cold clarity shone in her wide eyes.

  “Oh my God.” She jerked away from him, frantically glancing around. “What if someone saw us?”

  Well, that didn’t help his ego. “What if they did?”

  “Olivia was worried that these two girls were… We have to go.”

  She turned to leave but he caught her hand and pulled her back. “Eva, it’s okay. We’re two single adults. We didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “Let’s go,” she reiterated through clenched teeth, snatching her hand out of his so she could use it to grab his shirtsleeve and tug him toward the exit.

  “You’re overreacting,” he called, but his words were lost in the music as he allowed her to drag him out of the club.

  Paparazzi ca
meras started flashing the instant they hit the doorway—clearly word of the team’s night out had made it to the local press. He was unfazed, and took a moment to stand still and pose for their pictures, having learned that the best way to deal with the press was to give them what they want and keep them from wanting more.

  By the time the paps had shot their fill and were checking the digital screens on the cameras to see what they’d gotten, Eva was gesturing impatiently for him to join her in the taxi parked against the curb. He slid into the backseat beside her and shut the door.

  She slapped her hands over her eyes and leaned back as the car pulled into traffic. “I cannot believe we did that. I am older than old enough to know better.”

  “It’s really not a big deal,” he muttered, feeling more bruised with every word out of her mouth.

  “Easy for you to say,” she replied bitterly. “No one’s going to fire you for—”

  “Hey,” the taxi driver interrupted in Spanish, glancing at them in the rearview mirror. “Aren’t you Rio Vidal?”

  He and Eva exchanged knowing glances, and after a few pleasantries with the driver they fell into careful silence.

  Rio stared out the window, but instead of the cityscape he saw Eva sitting with Olivia and Leah in the back room, how seamlessly she seemed to fit in with them. No one would’ve guessed she wasn’t a player’s girlfriend—she was certainly pretty enough, and had all the poise and charm of the stereotypical soccer spouse.

  When he encouraged her to join the conversation with the other women he’d been trying to give her a break, to show that he wasn’t totally dependent on her and give her a chance to be a real part of the social side of life at Skyline, not just his paid hanger-on.

  At first he was disappointed that she wanted to leave, wondering if his plan had backfired, but then she’d joined him on the dance floor and, oh, God, had he seen a new side to this already complex woman.

  What she lacked in instruction she made up for in unbelievably sexy instinct. Eva always seemed so cautious, so considered, and he always had the sense that she was only saying about ten percent of what she was thinking. But every one of her barriers disintegrated as she danced with him. She moved, reacted, became totally unencumbered, and it was one of the most erotic experiences of his life.

  He looked at her across the space between them. She stared out the window, brow furrowed. He wanted to hold her hand. He wanted to tell her she could trust him.

  “You said it was a mistake,” he ventured, aware of the driver’s listening ears. “Did you mean that personally or professionally?”

  She frowned at him, shaking her head to show she didn’t understand.

  He cleared his throat. “Is it your job, or is it me?”

  “Rio,” she murmured, her eyes softening. “It’s not you. If circumstances were different… You know what I mean.”

  “That makes it worse.” He managed a tight smile.

  “I know. I’m sorry.”

  He exhaled, glanced through the windscreen at a long line of red stoplights, then turned back to her. “Is it actually in your contract? That you can’t?”

  “Not in writing, no. But ethically…” She shrugged.

  “Because Nico was telling me that Roland met his wife when she was in the marketing department at—”

  “I know. But that’s different.”

  “How?”

  “It just is.”

  “How?” he repeated.

  “Because that’s them and this is us.”

  “Don’t speak in riddles.”

  She nodded toward the driver.

  He rolled his eyes. “Not good enough.”

  “What do you want me to tell you?”

  “The real reason.”

  She stared at him, a series of fleeting, ambiguous emotions shaping her features.

  He held her gaze, waiting for an answer.

  “Here we are,” the driver announced, pulling into the hotel’s semi-circular driveway.

  She said nothing as Rio paid the fare and posed for a selfie with the driver. They crossed the lobby in silence that followed them into the elevator. Eva offered no opinion when he didn’t press the number for his floor and got off with her, walking beside her as she crossed the quiet, carpeted hallway to her room.

  “This is me,” she told him finally, stopping in front of a door. She crossed her arms, which he took as an unsurprising signal that he wasn’t invited inside.

  “You haven’t answered my question.”

  “Which is?”

  “Why you keep running from what’s happening between us.”

  She raised her chin defiantly. “I’m not running.”

  “You are. You’re hiding behind your job when you know it isn’t the problem.”

  “Not everyone is a million-dollar athlete, Rio. For some of us, work is the difference between eating and—”

  He silenced her with a finger on her lips. “Believe me, I know. I also know that as long as my performance on the pitch doesn’t decline, Roland doesn’t give a shit who I sleep with. If anything, being with me makes you indispensable.”

  She blinked. Had that genuinely not occurred to her, or was she surprised he’d put it together?

  “Tell me why.” He smoothed his thumb over her lips, moved his hand to cradle her hip.

  Her gaze lingered on his mouth before rising to meet his eyes. In the quiet hallway he could hear her short, sharp breaths. He pressed closer, hardening as the rapid rise and fall of her breasts brushed his chest.

  He leaned in, bringing his lips to her temple. “Remember we talked about the cueca?”

  “The dance?” Her voice was husky, like the words were rushing out of her throat.

  “Did I tell you want kind of dance it is?”

  She shook her head.

  He closed his eyes, breathing in the scent of her hair.

  “It’s a courting dance. And I know every step.”

  Her hands flew to his arms, just above his elbows, and she squeezed his biceps as she pressed her face into his sternum. He felt her eyelashes fluttering against the skin at the base of his throat and he raised his hand to cup her cheek but just as quickly as she grabbed him she let go.

  “Goodnight, Rio,” she told him firmly, spinning out of his grip and shoving the magnetic card into the lock.

  The door slammed in his face.

  “Goodnight, Eva,” he told the indifferent wood. Then he headed back to the elevator, more confused—and more besotted—than ever.

  Chapter 9

  “I have bad news and worse news.” Eva dumped the laundry basket full of soccer balls beside Rio’s already massive pile. “One of the publicity assistants found these in the storeroom. They all need to be signed as well.”

  He capped the black marker pen and shook out his right hand. “What’s the worse news?”

  “There are two more baskets after this one.”

  Rio groaned as he shifted his position on the floor, tugging the basket of unsigned balls to his left side, with the heap of signed ones on his right.

  She took a seat on the floor beside him and looked around the gym, where the members of Skyline’s first team had developed a circuit-style solution to signing fifty soccer balls for tomorrow’s event. Each player signed a pile of balls until they were done, then moved on to the pile their teammate had just finished.

  It seemed like a sensible approach, but then it turned out someone on the events team had accidentally confirmed almost three times as many kids for the Junior Skyline rally. Accusations were hurled, additional balls were purchased, and at eight o’clock on a Thursday night the eleven players were only halfway through their signing frenzy.

  “Someone’s going to get fired over this,” she murmured to Rio, noting the players’ scowls and the terse conversations happening in the hallway outside.

  “These things happen,” he replied distractedly. His genial dismissal belied the d
ark shadows beneath his eyes. He was exhausted, and it showed in every line of his body.

  She pulled up her knees and propped her chin on her hand. She was worried about him. He hadn’t been himself since they got back from Tucson on Sunday, and she knew it was at least partially her fault. What she didn’t know was how to fix it.

  They hadn’t talked about what happened on Saturday night. They hadn’t talked about much of anything, in fact. Despite Roland’s admonitions Rio trained harder than ever, swearing her to secrecy about the early-morning runs around Buckhead and late-night sessions in his home gym. She wanted to chide him, but felt she’d lost that privilege after her behavior in Tucson.

  She’d lost everything, actually.

  The change in Rio was undeniable even though it had only been a few days. He was as polite and affable as ever, but his withdrawal from her was palpable. He was slow to smile, quick to look away. He answered her small-talk questions but didn’t ask any in return. And when their gazes met she saw only distance and detachment—none of the simmering hunger she’d grown used to catching in his brown eyes.

  He was such a good, sincere man, and she’d wounded him. Pulled him in and then pushed him away, like the worst kind of manipulator.

  Except manipulators knew what they were doing, she thought gloomily, whereas she’d gone from confident and in-control to not knowing how she’d feel from one hour to the next.

  “Can you believe it?” Laurent called out, stretching his arms over his head. “Over a hundred balls and they couldn’t find any bigger than mine.”

  The tension in the room eased as the players chuckled at Laurent’s joke.

  “I’m handling so many balls, it’s like a day in the life of Laurent’s mom,” Nico countered, and the laughter grew louder.

  Eva watched Rio smile softly, glancing between his teammates, aware they were joking with each other but unable to join in.

  Her heart clenched. She hated to see his isolation.