by Joanne Rock
That, in turn, made it look like his focus wasn’t on his game. The Scrapers’ manager had called him in for a meeting about it after the All-Star break, grilling him about his level of commitment to the team. To making the playoffs.
And damn, did that tick him off. If you ignored the press, you were labeled as inaccessible and not a “team player.” But if you attracted too much notice, you were a media hog.
“Can I get you anything else?”
The waitress returned to his end of the coffeehouse, her dark pantsuit a staple of the employees.
But she wasn’t the same waitress he’d had earlier. Her throaty voice wasn’t the same chipper soprano that had greeted him at five this morning and her perfume was subtle but distinct to a man who noticed that kind of thing. In fact, it was the appeal of her scent that pulled his nose out of the PR report he’d been reviewing.
Petite and brunette, the woman now holding the espresso carafe was drop-dead gorgeous if you were into the sexpot type. Which Lance wasn’t. Especially not when he planned to quit dating until after the postseason.
“No, thank you. That’ll do it.” He withdrew his wallet and dropped a few bills on the table, realizing the brew house had grown far more crowded since he’d entered. Maintaining a low profile wasn’t easy for a player in the city that never slept, but Lance worked hard to avoid heavy traffic times at establishments like this in order to stay out of the papers.
In order to live down his undeserved reputation as some kind of lothario and direct attention back to his career.
“You sure are cute,” the waitress observed, setting the espresso carafe on the table before looking over her shoulder. As if confident no one was close enough to overhear her, she leaned down to speak more softly. “How come there are never any good-looking, normal guys like you sitting alone in a coffee shop whenever I go out?”
Lance grinned because, even though he was swearing off dating, what guy didn’t enjoy open flirtation with an attractive woman? Especially one who viewed him as a “normal guy” and not a target on some enterprising woman’s list of most eligible bachelors. Her shoulder-length dark hair slid down to fall alongside them, curtaining them in privacy for a moment. He noticed her gold name tag read Jamie.
“I don’t know.” He folded his wallet and shoved it in his jacket pocket. “How come I never run into any nice girls who smell as good as you do when I’m in the market for a date?”
She nodded as if she understood completely. Her eyes betrayed no hint of recognition that he was a baseball player or anyone who looked vaguely familiar, and he couldn’t help but enjoy the anonymity of the encounter. Too often, women hit on him because of who he was.
The only reason he’d gotten a reputation as a playboy was because he sucked at recognizing the women who were only after his checkbook until he’d been out with them a few times. And why should he keep dating that kind of person just to clear his name in the press as someone who couldn’t maintain a relationship?
“I guess we’re victims of bad timing.” Her smile glittered with old-school lip gloss that looked good enough to eat, and underneath the sheen was a pair of lips that could have been an advertisement for collagen injections.
Women would pay big bucks for the pouty, bee-stung mouth she sported naturally. Not that he was mentally making plans for those lips or anything. Just a casual observation.
“My friends say it’s that I hit on all the wrong women.” Standing, he pulled on a cap with the name of an NFL team to throw off people who might recognize him.
The sexy server, Jamie, clutched her chest, her black V-neck blouse framing a soft swell of cleavage and a gold necklace with the initials JM.
“Are your friends in league with mine? My traitorous crew says I’m a magnet for man trouble.”
“Good thing I didn’t just hit on you, Jamie M, or I’d be mighty offended.” He meant to walk out on that note, but something about the brimming good humor in her big brown eyes kept him rooted to the spot.
She looked at him like they shared a secret and he looked at her like—he couldn’t stop. Damn, but he’d missed that feeling. That genuine spark that flared between two people for no discernable reason, the invisible electricity that crackled when your brain read a hundred pleasing signals in someone else and—though you haven’t had time to process them yet—your mind won’t let you walk away without more careful consideration.
Her hand went to her necklace as if she’d forgotten it was there, her eyes never leaving his while they stood together in the back room of the restaurant where a few tables surrounded a fireplace.
From the corner of his eye, Lance spied movement in the short hall that connected the room to the rest of the establishment and he figured he’d better hit the closest exit. It was past 7:00 a.m. and the commuter crowd was out in full force judging by the noise.
He nodded a goodbye that was probably unnecessary, but the movement in the hallway grew loud and bright before he took two steps back. A flood lamp on wheels drenched the room in light. A small camera crew followed shortly behind it.
For a moment, Lance wondered why the media would be hounding him around his home since he hadn’t done anything unusual lately to spark extra interest. Sure, maybe some chick magazine would stake out his place to see where he went at night and if the city’s eligible bachelor had a date, but why a TV camera at seven in the morning?
But then, he became aware of the hot waitress yelling at the cameraman, waving the espresso pot in a threatening gesture.
“Do you have to follow me everywhere?” She gripped the pole for the flood lamp and swiveled it away from them, effectively wrecking the footage. “I’m doing this for charity, pinheads, not to finance your next trip to Fiji. So you can take your little money-hungry selves and—”
“Hey, Jamie,” a guy shouted from behind the camera while Lance tried to blink the spots from his vision. “Are you seeing Lance Montero now?”
Uh-oh.
He’d been recognized. And if he was reading the signs correctly, apparently his waitress was no stranger to the media. In fact, judging by the relationship she seemed to have with the camera crew, he suspected she wasn’t just your average waitress, either.
“Who?” She turned on him, some of her spunky anger for the paparazzi coming at him now, her lips pursed in a tight frown.
Before Lance could answer, a coffee shop patron wearing a Scrapers hat stood up and waved a cell phone at the guy behind the camera.
“I’ve got the whole thing on my video phone. These two just met a minute ago.”
Lance’s jaw dropped at the string of bad luck. He’d wanted to quit dating to keep his romantic life on the down low, and in short order, he’d flirted with a woman who was some sort of media target, and he’d been caught on tape by a TV crew and some bozo who would probably post the video on YouTube before Lance got home.
The throng started firing questions at the waitress, and she arced her arm back like she was seriously considering firing the espresso carafe at one of the reporters’ heads.
Crap.
Knowing he was going to look like a damn deer in headlights on the highlight reel, Lance plotted damage control. Grabbing Jamie M by the hand, he pulled her toward the fire exit in the back and left the crowd behind.
“WHO THE HELL ARE YOU?”
Jamie had trotted out better lines than that one in the past when she’d met a cute guy, but she wasn’t terribly concerned about what this man thought of her since he’d just hijacked her from her latest goodwill publicity stunt intended to clean up her trashed reputation. Who was he?
Someone had blurted out the name Lance Montero at the diner, but it didn’t mean much to her.
“I might ask you the same question.”
The hottie who had been flirting with her moments ago now steered her down the street with his big, gorgeous body, never asking her where she’d like to go. He’d slung a possessive arm around her at some point, and navigated through the gross back all
ey that smelled like refuse to pause at the side door of some major high rise. He reached for the knob as if to escort her inside.
“I don’t think so.” She dug in the heels of her three-inch wedge espadrilles—metaphorically speaking, since the pavement didn’t come close to giving way under her feet.
“You don’t think I’m entitled to know who you are?” He hauled open the door with one hand and tugged a security card out of his wallet with the other one, as if he anticipated more doors to open.
“I think you’re not entitled to corral me into some unknown building just because I let you escort me out of the diner.”
The man was incredibly good-looking with his close-cropped dark hair and melted chocolate-brown eyes. He was tall and buff, a fact she knew from being sheltered under his arm when he’d rushed her out of the coffeehouse. He dressed like some kind of Wall Street executive with an expensive silk suit and a shirt she’d bet was custom made, but his tie was aquamarine and yellow—an artsy statement for a financial dude. Maybe Lance Montero was the new Donald Trump.
Not that she was in the market for a guy with big bucks. In her experience, men with money often came with an inflated sense that the world was theirs for the taking.
“I thought I was helping you out back there.” He relinquished the door and peered over his shoulder, as if he expected the camera crew to come chasing them down the narrow side street.
“Hardly. I’m trying to raise money for charity.” Who was this guy that he could be so oblivious? Maybe he’d had his nose buried in a newspaper when he walked in the coffee shop that morning. “Didn’t you see the signs all over the java place advertising the celebrity fundraiser?”
Ever since her divorce, she’d become one of the most recognizable women in the country thanks to her ex’s efforts to paint her as a spoiled socialite. And admittedly, a small bout of bad behavior on her part. But she’d been in an unhappy place during her divorce. She still found it difficult to scrounge up much regret for the catfight she’d landed in with her ex’s skanky chick on the side.
Of course, she’d regret it even less if it hadn’t been caught on video by someone in the crowd. And if that person hadn’t posted it online. And most especially, if her halter top had remained in place throughout the minibrawl. Her bare boobs had an embarrassingly high hit count.
Yet it seemed like the GQ-worthy stud in front of her had no clue who she was despite her notoriety. Then again, she’d only been famous because of her mega-bucks family prior to her marriage, despite her best attempts to distance herself from being billed as an oil heiress. Who wanted to be known for the environment-destroying wealth buried under your granddaddy’s corn field? It was ludicrous. Her attempts at launching a career as a folk singer often got lost in favor of her family name.
And because of her occasional lapses in good behavior.
Now she’d fallen into a brand-new drama with someone else whose celebrity would drag her into the spotlight for the wrong reasons.
He frowned.
“I went in through the back—the same way we left. I usually try to avoid the morning rush.” He smoothed his tie and adjusted the newspaper under his arm, the same one he’d been reading in the restaurant. The journal had been folded to the sports section, with a photo from a baseball game peeking out from behind his elbow.
“Well, I made a commitment to work at the event today and I can’t back out just because some of the more irritating members of the media hoped I would stir up trouble.” Did they really think she’d get into a knockdown, drag-out fight at a fundraising event?
She retreated a step, ignoring the vibrating cell phone in her back pocket. No doubt someone had ratted her out to her agent who would be ticked off about her hasty exit from the charity gig.
“The media thought you would stir up trouble,” he parroted back at her, his expression morphing to thinly veiled disapproval instead of the normal curiosity or interest that usually came when people found out they were speaking to a celebrity. “Jamie M. That must stand for—”
“McRae.” She thrust out a hand and shook his before he offered it. “Jamie McRae. Nice to meet you, Mr. Enigmatic.”
His expression shifted again, this time moving from the earlier disapproval to something she’d categorize as vague horror.
“You’re that big music producer’s wife. The one who got in the catfight and lost her top.”
“I didn’t lose it. It was forcefully yanked from my body by a woman who hates my guts. And I’m the music producer’s ex-wife, by the way.” She thought the whole world knew about her well-publicized split. But maybe some people had missed the details in favor of the more exciting headline that she’d exposed a nipple in a ritzy Hollywood bar.
Before Lance could explain why he was staring at her as if she was his worst nightmare, she heard the oncoming rush of feet and voices, a sure sign their alone time was over.
Whipping the newspaper out from under his arm, he handed it to her.
“Then we’re screwed.”
The page featured a face shot of the man in front of her along with a picture of him sliding into home plate, his fist raised in the air victoriously. It was no game in a men’s Over-Thirty League. This was big time. The majors. The guy was wearing a New York Scrapers uniform with the trademark Empire State Building silhouette and Manhattan skyline.
She had been caught on film flirting with one of New York’s favorite sons, the legendary playmaker Lance Montero.
A name anyone else in the city would have known immediately, but as a recent L.A. transplant, Jamie had been slow on the uptake. There had been a time when she wouldn’t have minded a little harmless flirtation to encourage her husband to pay attention to her. But that was before she learned he’d lavished all his attention on other women instead of work, as he’d claimed.
He yanked the paper back. “You’re about to have your past splashed all over the headlines and I’m—” He scowled. “I’ll be written off yet again as the playboy ladies’ man who spends more time playing the field than—er—playing the field.”
He didn’t need to explain it. The consequences were crystal clear to her. She was about to have a media nightmare reprised and she had no doubt that he’d be raked over the coals for dating someone like her—someone with a reputation for speaking her mind in the press.
“Take cover,” she warned him, shoving his big, sexy body toward his building. “I’ll deal with the fallout since I’ve got to resurface over there anyhow.”
Tucking the newspaper into her purse, she searched her brain for how to spin the encounter for the media as the first camera appeared around a corner. She’d developed a bit of a knack for this crap over the last six months.
“If you’re sure—” His chocolate-brown eyes shuttered at the arrival of the invading lenses and she knew a moment’s regret that they’d met under such crappy circumstances.
Then she remembered that he was definitely the wrong type of guy for her. Wealthy beyond imagining. A media favorite. And if memory served—a confirmed heartbreaker.
“Positive.” With one last push to his shoulder, she finally succeeded in budging him. Or maybe he simply acquiesced.
Either way, she was alone by the time the press arrived in full force to barrage her with questions. And withdrawing her favorite leopard-print umbrella from her purse, she popped it open and took cover behind the nylon. Then, cruising through the streets like a ship at full sail, she navigated her way through the worst of it the way she’d plowed through so much other garbage ever since she’d become a notorious woman.
Although her methods were slick and savvy, her public veneer as tough as ever, Jamie couldn’t help but mourn the loss of a private life. Especially on a day when she’d crossed paths with the most intriguing man she’d met in a long, long time.
2
WHAT A WOMAN.
Lance couldn’t get Jamie out of his mind that night as he reached for a fresh bat before his turn in the on-deck circle. He hadn
’t been able to resist a glance out the tinted windows of his building at her after he’d left her to fend for herself with the media hounds. He’d half regretted leaving her there all alone even though she’d seemed desperate for him to get lost. But any worries he’d had about her had vanished when he’d seen that umbrella snap open, cocooning her in leopard-print privacy.
No doubt about it, she was a pro at dealing with the press.
As the crowd at Scrapers Stadium cheered for a hit by the lead-off batter, Lance grinned all over again at the memory of the way Jamie had run full tilt through the paparazzi before they could pen her in with microphones and questions. Her moves were sweeter than an NFL running back as she’d dodged hits from every side, finding the holes in the defense to make it up field. He’d been cheering her progress all the way back to the coffee shop.
Of course, he’d been less pleased when he returned to his penthouse apartment to already find an e-mail from his publicist with a link to the online video of his morning flirtation with Jamie. He’d watched the video and instead of being embarrassed by the encounter he’d been taken in by her sexy grin all over again. But that link had been accompanied by a slew of other video snippets. Some were amusing enough, like the time the Texas oil heiress hitchhiked across the Lone Star State with a camcorder and a mission to uncover more “green” energy options, much to the irritation of her father.
But the video with the most links and the most hype appeared to be the wrestling match with her ex-husband’s girlfriend—a recording he didn’t watch out of respect for her. Beyond that, there seemed to be a whole list of film bites alluding to impulsive behavior, but he could read between the lines enough to see they were amateur bits probably filmed by people trying to aggravate her into losing her cool. At the bottom of all that, he found a few videos for music she’d written to benefit a variety of environmental causes. He’d had to dig to find those, however, since her personal life seemed to overshadow the rest. She actually had a great voice.
