Screwball

by Linda Morris

  “All right, all right, I give.” He dropped the hose and lifted his hands like a bank robber coming out in front of a SWAT team. “You got me.”

  “That’s what you get for taking me unaware.”

  In line, a woman crossed her arms and gave her an annoyed look.

  “We’d better be moving on. I think we’re hogging the showers.”

  “You go ahead if you’re done. I’m not finished.”

  “That’s because you wasted too much time trying to hose me down,” she said with a laugh. She playfully flicked him with water, and he feinted with the hose, but she dodged before he could get her again. “I’m out of here.”

  “Chicken.”

  She waved him off and ducked under the tubing framework, edging down the side of the platform to descend the short flight of stairs to the ground. She’d made it only a few steps, intent on reuniting with Kendra and Jack in the spectators area, when a hand on her arm stopped her. Her heart hammered until she saw it was only Paul.

  “What the hell kind of game are you trying to play?”

  She got a good look at his face, and her heart started hammering again. The man was pissed. At her, apparently. “Excuse me?”

  This area behind the shower platform was semi-secluded, up against a little copse of trees, but they were by no means in private. The dark look on his face kicked her heart into a thudding rhythm. Among the hundred thoughts screaming through her head was disbelief that the ever-controlled Paul Dudley might make a scene where someone else could see.

  “What the hell is with you? I’ve tried everything to get through to you, and you want nothing to do with me, except when you do. You blow hot and cold like nobody I’ve ever seen. At the diner that day, I thought I was finally getting through to you. Yet, here you are, all over Alex like he’s your boyfriend or something. I try to help you, and you give me the cold shoulder. A minute later, you’re taking help from him and hosing him down like something out of a porn movie.”

  “But I—what?” She stopped. Had he gone mad?

  “Hell, I don’t know what women are thinking most of the time. I have that in common with the rest of my gender. But I can also tell when a woman wants nothing to do with me and when a woman can’t make up her damn mind. You have all the earmarks of the latter, but you’re snuggling up to Alex every chance you get. What is it about that clown you find so fascinating, anyway?” Those eyes of his had gone dark, and she couldn’t look away in spite of her rising irritation.

  She jerked her arm from his grip. “Maybe what I find fascinating is he doesn’t yell at me and try to tell me what to do. He’s nice to me.”

  “I would like nothing more than to be very, very nice to you.” His voice, low and rough, left no doubt about what he had in mind. “The trouble is, you won’t let me. Maybe it’s time for me to stop being nice.” Before she could ask what that meant, he stepped in and leaned down to take her mouth in a kiss, catching her with her lips parted in surprise.

  She was off guard and he took every advantage, sliding his tongue in to meet hers and moving his strong hands around her ribs. He was wet and warm and strong, and her body responded helplessly, her hands moving up his chest to curl around the solid column of his neck. This was the Paul she remembered, passionate and giving, unable to tear himself away from her.

  Sure of what he wanted—her—and unwilling to let her go.

  The pressure of his mouth on hers set off a thousand shocks in her body. So many emotions surged through her, she couldn’t sort them out, but one kept bobbing to the top like an apple in a barrel: pleasure. The pleasure of his calloused hands slipping under her shirt and sliding across the soft skin of her sides, the heat and warmth of his mouth, gentle and mastering by turns, the wet-silk feel of his hair under her fingertips. A fireball erupted in her stomach and spread to every part of her.

  The sounds of reality faded away, and she forgot where she was. Forgot why she shouldn’t be doing this, and forgot every complication that made this situation with Paul untenable. Nothing was complicated at all.

  In fact, everything was simple. The rightness of him in her arms trumped every logical argument. This felt so right, everything else she’d thought about Paul—all her doubts, fears, and insecurities—had to be wrong.

  It was right until he pulled away, his breathing a hard rasp. “We’re not done. I’ll see you at the after-party. We have some things to talk about, you and me.”

  She watched him walk away, unable to respond.

  They had some things to talk about, all right. More than he could possibly imagine.

  *

  Willow ate her third stuffed mushroom of the day and tried to look inconspicuous, which was pretty much impossible, because everyone at Paul’s house but her had known one another from birth, with the exception of a couple of Thrashers players who had participated in the mud run and swung by for the after-party. Alex had decided to skip the event. “I don’t think he wants me there,” he’d said with a wink. With Paul off playing host, she was left alone. The curious gazes of the other partygoers made her shift and wonder what to do with her hands. She eyed the tray of mushrooms again. No, she’d be sick if she had another. Her stomach still hadn’t fully recovered from the punishment of a pounding run.

  Instead, she forced herself to mingle, chatting with guests, being introduced to various people, but mostly looking around Paul’s home, trying to find more clues to the mystery man. Despite his promise—or threat—of continued conversation, she’d barely laid eyes on him since she’d arrived.

  She suspected Paul’s house, made of gray stone, had probably been built in the nineteen twenties. It had a large porch with a swing out front and trellises laden with clematis and wisteria. Old-fashioned, in its way. That fit. Paul was in many ways a traditional man, sometimes bound by convention to his role in his family’s legacy.

  There were modern touches too: a sleek kitchen that had recently been renovated with new appliances and a den with a flat-screen TV on the wall and an impressive-looking computer setup. Photographs lined the hallways: many of Thrashers players past and present, but some of Paul with his sister. A few of his mom, whom Tracy had explained had died when he was a teenager.

  Precious few of the photos contained his father.

  She hadn’t had a chance to meet the elder Dudley at the mud run, but she’d been briefly introduced to him a few minutes ago as he held court among several older Thrashers sponsors and fans on the stone patio out back. He’d shaken her hand and greeted her civilly enough, but she hadn’t missed the head-to-toe appraisal he’d given her disheveled appearance, or the clear disapproval he couldn’t hide.

  Either that, or he didn’t care to hide it.

  After a moment, he’d made his excuses and headed inside, to her relief. She needed to talk to him, but she’d prefer to do it when she looked a little better and wasn’t still reeling from a bone-melting kiss. Walter Dudley made you want every bit of armor in place before you jousted with him.

  She needed to find a restroom and spruce up a little more before she interviewed Sarah. She spotted Tracy and flagged her down to ask her for directions to the restroom.

  “Down the hall and to the left.”

  “Thanks. Hey, I didn’t see you at the run. I thought you were going to participate too.”

  “I did,” Tracy said.

  Willow ran an eye down her clean outfit, neatly styled hair and unmarked skin. If she squinted just right, she could see a half-smeared tiny streak of mud on one of the other girl’s forearms. “Uh-huh.” Clearly Tracy was on some other, higher level of mud-runner from mere mortals like her.

  She found the bathroom occupied, with two people in line outside. “I think there’s another upstairs,” one girl offered. “At the end of the hall.”

  “Thanks.” At the top of the stairs, she turned and went down the hallway past a series of closed doors. The bathroom door stood open. As she approached, a raised voice came from behind one of the closed doors.


  “Support me? Since when have you ever supported me?” Ringing with hurt, the voice was unmistakable: It was Sarah Dudley’s.

  She froze, painfully aware she had blundered into a private conversation. Who was she talking to? Paul? As badly as she wanted to know what was going on with the Dudleys, she couldn’t snoop at the door like a common eavesdropper. No matter how tempting it was.

  It was very tempting.

  With a shake of her head, she passed the closed door just in time to hear an older man’s voice respond.

  “I can’t help you ruin your life, Sarah. If you want to marry him, you’ll do it without my support. I won’t take part in your wedding.”

  “Dad, how many times do I have to prove to you I’m an adult? You can’t control what I do anymore.”

  “I’m not trying to control you—”

  “The hell you aren’t.” Her voice cut in like a buzz saw. “This is about nothing except control.”

  Her father murmured something softer, conciliatory, but Willow didn’t hear it. She slipped into the bathroom, flicked on the overhead light, and pulled the door shut behind her.

  Holy crap. Apparently the Dudley dysfunction ran deeper than she’d ever expected. That sounded an awful lot like the elder Dudley was refusing to walk his daughter down the aisle because he didn’t approve of her groom. It put her own hassles with her mom in perspective. Many parents would have freaked out at a daughter choosing to go through with childbirth and raise a child on her own.

  She couldn’t say hers had been thrilled, but they’d helped her every step of the way once they’d gotten over their shock.

  Willow washed her face, hands and arms and then used a fluffy towel to squeeze the extra moisture from her hair. With the hairbrush, powder and lip balm from her backpack, she soon restored a semblance of order, all the while thinking about what she’d heard.

  Obviously Walter Dudley ruled the family with an iron hand, or tried to. Sarah Dudley seemed to be having none of it, which Willow respected. How did Paul respond to it? He’d apparently gone up against his father to get her permission to ride the team bus, but how big a deal was that, really? Apparently he’d been willing to stand aside and let his sister be railroaded out of her share of the Dudley legacy.

  Damn her for getting emotionally involved with a story. If she’d never laid eyes—or anything else—on Paul Dudley before this story, she’d be able to evaluate this objectively, instead of wondering whether she was being too hard on Paul and then fearing maybe she was making too many excuses for him. That searing kiss they’d just shared didn’t make things any easier. She needed to stay far away from him while she finished her profile. Only when she’d finished her job and told him the truth about Jack could she see whether there was anything between them worth holding on to.

  In the meantime, she had a job to do. She eased the bathroom door open and was met with silence. The door to the room where Sarah had been arguing with her father stood ajar.

  Unable to help herself, she peered inside the room, a small study lined with bookshelves. A beam of sunlight set the fronds of a hanging fern alight, but dimness cloaked the rest of the room.

  “Come on in.” Paul’s voice made her start.

  She hadn’t noticed him sitting behind a cherry desk in a far corner. She moved into the room, looking at the titles on the nearest shelf. Hmmm. Lots of Hemingway. Too macho for her taste. She spotted a copy of Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas next to a Raymond Chandler mystery. Oh well. He couldn’t be all bad, then.

  “I suppose you heard all that.”

  She didn’t see any point in denying it. “I’m sorry. I did. It was an accident, though. I was on my way to use the restroom to tidy up a bit.”

  He leaned forward, and the beam of light caught his hair, turning it to burnished gold. “A bad use of your time. You looked beautiful even when you were covered in mud.”

  She blushed, her head ducking. “Thanks.” It wasn’t true, but it was kind of him to say so. “Your dad doesn’t approve of Sarah marrying Tom?”

  “That’s putting it mildly.”

  “I suppose he does have a bit of a playboy rep.”

  “True, but he loves my sister. Enough to change, I think.”

  “Love can do that to people, I suppose,” she said softly.

  He met her eyes but didn’t respond.

  “Were you surprised at your dad’s attitude?”

  “Surprised? No. Nothing my dad says or does surprises me anymore.” He pressed his lips together, and she could tell he wished he hadn’t been quite so honest.

  For her part, she was fascinated. He was so quiet, so closed off, so damn discreet, she loved him blurting out the truth for once. Not because it made her job as a reporter easier, but because she really wanted to know him, and he made it so difficult.

  “Why does your dad think he can control your sister’s marriage?”

  He smiled without mirth. “There isn’t much my dad doesn’t try to control.”

  “Including you?” Sometimes, you had to throw down the challenge and see what the other person did with it.

  The ghost of a half smile disappeared. “My father owns this team. That gives him a say.”

  “I didn’t ask about the team. I asked about you.” She took a step toward him and leaned over his desk. “Does your father own you?”

  “I think you know the answer to that question, so I can’t imagine why you’re asking it, unless you just want to get a rise out of me.” That beautifully shaped mouth quirked again. “Then again, you do excel at that.” He rose suddenly, coming around the desk like a cat stalking prey, and she drew back. He’d showered and changed into a snug T-shirt and a pair of cargo shorts. The lines of his biceps were visible through his sleeves and made her mouth water. As he neared, her breath suddenly came short. Her skin was on fire, every nerve ending suddenly alive and open, waiting for his touch.

  He passed her by, but only to shut the door. He leaned against the closed door and watched her. “Come here.”

  She ought to tell him no, ought to tell him to get the hell out of her way. She had a job to do.

  She wasn’t going to. The fresh memories of their kiss at the mud run rose up sharp and clear in her mind. Oh, he tempted her, and it was a wonderful, miserable, glorious thing.

  She obeyed his wish, coming closer and closer until her belly nearly brushed against his. He lifted one hand and she braced for the touch, but he simply ran it through her hair, rubbing the tresses between his fingertips. He brought his hand to his lips, kissing the soft waves. “You have the most beautiful hair I’ve ever seen. So many nights, after that night on the beach, I thought about it. Even when it had been months since I saw you, and the memory of your face had started to dim, I couldn’t forget this gorgeous hair.”

  “You thought about me for months?”

  “I did.” He brushed her hair behind her shoulders, using both hands now. “Did you ever think of me?”

  “Often.” Her voice came out husky and low. She’d thought of him much more often than he would believe. Of course, she’d had a daily reminder of him in the form of Jack.

  “When you walked into my office a few weeks ago, I thought I was the luckiest son of a bitch on the planet. When most people let something good walk away from them, they don’t get a second chance.”

  “That’s how you saw me? As a second chance?” Her emotions had been such a tangle, she’d scarcely thought about his.

  “I did. You said it was a mistake.” Without warning, he slid his arms around the small of her back and pulled her tight against him, letting her feel the heat of his body. The gesture made her stomach tighten.

  “I was confused. I didn’t know what to think.” Kind of like now. Confusion seemed to be her permanent state of mind around Paul Dudley.

  “Maybe that’s our problem. We’ve been thinking too much. Our brains seem to screw everything up. Maybe if we let our bodies handle things for a while, we’ll get along better.” He move
d his hands lower, to cup her butt strongly through the soft fabric of her shorts.

  She raised a brow. “That’s one of the cheesiest lines I’ve ever heard.” Regardless, she had a little trouble talking through her breathlessness.

  “Thanks. I’m proud of it, actually.” With one hand, he slipped the waist of her running shorts past her hips and used the other to rub the apex of her thighs through her underwear.

  “Oh, God.” Her knees went weak, and she let her body sag against his. He caught her effortlessly and turned with her, swapping positions so she was braced against the door. He stripped her shorts and underwear off of her ruthlessly, and the cool air against her skin momentarily restored sanity.

  “Wait. I’m not on any birth control.” That was one mistake she wouldn’t be making again soon.

  “That’s okay. Not necessary for what I have in mind.”

  Before she could ask what that meant, exactly, he sank to his knees, stroking her thighs with his calloused hands. His touch raised goose bumps, and her hand drifted down to brush his close-cropped head.

  She leaned against the door, grateful for the support for her weakening knees. He stroked her soft thighs apart, and she complied, her muscles feeling like jelly. Moments ago, her legs had been sore from the workout, but his touch made her forget her pain. His breath stirred the dark hair at the apex of her thighs, and she bit her lip. He moved in slowly, giving her time to anticipate the heat and moisture of his mouth.

  Too much time.

  “Would you get on with it already?” The stroke of her hand on his head turned into a gentle push, and the vibration of his laughter reverberated deep in her chest.

  “Yes, ma’am. Shouldn’t keep a lady waiting.”

  Heat skyrocketed through her as he leaned in to taste her, moving his tongue hard across the pulsing center of sensation between her thighs. What remained of her discipline evaporated and she slumped against the door.

  He sent her over the crest of pleasure quickly with a wicked flick of his tongue. She bit the heel of her hand, but even that couldn’t quiet the sound of her moan. After a long moment, she dropped her hand to stroke his head, running her fingertips along the rim of his ear. His breath came every bit as hard as hers, his chest rising and falling against her knee.