Any Given Christmas

by Candis Terry

  “Dean, this is my very good friend, Emma Hart.” Kate slipped his hand from her waist. “Why don’t you two dance and get to know each other better?”

  Dean whispered against her ear, “Do not play matchmaker, Kate.”

  As though she didn’t hear, Kate embraced the blonde dressed in a strapless chocolate gown that hugged some pretty knockout curves. “If he’s not nice, I give you permission to sack him.”

  A smile and a wink later, Kate glided away, leaving him alone with a too-short woman who looked too intellectual, seemed much older than the models he dated, and by the lack of gold on her finger, was most likely single and man-shopping. Still, his sister would never forgive him if he didn’t display uber-politeness. He had no choice but to turn on the charm he usually reserved for the media after an opposing team had opened up a can of whoop-ass.

  As Frank Sinatra faded away, the DJ put on a country ballad. What was it with all the hokey slow dances? Dean took his cue and extended his hand. “Well, Emma, very good friend of my sister Kate, would you care to dance?”

  She looked up at him and sparks flashed deep in her unique Mediterranean-blue eyes. Lips that looked marshmallow-soft parted slightly and revealed the slightest space between her two front teeth. In an instant, studious turned to sexy and a deluge of testosterone flooded Dean’s system that he couldn’t have held back if he’d been the Hoover Dam.

  She hesitated.

  He held back a laugh.

  Like she’d really turn him down?

  She tilted her head and silky hair draped across her bare shoulder. He took that as a yes and reached for her hand.

  “Thanks.” She tucked her hand behind her back. “But no thanks.”

  Emma looked up at Deer Lick’s golden boy and found bewilderment shading his green eyes.

  He’d never been turned down before.

  Poor baby.

  In the space of a heartbeat he recovered as smoothly as the pro who commanded the football field, and he surprised her when his sensuous lips curled into a smile.

  Too bad the gesture was wasted. She didn’t plan to stick around and wait to be dazzled. She turned away from the man who was paid millions to repel gigantic ogres in gladiator garb, and who apparently possessed some kind of magic that caused women all over America to drop their panties like coins in a wishing well.

  As a bridesmaid she had duties to attend to. Especially since it appeared the maid of honor seemed a bit too tipsy to handle the task.

  Emma curled her fingers into the dupioni silk of her dress and lifted it so she wouldn’t fall on her face as she walked toward the bar in her borrowed high heels. As much as she hated to admit it, even to herself, coming face-to-face with Dean Silverthorne had rattled her composure. When he’d walked her down the aisle at the wedding, she hadn’t looked up and he hadn’t looked down. Their eyes had never met. When she’d stood on the altar, she’d focused solely on the beautiful vows being exchanged between the loving couple. But now, standing an arm’s length away with his penetrating gaze focused on her? That had been an entirely different matter.

  “Champagne, please,” she told the rent-a-bartender, who promptly popped the cork on a fresh bottle. While Emma waited for her drink, Carrie Underwood’s passionate vocals filled the room. The sweet rhythm of the music poured through Emma’s bones and she started to hum along. As she accepted the fluted glass from the bartender, she became aware of a large tuxedoed presence taking up space to her left. He leaned an elbow on the rented bar, and the luxurious scent of pricey aftershave and warm male settled over her like a seductive web.

  “So, you come here often?” The deep timbre of his voice was tinged with humor.

  Emma smiled into her glass of champagne and sipped. The bubbles tickled her nose. She looked up, a smirk still on her lips. “Actually, I do. On Wednesday nights I meet here with the ladies’ auxiliary and once a month we hold a Mommy and Me crafting class.”

  Her own attempt at humor was met with the imaginary sound of crickets.

  “Oh.” She gasped dramatically. “I’m sorry. Was that a pick-up line?”

  His smile slipped and his dark brows pulled together.

  “And that works for you?”

  “No.” A burst of amusement rumbled in his broad chest. “But I try at least once a day to put my foot in my mouth. How’d I do?”

  “I’d give you an A+.”

  “Perfect.” He leaned toward the bartender and ordered a glass for himself. Champagne in hand, he turned his back to the bar and lifted his glass as if to toast her.

  Hmmmm. She thought she’d made herself clear. Not interested. So why didn’t he go away?

  Intent on discouraging further conversation, she turned her attention to the dinner tables across the room to see if the disposable cameras were in use. One of her bridesmaid duties was to make sure everyone had a good time, and Emma always took her responsibilities to heart. The man beside her, however, appeared not to be deterred.

  She looked up. “Is there a problem?”

  “No problem.” He shrugged his non-injured shoulder. “Just curious.”

  “About?”

  “Why you didn’t want to dance.” His head tilted. “Don’t you know how?”

  “Of course I know how.” Was he kidding? She knew how to bust a move. Poorly. Alone in her living room with only her cat watching. “I simply choose not to.”

  His Sexiest Man of the Year smile widened to a grin as if he’d been challenged. Emma looked away. She took a sip of her champagne and scanned the room again, searching for any excuse to politely escape his overwhelming presence. He was a gorgeous man who, in his tux, would put a red carpet George Clooney to shame. She could clearly understand how women would fall prey to his kind of drug. But she’d sworn to never put herself in that position again. Once had been enough.

  His dark brows lifted. “You don’t like me, do you?”

  “Don’t be silly.” She kept her attention across the room and wiggled her fingers in a wave to Dean’s father, who was doing his best to avoid the attention of man-eater Gretchen Wilkes. Poor man. “I barely know you.”

  “You know . . .” He took a long sip of his champagne. “I believe I like this kind of dance much better.”

  She looked up. The lingering grin on his face clearly said he was quite entertained for some odd reason. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean.”

  “This banter.” He waved his hand between the two of them. “You know, verbal dodge ball.”

  “Really? Well now I’m curious,” she admitted.

  “About?”

  “Why you’re wasting your time talking to me. I’m not a supermodel or a movie star. I don’t even mud wrestle.”

  “Well, that works out great.” Charm oozed from every virile pore in his body. “Because I much prefer Jell-O wrestling.”

  She shook her head. “Why is it that men are always drawn to women who don’t mind humiliating themselves?”

  “Guess I’ve never regarded a friendly little Jell-O tussle as humiliating.”

  “Well, of course not. Because men like you always see the end game.”

  “Which is?”

  “Meaningless sex. A one-nighter, nooner, or whatever time of day you manage to find a willing body.”

  “So, from your point of view,” he responded, pointing a long, masculine finger at her, “that’s all men like me are looking for? A quickie?”

  “Isn’t it?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “Right.” And sunflowers grow on Mars. “You don’t remember me, do you?” she blurted out in a choked laugh.

  He looked down at her, studied her face. Then his mouth slid into a cautious smile. “Don’t take it personal.”

  Emma held his gaze. Men like Dean Silverthorne gobbled up women like her. Men who used women, ruined their reputations, then moved on without a sprinkle of apology.

  Love ‘em and leave ‘em.

  Been there. Done that.

  Didn’t need
to make a return trip.

  “I wouldn’t dream of taking it personal.” Emma set her half-empty glass on the bar. “If you’ll excuse me.” As she scooted around him, his big hand touched her arm.

  “Wait a minute.” Concern tightened his brow. “Should I remember you?”

  “I have to go. Your sister is about to throw the bouquet.” She shot him an exaggerated look of regret. “But don’t worry. Men like you never remember women like me.” She tapped her chest. “We’re completely forgettable.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Dusk fell across the Houston skyline as Dean cracked his eyes open. He turned onto his back and blocked the invasive sunshine with his forearm. The movement shot fire through his shoulder and into his chest.

  “Damn.”

  Beside him the sheets rustled. A cool hand and long fingernails pressed against his arm. “You okay, baby?”

  “Yeah.” He threw back the covers and strode naked to the bathroom. While he washed his face and hands, he prayed the woman in his bed would get up and leave so the hot shower calling his name could massage the kinked-up muscles in his shoulder. The knock on the bathroom door confirmed she had other ideas.

  “I need to go, too,” she said in a squeaky voice that might have sounded good after a couple shots of Patrón, but failed miserably without the drone of eighty-proof buzzing through his brain.

  “Help yourself to the one down the hall.” He stared at his reflection in the mirror, unwilling to admit that between his physical therapist’s pessimism and his subsequent agonizing workout to prove his PT wrong, he’d been desperate for a distraction and broken his own rule. He didn’t do strangers, groupies, anyone with a jealous significant other, or women with marriage on the mind. Yet with little effort he managed to pick up the attractive blonde—a complete unknown—in the physical therapy reception area. He knew nothing about her. Not even her name. “I’ll give you a call tomorrow.”

  “But you don’t have my number.”

  “Leave it on the dresser,” he said, knowing he’d never make that call. He set the controls on his hydrotherapy shower and dialed in the temperature to just this side of scorching. While he waited, he grabbed the prescription bottle from the cabinet and downed two pills to kill the pain that raged through his shoulder.

  “Oh. Okay then.” The female voice pouted.

  God, when had he turned into such a selfish dick?

  Guilt burned a hole in his chest. He snapped off the shower, opened the door, and went down the hall to give his guest a proper goodbye. She’d been sweet and accommodating and she didn’t deserve to be treated like trash. He didn’t use women. Ever.

  Once Dana, as he’d discovered her name to be, got on the elevator, he went back into the bathroom, opened the shower door, and stepped inside. Steaming water pounded into his aches and sluiced across his shoulder and back. The pain pills started to take effect and his muscles began to uncoil.

  Men like you are cowards. You only see the end game. Meaningless sex. A one-nighter, nooner, or whatever time of day you manage to find a willing body.

  Shit.

  The disembodied voice charged at him from inside his head, but no way was it his own thought. And it wasn’t the first time he’d heard it. Since he’d flown out of his hometown, his sister’s crazy bridesmaid had haunted him. Not her. Her words. She didn’t know what she was talking about. She didn’t know him. At all.

  So why had he just picked up a woman he didn’t know—before two in the afternoon—and brought her home purely for the purpose of sex?

  “Fuck!” He smacked his palm against the cool blue tiles, and water splashed him back in the face. He knew even less about Emma the Tormentor. Small, smart, and sassy. That’s all he knew.

  Yet somehow, from a thousand miles away, she managed to make him feel a slap of shame.

  He didn’t do shame well.

  Hell, he’d never conned a woman into his bed. Never made false promises. He’d always been respectful and appreciative. But he’d also been one hundred percent honest that the only long-term commitment he had time for was his career.

  Little had changed except at the moment he was a bit banged up. Come time for training camp he’d be good as new, no matter the BS the surgeon and physical therapists tried to feed him. He knew his body, knew his mind, knew what he was capable of.

  For twelve years they’d called him Mr. Perfect. To hell with what some nut-job doctor told him. To hell with what everyone in the organization thought.

  It was better to burn out than fade away.

  Hours later Dean parked his Mercedes SL in the stadium players’ parking area and stepped out into the cool December night. The aroma of burgers, brats, and BBQ drifted above the parking lot from the swarms of tailgaters geared up for the big game. After he stopped to autograph a few t-shirts and foam fingers, he pushed open the locker room doors and stepped into a world of familiarity. The energy. The focus. The smells of athletic tape, tape spray, and fresh washed jerseys.

  God, he missed this.

  Jim Craddick, the equipment manager, gave him a grin and a fist bump. Further into the room he became enveloped by the familiar. Bring Me to Life by Evanescence rocked the sound system while NFL greats in various stages of dress and undress blocked the view to their open lockers. Some were laying out their uniforms; others were getting stretched and reading playbooks.

  This was where he belonged—strapping on his armor instead of strolling around in a polo shirt and slacks. Though the Stallions logo emblazoned his ball cap and jacket, the symbols weren’t half as significant as slipping his arms through the sleeves of his blue and red number-eleven jersey.

  “Where you been hidin’, QB?” Frankie Martin, nickelback extraordinaire, shook his hand. Gently. A not-so-subtle reminder that he was one of the walking wounded. Not always the inspiration the team looked for in their pre-game mode. The rest of the boys gave him a round of nods and a few good-humored jabs aimed at his slacking off; then they returned to psyching themselves up for the physicality of the imminent battle.

  “Had to go back home for my kid sister’s wedding,” he said.

  “You? At a wedding?” Frankie’s over-bleached teeth flashed. “Hope someone got visual documentation.”

  Dean laughed. It felt good to be back with the guys. He didn’t need to wear his jersey to fit in. He was one of them. One of the chosen few who showed up every week to leave their blood and sweat on the field. And in his case, some torn tissue and muscle.

  He walked past his empty locker and barely gave it a glance.

  He’d give anything to be in their athletic shoes.

  Anything.

  After a few handshakes, he moved through the room and headed toward the guy in the jersey at the end of the row of lockers.

  Number seven.

  His replacement.

  Scratch that. His temporary replacement.

  The kid glanced over his shoulder then turned his back. Dean smiled at the arrogance. Overconfidence would only get the rookie so far. But then he had to put up or shut up.

  Dean swallowed down the Texas-sized lump in his chest. This was his team. And no matter how much it hurt that he would not be running out onto that field with them, he knew he had to make sure he left them in good hands until he made his return.

  “How’s it going, youngster?” Dean leaned his good shoulder against the backup QB’s locker.

  Jared Jacoby lifted his pretty-boy face and grinned. “Good, old man.”

  Dean chuckled. He enjoyed sparring. Verbal. Physical. Didn’t matter. He just loved the way his blood pumped thorough his veins at a good confrontation.

  “So what’s your tactic?” he asked. “The Ravens’ offense is explosive. Defense is like a concrete wall.”

  “Smashmouth.” Jacoby shrugged. “No turnovers.”

  “Just don’t try to get too showy with that arm of yours. Keep your head. Don’t let them read your eyes.”

  Jacoby grinned. Snapped his gum. “I got coaches, Si
lverthorne. You aren’t one of them.”

  Dean propped his Ecco Terrano loafer on the bench. “How many times have you gone up against Baltimore?”

  Jacoby looked away and shrugged.

  “Yeah. A big zero,” Dean reminded him. “I’ve been there, done that. Many times. Just trying to lend you a little advice.”

  “Don’t need it, old man. Don’t want it.”

  “Too bad your dick isn’t as big as that ego,” Dean shot back with a hope that between now and the time the kid took the field, he’d find at least one humble bone in his body and realize the game was about more than just making a name for himself. “You take care of the team. You’re their captain now.”

  Jacoby gave Dean a defiant lift of his chin.

  “Try not to fuck it up,” Dean said as the coach called the players together for the last-minute strategy and inspirational go kick their purple pansy-asses speech.

  Dean stood among his men and let the blood rush through his veins, just as if he’d be stepping out onto the field with them. But he wasn’t. This time he was strictly an observer. A cheerleader. And that didn’t settle well in his soul.

  Didn’t settle well at all.

  At the end of the fourth quarter the Stallions squeaked a W by a field goal. It had been a hard-fought battle but his team had moved forward. Without him. They’d embraced Jacoby as their leader as if he’d been their QB for a decade, and Dean congratulated the cocky little bastard.

  Suddenly Dean needed to be away from the celebration. Away from the reminders of his weakness. His failures.

  He walked through the corridor, his lone footsteps echoing against the concrete floor. He pushed the release arm on the steel door and stepped out into the parking lot where the cold air slapped him in the face. He’d taken two steps toward his Mercedes when a local reporter appeared from nowhere and thrust a video camera and microphone in his face. The lights that had once annoyed Dean were now like an old friend.