One More Night with You (8 page)

“I'm TreShawn,” he said, still holding her hand, and she was at risk of blushing at the blatant interest emanating from him. He probably didn't realize he was sending all sorts of flares but she wouldn't embarrass him by calling him on it, especially since she needed him in her corner.

“I know. ESPN has a crush on you,” she said, with a smile of her own. “Plus, I know you're Charlotte Blue's friend. As am I.”

“Charlotte didn't tell me she had a friend as smokin' as you. That ain't right.”

It was such a line, one he'd do better to save for a woman he had a chance of wooing. He was twenty-five to her thirty-three, lived the high life to its fullest and she was unavailable in a multitude of ways.

“Forgive her,” Joey said brightly. “I should go. Wouldn't want to bring down everyone's good time.”

He faltered, then, “Naw, mostly everybody's chill. The ones who aren't, don't pay them attention. Come in.”

“Thanks.”

Descending on the lounge, she appreciated that TreShawn was laid-back and didn't feel the need to hover at every moment. Eventually, as one hour drifted to the next, others lowered the drawbridge of mistrust just enough to allow her a glimpse into their personalities. She wouldn't push too hard too fast and had to accept that she'd done what she could as the crowd started to thin.

“Want a breather from the VIP?” TreShawn asked her. “The practice fields aren't that far.”

Joey was in flats and her hip could stand some motion. Outside, she quickly paged through her memory bank for league infractions that had been linked to the athlete.

Cocaine possession. If the man had used cocaine and bulked up with steroids, who was to say he'd turned a complete one-eighty and was clean now? Any team member with a history of prior recreational drug use should be looked at closely, and the Blues were right to put him under a microscope.

“So is this camp drug program league-wide?” he asked after a few minutes of silence as they crossed the turf. It all seemed endless—the crisp lawn, the heavenly sky that might be star-dotted if not for the bright field lighting.

“No, this is something Slayers management constructed to keep you men educated and healthy. You don't sound excited about it.”

“The thing is, I heard the ‘say no to drugs' spiel all through school.”

“And how old were you when you started using coke?”

“Are you talking about that possession charge? That was a bad rap. Wasn't mine.”

“Okay,” she conceded, watching her cane swing forward as she walked. “Then what did you use, and when did you start?”

TreShawn picked up speed and was a yard or so ahead of her when he said without turning back to look her way, “Weed. I was fourteen. I gave it up after I got drafted. Doesn't seem to matter, though. The screwups are all that folks like to remember when they're looking for somebody to blame.”

“Are you back on steroids, TreShawn?”

Finally, he turned around. “Hey, I don't owe you any answers.”

“I know. But I want them, anyway.” She stopped walking when he began to cut away the distance between them as he strode across the field.

Stretching out his arms, then gesturing from his chest to feet, he said solemnly, “This is all me. This season I'm in it to break records.”

Diamond rings glittered boldly on his fingers, and the intensity in his tone took her awareness away from the faint smell of sandalwood he carried on his clothes and the hushed rustle of the Mount Charleston breeze.

Blessed Mary, the man was gorgeous. He had the potential to make someone who
wasn't
her very happy.

“What's your next question? Are you thinking I asked you out here to spit some game?”

“I'm thinking it was a friendly offer to take a breather from the VIP. That's what you said. Am I wrong to have trusted you?”

I'm giving you a way to sidestep rejection. Take it.

She nearly exhaled in relief when he said, “A friendly offer. Yeah, that's all this was about. Want to go back now?”

“Okay.” She had to let the single word suffice.

When she returned to her room, she lay on the bed and compiled updates to report to the team owners. She stretched out but somehow the position just wasn't comfortable. Lying on her side with her arms wrapped around a pillow, she tried to mute the words that seemed jammed on repeat.

They're going to fall in love with you.

They would know hurt, the same as any other man who'd tried to find a future with her. She felt undercover again, though this time she wasn't hiding behind a false identity.

Field work had once distracted her with an almost perverse thrill—because for her there'd been no richer high than being deep in a job—but sometimes loneliness and emptiness penetrated, made her desperate. So desperate that she used sex to escape. And so desperate that she'd considered walking away from the FBI, before an errant bullet had made the decision for her.

She couldn't entertain loving a man who didn't understand her world. It was unfathomable that she could rewire herself to love someone the way she loved Zaf before everything between them had fallen apart.

That love didn't exist anymore, and even if it did, the lies and the scars left no room for it now. Her heart was a hostile environment and if she could remember that, then maybe loneliness would stop leaving tears on her pillow.

Chapter 5

J
oey couldn't say she was sorry to be dismissed from training camp for the day. It had been a full-throttle morning. First, she'd observed two Good Samaritans of Nevada presentations in an overly air-conditioned film viewing room—one seminar and Q&A session for veterans; the other for rookies. Then she loitered on the sidelines with the media as fans finagled autographs and selfies. After that she'd found Charlotte to set up a girls' night gabfest then wrapped things up with a catered brunch and Bloody Mary cocktails with the Blues and Kip Claussen.

None of the conversations she'd overheard among the athletes the previous night had been drug-centered or concerning otherwise. Overall, the mood had been low-key and the men easygoing, aside from a heated card game and some social media back-and-forth.

So she'd need to sharpen her focus and pick out what wasn't on the surface.

When the media had been cleared off the premises so propriety team activities could commence, she left, as well, agreeing to meet her supervisor for lunch at Nickel's, a little off-Strip café.

The eggs benedict she'd eaten earlier still had her tummy in a happy place, but as Ozzie Salvinski knew, she wasn't one to pass up free food. Nickel's spectacular Baileys Irish Cream cheesecake would go a long way toward helping her unwind.

Professional football was high-octane, glamorous. It wasn't anything she couldn't handle—she knew her roots and always kept herself grounded—but she'd be lying if she claimed it didn't have its surreal moments. Sports entertainment combined two sides of a coin, sweat and celebrity, and it was fascinating.

Breaking away from it all to shoot the breeze in a linoleum-floored, scratched-countered spot downtown, then going home to a place that embodied neither rough-and-tough sports nor dazzling entertainment would be a welcome change of milieu.

“The Blues outfitted you in that?” From a table with a street view, Ozzie pointed out the window as Joey sat across from him.

Then there was the fact that she'd be driving
that
home. The Ferrari sat in front of its meter looking like lust with a steering wheel.

“That they did,” she said, reaching around the toasted submarine sandwich on his tray to pick up the sliced dill pickle. She still wasn't planning on leaving the joint without cheesecake, but dill slices were a guilty pleasure.

“Hey, come on,” Ozzie protested as she bit into it with a crunch. “Get the waitress over here and order your own.”

“This is all I want. And a slice of Baileys cheesecake.” She watched a string of people stop to ogle the car. “It's an incredible set of wheels, but I don't feel like myself when I drive it.”

“Learning curve? Maybe you've been stuck in that Camaro too long.”

“No, I don't mean that. Marshall Blue bought it as a hobby ride. It looks like something Batman would drive when he's cruising through Gotham trying to pick up women.”

Ozzie wrapped a bear paw of a hand around his sandwich. “You've been in good with the Blues for years. All of the flash and money and fame still get to you?”

She chewed thoughtfully. “Sometimes, yes. Charlotte, her sisters, they're down-to-earth gals, which is probably difficult for people to believe since they grew up in luxury. Marshall and Tem, however, they spare no expense.” She finished the pickle and took a hand wipe packet off their table's napkin dispenser.

“Isn't your family well-off? You've got good Texas land, purebred horses, the works.”

“Well, that's hardly been my life for a while now. I grew up helping out in the flower shop, went to college, took up a career in DEA and lived off my own paychecks since. That's kept everything in perspective.”

“Except when it comes to shoes.” A sparkle in his eyes said he was teasing, but he set down his sandwich and signaled her to stretch out her leg. “C'mon, let's see 'em.”

She waited for a few patrons to shuffle past then showed off a Giuseppe Zanotti cork-heeled stiletto. The shoes were a pop of summertime glam to complement her tailored jacket and short pleated skirt. “Boss, women have a special relationship with footwear. Don't judge, just accept it.”

Grunting as if to say “Oh, bother,” he took another bite of the sub and it protruded out of his cheek as he said, “I give it a year before you convert one of your rooms into a shoe museum. I should lay money on that.”

“Do as you please,” she said flippantly, “but you'll lose.” Though she had thought about reorganizing her master closet to accommodate the collection, which was growing exponentially. A well-crafted, stylish pair of shoes had a way of hogging the attention from her more complicated accessory, which was hooked onto the back of her chair. “Anyway, you make me sound like that nursery rhyme about the old lady. No judging, remember?”

“I never agreed to that.” Ozzie waved a napkin. “But I surrender. So you had a sleepover at Desert Luck Center. Turn up anything?”

“No, though I sensed the Blues were hoping I'd have something they could use. The guy they singled out, TreShawn Dibbs? He's got walls up.”

Even so, there was a sweet sincerity about him.

“Otherwise, how was camp?”

“Hmm, positive, from my point of view, at any rate. High tension, a lot going on, dozens and dozens of personalities clashing.” She waited while he had the waitress bring out a slice of cheesecake and a glass of mint water. “I certainly have more respect for Charlotte after being in such a concentrated area with those men.”

Charlotte would appreciate that, but even more so an explanation of how Joey could point Zaf out as the man who shot her and not go ballistic that he turned out to be her blind date. She preferred to shelter this facet of her world from her friends, but sometimes messy truths escaped, anyway.

“Desert Luck's practically a town of its own,” Ozzie commented.

“Still makes for close quarters. The men—their bodies
and
their egos—have a way of taking up space.”

“They treating you right over there?”

“It's fine,” she maintained. “Some don't want me around and others want me around for all the dirty reasons. But alas, my virtue's still intact.”

He smirked.

“So is ODC missing me, or what?” Then she started in on the dessert.

“Of course we're missing you—and the daily supply of sweets.” Joey stress-baked, finding it a nice way to relax and rediscover the feeling of being a young girl buzzing around the kitchen, creating treats that her parents would sell at the flower shop.

“Folks got used to that first-thing-in-the-morning sugar rush. I might get boycotted for letting the Blues steal you away.”

She almost beamed and flipped to sentimental mode, but her supervisor never knew what to do with emotional women. He liked to say that was the reason his wife filed for divorce a few years back, though it was a poorly veiled secret that the woman had moved on to a wealthier man.

“Next time I whip something up, I'll drop off the surplus—though I do like the idea of being missed. It's nice, says y'all care.”

“Of course we care. We like— We're glad you—” Ozzie crumpled his napkin, visibly uncomfortable with the awkwardness of reassuring a colleague that she wasn't so bad to have around, after all. “You're okay, Joey. Everyone agrees. Things ought to be back to normal once you come back.”

“Thanks, boss.”

“Ah, jeez, don't act like I gave you a compliment or something. Last thing I need is for that to be going around.”

“Breaking news. Ozzie Salvinski actually gives two beans about his coworkers.” She nibbled the end of her fork, enjoying the withering look that earned her. “Fine, I'll stop now.”

“Yeah, you'll have to.” He pointed to his wristwatch. “Gotta head back to the office.”

“Ozzie, quickly, before you go.” Joey knuckled her dessert plate aside, slanted forward. “If I need to be hooked up—search warrant, surveillance, forensics, maybe—can I depend on you?”

“You planning on pulling something out of the trick bag for the Slayers?” he asked quietly, brows knit tightly.

“Hypothetically, okay, sure.”

“Joey, what the hell's going on?”

I think a war's been started and I need to know what my options are.
“I might need protection. Can't get into specifics, mainly because I don't have them. But it's just...just a feeling, I suppose.”

“Do Marshall and Tem know about this?”

“No. It's trouble they don't need. If you can keep the lid on this, that'd be helpful.”

“All right.”

“So can I depend on you?”

“I'll do what I can, Joey. Don't forget the means of protection you already have.”

Meaning her weapon. She didn't want more bloody violence in her memory, hadn't resorted to deadly force since before her move to Nevada. “I'm talking to you because I don't want it to come to that.”

He nodded but looked skeptical. “You're ex-DEA, were chummy with ICE... Your network's more elite, so you're probably barking up the wrong tree. But whatever I can do, Joey, I will.”

Left alone, Joey picked at the half-eaten cheesecake. Her network
was
more elite—far more elite than Ozzie suspected. Only, she refused to tap every resource within reach.

Even so, Gian DiGorgio wouldn't drop his grudge against her simply because he was served a boilerplate restraining order.

DiGorgio isn't some playground bully.

She swallowed down some mint water, but still felt as though a brick was lodged in her throat. Dragging in a breath, she looked out the window. The Ferrari waited in its darkly seductive magnificence, yet she wondered if lurking in every crevice on the street was somebody who'd been paid to harm her.

Damn Zaf. Damn him for coming back to her now. Damn him for forcing her to face this.

And damn him for being the most cunning and well-connected man she knew.

Joey took out her phone. She wasn't sure that the contact number her “blind date” had provided was still a viable way to reach him, but she had to give it a try.

“Jo?”

What did it mean that his voice could flood her senses? What did it even mean that she wanted him, flesh to flesh, yet hated the Machiavellian part of his personality that surfaced as some sort of wicked alter ego?

“It's me,” she said, looking across at the people in the café, though not really seeing any of them. “About last night.”

“What you did—I deserved that. I pushed you too far,” Zaf apologized. “It's got to be overwhelming as all hell.”

“It wouldn't be if it were someone else. But it's
me
, Zaf.” And she was frightened.

“When you're ready to deal with this, call me. I still have the light beer.”

She had to smile at that. “Can you get to the Strip? I'm at a side-street café. Nickel's.”

He paused. Then, “I don't want to chase you, Jo.”

“No chase. No tricks. I'll be here.”

* * *

Almost fifteen minutes later Joey saw him emerge from a deep gray pickup truck that she was certain she'd seen scale rocky terrain on a television ad.

Attraction made her heart hurt. That crisp button-down he'd roughened up by rolling the sleeves and opening the collar was too perfectly made for his tight muscles. The belt snaked around his hips called too much attention to the region of his body she'd touched with authority yesterday in the library.

The open-carry holster at his waistband reminded her of who they were and where they'd come from.

As he tucked his keys into his pocket, she saw a bulky watch, onyx beads and a pair of thin leather straps wrapped around one wrist.

Dios. Te dessio.

As if he'd heard her thoughts, Zaf looked at her through the window. She raised her hand, flattened the palm against the glass.

She could perceive nothing from his expression, and put down her hand before he entered Nickel's and sought her table in that casual, unhurried way that threatened to make her smile.

“How you holding up?” he asked, lowering onto the vacant chair. “I left you with a lot to deal with yesterday.”

“And I'm dealing with it. Kind of.” She propped her elbows on the table, cupped her chin with both hands. “Were you worried about me, when you got to the house?”

“At first. Then, when I realized you were too smart to react carelessly and were sending me a message, I was pissed. Then I was proud of you for bringing me down a notch.”

“We were always big on give and take, weren't we, Zaf?”

“Yeah.” He reached for her hand, brought it to him. By the time she noticed the mocha-colored smear of dessert topping on her knuckle, he'd already taken it away with a warm, openmouthed kiss. “What was that?”

“Irish cream cheesecake. I'd offer you some, but I massacred it.”

“Next time.”

Next time, as though they were lovers and had the luxury of moments like this that weren't underscored with emotional upheaval.

“So what did you bring, Zaf?”

“Sam Adams and information. Both in my truck.” He shot a glance out the window. “Where's your Chevy?”

“At home. I'm driving the black Ferrari.”

“Ferrari?”

“Courtesy of Marshall and Tem Blue. I'm borrowing it while I do a job for them in Mount Charleston.”

“You're working for them? One of DiGorgio's godsons is in talks with the team, Jo.”

She'd heard Nate's brother was meeting with the Slayers about a coaching position. The Blues' hiring processes were baffling to front office outsiders, but their system obviously worked. They'd taken a losing franchise and turned it into championship-winning gold.

“It was my decision.” She didn't clarify that the Blues and her supervisor had been particularly crafty about getting her to consider.