Playing for Keeps (4 page)

• • •

From the time Erica stepped into Patrick Murphy’s hotel suite, she felt so dazed—so out of her league—she could barely grasp the essential facts. This fair-haired man with his cheerful, slightly goofy smile was Johnny Spurling’s agent. And the other guy—the tall one with the broad shoulders, the huge arms, the devastatingly handsome face—was Johnny himself.

And Johnny was staring at her like she was wearing a clown costume.

So much for your lucky suit,
she lamented, smoothing her blue wool jacket, which had already started wrinkling.

In contrast, Johnny was perfectly pressed, from his green polo shirt to his khakis. And then there were the guns, bulging even more amazingly in person. And the jet-black hair, thick and unruly, looking like it needed a good tousle or two. Or three.

Reminding herself this was business, she stuck out her hand and said as evenly as possibly, “It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Spurling. I’m a big fan.”

“Likewise.”

The reply didn’t make sense, but she persevered. “I was a freshman at Cal when you were a senior, so I got a front-row seat to your future.” When he still stared, she added lamely, “Go Bears.”

That seemed to break the spell, and he gave her an appreciative nod. Then he turned to KC Caldwell. “You’re the owner? Murf says you’re the ultimate self-made man. That’s cool.”

“I’ve been fortunate,” KC said, beaming. “And I’ve got a great staff. Erica obviously. And Frank here, who set this up. And Steve Adler, Erica’s mentor.”

Johnny’s agent interrupted, saying, “Shall we get started?” Then he motioned toward a round table near the windows and away from the cozy fireplace. “Anyone want drinks? John and I are having soda, but we’ve got a full bar.”

“Yeah, Erica,” Johnny said, taking her arm and leading her to a seat. “Can I get you something?”

“Just water, thanks,” she murmured, ignoring Frank’s chuckle.

“Water for me too,” Steve said, sitting next to Erica.

“Works for me,” KC chimed in, settling in at the table. “Thanks, Mr. Murphy.”

“Call me Murf,” the agent insisted.

“I’ll have my usual, Murf,” Frank said loudly, as though reasserting his relationship. He had been obnoxious about this for days, lording it over Erica and Steve, but she had to admit he had worked a miracle getting them this meeting. Now it was up to her to do the rest.

And when Johnny took the seat directly across from her, then gave her an encouraging smile, she knew they had a real shot.

“I saw you in the lobby,” the quarterback told her. “Wearing a raincoat, right?”

She nodded. “I’m sorry I didn’t see you. Too focused on the pitch, I guess.”

“No problem.”

Murf chuckled as he sat across from Caldwell. “Now that we have that out of the way, let’s go over the ground rules so there are no hard feelings. I’ve made it clear to Frank that John doesn’t do product endorsements. Not ever, and most particularly cars or beer or other alcohol. We’ve done some charity stuff, and some promo for the league, but that’s it. My apologies in advance.”

“Yeah, I told them,” Frank said with a sneer. “They still want a shot.”

“Understood. Mr. Caldwell? I assume you’ll do the honors?”

“Actually, this is Erica’s show,” KC explained. “We’re just here to back her up. And if you agree to do it, Steve and I will handle the contract and the logistics.”

Erica could feel Johnny’s dark blue stare again, but this time she decided to enjoy it. He was hotter than hell and seemed to be responding on the same level. Not that she would use sexuality to get the account. But to get him to listen? That didn’t seem so wrong, especially given the “ground rules.”

So she flashed a confident smile. “We came to you because you’re perfect for this spot. Possibly the only guy in the world who can really pull it off. Every guy who watches sports wants to drink with you. Every girl wants to date you. And
all
of them respect you. For your talent and your core decency. You’re a Spurling, and we all know what that means.”

“It means he won’t do endorsements,” his agent reminded her.

“Let her talk,” Johnny said sternly. “You said guys want to drink with me? So this is what? Whisky? Beer?”

“Beer. But it’s so much more than that,” she insisted. Then she laughed at herself and admitted, “But mostly beer.” When both the quarterback and his agent chuckled, she decided the time was right, so she launched into her spiel. She had expected to feel intimidated, but to her surprise, sitting across the table from Johnny made it easier, because he
was
the guy in the commercial. Sexy but attentive, commanding the respect of all around him, and demanding decency from his friends.

“And so as we fade out,” she finished softly, “we hear the tagline.
Drink Lager Storm. And don’t be a douche.
”

He stared across at her in silence, his face expressionless.

Then his agent asked gently, “Can you actually say ‘douche’ on network TV?”

“We’ve confirmed it,” Caldwell told him. “The context here makes it acceptable.”

The agent pursed his lips. “It’s good. Very effective. Classy too. I see why you wanted John, but like I said, he doesn’t do endorsements, and definitely not for beer. On the other hand, I have a couple of other clients who might be interested. They’re stand-up guys too, and one in particular might actually end up in the Super Bowl as well. So . . .”

Erica’s heart sank, but she had expected this reaction. Prepared for it. So she fixed her gaze on the quarterback. “When you were at Cal, the coach called you a ‘player.’ Because your team could count on you. And because you’re so talented. So versatile. But we both know it’s been perverted by the media. They call you ‘the Player’ as if you’re some kind of hound dog, taking advantage of your status to prey on susceptible women.” She took a deep breath, sensing from his alert expression that she had struck a nerve. “Anyone who knows you, or who actually follows your career, knows it’s not true. You’ve never had a scandal. No brush with the law. It’s like Mr. Murphy said—you’re a stand-up guy. And we need more of those. To provide role models for boys. And to remind girls they don’t need to accept predatory behavior. And so . . .” She swallowed hard, then insisted, “I think you should do it.”

“I’d need to taste it first.”

“Pardon?”

“Lager Storm. I’ve never tried it. So I’d need to taste it first.”

She knew she wasn’t breathing but couldn’t do anything about it. They were so close to a deal. And Lager Storm was delicious. So in a sense, he was actually agreeing to this.

But his agent had his back and assured the table coolly, “My client would need to taste it, obviously. And even then, it’s a long shot. He’s got a demanding schedule, and we’d need to confer in private.”

She knew she should look at Patrick “Murf” Murphy but couldn’t take her eyes off Johnny. He wasn’t exactly smiling, but there was a twinkle in his blue eyes that was giving her serious palpitations.

Steve Adler took the reins. “I’m sure the hotel bar carries Lager Storm. Shall we have some sent up?”

“I’d need to try it in its natural habitat,” Johnny told him solemnly. “So how about this? Erica and I go to the bar and sample the beer while the four of you hammer out a tentative deal. If I like the beer, we’ll move forward.” Shoving his chair back, he stood, towering over the table, and arched an eyebrow at Erica. “What do you say?”

She was about to assure him that it was a great plan when Frank stunned her by drawling, “Watch yourself, Spurling. I’ve seen her sue guys for less than that.”

Johnny’s eyes darkened, and he seemed about to lunge for Frank’s neck—or at least that was Erica’s fondest fantasy—when KC injected himself, saying, “Frank has a warped sense of humor, so forgive him. We’re one big family at Caldwell, and sometimes the teasing gets out of hand. Right, Frank?”

Steve took the baton. “It’s true. Frank’s the class clown, always has been.” He stood and offered his hand to Johnny. “Thanks for giving Lager Storm a try. We’ll work with your agent while Erica introduces you to the product. I predict you’ll be impressed. And proud to represent it. And if it matters,” he added smoothly, “the client’s thrilled you’re even considering it. He’s a great guy, and wants something tasteful and classy. Between you and Erica, I think we can give him that.”

Johnny’s jaw visibly unclenched. “Yeah, she’s definitely got class.” He gave his agent a quick glance, as if using some secret code, then he walked around the table and said to Erica, “Shall we?”

• • •

She held her breath as he escorted her to the elevator, where he backed her gently against the wall without laying a hand on her. It was the sheer force of his hotness, and she knew he knew it. His devastating smile, the killer body that could actually kill someone, the dark blue eyes.

Staring into those eyes, she enjoyed the moment while ready to stop it if it actually went anywhere.

But all he said was, “So, speaking of douches, what’s with that Frank guy?”

Erica bit back a too-high laugh. Under other circumstances she would have riled him up with more tales of Frank’s douche-baggery, but it wouldn’t be professional. And there was the no-gossiping clause in the settlement agreement to consider. So she coughed lightly and insisted, “He’s okay. Just jealous really, since he pitched an idea for Lager Storm too. Of course, Steve Adler also pitched one, and he’s being a good sport. So on second thought, I guess you’re right.”

They stepped out into the lobby and he steered her around a corner and into a dark bar filled with polished wood, gigantic mirrors and glitzy chandeliers.

The hostess at the reception stand recognized the home-team quarterback immediately and led them to a booth in a quiet corner. “Just let us know what we can do for you, Johnny,” she said breathlessly.

“Can we get a couple of Lager Storms?”

Her nose wrinkled. “I hope we have it. The supplier for our boutique beers is uneven. But we’ll find something you’ll like.”

“Find Lager Storm,” he suggested. “There’s a big tip in it, so if you have to raid the sports bar across the street, please do.”

“Right away.”

When she was out of earshot, he said teasingly, “Boutique beer? I like you a lot, but I’ve got a reputation to protect.”

She smiled at him, more relaxed now that there was a table between them again. “Your image is safe with me, I promise.”

“My image,” he murmured. “That’s the point, right?”

“Hmm?”

He cleared his throat. “I liked what you said up there. About that stupid Player nickname. My own father thinks I’m a—what did you call it? A hound dog?—because of it.”

“I doubt that.” She reached across the table to pat his hand. “Did I lay it on too thick? My point was that everyone knows what a great guy you are. That’s why Lager Storm wants you in the first place. But it doesn’t hurt to remind people
why
you’re great. Not just talent, but integrity.”

He covered her hand with his own. “Can I ask you a personal question?”

She nodded.

“When I saw you in the lobby, you were wearing the raincoat. But you weren’t wearing that suit under it, right?”

The question startled her, and she drew her hand away, hoping her cheeks weren’t as red as they felt. “What makes you say that?”

He grinned, clearly believing he had his answer. “Never mind. Let’s talk about us.”

She wanted to scold him, to insist they get back to business, but luckily the hostess arrived at that moment with two bottles of Lager Storm and two frosty glasses. “Thanks,” she told the woman gratefully.

“Can I get you anything else?”

Erica pulled a couple of twenty-dollar bills from the side pocket of her briefcase, but Johnny trumped her with a crisp hundred and a stern glare. So she just thanked him then asked the waitress, “Can you see if the bartender has any orange slices? Or orange peel?”

“Right away.”

Johnny gave her a teasing smile. “You’re gonna put oranges in your beer? That’s a first.”

“It’s for the plane ride. I always get hot chocolate to steady my nerves. And airport chocolate is bland, so I add some orange peel. It’s something my dad did when I was growing up.” Without waiting for further questions, she poured a Lager Storm into one of the glasses and pushed it toward him. “The moment of truth.”

“In a minute. I want to talk to you first.”

She gave a rueful laugh. “Okay, let’s cut to the chase. I wasn’t wearing this suit under my trench coat.”

“I knew it.”

“This is my favorite outfit. My lucky suit. It got me the job at Caldwell, and I wore it when I made my Lager Storm pitch to KC. But it wrinkles really easily, so if I have to travel more than a few miles in a car or plane, I send it ahead. It was waiting for me today in KC’s staging room on the fourth floor. Mystery solved.”

His eyes danced. “So you were wearing what? Just underwear and fancy stockings?”

“What if I told you I had jeans and a T-shirt on?”

“Yeah, right.” He eyed her playfully. “You’re fun, you know that?”

“So are you. And so is beer tasting, so please? Give it a try? My future’s hanging in the balance.”

“What about
our
future?” he demanded. “If I don’t like it, you’ll still go out with me, won’t you? I can’t endorse a product that tastes like crap.
That’s
integrity.”

She leaned back and tried for a serious expression. “You know I can’t actually date you. I’d love to, but this is my career.”

His eyes twinkled again. “So if I like the beer, you
won’t
go out with me? But if I hate it, and turn down the deal, then you will? You drive a hard bargain, Erica.”

“Be serious.” She was struggling not to laugh. “I can’t date you either way. But I’m flattered, and that’s the truth. I’ve had a crush on you for eight years. Even before I started at Berkeley.” She pushed the glass of beer closer to him. “Remember the Big Game with Stanford in your junior year? My dad and I were in the Bay Area checking out colleges. And he scored some tickets, so I got to see you for the first time. You were sooo good. Three touchdown passes, no interceptions. You guys won, I screamed myself hoarse, and I’ve been a fan ever since.”