Various States of Undress (15 page)

As he kissed her now, his tongue sliding around hers, pushing her desire higher, her legs parted and her arms fell to her sides. She was completely overcome—silently begging for more, for his body to cover hers. She poured all of her need for him into kissing him back.

Brett's hands threaded through her hair, and, a second later, the weight of his body sank on top of hers. His hardness settling between her thighs was a delicious shock, and she broke the kiss, gasping, and raised her arms to pull him closer. Dimly, she was aware of the crowd cheering in the stadium beyond the glass doors. She was more aware of her own panting breaths exploding against his neck as he shifted his hips against her. She moaned, her breasts rising and falling, nestled against his hard chest.

Brett captured her lips again, more urgently, and cupped her face as he kissed her. She arched against him, wanting more. Wanting him to take her. But after a moment, he pulled away slowly and kissed her cheek. “Georgia,” he whispered.

“No.”

“We have to . . .”

“I know.” She did know. They couldn't continue like this—not here and not now—but she didn't want to open her eyes. Didn't want this to end.

There was a knock at the door, and her eyelids flew open. “We better—”

Brett cut her off with a long, possessive kiss, and his fingers slid slowly over her breasts, teasing, blatantly promising more. With a groan, he released her and slid to his knees on the floor, his hands sinking into the cushion on either side of her hips. As the knock on the door sounded again, she lay flat on the sofa and stared at him, breathless. He stared back, his dark eyes full of purpose.

Finally he moved his hands and pulled her to a sitting position. He reached out and smoothed her hair. “You'd better say something, or your agents . . .”

“Yeah. No response from me usually results in a quick response from them.” She cleared her throat and called toward the door, “Just a second!”

Brett stood and pulled her to her feet. “When do you go to work tomorrow?”

She blinked, forcing herself to think past the fog of lust. “Tomorrow's Friday. Oh. I'm off, actually, because I have to work the weekend show. Why?”

“I'm not assuming anything, okay? But I want to spend time with you that doesn't involve baseball.” He paused. “Or WHAP.”

“Are you asking me out?” Her voice sounded a little bit too eager, and she smiled in an attempt to hide her discomfort. It was ridiculous to feel awkward, though—she'd been on the verge of having sex with him a minute ago. But this was all so new and strange—this knowledge that he'd wanted her when she didn't even know he existed.

He smiled back. “Yeah, I'm asking you out. But I realize it can't be a regular date.”

“Not unless you want to go out with three people, two of whom are federal agents.”

“That doesn't appeal, no.” Brett caught her hand. “I was thinking of swimming.”

“Swimming?” Her eyes went round. “What . . . why?”

“The pool at my apartment building is deserted on weekday mornings. Most everyone else is at work except me. Think your agents would be able to handle that?”

“Hmm. Probably.” She gave him a sly look. “Does this mean I get to see you in a Speedo?”

Brett frowned. “The hell you will. I wear trunks. And you wear a bikini.”

“I absolutely do not.”

“Aw, come on, sugar.” He took a step closer. “For me?”

Georgia shook her head vehemently, even as laughter rose in her chest. “It's hard for me to keep certain objects in place when I wear a bikini.”

“Oh God.” Brett's nostrils flared. “You realize you've given me a visual of your breasts that's going to torture me.”

She giggled. “You'll get over it.”

“I beg to differ.” With a sigh, he let go of her hand and stepped around the sofa. “I gotta go to work.”

“So do I.” Georgia groaned, envisioning the look on Joan's face when she got back to the station. “My boss is going to chew me up over that live spot in the clubhouse.”

“It wasn't that bad. You were cute. Charming.” Brett winked at her. “And don't get mad, but the public is going to give you a lot of leeway just because of who you are. You've got nothing but positive press since you got to Memphis.”

“Maybe that's because I
am
the press?”

“No. It's because you're Georgia, and you're amazing.” He bent down and kissed her quickly. “See ya tomorrow, sugar.”

Whistling, he retrieved his cap and walked out of the room.

He hadn't been gone even five seconds when Georgia realized that interviewing him had completely slipped her mind. And incredibly, she wasn't sure that she cared a whole lot. She ought to care, and she knew she would. But just for a moment longer, she wanted to give herself a break. She wanted to let herself be a desirable, dreamy woman who'd just attempted to seduce the guy of her dreams.

And succeeded.

Chapter Eight

A
S
B
RETT PACED
the perimeter of the pool area the following morning, he tossed his phone in the air and caught it easily. The sun sparkled off the surface of the water. His apartment complex was quiet—peaceful even. He'd had plenty of sleep. Despite all of that, he was on edge, and he needed to find his calm. Two of Georgia's agents were already there—stationed discreetly just outside the pool fence. A few minutes ago, they'd alerted him that she'd be arriving soon. And in that space of time, he'd managed to get himself all worked up.

Intent on calming down, Brett fell into a habit he'd learned long ago—as far back as Little League. He created a physical rhythm to get into the zone. Step, step, toss—catch. Step, step, toss—catch. By the time he'd made it around the deserted pool once, his breathing was even but his mind wasn't even close to being clear. With all the shit piled up in there, it was hard to absorb one more thing. But after Ship had called him earlier this morning, a huge item had been added to the pile.

The conversation with his boss had set his teeth on edge. Ship had made the assumption that Brett couldn't handle his own game—couldn't function at a major league level. He'd also said that unless Brett began playing at absolute top form, there was very little chance he'd get called up to the Cardinals this season. That meant no more avoidable errors. No more angry outbursts. That meant pressure, which was ironic, because pressure was what triggered his mistakes on the playing field.

Brett knew that he was big league caliber, and Ship knew it too. The man was just trying to kick Brett's ass into the zone. But right now was a hell of a time for Brett to try for perfection because his mind was more cluttered and confused than it had ever been.

His daddy was Buddy fucking Mambo. That alone was too much to think about. He was horrified that the truth might come out before he could tell his brother, which he knew he had to do. But Mom had been right. It wasn't something to do over the phone.

He sighed. His mom. He'd treated her like shit and then driven away from her house, and when he'd tried to call her to apologize, she hadn't picked up. Yeah, she'd thrown him for a massive loop, but there was never any excuse for running away like a wounded puppy. All she'd done was raise her boys the best she could. He knew her almost better than he knew himself, though—and he knew that if he went to her house, she wouldn't answer the door. Brett shook his head and continued to pace. Step, step, toss—catch.

Then there was Georgia. The thought of her sent his emotions on overdrive. He was embarrassed that he'd admitted his crush, sorry that he'd used it to distract her from interviewing him, thrilled that she wanted him as bad as he wanted her, and—to top it all off—pretty much hopelessly obsessed with her.

He hadn't gone into the luxury box with a plan in mind other than to apologize for skipping the interview. But when he'd seen the bare emotion on her face, the admiration in her pretty brown eyes, he'd opened his mouth and told her. But he still couldn't bring himself to tell her about his past. Not that she had asked—but she was going to, eventually. She wanted his story. She wanted him. Which did she want more? He told her he hadn't been playing her, but wasn't that exactly what he'd been doing? Yet in his heart, he didn't feel as if he were. Step, step, toss—catch.

“You're not at baseball practice, you know.” Georgia's voice rang loudly over the breeze whispering through the potted palms flanking the pool enclosure, and Brett lost his rhythm. His phone bounced off the edge of his thumb and sailed toward the pool. He caught a glimpse of her in a red bathing suit, her breasts molded by the shiny fabric, just as he realized he was about to lose his brand-new phone.

“Aw, shit!” Brett made a dive for it and, right before the device hit the water, palmed it and sent it flying toward a deck chair just as he fell backward into the pool. How could he have not realized she was there? He might have good instincts, but one thing was for sure—he'd make a terrible Secret Service agent.

He flipped over, swimming underwater until he reached the side of the pool nearest where she had been. When he came up, Georgia stood at the edge, smiling down at him. The midmorning light shone on her hair, turning the edges of the curls a soft gold. Her eyes twinkled, and her cheeks were almost as pink as her lips.

He took a gasping breath and shook water from his face as he continued to look at her. Her hands were clasped protectively around a folded towel, which blocked the view of her breasts but left the rest of her available for ogling. He stared at the delicious curve of her hips, accentuated by the tight suit, and then at her equally curvy thighs and down to her slim ankles. A little silver chain encircled one ankle, and the thought of leaning forward and tracing his tongue over it flashed through his mind. He passed a hand over his dripping hair and grinned.

“Hey, sugar.”

She shook her head, laughing. “No need to play it cool, Knox. I saw the whole thing.”

“I planned that.”

“You're wearing a T-shirt and tennis shoes,” she pointed out.

Holding onto the edge of the pool, Brett reached down and yanked off a shoe. He threw it onto the concrete, where it landed with a
plop
. The other shoe followed. Then he hoisted himself to the edge of the pool and hopped out. Slowly, he reached for the hem of his sopping T-shirt and raised it up. He took his time, inch by inch, peeling it off. After he tossed it on top of the shoes, he settled his hands on his hips and looked at her.

Her mouth was half open as she stared at his bare chest. Her gaze traveled lower, over his belly, and then lower still. He watched in fascination as she took one quick breath before glancing back up. “Okay. You planned
that
for sure,” she said.

Brett laughed and, just like the water running in rivulets down his body, his tension began to seep away. “You look amazing.”

She started to shake her head but stopped, smiling again. “Thanks.”

“Firecracker red. I like it.”

“It suited my mood,” she said. “I'm . . . in a mood.”

“A good one?”

“Partly.” She glanced over her shoulder. “Just so you know, Stan's on the other side of the fence, right by that palm tree in the blue pot. And Jim's on the opposite side, over by the gate.”

Brett nodded. “I know. You want to sit down?” He gestured toward a pair of chaise lounges, where he'd set out a cooler with Cokes.

“In a bit, but I'd rather swim with you first. We're freer to talk privately in the pool.” She didn't wait for an answer but set down her towel, walked over to the diving board, stepped on, and turned her back to the pool. A moment later, she jumped and did a spectacular dive, her curvy body twisting in the air, her hands slicing through the water as she plunged into the pool.

When she emerged, she swam effortlessly to the edge and dipped her head backward, using the water to smooth her hair from her face. Brett sat down on the edge next to her, his legs dangling in the pool. “Impressive. Yesterday, you gave off the impression that swimming wasn't your thing.”

She pushed away and treaded water. “I'm a lot more graceful in the water than I am on land. I swam varsity in high school.”

“But when I mentioned swimming, you looked . . . squeamish.”

“All women are squeamish about wearing a bathing suit.”

“They shouldn't be.”

She laughed. “It doesn't matter. We're all paranoid about it—every last one of us, even supermodels.”

“So it won't matter if I tell you that looking at your body in that suit makes it hard for me to breathe.” He slipped into the water next to her. “Or that my hands are having trouble staying away from you.”

“I like hearing that,” she said softly. “But there's something . . . sensitive I need to talk to you about before we do anything fun.” She glanced away and swam to the shallow end, where she sat, half submerged on the wide concrete steps in the corner.

Buddy. She'd found out about Buddy.

Brett's tension roared back. It stiffened his neck. It tightened his belly. It made his brain buzz, and he stayed put, mechanically keeping himself afloat. He knew he had to go talk to her, though, so he forced his arms to move. When he reached her, he sat on the other side of the silver railing bisecting the steps.

She splashed water over her arms. “After that live spot at the stadium yesterday, I was dreading going back to the station, but when I got there, Joan was practically dancing with glee. Apparently, WHAP's Twitter account went crazy after my little segment at the ballpark. People loved it.”

He attempted a smile. “Told you so.”

“And a still from the segment—a photo of me asking you a question—was put on Facebook. It had four hundred fifty-three likes in less than twenty minutes, which is fun.” She looked at him, worry in her eyes. “But that attention has put my back against the wall.” She paused. “Joan is desperate for me to drag your life story out of you, Brett. She wants to start doing teasers for it tomorrow and then air it a little over a week from now. I know you don't want me to focus on anything but your playing, but could you . . . help me out?”