Until recently, Wade had always had a sort of live-and-let-live relationship with the press. He’d always understood that the more uptight he got about smiling for the cameras, the more houndlike the people behind the cameras got.
So he smiled as he reached back to offer Sam a hand out of the limo, carefully blocking the money shot with his body so that the paparazzi couldn’t snap the view up her skirt.
And it was a glorious view.
Once she straightened, she sent him a thanks with her eyes, and for an odd second, he got snagged by the sky-blue depths. She seemed to do the same, then the beat was gone and she tried to step back, away from him.
He merely tightened his grip and reeled her in, dipping down to put his mouth to the sweet spot beneath her ear as the flashes went off all around them. “Mine,” he whispered. “Remember?”
She shot him a look that made his whole afternoon. Someday he’d have to visit why the hell he loved to piss her off, but for now he’d just enjoy the effects. “Oh, and hey,” he murmured. “My girlfriend would definitely be all over me. Hands, mouth, everything, so—”
“Yeah, yeah.” But she softened her smile, and then blew his mind when she pressed her body to his.
Look at that, she was really going to do this. And he wondered with a little surge of sheer lust just how far she would be willing to take it.
At the resort doors, they were nearly bowled over by the crowd. There was a group of fans who wanted autographs, and several women who managed to write their phone numbers on Wade’s hand before he pulled free.
Sam sent him an arched brow, but he just shrugged. He got numbers written on him a lot; he’d never figured out how to stop that from happening.
Then there were the photographers. One particularly zealous guy was standing in their way, trying to get their picture. “Who’s your date, Wade?” he shouted.
Wade just smiled and tucked Sam in closer to his side. She squirmed against him, just a little, until he whispered “photo op” in her ear, and like magic she went still.
Yeah. This was going to be fun after all.
Chapter 3
Being with a woman all night never hurt no professional baseball player. It’s staying up all night looking for a woman that does him in.
—Casey Stengel
Sam had spent much of her professional life being in charge: of crowd control, of taking care of the players, the staff, everyone, and yet she let Wade lead her through the lobby. He had her pulled in close to him, her hand firmly in his big, warm, callused one, relaxed and easy as he moved through the masses with ease.
It wasn’t as hard as she’d thought. In fact, secretly it was nice to be taken care of for once instead of the other way around.
Even if it was pretend.
The press stuck to them like ants at a picnic. The same obnoxious photographer from outside managed to follow them in, and nearly clubbed her with his long lens, but a strong forearm suddenly blocked Sam’s vision. Wade, pushing the lens away from her. “Watch it,” he said to the photographer.
Not listening, or maybe just not caring, the guy lifted the lens again, this time right in Sam’s face. Wade shook his head, like he couldn’t believe what an idiot he was, then solved the problem by stepping in front of the camera so that the lens bumped his chest.
The photographer, now looking straight up into the six feet of sheer muscle that made up Wade O’Riley, swallowed and backed up.
And stayed there.
That was the thing about Wade. First impression said lazy beach bum. Many didn’t look closer than that, but if they did, they’d see a guy with a highly developed sense of ease with himself, but also a low tolerance for bullshit.
“I’m supposed to meet up with Mark at the lounge,” he said to Sam as if nothing had happened, as if they were all alone. “You coming?”
Mark was Mark Lyons, the groom. He and Wade had been close friends ever since their wild college days at Cal State Long Beach. Sam should excuse herself and go to the room and get some work done, but this weekend was about getting the message out that Wade was off the market, so she nodded. She was going. She was going wherever he went. For a month.
Good Lord.
The magnitude of what she’d agreed to was starting to hit her. But her family had been through a rough time lately with the trouble her brother had caused. And although she’d rather notplay Wade’s girlfriend, she didn’t want to let her dad down, or the team. Yes, she was still embarrassed about the elevator incident, but it was long over and done. There was nothing she could do about it other than give in as gracefully as she could, and work together with Wade to get past it. If he was willing, then so was she.
Wade drew her into an open, elegant lounge off the lobby, which was as upscale as the rest of the resort. They sat at a small table near the back so as to be as inconspicuous as possible. It was habit on Wade’s part, she knew, self-preservation against getting recognized.
Not that he ever seemed to mind the obligatory and endless autograph signing, or even stopping to chat with fans. Unlike many players at his level, he never turned anyone away, or revealed anything but that easy charm and patience when stopped—pushy paparazzi aside—but he at least tried to fly under the radar when he could.
A pretty, young waitress made her way to them and immediately lit up at the sight of Wade. “Hey, gorgeous! I’ve got tickets to Sunday’s game. You gonna kick some ass?”
He smiled. “Going to try.”
She grinned. “God, you are hawt.” She shifted a little closer, like they were alone in the world, “What can I get for ya?” she murmured throatily.
“Let me check with my girlfriend.” Wade looked at Sam, the smile still playing about his lips, enjoying the game. “What would you like, Princess?”
What she would like was to smack him for calling her princess. “An iced tea,” she started, then shook her head. She was going to need more than caffeine for this, she was going to need fortification. “No, make that a Corona.”
Wade leaned in and waggled a brow. “Sure you don’t want a Scotch?”
“I’m sure!”
He smiled at her, then at the waitress. “Two Coronas, please.”
“Sure thing, baby. Anything for you.”
As she sauntered away, h*ps swinging, Sam rolled her eyes so hard they nearly fell onto the table.
“Sorry about the press rush out there,” Wade said. “You okay?”
“Sure thing, baby.”
He grimaced at her imitation of the waitress. “Okay, keep in mind, not everything that happens with women is my fault.”
“Uh-huh. How much of it would you say is your fault? Fifty percent?”
He scratched his chin. “That might be a little low.”
The server came back with their beers and a Sharpie pen. “Can you sign me?” She turned, giving Wade her profile, and stuck her hip out. She was wearing a short white skirt and a matching polo shirt with a black apron.
Wade obligingly took the Sharpie. “On your skirt? This is permanent ink.”
“Well,” she said, eating him up with her eyes. “If you want to sign under it . . .”
Oh, for crissake. Sam leaned over and grabbed a beer from the tray. She was at a slow simmer, which made no sense. No sense at all. For four years she’d been privy to the way the public fell all over themselves for Wade, especially women. Hell, it was why she was here today. She needed to get over herself.
He signed on the skirt, and not beneath it, much to the waitress’s obvious disappointment. When she was gone, Sam gave him a look. “Must suck to be you.”
“My cross to bear,” he agreed easily.
She nudged her chin in the direction of the two other waitresses behind the bar, staring at him, giggling. “Brace yourself.”
And sure enough, not two minutes later, they sidled up to the table, holding out Sharpies as well.
Wade slid Sam a quick look, which she met drolly, only to find herself surprised at the apology in his eyes. He signed the autographs, then obligingly posed for their camera phone when they handed it to Sam and asked her to take their picture with Wade.
“Can we kiss you?” one of them asked him.
“No,” Sam said.
Disappointed, they left.
Wade looked amused. And obnoxiously full of himself. “I’ve never seen this jealous streak in you before. I like it.”
“You are so ridiculously spoiled. You have no idea.”
“I think I do,” he said mildly.
She laughed and reached for her beer. “Yeah, right.”
“Hey, I wasn’t born like this, you know. I had a childhood, and then the awkward teenage stage where no girl would even look at me—”
“Pul-leeze.”
“I’m serious.” He studied her for a long moment. “I was small for my age, and scrawny. It was survival of the fittest, and I definitely wasn’t anywhere close. I got beat up all the time.”
She looked at him, not sure if he was pulling her leg, but he looked right back, eyes even and steady.
He was telling the truth. “So what happened?” she asked. “You magically got big and bad and sexy in college?”
He arched a brow.
“Come on, you have a mirror.”
“What happened is I finally grew, and in college had access to a gym, so yeah on the big and bad.” He flashed her a smile.
“What?”
“You think I’m sexy.”
“Looks will fade.”
He kept smiling.
“What now?”
“You want me.”
“I do not.” She did. God help her, she did.
“You want me bad, Princess. Admit it.”
She was spared responding when a tall, dark, and handsome man came up to Wade and grabbed his beer. He downed it, slapped it back to the table, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “You son of a bitch.” And then he swung a punch at Wade’s head.
Wade ducked the punch, then went low and hard, grabbing the guy around the middle and surging up with him to his feet.
Sam leapt to her feet as well, pulling out her cell phone to call the police, but Wade was laughing, and the guy he was holding on to grabbed him up in a great, big bear hug.
“Can you believe it?” he asked Wade with a wide grin as flashes went off all around them. “We’re here for my wedding. Meg still hasn’t run off and left my sorry ass—at least not yet.” Built like a football linesman, with the smile of a real charmer, he finally let go of Wade and pulled back to look at Sam. “Well, hello there,” he purred.
“Mark, I presume,” Sam said drolly, putting away her phone since it appeared she didn’t have to protect her multimillion dollar player.
“In the flesh,” Mark said with a little bow.
“You two always greet each other like Neanderthals?”
Wade watched Mark laugh and shake Sam’s hand, watched Sam smile back at Mark—and for the record, it was her real smile, too, not the fake ones she’d been pawning off on him all damn day.
“Samantha McNead,” she said smoothly. “Publicist for the Heat—” She broke off, looking horrified as she clearly recognized her mistake.
She’d introduced herself as if she were here in a professional capacity.
But she wasn’t.
She was here, pretending to be Wade’s girlfriend.
Mark cocked his head and studied her. “Well, aren’t you a serious thing?” He glanced at Wade. “Not your usual type, is she?”
Sam had frozen, so Wade opened his mouth to tell Mark the real deal between them, but before he could say a word, Mark laughed good and hard and pulled Sam up for the same bear hug he’d given Wade. “So maybe you’ll actually stick.”
Sam relaxed, and seeming relieved, she hugged Mark back as Wade looked on, a little surprised to find that her real smile completely softened her face.
Not that she wasn’t gorgeous. Because she was. Willowy, stacked, and blond, she absolutely was, and she took his breath . . . But when she smiled from the heart, she was more than just beautiful. She seemed approachable.
Sweet.
Which had to be an optical illusion.
“I’m still blown away that we’re actually here.” Mark gestured to their luxurious surroundings, then slapped Wade’s back. “Not bad considering how we started out, huh?”
“How did you start out?” Sam asked.
“Don’t get him started,” Wade told her, hoping to get a subject change pronto.
But of course Sam ignored him. “I’d love to hear it,” she said to Mark with that sweet smile.
Wade groaned and Mark grinned as they all sat back down. He loved to tell this story every bit as much as Wade hated to hear it.
“Wade and I go way back,” Mark started. “We met at orientation for Cal State Long Beach, just two punk street kids. We became roommates.” He grinned in fond memory. “I think we lived off ramen noodles for the next four years, not a frigging penny to our names, either of us.” He looked at Wade. “How many nights did we steal food out of the cafeteria while dreaming of Big Macs?”
“Too many,” Wade said, giving in with a shake of his head. Mark found it all vastly amusing, but when Wade thought of those days, more than the long hours of studying to make up for his lack of such habits in high school, more than finding his love of baseball, he remembered the nights he’d gone to bed with his belly growling. Feeling Sam’s eyes on him, he turned and looked into her baby blues, filled with a surprising warmth and compassion.
Great. Now she felt sorry for him.
Perfect.
“And now look at us,” Mark marveled. “Me, a freaking Hollywood producer, and Wade a star pro ballplayer. Blows my mind every time.” He grabbed Wade in another bone-crunching hug. “Love you, man.”