money-grubbers. Not that he blamed a woman for looking out for herself, as long as she was up front about it.
Phoebe Calebow, the Stars’ owner and his nominee for best woman in the world when she wasn’t being a pain in the ass, said he wouldn’t have so much trouble with females if he’d stop dating such young ones, but she didn’t understand. Football was a young man’s game.
He finished the last of his scotch and felt the beginnings of the faint buzz that told him he was finally getting to the place he wanted to be, the place where he’d forget about the deaths of two people he loved, where he’d forget about Kevin Tucker and getting older and the fact that it seemed like forever since he’d felt the inclination to take one of those eager little dew-sparklers he’d been dating to bed. At the same time he noticed Chris checking his watch for the third time in fifteen minutes. “Going somewhere, Chris?”
“What? Uh, no.” He exchanged glances with Melvin. “Naw, I just wondered what time it was.”
“Three minutes later than when you last looked.” Cal picked up the putter and headed into the dining room, which had some kind of limestone floor and a pricey crystal chandelier, but no furniture. What was the point? He liked to keep things loose and easy, and he sure wasn’t planning any fancy dinner parties. When he entertained his friends, he chartered a plane and flew everybody to Scottsdale.
Besides, he didn’t believe in accumulating a lot of unnecessary possessions since living in the same place too long made him antsy, and the less he had, the easier it was to move. He was a great player because there was no clutter in his life. No permanent houses, no permanent women, nothing that could make him feel old and used up. Nothing that could cause him to lose his edge.
The doorbell rang, and Willie’s head shot up. “That must be the pizzas I ordered.”
All three of them charged toward the door.
Cal regarded them with amusement. All night, there had been something going on between them. Now it seemed he was about to find out what.
Jane stood in the spacious entry of Cal Bonner’s luxury condominium. With the fat pink bow tied around her neck, she was gift-wrapped and special-delivered.
Her heart beat so rapidly she was surprised the men couldn’t see the skin moving beneath the plunging neckline of her suit. She was also feeling a little muzzy, not at all like herself, and she suspected those pills Jodie had given her had kicked in.
Junior of the caterpillar eyebrow took her coat and whispered brief introductions to three men who could only be football players. The one named Chris was white with a prematurely receding hairline and the most massive neck she’d ever seen on a human being. Melvin was black, and his wire-rimmed glasses gave him a faintly scholarly look that was at odds with his enormous frame. Willie had warm coffee-colored skin that accented a pair of huge lady-killer eyes.
Junior finished his introductions and shoved his thumb in her direction. “Jodie done great, didn’t she? I told you she’d come through.”
The men assessed her, and Willie nodded. “Real classy. But how old is she?”
“Twenty-five,”Junior replied, cutting another year off her mythical age.
“Nice legs,” Chris said as he circled her. “Great ass, too.” He curved his hand over her right buttock and squeezed.
She whirled around and kicked him hard in the shin.
“Hey!”
Too late, she realized she’d made a big mistake. A woman who traded in lust would hardly react so violently to being fondled. She recovered quickly and regarded him with all the haughtiness of an upper-class call girl. “I don’t give free samples. If you’re interested in buying the merchandise, make an appointment.”
Far from being offended, they started to laugh, and Willie nodded his approval.“You’re just what the ol’ Bomber needs.”
“He’s gonna be smilin’ tomorrow,” Melvin chuckled.
“Come on, boys. It’s party time!”
Junior pushed her forward, and as she tottered across the limestone floor on her ridiculously high heels, they all started to sing.
Dry-mouthed and terrified, she reached the end of the foyer. On her next step, her heels sank into the white carpet. She turned, spotted Cal Bonner, and froze. Even through her narcotic-induced haze, one agonizing fact became completely clear. The television screen had lied.
He stood silhouetted against a wall of windows with nothing behind him but the cold November night. On television she’d seen a country hick with a good body and bad grammar, but the man staring at her from the other side of the room had nothing of the hick about him. She had chosen a warrior.
He cocked his head to the side and studied her. His gaze was cold and grim, and it sent frightening impressions running through her head.
Gray eyes so pale they were almost silver. Eyes that knew no mercy.
Crisp brown hair whose tendency to curl hadn’t quite been tamed by a no-nonsense cut. A man who made his own rules and answered to no one.
Hard muscle and sinewy strength. A physical animal.
Brutal cheekbones and a ruthless jaw. No softness there. Not even a speck of the gentler emotions. This man was a conqueror, designed by nature to make war.
A chill traveled along her spine. She knew without question that he would be ruthless with anyone he decided was his enemy. Except she wasn’t his enemy, she reminded herself. He’d never know what she had planned for him. Besides, warriors didn’t care about things like illegitimate offspring. Babies were a natural consequence of rape and pillage and not to be given a second thought.
Rough hands, accompanied by raucous male laughter, pushed her toward the man she had chosen to be the father of her child.
“Here’s your birthday present, Cal.”
“From us to you.”
“Happy birthday, buddy. We cared enough to send the very best.”
One final shove pitched her against him. She bumped into a muscular chest. A strong arm encircled her before she could fall, and she caught a faint whiff of scotch. She tried to pull away, but he hadn’t yet made up his mind to release her, so that proved impossible.
Her sudden helplessness was frightening. He stood nearly a head taller than she, and there wasn’t an ounce of fat on his lean, conditioned body. She had to force herself not to struggle to get free because she knew he would crush her if he sensed her weakness.
An image flashed through her mind, of her body naked beneath his, and she immediately pushed it away. If she thought about that part of it, she wouldn’t have a prayer of pulling this off.
His cupped hand slid up her arm. “Well, now, I don’t think I ever got a birthday present quite like this one. You guys got more tricks up your sleeve than a deer’s got ticks.”
The sound of that deep, country drawl immediately steadied her. He might have the body of a warrior, but he was only a football player, and not a very intelligent one at that. The knowledge of her own superior brainpower gave her enough confidence to look up into those pale eyes as he slowly released the grip that held her captive.
“Happy birthday, Mr. Bonner.” She had intended her voice to sound sultry, but instead it sounded professorial, as if she were greeting a student who’d slipped into class late.
“He’s Cal,” Junior said. “It’s short for Calvin, but I’d advise you not to call him that because it pisses him off big time, and making the Bomber mad isn’t something I’d recommend. Cal, this is Rose. Rose Bud.”
He lifted one eyebrow. “You guys brought me a stripper?”
“That’s exactly what I thought, but she’s not. She’s a hooker.”
Distaste flickered across his expression, then disappeared. “Well, now, I thank y’all a whole lot for thinkin’ about me, but I’m gonna have to pass.”
“You can’t do that, Cal,” Junior protested. “We all know how you feel about hookers, but Rose, here, ain’t your
