Slow Heat

without his interference, and she’d agreed to work for the Heat. She wasn’t sure why he stuck to his part of the deal, but for her, she worked for the Heat because she loved the job. And she’d like to think that her father got something out of it, too: the best publicist in the business-if she said so herself. She was happy there, or had been until the Jeremy bullshit last season. But lately she’d had a little seed of discontent in the back of her mind, and she found herself wondering if she’d be happier running her own PR firm when her contract with the Heat was over at the end of this season.

Her father had sensed her discontent and had commented several times that she needed to get over herself. To keep the peace, they rarely spoke. They got together at holidays, birthdays, and the occasional Heat team meeting that he made it to, but for the most part, he stayed on the other side of the country running the rest of his vast business empire. “Well, hello to you, Dad.”

“Sorry,” he said gruffly. “I didn’t mean to bark.”

Yes, he had, but she could forgive him since he’d apologized. Another relatively new thing with him, which she knew he’d gotten from Wife Number Five. Or was it six? If he didn’t apologize quickly and sweetly, it cost him. Usually in diamonds, and not the kind on the baseball field. “I didn’t answer my phone,” she told him, “because I was at the rehearsal dinner.”

“Well, do me a damn favor, and be more available for the next few days. We need you to-”

“Wait. Stop right there,” she said firmly. One had to be firm with her father, or risk getting walked all over. “I’m still in the middle of the last favor you asked me to do. One thing at a time. Is it business-related? Because Gage is-”

“It’s not business-related.”

“Dad,” she said as gently as possible, “you need to go to your wife for the other stuff. It’s what she wants from you, remember? Didn’t you have to go to counseling last year to learn just that?”

“Christ, don’t remind me. Listen, Sam-”

The suite door opened and in walked Wade. She braced for a continuation of their earlier fight, but he didn’t look like he was in a fighting mood. He’d shed his jacket, which was carelessly slung over one shoulder. His tie had been loosened, his shirt unbuttoned, the sleeves shoved up. His hair was a little ruffled and he had a new phone number on his forearm.

He looked at her and grinned.

Oh, boy. He was clearly inebriated, which was interesting given that in the four years she’d known him, she’d only seen him in that condition once.

That night in the Atlanta elevator. “I have to go, Dad.”

“Not yet, Sam. I-”

“I’ll talk to you on Sunday, when I’m back in Santa Barbara for the opening game.”

“Samantha Ann McNead-”

She winced as he middle-named her and shut her phone. Wade tossed his jacket to a chair. His tie went the same route. “Not very nice to hang up on him.”

“At least I call him.”

He sighed and walked very carefully over to the bed. “You have Daddy issues.”

“I think you have that backwards.”

He sank to the bed and put his hands on the mattress at his side as if he were on a moving boat and unsure of his balance. “Come here, little girl.” He grinned. “I’ll be your daddy tonight.”

“You’re drunk.”

“Yes. Yes, I am.” He kicked off one shoe, but had some trouble with the other.

Watching him fight the laces, she sighed and went to him. Kneeling, she untied his shoe and pulled it off. Then she rose up a little and looked into his eyes. “I think you should go to bed.”

“I do, too.” He reached out and ran a finger over the stress spot between her eyes. “Tell me what’s wrong, Princess. Tell Daddy all your troubles.”

She nudged him in the chest and he fell back onto the mattress, just over six feet of sprawled-out limbs. “Whoa,” he said.

Rolling her eyes, she moved away from the bed over to the small desk. She picked up the phone, dialing housekeeping for a roll-away bed. While the phone was ringing in her ear, two big, warm hands settled on her shoulders and started kneading, and before she could stop herself, she’d let out a low, heartfelt moan.

“You’ve got an entire rock quarry in here,” he murmured, going right for her tight, tension knots and digging in as his mouth settled on the nape of her neck.

Oh God, she was melting. “Stop. I can’t talk when you do that-”

“Then don’t.” Reaching around her, he took the phone from her fingers and hung it up.

“I was trying to get a roll-away bed.”

“Roll-aways are pieces of shit.”

“But-”

“Shhh.”

His fingers were long and strong and firm, and knew exactly where to press to turn her limbs into overcooked noodles. Unable to stop herself, she sank to the chair, closing her eyes at his soft, knowing laugh.

“I make you weak in the knees,” he said silkily.

“No, your hands make me weak in the knees.”

He laughed again. “I might be buzzed, but not too buzzed to know that you are such a liar.”

And then he pulled his hands free.

She nearly cried at the loss, but got herself together. When she turned to look at him, he was headed for the bathroom, unbuttoning his shirt, which he shrugged off halfway there.

She told herself not to stare but he truly had the most glorious physique. His back was all sleek, smooth, bronzed flesh, sinew rippling as he moved-“Hey!” she said as his pants dropped. He kicked free and kept walking, in nothing but black knit boxers. “What are you doing?” she squeaked, even as her gaze soaked up the fact that he had a tan line, and that the waistband of his boxers had slipped past it, revealing a tantalizing strip of paler, smooth, tight skin. “We’re not doing this, Wade O’Riley. Do you hear me? This is all pretend, remember?”

“I remember. The question is, do you?” He sent her a cheeky grin over his shoulder.

“Put your clothes back on!”

“Taking a shower.”

And then he dropped his boxers.

Oh, sweet baby Jesus.“Don’t drown,” she murmured, watching the most excellent ass in all the land vanish behind the door. She heard the shower go on and leaned back in the chair, letting out a long, shaky breath.

She was in big trouble.

All the way around.

Wade sobered up a bit in the shower. The nice alcohol daze couldn’t stand up to the pressing thoughts bumping around in his brain like bumper cars.

Mark getting married.

His father drunk-dialing him…

There was also a disturbing ache in his bones, suggesting his body was damn tired, and maybe, just maybe at age thirty-two, also damn old. With Opening Day less than forty-eight hours away, that couldn’t be good, but that problem would have to get in line.

He hadn’t meant to get toasted tonight, but Mark had been so goddamned happy and over the moon, and looking at him had made Wade feel just a little envious.

Mark had a life. A real life, one that went deeper than nights out with the guys and the occasional hot woman in his bed, one that went past what ESPN had to say about his athletic prowess.

One that wasn’t defined by what he did for a living.

Feeling a little off his game, he got out of the shower, wrapped a towel around his hips, and opened the bathroom door.

Complete darkness greeted him.