Slow Heat

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, hips 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