Game On

When Bad Feels Good . . .

Unlike most of the men at the bar, Shane had eschewed the resort uniform of khaki shorts and a golf shirt. Instead, he was dressed in a pair of well-worn jean shorts, flip-flops, and a white linen shirt unbuttoned to reveal enough skin for Carly to know he spent a lot of time outdoors. Sun-kissed brown hair curled around his collar, one stray lock hanging in front of eyes so dark she couldn’t make out their color. A hint of stubble along his jaw gave just the right amount of danger to his look. His presence was . . . intoxicating, to say the least. And he was focusing all that dark, brooding intensity on her.

Strong arms held her against his tall, athletic frame and she sighed softly as his chest came in contact with her breasts. His lips brushed her hairline: the beginnings of his beard gently rubbing against her skin sent shock waves to the pit of her belly and below. He smelled of shea butter and soap. Clean and sweet. Definitely not the words most people would use to describe Shane Devlin, the Devil of the NFL. He shifted her against him again and she felt the heat and strength of his arousal.

Carly thought to herself,
Okay, this was definitely a bad idea . . .

Game On

TRACY SOLHEIM

THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

Published by the Penguin Group

Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

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Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

For more information about the Penguin Group, visit penguin.com.

GAME ON

A Berkley Sensation Book / published by arrangement with Sun Home Productions, LLC

Copyright © 2013 by Sun Home Productions, LLC.

Excerpt from
Foolish Games
by Tracy Solheim copyright © 2013

by Sun Home Productions, LLC.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

Berkley Sensation Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group.

BERKLEY SENSATION
^®
is a registered trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

The “B” design is a trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,

a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

eBook ISBN: 978-1-101-61751-9

PUBLISHING HISTORY

Berkley Sensation mass-market paperback edition / May 2013

Cover photo by Claudio Marinesco.

Cover design by Rita Frangie.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

This one is for the home team.

Thanks for not laughing

when I said I was writing a book.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

This book would not have been possible without an abundance of encouragement and dedication on the part of so many wonderful people in my life. Oh, and luck. It takes a little luck now and then to make dreams come true.

Thanks, first of all, to Melissa Jeglinski, for agreeing to represent my books even after enduring eight hours stranded in the Shreveport, Louisiana, airport with me stalking you! (See what I mean about luck?) Your patience and guidance, as well as your friendship, are appreciated.

Cindy Hwang, thank you for believing in this book and those yet to come. It is an honor and a privilege to work with you and all the wonderful people at Berkley.

To the four beautiful fellow authors who have shared this journey with me these past several years—Christy Hayes, Susan Sands, Laura Butler, and Laura Alford—thanks for gifting me with not only your talented critiques, but your friendship.

Thanks to my steadfast college buddies, Diane, Melanie, and Deanne, for always agreeing when I beg for beta readers. Well, okay, two of you do, but the other one brings wine and lets me drive her convertible when I’m in the throes of writer’s block.

To Allison, Chris, Dana, Donna, Jeanne, Kathy, Maureen, and Megan, my friends in the Talking Volumes book club, thank you for cheering me on and, no, we don’t have to discuss this book in detail. Unless, of course, you really, really want to.

Thanks also to my wonderful small group. Your prayers are always helpful. Peace.

Finally, thanks to the three people who never doubted this book would get published—even when I did. Greg, Austin, and Meredith, your unconditional love and support—not to mention the endless supply of cupcakes—mean the world to me. I love you!

One

“Well I’ll be doggone! Ain’t this a small world or
what?”

Shane Devlin looked up from the screen of his cell phone, shaking his head slightly to readjust his thoughts. He’d been so focused on the text message he was reading, he’d tuned out everything around him. A lizard darted through the dahlia bushes bordering the bar’s patio where Shane sat. The ocean churned quietly beneath an inky night sky. Music and laughter from the nightclub drifted out amongst the strings of twinkling lights before being carried away to the sea by a quiet breeze. All in all, it was a travel agent’s dream night on the Mexican Riviera.

“Kitty, get over here with the camera. I gotta get a picture with him to show the fellas at the rotary club.”

Or it would be if not for the loud, obnoxious bar patrons. Shifting uncomfortably in the plastic resin chair, Shane glanced around for an escape route as the heavyset, balding man with the booming voice lumbered toward him, a wide-eyed Kitty in tow. Both looked harmless enough: a middle-aged couple dressed in typical tourist garb, complete with sparkling white sneakers on their feet.

“Mort, I don’t think we should disturb him,” Kitty whispered as Mort rummaged through the oversized, leopard-print bag on her shoulder, presumably looking for a camera.

Ahh, so Kitty with the bouffant hair wasn’t as impressed by a down-on-his-luck NFL quarterback as hubby Mort. Perhaps it was the stay-the-hell-away-from-me vibe Shane was putting out. After all, he’d escaped to Mexico to lie low for a few days while his agent negotiated a new contract for him.

“Honey, do you know who this is?” Mort asked as he pulled a small digital camera from the depths of the bag.

Here it comes. This is where Mort tells Kitty she’s looking at the idiot who, in the final minutes of the last game of the season, threw the winning touchdown—except the guy who caught it was wearing the other team’s jersey. Shane felt his jaw clench as he shifted his six-foot-three-inch frame to a more defensive position, not an easy feat considering the small chair. Wringing her hands in front of her, Kitty shuffled her feet as Mort’s pudgy fingers struggled to turn on the camera. From the look of panic on her face, she knew exactly who Shane was—or more important, who the tabloid press made him out to be: the Devil of the NFL. Nothing aggravated him more than fans bringing up that botched game or his even more botched-up personal life.

“This here is Shane Devlin, the son of a football legend. His daddy was one of the best players in the game,” Mort said reverently. “Heck, if his old man hadn’t been injured, he’d be in the Hall of Fame for sure.”

Okay,
that
actually aggravated him more. Shane reached for the bottle of beer he’d been nursing all night, not sure whether he wanted to drink its warm contents or smash it over something. Being compared to his father never failed to make him angry. Or to remind him of how his plans had been derailed. Shane was a man with no team to play for next season. At thirty-one years old, he was at his athletic peak. Yet one ill-timed interception—along with several highly publicized scandals off the field—was enough for the San Diego Chargers to send him packing.

But Shane wasn’t ready to hang up his cleats. It wasn’t money he was after; he’d saved enough to live well after retirement. No, it was the records he wanted. Records set by his father—Bruce Devlin—when he’d played pro football. The same father who’d abandoned him. Shane would be damned if Bruce Devlin’s name graced any NFL record books. No, he intended to break them all himself.

Several teams out there were looking for a veteran quarterback, but Shane couldn’t afford to just stand on the sidelines. He needed a starting gig. Hoping another player would blow out a knee tripping over his dog wasn’t exactly good karma, but Shane was running out of options. And tonight, sitting in a bar in Cabo San Lucas after thirty-six holes of golf with a few sponsors, his luck may have just turned. He glanced down at the text on his cell phone again, the message on the screen his talisman:

Blaze QB out 4 season. Working on a deal now.

Shane sucked in a lungful of air to calm himself as Mort edged closer. Stuffing his cell phone in his shorts, Shane stood, squaring his broad shoulders and puffing out his chest. The move had the desired effect; Mort stilled in mid-motion.

“Um, you don’t mind if the little lady snaps a photo of us, do you?” Mort asked, apparently finally finding his manners.

Hell yes, I do!
Shane almost shouted. He bit it back, though, not wanting to listen to another lecture from his agent about playing nice with the folks who filled the stadiums, thereby funding his paycheck.

Shane grabbed the beer bottle, discreetly tucking it behind his hip. “Why not?”

It was all the invitation Mort needed. With a face-splitting grin, he handed the camera to a still leery Kitty and sidled up next to Shane, stretching up on his beefy legs so as to almost reach Shane’s shoulder. The camera flashed twice, and while Shane’s eyes recovered from the assault, Mort pulled up a chair to the table and sank down into it. Kitty dropped her oversized bag into another chair and dragged it toward Shane’s table.

“Thanks, buddy. Let me buy you another beer and you can catch me up on what your old man’s been up to lately.” Mort flagged down a waiter.

No way was Shane sitting with Mort and Kitty to “catch up” on anything, much less his dear old dad, whom he hadn’t spoken to more than a half dozen times in the last twenty years. Shane scanned the patio for possible options to exit gracefully. He really wanted to head back to his room to wait for his agent’s call. With any luck, he’d be signing with a new team tomorrow.

Peals of pleasant laughter drew his attention to a table next to the bar where two women sat sharing a pitcher of margaritas. He’d run into them frequently throughout the weekend since they occupied one of the VIP bungalows near his. According to the resort’s golf pro, the dark, vivacious one was a famous wedding gown designer. She’d brought along a dozen or so Victoria Secret model–wannabes to shoot a photo spread of her gowns at a nearby ancient Spanish church. Shane had steered clear of her, figuring any woman who touched wedding gowns—much less designed them—clearly had fantasies of wedding bells in her future. His game was football, not serious relationships.

Avoiding her completely had become impossible because Shane was fascinated with observing the antics of the designer’s assistant. She’d spent the weekend shuffling between the church and the resort’s business office, all the while with a cell phone that, when it wasn’t glued to her ear, chimed the theme to
The
Wizard of Oz
. The taller of the two, she was also much fairer, her skin glowing a soft pink after several days in the sun. Her hair blew in long, chestnut waves, shimmering softly under the moonlight. But it was her eyes—the exact color of the blue Pacific waters caressing the sand along the Mexican resort—he found most interesting.

Too bad they weren’t as warm as the ocean they reflected. Every time he tried to start up a conversation with her, he was treated to a cold brush-off. Twice he’d offered to buy her a drink, only to get a polite—but chilly—refusal. The situation was a novel one for him. He was a professional athlete, for crying out loud. Wherever he went, women fell all over him. But not this woman. He wasn’t used to having to work to get a woman to pay attention to him, and he was surprised at how much the effort seemed to turn him on.

The magazine photographer joined the two women at their table, chatting in rapid-fire Italian with the designer. Laughing, he pulled her up and off to the center of the patio where couples danced under the stars. Shane took advantage of the opportunity for a speedy escape.

“Thanks, but my friends are waiting for me at another table.” Shane clapped Mort on the shoulder, forcing him to stay in his seat. Nodding to Kitty, he tried to look casual as he dodged between the dancers and other patrons, finally sliding into the chair the designer had vacated.

Cool blue eyes framed by long, dark lashes fixed on him as he set his beer down on the table. Dressed in a sleeveless floral blouse that wrapped around her waist and a short denim skirt that accentuated long, lean, sun-kissed legs, she shifted back in her chair. Any surprise she might have felt by his abrupt arrival was quickly covered with an abundance of poise. Casually she flung her hair over a shoulder, slowly crossing her bare legs. If the move was meant to be provocative, it worked.

“Don’t panic. I’m not staying,” he said, leaning back in the chair, crossing his own long legs at the ankles so as to present a relaxed image in case Mort and Kitty were watching. “I’m just avoiding that couple at the table back there.”

Before he could stop her, she whipped her head around to look back across the dance floor at Mort and Kitty. Mort gave him a thumbs-up sign just as she turned back to Shane.
Ah, hell.
He took a long pull on his beer to buy some more time. It was nasty and warm, but he was heading for his room, so no point in ordering another one. The silence stretched.

“Shane Devlin,” he said, finally.

She said nothing, continuing to stare at him, her full lips forming a brief, patronizing grin. Shifting in his chair, his gaze zeroed in on her smile, and he couldn’t help wondering what her mouth might taste like. Forcing his eyes up, he noticed the constellation of freckles crossing her nose. His perusal stopped as his eyes met hers, still incredibly blue, but with a slight twinkle that Shane hoped wasn’t a result of the bar lights. Other than a slight lift of her brow, her face revealed nothing.

“And you are?” he persisted, trying to remember if he’d heard her speaking English at any time this weekend.

“Allergic to jocks.” A hint of an accent wove through her crisp voice.

Shane bit back a grin, finally relaxing in his chair. So she knew who he was and decided to play hard to get. The game just got a lot more interesting. Maybe not as easy as he’d like, but he lived for a challenge. Besides, this was a lot more fun than waiting on his phone to ring back in his room. Why not stay and chat her up, seeing as how she’d shot him down all weekend.

“How ’bout I just call you Dorothy?”

Both eyebrows arched in question. Shane nodded toward the ever-present cell phone lying on the table. She laughed softly and he felt it all the way to his groin. Leaning forward, she rested her arms on the table, giving him an excellent view of a silver chain dangling between two pert breasts. A dusting of perspiration glistened on her skin, courtesy of the humid evening. Her breasts were no rival to the silicone boobs adorning the models circulating the bar, but he didn’t care. Suddenly, he wanted them in his hands. In his mouth.
Whoa there, buddy!
Just killing time, here. Harmless flirting and nothing more,
he reminded himself.

“So, what is it you want tonight, Mr. Devlin?” She lifted her margarita glass to her mouth, flicking a piece of salt with her tongue. The simple action made him hard.

What did he want? Apparently, if he was listening to the plays his body was calling, he wanted her. But he’d be damned if he could figure out why. She was nothing like the women he normally found attractive. Nonetheless, she’d captivated his attention since he’d first laid eyes on her lounging beside the pool. Surrounded by a bevy of enhanced female perfection, she somehow stood out from the models. She was real.

Shane wasn’t sure how to handle real.

His entire life, people had been sucking up to him, first to meet his famous father, then to meet him. It was one of the reasons he kept to himself. He trusted no one. Sure, he could turn on the public persona when his contract called for it, but for the most part, Shane was a private man. The women he got involved with knew the rules up front. They used him for publicity and he used them for sex. Simple. Or at least it had been up until recently.

Perhaps Dorothy’s unpretentiousness attracted him. He couldn’t say. All he knew was he was enjoying himself for the first time in many weeks. Nothing could come of it. He had a score to settle, a team to pursue, and records to break. His game plan didn’t allow for the strong attraction he immediately felt for a strange woman in a bar.

“I just thought we could get to know each other better.” The line sounded corny even to him. He was definitely rusty in the flirtation department. And she wasn’t going to make it easy for him. In spite of that, Shane felt a slow smile spread across his face.

Rolling her eyes at his adolescent attempt, she fiddled with a strand of hair and leaned back against the chair.

“You jocks are all alike.” She fingered the chain around her neck. Shane took a slow breath. The gesture was more erotic than her licking the salt off her glass. “You think any woman will be flattered by your attention.”

“You could flatter me with a little of yours.”

His lines were bordering on pathetic, but at least she didn’t break out in hysterics. He thought he saw the beginnings of a real smile, but before she could say anything, the fashion designer and photographer returned to the table. The designer’s eyes went wide as she noticed him sitting there. The photographer recognized Shane immediately.

“Hey, you two do know each . . .” Before he could finish his sentence, Dorothy grabbed Shane’s arm, yanking him up from the table.

“Let’s dance.” Her warm fingers manacled his wrist as she dragged him to the other side of the bar.

She didn’t have to ask him twice. As luck would have it, the jazz trio was playing a cover of a John Mayer ballad, allowing Shane to gather her close. So close he detected the citrus scent of her shampoo. She smelled good enough to eat. Her soft, bare arms glowed beneath the twinkling patio lights. He stifled a groan as her hips swayed against his groin.

“Aren’t you afraid of an allergic reaction?” he teased. She shivered as his breath brushed her neck. He took it as an invitation to lean in closer and trace his lips along the shell of her ear.

“I’ll risk it.” Dorothy breathed against his chest.

* * *

Carly March looked behind the gorgeous hunk of
athlete she’d dragged to the dance floor to where her friend Julianne Marchione was waving frantically at her.