Impulsive (5 page)

"I'll take my Trans Am over this, any old day."

Jess gave a haughty sniff. "Figures, the pro player has to
have his sporty hot wheels. Well, I've got news for you. Your big old
gas-guzzler cost you twice the money on the lot and the road."

"At least when I hit the gas pedal, I've got some horsepower
under me," he pointed out in a superior tone. "It's a wonder you
haven't gotten yourself killed just trying to pedal this Tinker Toy across the
street before the signal light changes four times."

"Ha-ha. I did my research, buddy, and let me tell you
something. This 'Tinker Toy' has more leg and headroom than your big bad
Pontiac, a wider wheel base, and the resale value over a four-year span is
significantly higher. Not to mention that it corners tighter and probably has a
lower insurance rate."

Ty's eyebrows rose. "Hey! I'm impressed! You really did your
homework. But you're still not going to convince me your car is better than
mine. I've definitely got more elbow room, and as for headroom, I've also got
you beat there."

"How do you figure that?"

Ty laughed. "Mine's a convertible."

She wrinkled her nose at him. "I should have known. I'll bet
you bought a bright red one, too. The better to be seen by your adoring
public."

"Nope. Teal, with an ivory interior and the gold package.
Now, aren't you sorry we didn't take my car?"

"No, I simply regret we had to ride together at all. Or that
we have to eat together and paste phony smiles on our faces while we do it. I
can feel the indigestion building already."

"Speaking of phony smiles, keep yours in place if you
please," he suggested bossily. "It vastly improves your
appearance.
And remember to stand up straight. I'm half a foot taller than you are, so you
don't have to slouch."

"Five inches, tops," she amended. "I'm five-ten,
and you're six-three, if your stats are accurate. I pulled your file, by the
way. I know all kinds of facts and figures on you."

"While I know next to nothing about you, except that Tom
Nelson is your bulldog godfather. So tell me a few things about yourself. Stuff
a guy should know about the woman he's dating."

"Like what, my measurements?" she sneered.

"Nah." He shot her a grin. "I like to find that
sort of information out for myself. For starters, despite the lack of a wedding
ring, I hope you're not married. For all my faults, I don't mess around with
married women."

"No. I came close a couple of times, but I managed to avoid
the matrimonial pit."

"I fell smack into it," he told her. "I've been
divorced for three years now. My son, Josh, is five years old. How old are you,
by the way?"

"Twenty-seven," she admitted readily.

"Birthdate?" he pressed. "God forbid I should miss
your birthday while we're 'dating.' "

"You won't. It's May 8th. You'll be history long before
then."

"Mine's November 12th, so you have three months if you want
to knit me a sweater."

"I know, and I don't knit," she said smugly.
"You'll be thirty-two. That's getting rather long in the tooth for a
starting quarterback."

He zapped her with a dark look. "Gee, I guess somebody ought
to let Young, and Elway, and Marino in on that tidbit of news, so they can
order their rocking chairs and stock up on Geritol. In case you missed the
punchline, sugar dumplin', they're all older than I am, and I haven't even hit
my prime."

"Your conceit is showing again, not that it ever fades
completely, I assume. Rather like that Southern drawl of yours."

Ty contemplated this with some surprise. "There are folks who
would differ with you there, and claim that Kentuckians
don't
have a true Southern accent. Not like people in the deep South, anyway. So,
where are you from?"

"Originally, from Dayton. But I went to OSU for my degree,
and Columbus seemed to suit me, so I stayed."

"Dayton's only a little over an hour away, isn't it? I
suppose you get home to see your family fairly often."

"Mom, yes. Dad died when I was in high school. He and my
older brother were killed in a boating accident when I was sixteen."

He grimaced. "Sorry. That must have been tough. Any other
siblings?"

"Not unless you count my stepsister, Allison, but we're not
close. Mom married her father four years ago. To this day, at twenty-two years
old, Ali resents having to share her daddy's attention with anyone. She's such
a pita!"

"Pita?" Ty echoed. "Like in pita bread?"

Jess laughed. "Hardly! It's another of my favorite acronyms,
like wagara. The letters stand for Pain in the Ass, which, come to think of it,
describes you to perfection."

"Good grief! That doctor must have really stretched you out
when he delivered you! How ungodly tall are you, anyway?"

Jess scowled down at the buxom shrimp seated next to her at the
table. "Tall enough to tell that your hairdresser isn't the only one who
knows you're not naturally blond," she retorted tartly. If the little
cheerleader could be catty, Jess had no qualms about dishing it right back.

From her other side, Ty abruptly popped a wad of his pizza into
Jess's mouth. "Here, honey, try some of mine. I ordered extra
cheese."

It was shut up and chew, or choke. Jess chewed.

Across from Jess, a statuesque black woman, the undeniably
gorgeous wife of one of the players, and a famous fashion model in her own
right, leaned forward and said, "Don't mind Heidi, Jess. Besides being
defensive because she's the shortest cheerleader on the squad, she thinks she's
Hitler in disguise."

Jess still couldn't get over the incredible names of the team
cheerleaders. There was Heidi, of course, and Starr, and Destiny, and Pepper,
and Jazz, all of whom were present this evening. She had yet to meet the other
half of the squad, which consisted of Candy, Shasta, Tawna, Desiree, and last
but not
least, the inevitable Bambi. Not a Mary or Linda or Susan among
them, which led Jess to the conclusion that many of their names must be made
up, like those chosen by actors and singers and popular deejays. Or perhaps a
few were nicknames.

At least the majority of the other women dating or married to the
guys on the team had what Jess considered normal names. There was Corey Rome,
the model, Lisa Harvey, Shannon Baxter, Amanda Orwig, Beth Chambers, Kim
Hardesty, Michelle Tanner, and Tara Jones. Most appeared nice enough at first
meeting. Just a couple of them struck Jess as a bit standoffish, or perhaps
they were merely shy. Of the five cheerleaders, only Heidi and Starr had put on
airs thus far. Destiny came across as slightly ditzy, but amicable. Jazz nearly
bubbled over with energy and talked practically nonstop. Pepper had a low,
raspy voice and a delightfully lusty laugh to match, one of those contagious
laughs that made you join right in despite yourself.

As Tom would have expressed it, and as was to be expected, all the
cheerleaders had figures like brick outhouses, with all the bricks in the right
places. Busty, beautiful, and built. The other women weren't slouches, either,
by anyone's estimation. In fact, Jess knew beyond a doubt that she was less
attractive than any one of them—even Tara Jones, who was eight months pregnant,
and timid little Beth Chambers, who acted as if she wouldn't say boo to a
goose.

But Jess was used to being the odd girl out. After all, she'd been
thrust into that role for most of her life. Since childhood, she'd towered over
her female classmates, and many of the boys as well. Too tall, too skinny, with
braces on her teeth and blah-brown, baby-fine hair, she'd slouched through her
teen years—mostly in a vain effort to disguise not only her height, but the
fact that while other girls were sprouting breasts, hers more resembled grapes.
Even now they were more like poached eggs than those succulent fruits to which
romance writers always compared their heroine's breasts. Unless you counted a
pair of puny tangerines, perhaps.

It wasn't until she'd gone to college, and found her niche on the
women's soccer team, that Jess had begun to blossom. There,
she'd
learned to appreciate her latent athletic talent, her intelligence, and her
innate sense of humor, and to focus on her assets instead of her shortcomings.
She'd made new friends, both male and female, and by the time she graduated
with a bachelor's degree in journalism and communications, she'd grown into a
new sense of herself as a valid, valuable person.

Happily, she'd soon found her way into investigative reporting,
and had done so well at it, from behind the scenes, that she was now
free-lancing on a regular basis for several major network news/magazine
programs. These days, it didn't matter so much that she was plain. She had her
work, which was satisfying and exciting, she had good friends, a nice
apartment... her own place in the world. She was content, for now. At least she
had been before she'd had the misfortune to fall into Ty James's arms and start
daydreaming again about things that could never be.

"How did you and Ty meet?" This from Corey Rome.

"Uh, we sort of bumped into each other at the stadium one
day," Jess ad-libbed.

"I've seen you around there a couple of times," Jazz
commented. "Aren't you some relation to Tom Nelson, or something?"

"Jess is a reporter," Ty put in hastily. "She's
going to be doing a big story on the Knights."

"Is that right?" Dino Sherwood leaned past his
tablemates to look down the long table at Jess. "Does this mean we're
gonna get our pretty mugs in the paper?"

Jess shook her head, but before Dino's good mood had a chance to
evaporate completely, she told him, "More likely on television. I often
free-lance for the major networks, and they usually like whatever ideas I
present to them. If I can get a good angle on the newest NFL expansion team,
its players and their backgrounds, I could quite possibly sell it to the
national sports network."

"Hey! That'd be great!" another player exclaimed.
"Then my boys could brag about their old man to their new classmates and
the neighbors. They're kind of the new kids on the block right now, and they
could use some clout in their corner."

"I know the feeling," Jess commiserated. "Maybe we
can include them in the piece, too, if it doesn't run too long."

Jess shut her apartment door behind her and immediately sagged
against its sturdy panel for support. This had to qualify as one of the
longest, most stressful evenings of her life, and she was so darned glad it was
over that she could have cried. But that would only have made her tension
headache throb even worse, not to mention clogging up her sinuses.

Her head wasn't the only thing aching, either. She'd be lucky if
her ankle wasn't black and blue by morning. Every time Ty had thought she might
say something out of line, or blurt out some bit of information she shouldn't
that would make a lie of their pretense, he had nudged her with his foot to
keep her quiet. After a dozen or so times, even the rubber sole of his sport
shoe had felt like a sledge hammer. In retaliation, she'd taken to
surreptitiously ramming her elbow into his rib cage. She sincerely hoped he was
hurting at least as badly as she was, the rotten rat!

Slowly, so as not to jar her head, Jess made her way down the hall
into her bedroom. After ridding herself of her clothes, she went into the
adjoining bathroom, popped three aspirin and took a long, hot shower. Attired
in her cotton Ohio State University nightshirt, she was brushing her teeth when
she heard a familiar mechanical sound from the spare bedroom, which she used as
her office. It was her fax machine, printing out a message.

Curious as to who would be faxing her at this hour, she ambled
barefoot into the office. There were already four sheets of copied pages lining
the tray, and another still printing. Plucking them up, she scanned them, and
just as swiftly felt her temper rising to the boiling point. That blasted ape!
That bossy, arrogant snot! How dare he presume to dictate to her! And how had
Tyler James gotten her fax number, anyway? She hadn't
even
given him her regular phone number, or her address. If
she
had to hazard a guess, she'd say he'd called Tommy, and her buttinski godfather
had provided him with the number, and heaven only knew what other private
information about her as well. She was going to wring both their necks!

The first of the lot was the cover page with Ty's name and return
fax number and a short, succinct explanation. He wanted her to fill out the
questionnaire he'd devised, the better to exchange necessary data between them.
In turn, he would send one back to her with the personal facts on himself.

Jess glanced at the four-page, single-spaced document, her
eyebrows and her blood pressure rising at the number of questions and the
nature of them. How in the heck had he typed this up so quickly? She'd only
dropped him off at his car a little over an hour ago! And the things he'd had
the gall to ask her! Why, this guy had more raw nerve than a decayed tooth!
Beyond full name, address, age, height, weight, schooling, work experience, and
the usual statistics you'd expect to find on, say, a job application, he was
requesting some very private information, the nosy damned twit!