Just Joe (2 page)

Only when she reached the
safety of her car, her trembling fingers gripping the steering wheel, did the
tears begin to fall.

And they came from a dark
locked room inside her mind from which Mattie couldn't escape.

Joe stood statue still in
the end zone, oblivious to the backslapping congratulations of his teammates
and fans.

She was gone.

Why did he feel as if she had
taken a part of him with her? He didn't even know her name! All he knew of her
was what he had seen in her eyes, what he had felt in her body.

He would find her. Yes, he
would find his mystery lady with the frightened eyes. She wouldn't escape him
that easily. And when he found her, he would find the reason for this sudden,
slashing need to see beyond her shadows and to the substance.

Joe rushed through his
shower, barely aware of the postgame exuberance of his teammates. He was out of
the locker room and hurtling up the steps to the network broadcast booth before
any of the swarming reporters could capture him. Useless things, reporters, he
thought dismissingly. Always wanting to make something out of nothing, to
fashion little tin gods out of normal men. Joe couldn't think of anything more
abhorrent than having his face recognized wherever he went, although some of
the players in the league enjoyed it. It would offend his own deep sense of
privacy to be accosted as he did his grocery shopping or jogged around the
block. That was precisely why he never granted interviews. His only concession
to the fame his job had brought him was the local charities to which he
committed his time and money, and sometimes—unavoidably—personal appearances.

Taking a deep breath, he
pulled open the door to the booth and stepped inside. Andy Butler, the
anemic-looking sportscaster, was just breaking for a commercial when he spotted
Joe. The red light on the camera faded, indicating the break, and Butler turned
off his phony smile.

"Well, well, if it
isn't the man of the hour!" Butler marveled mockingly. "What are you
doing up here, Ryan? Slumming?"

Joe shifted restlessly but
held his temper. "Andy," he acknowledged with a stiff nod, moving
forward. "I need a favor."

Butler's eyebrows rose in
astonishment. "A favor? From li'lol'me?"

"I'd like a copy of
the tape on that last play," Joe gritted determinedly.

"Collecting
souvenirs?" Andy sneered. "I thought you noble quarterback types were
above all that."

Joe refused to be drawn.

"Anyway," Butler
continued, "you can get a copy from your coaches."

"I can't wait for the
rehash of the game," Joe told him. "I need it now."

A small, manipulative
smile played on Butler's thin lips. "What's it worth to you, Joe?"

Joe shrugged, resigned.
"What do you want, Andy?" Joe already knew the answer.

"An interview,"
Butler told him with relish. "On camera. Exclusive. Now."

Joe's mind rebelled, but
the image of his black-haired lady pushed him on. "All right," he
growled reluctantly. "Two minutes."

"Five."

"Don't push it,
Andy." Joe snared a chair and faced the camera.

Butler grinned
triumphantly and signaled to the video technician to make a copy of the play
Joe had requested.

The red light blinked on,
and Andy began. "We have with us now Joe Ryan, the somewhat reclusive
quarterback for the Dallas Conquerors and the man responsible for that last
winning play." Butler turned to Joe with a congenial smile pasted on his
face. "That was quite a play, buddy," he remarked, opening the air for
Joe's commentary.

Joe smiled blandly into
the camera. "Thank you."

There was an awkward
moment of silence as Butler leaned forward, an expectant look on his face,
waiting for Joe to continue. Nothing more was forthcoming, however, and Joe
simply sat there, smiling benignly into the camera.

Butler's own smile slipped
a little.

"'You're the top
ranked quarterback in the NFL, Joe," Butler continued forcedly. "How
do you account for that?"

"Well, Andy," Joe
leaned forward, his tone lowering confidingly, and Butler suddenly knew that
something totally outrageous was about to be said. "I like to think my
game is effective because I play with my brain instead of my b—"

Butler gobbled panickedly,
his face pale, and Joe broke off with a roguish gleam in his eyes before
finishing sedately, "Instead of with another portion of my anatomy."

"Well, Joe,"
Butler rushed in heartily, quickly wiping a film of perspiration from his
forehead, "it's been nice talking to you. Continued success in the rest of
the season. Now we're going to break for this message from everyone's favorite
beer."

The red light clicked off
and so did Butler's sickly smile. "What the hell do you think you're
doing?" he demanded furiously, practically foaming at the mouth.

"Did I say something
wrong?" Joe queried innocently, smiling beatifically. "I don't do
many interviews, you know. And I
am
just a dumb jock—"

"Cut the stupid
country boy act, Ryan," Butler snapped. "We both know that you were a
Rhodes scholar. Take the damn tape and go."

Joe lazily got to his feet
and pocketed the tape that the video technician was holding, noting absently
the barely suppressed grin on the man's face. Andy Butler was universally
disliked.

"Thanks for the help,
Andy," he murmured laconically, and strolled from the booth.

Only when the door closed
behind him did he allow a pleased, anticipatory smile to cross his hard face.
His lady was captured on this tape somewhere. And someone in this
stadium—another photographer, a reporter,
someone
— would recognize her.

Oh yes, he would find his
lady.

"Wendall, please do
something—
animalistic!
Mattie lowered her camera to regard her model
critically. "I know it's your first time, but for heaven's sake, it's not
as if I'm asking you to do a centerfold!"

Wendall rolled over to
bury his face in a pile of leaves. Mattie sighed and decided to try another
tack.

"I could make you
famous, you know," she offered idly, inspecting her nails. "Why, you
could be recognized all over the world. You could be asked to do an American
Express commercial." Mattie took a quick peek at her model to see how that
grabbed him.

Apparently, it didn't.
Wendall wrinkled his nose and blinked lazily at the camera.

"You," Mattie
told him direly, "are an uncooperative rodent."

Wendall the chipmunk
scurried a few feet away to corner a downed acorn, and Mattie sighed. It was
better than nothing, she decided philosophically, and he did look kind of cute
batting the acorn around between his paws. She lifted her camera carefully and
focused. "Now, if you'll just smile into the camera for two seconds, I'll
buy you a bushel bag of acorns."

Suddenly there was a
smiling face in her sight. But not a smiling chipmunk face. This face was all
hard masculine angles and glittering green eyes and impossibly sensuous mouth.

She was doing it again!
She thought she had finally managed to banish that face from her memory,
thought she had finally left it in the end zone at the Conquerors' stadium. God
knew, she had tried.

After coming home from the
game yesterday, she had spent a long time thinking about what had happened,
somehow unable to escape the memory of the feel of that hard masculine body
against her own small frame. She had looked, really
looked,
at herself
in the mirror for the first . in ages, and she had easily read the shadowed
ghosts in her own smoky eyes. Every inch of her delicate five-foot-two frame
was trembling with the unexpected confrontation with those ghosts. Would she
ever really be free of them? Would she ever be able to stop running? From Port
Arthur to Austin to Houston to Denver to Dallas...to hell and back. She was
twenty-three years old, Mattie thought with a sudden fierce impatience. And
still she was afraid of the dark... because it was the dark that hid her
ghosts, her past and her future.

Now, Mattie carefully
lowered her camera and tried to blink away this latest ghost.

"I never could resist
acorns." The voice was deep and drawling, and Mattie assured herself that
the shiver running down ner spine ana curling arouna ner toes had noth-ing to
do with the masculine promise contained therein and everything to do with the
fact that Wendall's voice couldn't possibly be that deep.

She swallowed dutifully
and opened her eyes. He was still there. "Uh... hello."

"Hello," Joe
returned gravely, his laughing eyes cataloging each feature and movement.

Mattie decided suddenly,
and with great lunacy, that now was the perfect time to pretend that she had
never seen this man before, that he was a total stranger who had stumbled into
her view. Dismissing Wendall from her mind entirely, she screwed the cap back
on her lens and took an awkward, sliding step to her right.

Joe echoed the move
faithfully, and Mattie stopped, glancing quickly around her immediate vicinity
of the park. She relaxed somewhat as she noted the activity around her, and the
several people within calling distance. Actually, a couple of women were
staring at him intently. Mattie thought it was probably because he was so huge,
standing there in tight faded jeans and a white sweatshirt. The women staring
knew it was because he was absolutely gorgeous.

Unaware of all this,
Mattie resolutely raised her eyes to meet his.

"So," she tried
carefully.

Joe smiled. "Remember
me? The one who landed on top of you yesterday?"

"Oh.. .yes,"
Mattie murmured faintly, sounding as if she were recalling some vague distant
memory of such an incident.

"At the football
game?" Joe prompted helpfully.

"Yes, I
remember," Mattie told him more firmly. "Are you all right? Did I
hurt you?" She had a sudden, vivid mental image of being dragged into
court by the scruff of neck and slapped into prison for her crimes.

Joe grinned beguilingly.
"Do you think you could? Hurt me, I mean?"

No, Mattie realized
grimly. She couldn't hurt him. He was so much bigger than she was, and,
besides, women didn't hurt men. Men were the master inflicters of pain.

Joe witnessed the bitter
wariness cloud her eyes and wondered about it. "I came by to see if I had
hurt you."

Mattie regarded him
doubtfully. "How did you know where to find me?"

Joe smiled slightly.
"I asked one of the other photographers on the field who you were."
But that wasn't all he had asked, Joe acknowledged to himself silently. And the
answers—or more accurately, the lack of answers—he had received had shaken him.
He had talked to countless people before he had found one who knew Matilda
Grey. Even then, the man could relay only the barest of information. She was a
free-lance photographer who had suddenly ap-peared in Dallas six months
ago—from Denver, he thought. No past, no family, no history. She worked for no
one but herself, had refused offers of permanent employment in favor of her
freedom. Her work was good—very good— and had graced magazines all over the
country, yet she was an elusive woman. No one knew anything of her private
life. No one but himself, Joe thought sadly, because he had seen into her eyes.

"So, did I?" Joe
forced himself away from his silent musings to ask.

Mattie blinked. "Did
you what?"

"Did I hurt you
yesterday?"

Get a grip, Mattie derided
herself silently. "No. No, of course not, Mr. Um... I'm fine."

"My name is
Joe," he offered sweetly. "Mr. Um is a lit tie formal."

Mattie felt the blush that
climbed her cheeks. She wa supposed to know this man's name, she was sure.
Wasn' he the home team quarterfront or something?

"Well, uh, it was
nice of you to check on me, Mr. Joe—" Mattie tried for a tactful exit, but
was interrupted.

"Not Mr. Joe. That
makes me sound like a talking horse Joe, just Joe."

Mattie smiled unwillingly.
A talking horse, indeed.

Joe witnessed the smile
and relaxed. Maybe it would b all right after all. "Will you have dinner
with me to night?"