The Jock (14 page)

Sighing,
Gwenyth reached for the envelope and tore it open. Although she was certain it
was a royal summons of some sort from Prima Donna Trevianni, she had to read it
on the off chance that it was something important. It only took a second to
scan the letter's message: NAM.

Gwenyth's
fingers trembled with anger for the briefest of moments as she clutched the
paper tighter, wadding it up into a ball. She knew she should have felt scared.
Or at least slightly apprehensive. The only emotion she could manage to conjure
up, however, was pure, unadulterated rage.

The
bastard.

Was
Senator Green behind this? Was he so naive as to believe that these stupid little
messages were going to send her cowering into oblivion-ville? Oh sure, the
first message had managed to shake her up a bit, but that was more so because
of the method that had been used rather than the message itself. It wasn't like
she'd been expecting a baseball to come crashing through her closed window
while sitting quietly in her apartment contemplating Sam Trevianni.

Sam.
Oh damn. She could never let Sam see this coward's note! He'd fly into a rage
over it. She could easily envision him barging his Prima Donna ass into Senator
Green's office and rearranging the politician's fake smile and capped teeth. A
scene such as that one would only hinder Harry's chances at the polls next
week.

"Gwen,
amour, iz everything bon?"

Startled,
Gwenyth's head shot up. She'd forgotten about Etienne for a moment. "Oui.
Yes."

Etienne
didn't look as though he believed her. He searched her reddened face, wondering
what it was that had upset her so. "You are certain, chère?"

Gwenyth
threw the wadded up piece of paper into her duffel bag and zipped it shut. She
would turn the note over to the Tampa Police Department when she returned home.
For now, there was no more time to waste on angering herself over the actions
of the sniveling senator. "I'm certain," she assured Etienne with a
smile. Changing the subject she gestured toward the speedo he was wearing.
"Let's take a few shots of you in this one, then I want to see you in the
wetsuit. Okay?"

Etienne
grinned. "D'accord." He winked at Gwenyth, a gesture that could send
most women into a heart-stopping swoon. "Let us begin, ma chère."

* * * * *

"D'accord.
Let us begin, ma chère."
Sam mimicked Etienne like a mad parrot
as he glowered at the too good-looking Frenchman from the shadows of the
terrace. Certain that he'd lose his breakfast if he had to listen to the model
utter any more suave French words to
his
woman, he turned sharply on his
heel and stomped off. "She wants to see him in a damn wetsuit," he
muttered to no one in particular as he threw open the doors to the terrace and
headed for the elevators. "Like oh sure
, he
would look better in a
wetsuit than I would."

That
Gwenyth was only doing her job played a minor role in his jealous musings.
Uppermost in Sam's mind was the fact that Gwen was being nicer to Frenchy than
she was to him. Of course, Sam morosely considered, Etienne was also behaving a
lot more accommodating than he had been these past few days.

Sam
growled a goodbye to Julie, a woman of extremely refined tastes seeing as how
she obviously had the hots for
him
and not Etienne, then stalked in
between the closing elevator doors and pounded on the button for the lobby
floor. All Sam wanted to do was go back to the hotel and release a little
penned up energy. Maybe a good swim. Or a jog around the grounds. What was the
difference so long as it took his mind off of one infuriating female.

Perhaps,
Sam reflected as he alighted from the elevator and strode toward the exit of
Vantry Sportswear, perhaps it was just possible that he'd gone a wee bit
overboard these past few days. Perhaps he'd taken the need to assuage his male
ego to profoundly asinine heights.

But
what in the hell did Gwen expect? He hadn't had sex since the night he got
here!

Sam
still couldn't believe it. Oh Gwen had said she wanted time to figure out how
she felt about him, to understand what it was she was wanting—he rolled his
eyes—but he certainly hadn't taken her promise to cut off all intimate
relations as a serious one. Never in a million years had he believed she'd have
the fortitude to see it through. After all, he wouldn't have. It depressed him
like all hell to think that she could so easily withstand all of his best
attempts at seduction.

But
withstand them she had.

And
Sam had tried—
really
tried
.
He had even quoted some dumb-ass line
from Shakespeare over dinner one night because he'd read somewhere that chicks
dig that stuff. Apparently Gwenyth wasn't like the rest of her kind. She was
unnatural, Gwenyth. Or so it made him feel better to believe.

So
in retaliation, Sam had taken to acting like a spoiled little boy. A Prima
Donna, Gwenyth had called him.
Harrumph
, as Willy would say. What
exactly did the woman expect?

Was
he to fawn over her every word, acting as though it was gospel from heaven as
Etienne did? Sam balled his hands into fists and clenched his teeth as he
considered the possibility that she just might get off on that.

Well
too damn bad.
Sam
wasn't changing and he damn sure wasn't giving up Gwen to any candy-ass
Frenchman. The way he saw it, if Etienne knew what was best for him and his
pretty face, he would take his caviar and his beret and hop on the first plane
headed back to Paris. Otherwise, Sam just might be obliged to put him on the
plane his self. And that sight wouldn't be pretty—he snorted incredulously—no
sir, not pretty at all.

Twenty
minutes later, Sam dove into the hotel's Olympic sized pool and swam a full
length before resurfacing. And in that brief thirty second span in time, he
also arrived at a decision.

Legally,
he might not be able to get away with kidnapping Cupcake and secreting her away
to the nearest dungeon without going to jail. And jail wouldn't do at all.

So
if Sam couldn't lock his woman away, he was going to do the next best thing.
Damn it anyway, he was going to marry her
now
.

"Work
it, baby. Work it! Oh my—goodness gracious—you've got it!"

Sam
glowered over his shoulder at Big Ed, Gwenyth's blatantly homosexual assistant
photographer and the man all his foolish tantrums and demands had finally
resigned him to being photographed by for the remainder of the shoot.

That
Big Ed was five foot five and a hundred pounds soaking wet gave his name an
ironic ring to it. When Sam had mentioned that fact to Gwenyth after being
introduced to the guy yesterday, she had casually informed him of the fact that
Big Ed hadn't earned his nickname from his height. Sam resolutely refused to
consider just how he
had
earned that title.

Big
Ed clapped his hands together gleefully, inspiration having obviously struck.
"Time to oil him down, boys!"

Sam
grimaced. He had always thought of himself as a liberated, tolerant kind of
guy. And he was. To a point. When it was someone else. But the thought of three
men feeling him up and down as they slathered oil all over his body was sure
enough the point at which his tolerance became tried. "Is the oil really
necessary?"

Big
Ed looked at Sam as if he'd sprouted hooves and a tail. "Of course. Have
you posed for a poolside scene yet where you haven't had that delectable bod of
yours oiled down?"

Sam
winced. Sweet Jesus, how had he ever gotten himself into this mess? A frown
marred his features as he remembered the answer to his own question.
Gwen
,
that's how. His goddamned future wife!

That
he wouldn't be in this situation—faced with the prospect of being rubbed down
by three overly zealous gay men—if he'd been less a Prima Donna to Gwen, took
firm root in his mind. Sam should never have made up all those ridiculous
attempts at stalling the progress of the shoot. His only thought had been to
irritate her, and boy was he paying for it now. She adamantly refused to
photograph him further.

What
exactly were his options? The way it looked, there were but two. He could walk
away here and now, refusing to finish out his contract. Sam shook his head
mentally. Yeah, and then he could get sued in the process and end up paying the
Vantrys millions of his hard won dollars. No, that simply wouldn't do at all.

Unfortunately,
the only other option was to grin and bear it. That was about as appealing as
paying the Vantrys off, but at least he wouldn't look the coward in the
process. Sam sighed. No matter which way he turned it, the only real option was
to put up with Big Ed and his henchmen.

Besides,
Sam didn't want to embarrass the guy or make him feel bad. After all, Sam had
let those three fine as hell looking girls rub him down in front of Gwenyth two
days ago. He'd even made a big production out of it for his future wife's
benefit, telling the college girls how good their hands felt on him, asking
them to take their time. He'd winked and grinned, even patted one bikini-clad
girl sporting a gee-string on her delectably rounded bottom.

So
what would he look like now if he refused to allow himself to get oiled up for
Big Ed's shoot? And unlike those three college girls that had somehow gotten
into Vantry Sportswear and volunteered for the duty, Sam realized that Big Ed's
team would at least be professional about it.

Sam
sighed as he grimly considered the fact that he was good and stuck. "Oh
alright," he grunted, "just hurry up about it."

Big
Ed clapped his hands together excitedly as he gestured for his assistants to
begin. "You heard him, boys!" He clicked his fingers together in a
series of three fast snaps. "Time to slather him up!"

Sam
shook his head. This entire situation was trying to his nerves, but what was he
to do? Hell, at least he'd talked Big Ed out of his nipple ring idea.

* * * * *

From
her place in the shadows, Gwenyth covered her mouth with both hands and
succumbed to a fit of the giggles. Later, she would have to thank Big Ed—a man
who was generally on the priggish, reserved side—for carrying this scene out to
its full artistic culmination.

All
Gwenyth had asked Big Ed to do was to have the assistants he'd hired oil Sam
down today, rather than those three college girls who had managed to finagle
their often topless modeling jobs out of the Vantrys' eldest son. Big Ed had
come up with the rest on his own. The nipple piercing idea, all the shouted
words of praise such as "work it baby", having Sam strike a pose with
an urn on his shoulder Egyptian style... that had all been of Big Ed's
ingeniously diabolical invention. The man was definitely getting a raise.

With
a smile firmly plastered on her face, Gwenyth tiptoed quietly from the terrace
and sauntered into the Vantry building. She licked her finger and pretended to
chalk one up for herself as she strode through the doors to the Blue Room where
Etienne waited her arrival on a staged Atlantis set.

It
was high time indeed that Samuel Joseph Trevianni learned that Gwenyth Marie
Jones could give as good as she gets.

* * * * *

For
the next two days of shooting, a battle of wills raged on between Gwenyth and
Sam. She would parry, he would thrust. Then Gwenyth would thrust and Sam would
parry. It was an endless cycle. And one that Gwenyth was inordinately proud of.
She had actually managed to live up to the vow she'd made to herself. She was
giving as good as she got.

On
the last day of the shoot, however, Sam insisted upon staging another oil
rub-down scene for Gwenyth's benefit, namely to get back at her after his
experience with Big Ed and his crew. He sat regally on a chair, cocking an
arrogant "stop me if you dare" brow at Gwen, as the trio of bikini
wearing college models slid their greased-up hands over every square inch of
his body.

The
brunette perched herself and her generously endowed breasts behind him,
slathering up Sam's shoulders. The redhead stood off to his side, her matching
red-nailed fingertips gliding over his chest and belly. The blonde—who had won
the coin toss—was sprawled between Sam's legs, rubbing him up from his toes to
the line where his upper thigh and groin met.

And
try as Gwenyth might, she simply couldn't stop the sinking feeling in her tummy
from climbing up to her heart. She tried to tell herself it was because Sam had
gotten in the last potshot, but the reality of it was she was jealous.

"That
feels good, sweetheart. Real good."

Gwenyth
grimaced at Sam's words of encouragement to the busty blonde whose fingers were
trailing dangerously close to his most private part. The coy, ashen-haired
seductress was zeroing in closer and closer to the spot she most wanted to
caress with every glide of her hand.

"Ahh
Tracy. You've got great hands, honey."

Gwenyth
spun on her heel and began frantically packing away used rolls of film into her
duffel bag. She had to get out of here and let Big Ed do his job. She wouldn't
watch this scene, couldn't watch it. It was killing her.