Sweat dripped down Mick Riley's face and arms. The field
workout he'd just endured had kicked his ever lovin' ass.
He leaned against the wall of the locker room, the cool
brick and ice-cold water in his hands not helping at all to
lower his temperature. He was hot, sweaty, and he'd been
knocked on the ground so many times he'd probably eaten
half the dirt on the field.
He was exhausted and not in the damn mood for a party
tonight. What he'd really like to do is take a cold shower,
go home, and order a pizza. Instead, he had to put on a
tux, a smile, and hang out in a ballroom with the rest of
his team, the San Francisco Sabers of the National Football
League. There'd be photographers, television cameras, and
probably a horde of women who wanted to hang on him.
Years ago that would have been the highlight of his night.
Not anymore.
When had he gotten so tired of it all? Hell, when had he
gotten old?
He stripped off his practice jersey and tossed it to the
ground, pulled off his pads and breathed a sigh of relief,
then grabbed a towel and wiped the sweat from his face. He
unlaced his pants, drained the water from his jug, and went
to the fountain to refill it.
That's when he heard the a voice outside the locker room. A
woman's voice.
What was a woman doing down here? He popped the door open
and saw a gorgeous blonde standing a few feet down the hall
twirling around in circles, mumbling to herself. Man, she
was a sight with her business skirt that skimmed her knees,
her high heels showcasing her gorgeous legs, and her crisp
white blouse and pulled-up hair. All prim and proper, and
she made him think dirty thoughts about getting her crisp
white shirt all mussed up.
"I should have taken a left. I know it was a left. You
dummy, now you're going to be lost in this cavern forever,
and you're going to get fired."
He leaned against the doorway as she stared down the long
hall, tapped her high-heeled shoe, and mumbled some more.
"Where the hell is the office, anyway? It can't be in the
friggin' basement of this place."
"No, it's not down here."
She whirled, seemingly embarrassed to be caught talking to
herself. Her eyes widened for a fraction of a second, then
she headed in his direction. "Oh. Thank God. A living human
being. Can you help me? I'm so lost."
"Sure. You need the office?"
"Yes."
She stopped in front of him, and she smelled so damn goodโ
like spring and cookies or somethingโthat he was
embarrassed, because he sure as hell didn't smell like
anything appealing.
"Take a right turn, then at the first hallway go left.
You'll find the elevators. Punch the button for the top
floor. When you get off, turn left again and go to the end
of the hall. The main office is there."
She studied him, then gave him a wide smile. "You're my
hero. I was afraid I was going to be lost down here forever
and I'd never get these contracts signed. I have to run.
Thank you!"
She turned and practically sprinted down the hall, though
how she could run on those shoes was something he'd never
understand about women.
She sure was beautiful, but not in the way he was used to.
She wasn't overly made up, so her beauty was natural. She
wasn't the kind of woman he usually went for. Maybe that's
what he liked about her.
And he hadn't even bothered to introduce himself. Or get
her name.
Too bad, because he could have sworn there'd been a spark
between them.
Then again, it might have just been his imagination. He
could just need a slap of cold water to lower his body
temperature. Too much heat today.
He went back inside, grabbed the towel, and headed for the
shower.
As kick-ass events went, Tara Lincoln thought this one
might be the best she'd ever put together. And it damn well
better be, because it could generate more work for her, and
The Right Touch needed all the business it could get.
Event planning the team summer party for the San Francisco
Sabers had been a stroke of luck. The owner's assistant had
gotten her card from the usual team planner, who was booked
solid on the date they wanted to have the party.
It had taken four months of nearly nonstop work, but as
Tara took another turn around the ballroom, she nodded in
satisfaction. They'd pulled it off. From the glittery yet
understated NFL team decorations to the amazing food to the
bar setup to the incredible band, it was perfect, and
everyone seemed to be having a great time.
Tara mingled, earpiece tucked unobtrusively in her ear so
she was only seconds away from hearing about a disaster,
answering any questions, or getting help if someone needed
it. So far, all the crises had been minor ones. She
monitored bar stock, checked with catering to be sure the
food was hot and plentiful, and meandered in and around the
crowds. No one complained, and the smiling faces all around
her told her everyone was focused on what they should be
focused onโfootball and having a good timeโwhich meant she
could take a step back and simply observe.
The band was kicking, the crowd was thick on the dance
floor, media was in attendance taking pictures of the star
players, coaches were giving interviews, and for the first
time that night, Tara exhaled as she leaned against the
floor-to-ceiling glass windows that showcased the beautiful
city.
"Why aren't you out there dancing?"
She lifted her gaze to the six and a half foot tall hunk of
gorgeous man in a tux who'd stepped up in front of her.
Black hair, striking blue eyes, she knew exactly who he wasโ
Mick Riley, San Francisco's star quarterback, and her
savior from earlier today. She'd been so rattled after
having gotten lost in the basement of the team's practice
facility that it hadn't even registered who he was until
the elevator had taken her to the top floor. Okay, not just
rattled, but a little tongue-tied. Who wouldn't be when
faced with a shirtless, sweaty, gorgeous hunk of muscle?
God's gift to women. Good Lord, he'd looked sexy.
Unfortunately, all she could do at the time was ask for
directions.
Idiot.
But then her synapses had fired, and she'd realized who
she'd been talking to.
Mick Riley. The Mick Riley. Everyone who lived here knew
who he was. Everyone who watched football knew him, too, no
matter where they lived. His endorsement contracts put him
on every television in America, and probably overseas, too,
hawking every product from deodorant to power tools. He was
an icon, the all-American success story. And damn fine
looking, too.
"We met earlier today," he said.
"Yes, we did. And thank you again for the directions to the
office."
"You're welcome. So, you're a guest here tonight?"
She offered up a smile. "No. I'm not a guest."
He arched a brow. "Party crasher, huh?"
She laughed. "No, I'm the event planner."
"Is that right? You did a good job."
Oh, man, she was getting warm all over. "Thank you. I'm
glad you think so."
"Not that I know a damn thing about throwing a fancy party,
but I like to eat, and the food was good. There's plenty of
name-brand booze behind the bar, and the band is kick-ass."
Okay, her cheeks hurt from smiling so much. "Thank you
again."
Now if he would only say all those things to Irvin Stokes,
the owner of the team. That would go a long way to
cementing her future.
"How late do you have to work?"
She tilted her head back and frowned. Was he hitting on
her? She scanned the crowd, going blind from all the
stunning female beauty in the room, many of whom had their
gazes trained on Mick. Surely Tara was just misjudging his
politeness for something else.
"I stay until the last person goes home."
He laughed, and the dark husky tone skittered down her
spine. "Honey, you could be up all night, then. These guys
know how to close down a party."
That's what she expected, why she'd told the hotel they'd
want the room for the entire night and guaranteed overtime
for the band and extra staff for catering and the bar. "I
do what needs to be done."
"And you look fine doing it. How come you're not wearing
one of those butler outfits or a white apron?"
"I'm just the event planner. Everyone else does the real
work."
"So you get to dress up, supervise, make sure every play
goes off without a fumble."
"Something like that."
"And look good in case someone wants to talk to you about
booking a party."
"Perceptive, aren't you?"
"And they say football players are dumb."
She liked this guy. He was funny and smart, but she still
didn't understand why he was talking to the help when the
cream of the crop was here.
"I should probably move on," she said.
"Someone beeping you in your earpiece or screaming for
help?"
"Well . . . no."
He scanned the ballroom. "Something on fire somewhere or
some high-strung chef in need of a Valium?"
Her lips quirked. "No."
He moved toward her and took her hand, then slipped her arm
in his. "Then you don't really have to move on, do you?"
"I guess not."
"Good. I'm Mick Riley."
"Tara Lincoln."
"Nice to meet you, Tara Lincoln." He walked her away from
the crowd, outside the ballroom.
"I really should . . ."
"You have communication central in your ear. If something
comes up, someone will holler. And your job is to make sure
your guests are happy, right?"
"Yes."
"I'm a guest, and I'd like to get the hell out of this
ballroom and talk to you. Which means you're doing your job
in making sure I'm happy."
True enough, though for some reason she felt like she'd
just been blindsided by a lineman.
And now who was thinking in football terms?
He sat her down on one of the cushioned benches in the
outer lobby area beyond the ballroom. She had to admit it
was blissfully quiet away from the noise of the party. And
oh, what she wouldn't give to be able to slip out of her
heels for just a few minutes. Looking fashionable was
required, even if it hurt. "Why aren't you inside partying
it up with your teammates?"
He shrugged. "Needed a break."
"You needed a break from that awesome party I put together?"
"Your party is fine," he said, leaning back and resting his
arm over the back of the bench. "I'm just not a party kind
of guy. Standing around making small talk just isn't my
thing."
"And yet I see you in magazines at nearly every big event
in New York and Los Angeles and here in San Francisco.
Right in the center of it all, usually with some gorgeous
woman right next to you."
His lips quirked in a devastatingly sexy smile that made
her belly quiver. "That's just PR, honey."
"Uh-huh. That's not what the tabloids say."
She felt his arm brush against her back. Very disconcerting.
"Don't tell me you buy into those rags."
"Don't tell me all those women you've been hanging out with
for the past ten years have been just arm candy and nothing
more."
"Okay, you got me there. But I've never been seriously
involved with any of them."
"So you're saying you're a man whore?"
He choked out a laugh. "Wow. You don't hold back, do you?"
She smiled at him. "Just call them as I see them."
"Don't believe everything you see on TV and read in the
magazines. That's not who I am."
"Really. And who are you?"
"Hang out with me after this is over, and you can find out."
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