"Burton's writing holds you in a sinful embrace"
Reviewed by Annie Tegelan
Posted October 23, 2012
Romance Erotica Sensual
Cole Riley is a man governed by nothing and the only rules
he plays by are the rules of football. As a NFL wide
receiver, Cole Riley is a celebrity on the field as well as
off it and is notorious for his partying ways. When image
makeover consultant Savannah Brooks is brought into his
life to offer him guidance, Cole is less than enthused by
his new babysitter. However, there is no denying the spark
that shoots through him every time he sees Savannah. I did not like Cole at first. He has a trigger happy temper
and a bad attitude, but the main difference is that Jaci
Burton intentionally writes Cole this way so that Savannah
has a real reason to be part of the story. It is evident
that Cole is in desperate need of reshaping his life and
prioritizing his interests and Savannah draws the real Cole
out. As the story progresses, readers are witness to the
changes that Cole undergoes. Also worthy of mention is the sex. As the cover of the book
well indicates, a smoking hot hero will indefinitely lead
to smoking hot sex and Cole doesn't allow things to cool
down before he is ready for more. The sexual heat will not
be a disappointment for readers. Burton knows just how to
dial up the heat! Burton's writing holds you in a sinful
embrace, never releasing until you are completely
satisfied. PLAYING TO WIN is not to be missed.
SUMMARY
Football star Cole Riley is notorious for doing as he
pleases-on the field and off. He parties hard and fights
harder, but if he doesn't clean up his act, his career is
over-so Cole reluctantly agrees to work with image
consultant Savannah Brooks.
ExcerptShe was beautiful, sure, with a face that would stop
traffic. And the way she was put together screamed money or
high society. Her hair was piled up on her head, she wore a
pearl necklace that he knew damn well wasn't fake, and he'd
been with enough women to learn designers, and that little
purse on the table cost a lot of money.
Maybe she was related to the team owner. But he hadn't
seen anyone come within ten feet of the table in the past
two hours. She was no wallflower, but she wasn't giving off
vibes that said "Come talk to me."
Wasn't his problem. He didn't know her and he intended
to have fun tonight. Team parties were always a blast, and
even better, this one was media free. He could down a few
drinks, chill with the ladies and have a good time.
There were plenty of women here to have the kind of fun
he was looking for. The blonde wasn't the right type. He
could tell from the rigid set to her shoulders and the
stick up her ass way she sat that she wasn't a partier. She
surveyed the room and gave off definite "keep the fuck away
from me" signals, which was likely why no one approached
her.
Still, his gaze kept gravitating back to her. He hated
seeing anyone sitting alone. He went up to the bar and
nudged Grant Cassidy, the Traders quarterback.
Grant turned, then nodded. "Hey, Riley. What's up?"
"Do you have any idea who that blonde is sitting by
herself over in the corner?"
Grant followed the motion of Cole's head, then
frowned. "No. Who is she?"
"No idea. I figured you know everyone on the team. Is
she related to the owner?"
Grant shook his head. "Ted Miller's daughter is a
brunette. And she isn't here tonight. I have no idea who
the blonde is. She looks mean."
Cole laughed. "That's what I thought, too."
He should ignore her and concentrate on the two other
women. But for some reason the blonde in the corner kept
grabbing his attention and wouldn't let go.
Maybe it was because she kept staring at him. Not in the
way other women looked at him—the
take–me–home–with–you–tonight
plea. Her gaze was different. Cool and assessing, an
occasional brief glance and then she'd look away, like she
wasn't at all interested in him.
Oh, she was interested all right. They all were.
So maybe she was a game player after all, and this was a
new kind of game.
He pushed off the bar and headed her way. She could
throw off all the stay away signals she wanted, but he was
curious now. Someone that beautiful was alone for a reason.
He stopped at her table and her gaze lifted, slowly
assessing him. She didn't smile, but she didn't frown,
either.
"You here alone?" he asked.
"As you can see, I am."
Southern accent. It fit her. She was all peaches and
cream complexion, full lips and the prettiest
eyes—like his favorite whiskey.
He slid his hand out. "I'm Cole Riley, wide receiver
with the Traders."
She slipped her hand in his and finally gave him a
smile—the kind of smile that made a man glad to be a
man.
"Hello, Cole. I'm Savannah Brooks. Won't you sit down?"
Bingo.
Lord have Mercy, but Cole Riley's photos and videos did
not do the man justice.
In person he made a woman go weak in the knees. Savannah
was glad she was sitting down, because now she understood
the mystique she'd read about in the tabloids and all the
articles about him as a lady killer.
Sure, she'd seen the photos, and he was certainly
pretty. Great body, beautiful dark hair. She could see how
some women might be attracted to him, but she didn't
understand why he was such a hot commodity.
But in person? Oh, yes, definitely. He had charisma, a
way of looking at a woman that would make her drop her
panties faster than he could flash those unusual eyes in
her direction.
She certainly felt the heart palpitations when he slid
his very large hand in hers and graced her with one look of
his drop dead—what color were his eyes anyway? They
were grey, tinged with blue, like a sky coloring up for a
storm.
Amazing. When he looked at her it was as if everyone
else in the room fell away, and she as the only woman on
Earth. Which she knew wasn't true, because she'd studied
him all night long, and there were at least twenty women
focused on him like they were a starving pack of wolves and
he was meat.
He wasn't meaty at all. He was perfect and absolutely
delicious. About six–foot one, two–hundred and
fifteen pounds of sex on a stick would be her guess.
If she were out scouting for a man—which she most
certainly wasn't—she'd pick him out of a crowd. He
stood out, with his inky black hair and gorgeous, well
toned and muscled body, even if he did wear his hair a
little long and shaggy. There was a certain presence to
him. Arrogance, maybe, though she was surprised after
reading his file that he wasn't standing on top of the bar
or involved in a brawl or wrapped around two or three women
in a dark corner.
Maybe the media had blown his off–the field antics
out of proportion. Maybe his reputation was more hype than
anything.
"So, Savannah Brooks. Why are you sitting here all
alone?"
"I'm observing."
He cocked a brow, his defenses obviously up as he bent
forward, on the edge of the chair like he was ready to take
flight. "You're not a reporter, are you?"
She smiled at him. "No. I'm definitely not a reporter."
He relaxed and leaned back against the chair, stretching
his long legs out in front of him. "Okay, then."
"You don't like reporters."
"Nope."
"And why is that?"
"They lie."
"About you."
"All the damn time."
"What kind of lies have they told about you?"
"I don't want to talk about me. Let's talk about you.
You have a beautiful southern accent, Savannah. Where are
you from?"
Not at all what she'd read about him. That he was an
egomaniac, that every conversation centered around him, his
stats, his prowess in the bedroom, that he hit on women as
a second career, pressuring them to go home with him.
Maybe the media did lie.
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