you should cut back on that list of women.”
Again with the women.
“Shay, look at me. Put down your empty glass and turn around to me.”
“You don’t tell me what to do,” she snapped.
“Please turn around and look at me. Okay?”
She set the glass in the sink and turned slowly, leaning back against the counter. Unfortunately when she did it stretched the T-shirt even more against her nicely rounded breasts and her nipples that reminded him of the gumdrops he loved. He forcibly restrained himself from smacking his lips.
“What?” The word was filled with belligerence.
“We haven’t seen each other much in a lot of years. Many, many, many years.”
“Yeah? So?”
“Did it ever occur to you I might have changed? Maybe I might not be the guy with the overload of testosterone anymore?”
She barked a laugh. “Right.”
“Maybe I’m a lot more like Joe Montana than you think, him who you so revere.”
“Hardly.” Was it possible for someone shorter than him to look down her nose at him? “He was never Mr. Playboy with a gaggle of females hanging off his arm. He was always business. Nothing more.”
In two strides, he was in front of her, his fingers wrapped gently around her upper arms. She tensed immediately and her lips thinned. He eased his hold, but he didn’t back away.
“I may not be Montana but I’m not the person you think I am, either. And somehow I’m going to make you see the truth of it while we’re here together.”
He was close enough to her now he could feel the outline of her body. The way her eyes widened, he knew she could also feel his, including his raging hard-on. Faint pink crept up her cheeks and he moved an inch or two backward. The air between them, though, still crackled with shockingly unexpected sexual energy.
“So.” Her eyes were still glued to his. “Exactly how were you planning to do that?”
Fuzz was wrapped around his brain, the effect of being this close to her. “What? Do what?”
She gave a breathy little laugh. “Make me see how different you are now.”
As he was digging in his woolly brain for an answer, the doorbell rang. Shay pressed her hands against his chest and pushed.
“I think the pizza’s here. You need to get your wallet out.”
Pizza. Wallet. Yeah.
He took another step back and headed for the door. Pizza. What he needed more than food, though, was another shower. A cold one.
“Bring the food in here,” Shay hollered from the living room.
When he put the box down on the coffee table he saw plates and glasses already set out, and—hallelujah!—two ice cold bottles of beer.
“Can’t watch Joe without beer,” she joked.
“Which Joe?”
“Ha!” She busied herself dishing out the pizza. “The real one, of course.”
* * * *
Why did he have to sit this close to her? His very nearness panicked her, eroded her self-control. She’d grasped at the Joe Montana thing like a lifeline, hoping to create a barrier between them. Change the feel of whatever it was buzzing in the air between them.
Needing distance, Shay had deliberately taken a seat at the far end of the couch, leaving the rest of it for Joe to stretch out. Instead he plunked himself down right next to her, sending her body temperature spiking. This was a bad idea. Very, very, very bad. She should have turned down Joe’s invitation and sent him out to eat. Someplace. Anyplace. And worn a caftan that covered her from neck to toes to disguise her body’s automatic reaction. It seemed not even Joe Montana could do anything about her reaction. How pathetic was that?
Where were all her good intentions, the resolutions she’d made in the cab ride from the airport? Here she was sharing a house with Joe Reilly, with temptation rapping on the door. It just wasn’t fair. If Hank were here, she’d kick his ass for putting her in this position. She wasn’t a saint, for God’s sake.
Damn him, anyway.
“So what made you move back from New York?” Joe asked, startling her out of her reverie. “I thought you really liked it there.”
She realized she was staring at him and gave herself a mental shake, shrugged and swallowed a bite of pizza. “It got old after a while.” And the men sucked.
Joe cocked an eyebrow. “Hank mentioned you were doing gangbusters in your design job. Told me you were excited about it.”
She nodded. “I was. I still am. I enjoy creating the designs, making someone’s idea come to life.”
“But?”
She took a sip of beer. “But I decided I liked San Antonio better. And my boss made me a great offer. I work from here and head into the city about every six weeks for meetings. Thus the plane ride today.”
The look he gave her was filled with curiosity. “I can’t believe you’re happier here away from the glitz and glamour of the Big Apple.”
“Yeah?” She sniffed. “Maybe you never noticed, I’m not exactly a glitz-and-glamour kind of woman. I love San Antonio. This way I get the best of both worlds.”
His gaze poured over her like warm melted chocolate. “There wouldn’t be some man in the mix, would there? I’d be very upset if someone messed with my girl.”
“Your girl?” She chuffed. “One, I’m not yours. I’m not anyone’s. Two, I’m not a girl any more. And three, my private life is none of your business.”
“No?” He picked up another slice of pizza, bit off a piece, and chewed thoughtfully. “Maybe it should be. Hank not being here and all, I should probably make sure you’re doing okay. You know, kind of be your guardian.”
“My guardian? Are you for real?” Shay barked a laugh. “Hank doesn’t meddle in my business. You don’t need to, either. Remember, I’m not a kid who needs her nose wiped.”
He reached out and cupped her chin with one of his large warm hands—quarterback’s hands—and looked straight into her eyes. The look in his eyes stunned her. He was actually looking at her as a female. Desirable, even. His touch sent delicious shivers racing over her skin and the look in his eyes made her body want things that were impossible with this man. She needed to pull away for her own salvation but she couldn’t seem to make herself do it.
“No.” His voice was hot and slow, plucking at her nerve endings. “You are definitely not a kid. Not anymore.”
Shay wanted to tell him not to touch her but those fingers were like electric wands sending jolts through her system. She couldn’t tear her gaze away from him. When he reached for a napkin and dabbed at her lower lip, she wanted to bite him instead of the food.
“A little sauce.” His mouth turned up in a lazy smile. “Wouldn’t want Montana to see it, right?”
Montana.
The program.
Right.
When she turned her head, he was forced to move his hand. She picked up the remote and clicked on the television. “It’s about time for the special on Joe, so, no talking, please.”
For the first time she had to work to concentrate on a program about her hero. Video of him played out on the screen, shots of him tossing his unbelievably accurate passes to his favorite receiver, Jerry Rice. Of the celebrations following each of his four Super Bowl victories. Of his cool head under fire