“I promise,” I say in a shaky voice.

Mason gives me a long, searching look, and then nods briefly. “Good. Thanks,” he says. He drops my hand, and I almost moan at the loss of contact. As much as I hate to admit it, being so close to him is having an effect on me. I’ve been up close and personal with pro athletes before, but never one as good-looking as him.

I’ve seen Mason Robichaud on television and in magazines, of course. He’s almost impossibly good-looking, and incredibly photogenic, like a lot of pro football players. But in person, like this, I realize that the camera doesn’t capture the intense, almost intoxicating magnetism of him. He’s gorgeous, with blond hair that falls just above his shoulders. He’s wearing a tight-fitting gray T-shirt that molds to his physique, showing every last muscle in his arms and chest. Pale, intense blue eyes stare penetratingly at me from across the table. The way he’s looking at me now, almost like we’re in a bedroom and not a crowded bar — it’s nearly impossible to look away. God, I don’t think anyone has ever looked at me quite like this. It feels like he’s staring right through me. Right into me.

It feels like I’m naked.

My nipples grow taut. My skin grows electric. I have to admit it, I’m dying for him to touch me again. I want to feel those rough, callused hands sliding over me. Cupping my bare ass. Pulling me to him…

Holy shit. Between my legs, I’m soaking wet.

I straighten in my chair and try to compose myself. I’m hoping like hell he’s not aware of the effect he’s having on me. Clearing my throat, I draw a deep, unsteady breath.

“I want you to know, you’re asking a hell of a lot, Mason Robichaud,” I tell him. “This could have been my ticket to finally being taken seriously as a sports journalist. It’s exactly the sort of story I came here looking for tonight.”

It’s the truth. I fucking hate giving up a story like this.

I haven’t closely followed the news on Mason, I keep up with most of the major players. And up until last year, he was on a path to becoming one of the biggest names in the NFL. Of course, I remember what happened last year, and so I know he’s not on any team at the moment. I also know he’s a damn good linebacker. Good enough that teams should be falling all over themselves to have him. But they aren’t, because he has a problem with alcohol.

Mason Robichaud started out his pro career at Arizona. He quickly established his name as one of the top linebackers in the league. He got offered a better deal for significantly more money with the Rockets last year, and football fans in Springville were really excited about the addition to their team. But not long after he signed on with the Rockets, the deal unexpectedly fell through. Then the story broke that he’d been going through rehab at a well-known in-patient alcohol treatment center, complete with photos of him on the grounds of the center’s campus. The media had a field day breaking the story that Mason Robichaud was an alcoholic, and speculating on whether the team had dropped him, or whether he had pulled out of the deal to go into detox.

He’s been sidelined for the last year. That’s why he’s so desperate to get back in the game.

Someone else — some other, more ambitious journalist — would probably break this story anyway. But Mason helped me out of a jam. I owe him one. Plus, I feel for him. Everyone deserves a second chance.

So, no, I won’t break the news about the Rockets being on the verge of signing him again.

But I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t incredibly disappointed. Just my luck, I’ve finally got an amazing scoop, and now I can’t even use it.

Mason leans back in his chair and gives me a puzzled frown. “I don’t get it. Why aren’t you being taken seriously as a journalist now?”

He seems genuinely confused. A loud bark of laughter escapes me, and I raise a self-conscious hand to my mouth. “Are you kidding me?” I ask, just managing not to roll my eyes.

“No, I’m serious,” he insists. “Why the hell not?”

It’s weird. Mason Robichaud is a well-known man-whore. A player. His reputation for going through women like candy is well-earned, as far as I know. And the slight smirk playing across his lips is telling me he’s thinking about more than just why I’m not being taken seriously at work.

But somehow, he still seems genuinely clueless about why I’m having trouble being seen as a serious journalist.

“My boss is pretty old-school,” I begin. “He doesn’t think women should be covering men’s sports. Plus, when he looks at me, he doesn’t see a capable journalist. He just sees…” I look down at myself as I trail off.

“A hot chick,” Mason finishes for me.

I nod and mock clap. “Right,” I agree. “He uses me to pull in more viewers in the late-night spots. The lonely male insomniacs. So far, that’s all I’ve been good for. And I’m sick of it. I’ve been trying to show him I’m more than just a pretty face and a nice ass.”

Mason’s looking at me and nodding slightly, that sexy smirk on his face growing just a touch wider. I realize that the last words I said to him were pretty face and nice ass. He seems to be taking a moment to appreciate the full effect of my assets. I blush and look down at my vodka sour. My head feels a little light — not totally because of the alcohol.

“You’re definitely more than a pretty face and a hot ass,” he tells me.

“Ha! What do you know about it?” I challenge him. “You don’t even know me.”

“Well, there are your tits,” he drawls, letting his eyes slide down to take them in. “And even though I can’t see them right now, your legs were on full display earlier when you were pounding the shit out of your car. So, I’d add them to the list.”

Jesus Christ. And here I was thinking for a second that he was less of a pig than I imagined. I open my mouth to protest, but Mason’s eyes are burning a path across my skin, and somehow the blatant look of lust on his face kills all the words in my throat.

I try to toss out a smart-ass comeback, but all that comes out is: “Stop that.”

“Stop what?” he asks, looking amused. His eyes slide back up to mine. One brow arches in a clear challenge.

“That,” I croak out. “Looking at me like that.”

The smirk turns into a full-on grin, revealing even, white teeth. “Come on, doll. There’s nothing wrong with appreciating a nice body,” he teases in a low voice. “Hell, you’re one to talk. I’ve seen you checking me out.”

My face goes from pink to crimson. Because I have been checking him out. But I thought I was being more subtle than that.

Mason leans forward. “Exactly,” he murmurs triumphantly. “So why should I be the only one enjoying the show?”

There’s a whole table separating us, but he’s so large that he’s closed most of the distance between us. Suddenly the table feels like no protection at all. It feels like he’s right there next to me. Like he could pull me to him in a heartbeat. For a second I’m half-hoping and half-afraid that he will. I’m not a one night stand kind of gal, but good God, he’s making me reevaluate my position on that.

My skin starts to practically crackle with anticipation, like it’s waiting for him to touch me again. Between my legs, a low ache begins. I shift uncomfortably in my chair, fighting to keep my face from revealing how turned on I am.

“Fine. So we’ve both been enjoying the show.” There’s no denying it, so I might as well admit it. “That means nothing. Good looking people are a dime a dozen. It’s just a genetic lottery.”

“Maybe,” he concedes, leaning even closer. His voice goes deeper, more intimate, until it feels like it’s almost vibrating through me. “But like you said, you’re more than just your looks.” His eyes lock on mine. “You’re sassy. I like that.”

I purse my lips, then pick up my drink and take a healthy gulp, draining it.

“One drink,” I croak out, holding up my glass. “I said one. I’m done.”

He leans back and laughs, a low, sexy rumble that almost makes me shiver. “That’s what you said, all right. Okay, Ms. Wilder. I’m a man of my word.” He pushes aside his Coke and stands up. “You’ve fulfilled your end of the bargain. Let’s get you back to your car.”

Mason doesn’t say a word as he waits for me to stand and grab my bag from the chair next to me. He lets me go first, following me to the front of the bar. He takes a step in front of me and pushes open the front door so that I can go through first. I try not to be impressed at his small act of chivalry as I hold my head high and cross the dark parking lot to my car. When I get to it, I hit the unlock button on my key fob and toss my bag onto the driver’s side seat — being careful this time to keep a firm hold on my keys.

“Well,” I murmur, turning to him. “Thank you again for helping me get my car open.”

“Thank you for the drink,” he says solemnly, though his eyes are twinkling. “And for not using the story,” he reminds me.

“Maybe someday you’ll have a lead on a good sports story you can feed me,” I suggest. “Once you’re all signed on as a Rocket.” I don’t think he’ll take me up on it, but you never know.

“Maybe I will, doll.” He takes a step closer, until he’s less than a foot away from me. I can feel the heat radiating from him. My traitorous body is practically screaming at him to touch me.

“Well, um…” I begin, but before I can say more he’s pressed me back against the car. His hand goes to the back of my head, fisting in my hair. Then his lips are on mine, hungry and insistent. His mouth forces mine open, his tongue finding mine. It happens so quickly I can’t stop the moan that escapes me, or my body from pressing against his as he pulls me to him. The hard shaft of his erection teases me deliciously as the ache between my legs turns to a throb.

Holy hell. Whatever this is going to turn into, I want it, I realize dizzily. I am totally, one-hundred percent on board for…

Then, just as quickly as it started, it’s over. Mason pulls away from me, breathing heavily. I just barely manage to swallow a loud whimper of protest.

“Bye, Anna,” he rasps. “You’re a fucking knockout, you know that?”

Then he’s striding away from me. I watch as he crosses back toward his car. The shadows envelop his large, muscled body, until I can’t see him anymore.

In a daze, I slide into the driver’s seat and pull the car door shut. I sit, staring out the window at nothing, and wait for my heart to stop racing. In the distance, I hear the sound of an engine starting. A moment later, a large SUV pulls out of the parking lot next door and drives off.