Chapter 1
Like pure, walking sin, Jake Malone closed the distance in a deceptively lazy saunter. Gracie Gable fought the nearly overwhelming urge to take off running. Clenching her jaw, she lifted her chin. Without knowing her true identity, the various press publications flooding her blog’s inbox with requests for interviews had been stymied in their attempts to track her down physically. How the hell had Jake?
And oh, God, why now?
A horrified groan rumbled deep in her chest. Having no idea what was in Pete’s will, she couldn’t afford to do anything to jeopardize her guardianship of the girls—like going toe-to-toe with the Manhattan Marauders’ Outlaw Tight End right here on her brother-in-law’s front lawn. She shot a worried glance down the historic farmhouse’s long driveway, relieved to find it empty. With a little luck, Pete’s attorney would be delayed long enough for her to deal with the famous all-pro’s justified, but still overblown ego. She’d promise him anything—apologize profusely for insulting his integrity, offer him a bribe, whatever would get rid of him before Anthony Spinoza arrived.
Six foot five, with a fallen angel’s face and the body of a god, Jake continued to approach. Gravel crunched beneath the heels of his boots, marking his long-legged swagger, as his thigh muscles flexed and stretched under faded blue jeans. A worn and battered leather bomber jacket rode his yard-wide shoulders. His trademark black Stetson and snakeskin boots completed the image of the Outlaw who held his own against opposing defensive lines and cast him in countless feminine fantasies. Hers included. She’d enjoyed more than her share of secret imaginings concerning the Marauders’ number one tight end.
Though his nasty insults during their disastrous exchange on her blog the other day should’ve dealt a death blow to her foolish infatuation, the two-dimensional image she’d admired on her TV screen couldn’t have prepared her for the flesh and bone temptation that was Jake Malone. Dismay crowded panic as every double X chromosome in her body quivered with giddy, XXX delight.
The X girls danced with anticipation, and the erratic thump of her heart increased with every fall of his size fifteen feet. Down, girls. He may look like every woman’s deepest sexual fantasy, but those boots are more likely to stomp us into the ground than end up under our bed.
As angry as he must be to have taken the trouble to discover her true identity and find her, she could clearly imagine him grabbing her with those meat hooks he called hands and shaking her until her bones rattled.
Try it, buster. If you think the press is in a frenzy now, wait till I’m done with you.
The silent threat boosted her flagging confidence. She angled her chin a bit more defiantly. At five ten, she was used to looking most men in the eye, but despite the added height from her three-inch heels, her gaze fell even with the sharp blade of his nose. Dark stubble shadowed the solid line of his jaw and upper lip, the same blue-black as the silky locks falling below the brim of his hat to brush his collar in the shaggy hairstyle popular among the ranks of pro football these days.
Disturbed at how badly her fingers itched to shove the hat from his head and stroke the glossy strands, she curled her hands into fists, and met his gaze. Blatant curiosity sparkled in eyes as verdant green as the needles of the pine trees lining the drive at his back. A slow smile curved his cleanly cut lips.
Huh? A sneer or even a dismissive smirk she could understand, but a smile? Where was his anger? She blinked when, instead of snatching her up, and shaking her like a dirty rag, he spoke in an easy, Texas drawl.
“You don’t look like any Anthony I’ve ever met.”
“Excuse me?”
“Anthony Spinoza. I’m supposed to meet him here.”
Meet Anthony Spinoza? Why would Jake be meeting with Pete’s lawyer, and why pretend ignorance of her identity? Why the pretense? Her temper simmered as logic provided a nasty explanation. Jake Malone had powerful connections and was famous for his ability to strategize. How many times had she applauded his knack for finding his opponents’ weaknesses and using them to his advantage? Somehow, he must have found out, not only who she was, but her reason for being here today. She wouldn’t put it past the seasoned predator to play her, acting as if he didn’t know who she was, then pouncing when she relaxed her guard.
Like hell!
She bared her teeth in a tight smile. “Do you have business with Mr. Spinoza?”
“Of a sort.” He didn’t expand on the cryptic comment, crossing his arms, and raising an inquisitive brow. “Are you his assistant?”
Oh, he was good. The question contained the perfect amount of curiosity to make it believable. “No, I’m not. I’m supposed to meet him as well.”
“Oh, yeah?”
Speculation replaced curiosity in his dark green eyes. Starting at the top of her head and moving down with a slow thoroughness, his gaze traveled her body, pausing momentarily at her chest. Her nipples immediately pouted in response. She fought the urge to slap her palms over them and prayed her fitted winter coat provided the necessary camouflage. Biting her bottom lip, she attempted to calm the girls by picturing him a good foot shorter with scrawny arms and nerdy glasses perched on a bulbous nose.
The vision refused to form.
His steady inspection continued down over her slim skirt. Winged eyebrows lifted at her leather half boots, and his smile slid toward a smirk. He examined her calves beneath the sheer protection her panty hose provided before his gaze made the return trip to her face.
“I should have known.”
She bristled at both the disdain in his eyes and his snide drawl. “What, exactly, should you have known?”
“Sorry, sweetheart. You’re a looker, but you’re a little young, even for an old hound dog like Pete Thompson.”
Hound dog? The derogatory description made no sense when attached to the loving older man her sister, Sarah, had adored, but then the rest of his comment registered. The insinuation quieted the remnant whispers of feminine awareness. Indignation strangled thoughts of crushes, walking sin, and expediting his departure.
She matched his stance, crossing her arms. Over the years, Sarah had done her best to break Gracie of her quick temper. When her sister’s efforts had failed, she’d predicted one day, the personality flaw would get Gracie into more trouble than she could handle. Today was shaping up as that day, but the possibility didn’t stop her from reacting to the insult his speculation represented.
She pinned him with a narrow-eyed stare. “Pete Thompson happens to have been my sister’s husband.”
His dark brows shot up. “No shit?”
She cleared her throat. “No shit.”
He startled as though having his words tossed back surprised him. After studying her in silence for a long moment, the legendary charm for which he was famous made an appearance. Matching dimples popped in his cheeks with his unrepentant smile. “My apologies.”
Whether the apology was for his implied insult or her familial connection to Pete, she couldn’t tell. Before she could ask, he stuck out a hand and doubled down on his ruse of having no clue of her identity.
“Why don’t we start over? Hello, I’m Jake Malone.”
She should call him out, of course, demand he tell her what he was up to, but she couldn’t resist the opportunity for a little tit for tat. She unfolded her arms to place her hand in his. “Gracie Gable.”
“Nice to meet you, Gracie.”
Despite her supple leather gloves, the tingling warmth of his large, bare fingers reached hers. She tugged back her hand, relieved when he let go. Equilibrium shaky, she sucked in a stealthy breath, crossed her arms once more, and cocked her head to study him. She tapped a fingertip to her bottom lip in mock concentration.
“Jake Malone? Isn’t there a semi-famous…um, soccer player or something with the same name?”
His wry grin said he clearly recognized her slight for what it was. “Famous football player, actually. I play for the Marauders.”
She repaid his slow inspection with one of her own, sliding her gaze from his dark hat to the tips of his booted feet. At two hundred forty-seven hard-muscled pounds, there was a lot of territory to cover. All of it radiated the superbly conditioned perfection of a pro athlete. Her pulse picked up a notch as her gaze roamed over powerful thighs, past trim hips, and over a flat stomach to a broad chest and impossibly wide shoulders. By the time she reached the chiseled line of his jaw, she’d forgotten how to breathe. She needed every bit of concentration to offer him a smirk instead of licking her lips.
“I should have known.”
As paybacks went, repeating his insult was lame, but it was the best she could manage. He surprised her by laughing a full-throated, head thrown back, rumble of male approval. His eyes twinkled with appreciation when he lowered his head and winked. Despite the disturbing fluttering in her belly, she didn’t try to disguise her satisfied smile.
“Touché, Gracie Gable.” Hip cocked in a seemingly relaxed pose, he glanced away to look up at the house for the first time. “So, the old man was married?”
“Pete?”
Rolling his shoulders, he tucked the fingers of both hands into the front pockets of his jeans and nodded. She frowned at the unmistakable tension in the tight line of his mouth. What was that about? Her future was at stake here, not his.
She followed his gaze. Steady and welcoming, the familiar weathered shingles and pitched roofs of Thompson Farm brought a pang of grief to her heart. As always, whenever she visited the Long Island home Sarah and Pete had shared, Gracie was reminded of the promise she’d given her sister before she died. A promise neither had expected to come due this soon.
“To my sister. She died three years ago.” Even after three long years, the words left the foul bite of burnt ash on her tongue.
“I’m sorry.” He turned, his eyes full of sober intensity.
The erratic whip of emotions, from panic at why he was here, to helpless feminine interest, and back to suspicion made her dizzy. Enough already. If he was going to cause a scene, she wanted their confrontation over and done with while they were still alone. “Why are you here?”
Thick lashes lowered at her bald demand, shuttering the green of his eyes. He shrugged. “Damned if I know.”
Confused, she opened her mouth to demand a better answer when the distant crunch of gravel announced the arrival of two vehicles bumping down the drive. She stifled a self-disgusted groan. He’d managed to sidetrack her, and she was out of time.
Outmaneuvered by a pro…with killer dimples.
A dark sedan stopped behind Jake’s SUV. A sleek yellow sports car rolled to a halt several yards away. The door swung open and a petite, redheaded woman rose from the small high-performance machine. The bold, red-woolen power suit covering her curvy frame should’ve clashed with her mane of rusty curls, but somehow didn’t. Bright and vibrant, her steady blue gaze roamed the face of the house and surrounding property before landing on Jake. She lifted a slim hand in a flirty, fingertip wave and beamed a smile.
Gracie disliked her on sight.
A thin, older man emerged from the second vehicle. Only the pale oval of his face beneath a classic fedora relieved the steady black of his heavy overcoat, conservative business suit, and wingtips. He clutched a briefcase in one gloved hand. Crossing to the woman, he greeted her in a short exchange. They turned together and headed up the walkway.
“Lawyers.” Jake grumbled at Gracie’s side. “They usually have a slick, plastic look. Figures this one resembles an angel of doom.”
Her head whipped around at his odd comment, but his gaze was locked on the approaching couple.
She turned and eyed the woman. “The redhead doesn’t resemble any lawyer I’ve ever seen.”
He chuckled and cast her a slight smile. “I’m sure she’ll be happy to hear that. Her name is Victoria Price, and she isn’t a lawyer. V is my publicist.”
His publicist? Am I about to be double-teamed?
She braced for disaster as Anthony Spinoza and the vivacious “V” arrived.
“Mr. Malone.” The black-clad lawyer greeted Jake then smiled at Gracie. “Miss Gable, I’m Anthony Spinoza. Thank you for coming.”
Gracie nodded and shook his offered hand.
“I see you’ve met Mr. Malone. Miss Price is acting as his representative this morning.”
Okay, what the hell is going on?
Obviously Jake was here for some reason other than to have it out with her over their blog spat, but what the reason was, she couldn’t imagine.
“Call me V, please. Everyone does. Nice to meet you, Miss Gable.”
Gracie shook the publicist’s hand, noting the Texas accent similar to Jake’s. “Likewise.”
“It appears we’re all here.” Anthony lifted a hand toward the front door. “Shall we proceed?”
Gracie’s gaze flew from face to face, desperate to discover why Jake Malone and his publicist would be sitting in on the reading of Pete’s will. No plausible explanation presented itself.
Well, crap. I’ve slipped down a rabbit hole.