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Authors: Susan Sey

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BOOK: Taste for Trouble
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Drew
and Will went still.

“Family
first, gentlemen.” James surveyed them solemnly. “Family first.”

“What
we have, we share,” Will said as if reciting from memory. He shot a pointed
glance at the coffee mug in Drew’s hand.

“Your
fight is our fight.” Drew sighed and handed it over.

“Which
means that if I have to wear a tux—” James laid a hand over his heart like he
was preparing to pledge allegiance. Bel suspected he was.

“—so
the hell do we,” Will finished grimly. He tossed back the coffee like a shot of
whiskey.

She
stared at the three of them, bemused. When she was a kid, she’d wished for a
sibling with all her heart. She realized now that she hadn’t had the faintest
idea what she’d been wishing for.

“This
is a black tie event?” she asked.

Drew
and James looked at Will who consulted his apparently photographic memory and said,
“Yep.”

“Do
you even own tuxes?” she asked.

“What
do you take us for, animals?” James sniffed. “Of course we own tuxes.” He
paused. “We just don’t know where they are exactly.”

“Which
is why we have a nanny now. To take care of these things for us.” Will smiled at
her but it had a nasty, sharp edge.

Bel folded
her arms. “I apprenticed under Kate Davis for
three years
,” she said. “You
think getting the three of you showered, sober and appropriately dressed by
nightfall is going to sweat me? Please.” She pointed the spatula at Will. “All
the same, no eggs for you. I don’t care for your tone.”

Drew
smiled at her with delight. “I’m serious about Vegas, Bel. Say the word.”

Will
gave him a disgusted look. “You proposed already?”

James
gazed at her consideringly. “You’re meaner than you look,” he said, as if the
discovery caused him significant personal pain.

“Thanks.”
She dumped the pan into the sink.

“I
didn’t mean it as a compliment.” He frowned. “I don’t think.”

“Oh,
no, you don’t.” Drew shook his head. “I saw her first. I already
proposed
.”

“You
propose to everybody,” James said absently, his eyes intense and watchful on
Bel. An odd lightness jumped in her stomach. Wow. When this man paid attention,
he
paid attention
. She didn’t know if she was flattered or disturbed.

Not
that it mattered. James Blake was her job and as such had no business
flattering
or
disturbing her. She’d do well to remember that.

“If
you boys aren’t showered in the next half hour, I’m not making lunch,” she
said.

James
nodded slowly. “Meaner than you look,” he said again. But he headed for the
door and his brothers fell in behind.

 

CHAPTER SEVEN

 

The
sun was just beginning to set as James nosed his black SUV into the lane of
traffic leading up to the hotel. After a dozen years of folding himself into European
cars the size of carry-on luggage, he derived a deep satisfaction from being
the tallest, widest thing on the road. Even if all it got him was a nice view
of the grid-lock between his seat and the red carpet. At least he could kick
back and wait it out in relative comfort.

He
got as far as shifting one elbow and straightening one knee before his tux launched
a vicious assault on a few key areas of his anatomy. He hunched miserably back
into his seat.

Bel
gave him a sharp look from the passenger side. “What?”

He
scowled. “I hate dressing up.”

“Why?”

“I
don’t know. I guess spending all night in a suit that’s trying like hell to
strangle my crotch isn’t my idea of a good time.”

“That
tux is custom-made,” she said, frowning. “I noticed when I was pressing it. Why
on earth is it strangling you?”

Drew
poked his head between the two front seats. “Because he’s, like, twenty pounds heavier
than when he had that bad boy fitted.”

James
felt his neck going red. “Okay, so I’ve enjoyed our return to the Land of the
Whopper. But come on. I run for a living. I couldn’t have gained twenty pounds.
Could I?”

“Land
of the Whopper.” Drew laughed. “I’m totally tweeting that.” He pulled out his
beloved iPhone while Bel peered at James’ jacket with a concern that had the
tips of his ears burning.

“I don’t
know,” she said. “But now that I’m looking, those seams are under some serious
stress.”

“You
know, your stats haven’t been exactly up to par this season, either,” Will said
thoughtfully. “You could maybe use a little more conditioning.”

“You
want to start running wind sprints at dawn?” James shot him a look in the rearview
mirror. “Be happy to join you.”

“Hey,
my tux fits just fine,” Will said. And James had to admit, he did look pretty
comfortable sprawled across the enormous backseat, an evil half-smile kicking
up one corner of his mouth. “Besides, I’m not the one who runs for a living.”

James
glared at him, something mean and petty stealing into his gut. His stats were
down, his damn suit didn’t fit, he was stuck in traffic, and a pretty girl was
speculating on how fat he’d gotten. Now Will wanted to pile on? Maybe his
brother had a mean set of teeth, but James knew how to bite, too.

“Well,
you don’t have to run for a living, do you, Will?” he asked, a deliberate cool
in his voice. “I do it for you.”

The
wicked, teasing light died out of Will’s eyes. “That’s right,” he said. “You
run for all of our livings. James, the grand and benevolent provider. How shall
we show our gratitude today?”

James
looked away from Will’s eyes in rearview mirror only to meet Drew’s. In the
watery light of his phone’s screen, Drew looked uncomfortably like their
father, from the long thin face to the eyes full of gentle rebuke.
Temper,
James
. Even now he could hear his father’s voice. With every red card he
earned, for every foul he threw.
Temper, James
. Drew gave his head a
small, slow shake and James shrugged irritably. The seams of his tux creaked a
protest.

“All
right,” Bel said into the tense silence, her assessing gaze bouncing between
the three of them. “Enough. New plan.”

Ten
minutes later, James exited the truck, marginally more comfortable than he’d
gone in. The jacket was gone, as was the bow tie, thank the good lord. His cuff
links had disappeared into that tiny little confection Bel called a purse but
she’d insisted on keeping the shirt tucked in.

“You
want to look casual,” she said. “But dressy casual. Not
I’m-too-hung-over-to-iron casual.”

“Right,”
he said. He eyed the simple black dress she wore, the way it skimmed her knee
caps as she stepped out of the SUV. It barely showed any skin but managed to
suggest a trim little body all the same. “You set some serious store by
ironing, don’t you?”

“All
the best people do.”

He
had a witty retort all set to send her way, but then she smiled at him. Just
nailed him with a full-on, dimpled charmer. He stared, verbal capacity utterly short
circuited. Good lord, where had she been hiding that
smile
? It was all
earthy promise and home-made goodness, like sugar cookies for your eyes, and he
suddenly understood how somebody so prim, so buttoned-up, so
well-pressed
,
could cook the way she did.

He stared
at her until the smile petered out into something less amused and more uncertain.
When he could think again he said, “You should do that more often.”

“What?”

“Smile.”

She
frowned at him. “I smile.”

“Not
like you mean it. Not with—” He waved a finger toward her cheek and she drew
back as if he’d threatened her with a red-hot poker. “—dimples.”

“You
want me to smile more often.” Those severe brows of hers headed for the sky. “With
dimples.”

“Not
for me in particular.” God, he was an idiot. Way to keep the upper hand, James.
“Just in general. It’s...” He groped for an explanation that didn’t make him
sound like a kid with a crush. “...some smile,” he finished lamely.

“I
see.” She studied him. “Thank you.”

“You’re
welcome.” He slammed the door behind her just a shade harder than strictly
necessary.

“Hey,”
she said. “Easy on the seams.”

“Right,”
he said. “The seams.”

The
truck pulled away and Bel said, “Aren’t Drew and Will going to—”

“Nope.”
James put a hand in the small of her back and pointed her toward the red
carpet. “Those boys are in it for the free drinks, not the press coverage. They’ll
park and meet us inside.”

“Oh.”
She peered after the vanished SUV.

“Don’t
worry. They won’t get into trouble in the fifteen minutes it takes us to walk from
here to there.”

“Are
you sure? There could be alcohol in there. Unattended women.”

He
pretended to consider this. “Best not waste time.”

She
took off for the entrance at a trot. James grinned. She was so
easy
to
tweak. He might enjoy the next month or so after all.

He followed
her into the pack of photographers and fans lining the red carpet. This was
without a doubt his favorite kind of crowd. U.S. soccer didn’t bring ‘em out of
the woodwork yet—a fact he was ridiculously well-paid to change—but after the
madness of English football fans he actually enjoyed the low-key U.S. crowds.

Tonight,
for example, he was looking at a few disinterested sports writers, a couple
eager gossip columnists and a whole bunch of star-struck kids wearing jerseys for
teams most folks in this country had never heard of. The press pointed their
cameras at him and clicked away in an obligatory fashion, but the kids surged
forward, a jostling mass of idol worship in human form armed with pens, soccer
balls, posters and photos.

James
caught up to Bel and tucked her under his arm, partly because he was starting
to enjoy derailing her when she got that task-oriented look in her eye but
mostly because she was going to miss all the fun racing off like that. Giving
this moment to a bunch of screaming kids was hands-down the best part of his
job these days.

He sank
into the crowd like it was a warm bath and started scrawling his name onto
anything that got shoved his way. Bel, who’d gone stiff as a broomstick the
minute he’d hauled her into his side, tried to sidle away but he caught her
wrist.

“Going
somewhere?” He dashed his signature across a poster.

“Your
brothers require supervision,” she said. “Why don’t I just meet you inside?”

“And
have the world think I’m one of those guys who abandons his date every time the
cameras point his way?” The crowd heaved up a Manchester United jersey with his
old number on it, and he signed that, too. “I don’t think so.”

Her
dark eyes snapped. “I am not your date.”

“They
don’t know that.” He grinned and snuggled her a little closer. Her long, lean
body fit into his like a dream. Might be something to dating tall girls after
all, he thought. Then she turned her face up to glare at him, bringing that
plump, curvy mouth of hers close enough to bite.
Definitely
something to
dating tall girls. The cameras went into hyper-drive, painting the moment with a
washed-out unreality that half-convinced him to do it. Just lean in and nibble
a little. Satisfy the curiosity that had been nagging him all day without mercy.

She
might slap his face but damn, it would be worth it to find out what that pretty
mouth tasted like. Not sugar cookies, he decided. Gingersnaps. Hot and sweet
and buttery, all home-cooked goodness with a surprising little kick of spice.

“Don’t—”
she began, alarm flaring in those huge dark eyes.

“Then
stop telling me what to do.” He leaned a little closer, his gaze on her lips. “I
have a weakness for bossy women and you’re making it awfully hard to resist.”

“I
am
not
bossy.”

“Contradictory,
too. Mmm.”

She stepped
back. He followed. Flashbulbs popped, the crowd cheered, and James, buoyed as
always by a little support from his fans, made his move.

He
was a wish away from her parted lips, close enough to feel her startled,
indrawn breath against his chin when a soccer ball popped out of the crowd and
bounced off his side.

He
didn’t wonder where it had come from or what he ought to do with it. It didn’t
occur to him that he wasn’t on a soccer field and thus the ball was out of
place. The ball was there, so he controlled it. He jerked up a knee, settled
the ball into the inside of his thigh, then let it roll down his calf to the
ground where he trapped it under foot. The crowd went berserk. James found
himself unexpectedly entertained, too.

Because
Bel had just grabbed herself a big old handful of his backside.

 

Bel
watched James flip the ball into the air with another one of those effortless motions.
He scribbled something on it and sent it flying back into the crowd that had
shot it at him in the first place. And because her hand was still clapped
firmly against his extremely fine behind, she discovered that he felt as smooth
as he looked. All those lovely muscles working together in graceful concert
against the skin of her palm, with only a thin layer of expensive cotton
between them. Then his arm came around her waist and settled against the curve
of her hip with a heavy assurance that had her stomach twirling up into her
throat.

BOOK: Taste for Trouble
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ads

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