Various States of Undress (3 page)

“So the Redbirds had a game this afternoon. Did you win?”

“Yes, ma'am. We knocked the Isotopes all the way back to Albuquerque.”

“Awesome.” Georgia paused, searching for more small talk but coming up short. It was all she could do to keep her smile, anyway.

“Miss Fulton, is your dad a baseball fan?” Fred asked in a hopeful tone.

“Oh yeah. He loves it,” she answered, and it was true. “Huge fan.”

“Will he be coming to any games?”

“Well . . . I'm not sure. I only found out this morning that I'd be covering baseball. I haven't given him any details about my internship yet, Mr. Shipley.”

“Oh, you can call me Ship. Most people have nicknames around here.” He coughed out a laugh. “Even general managers—but I hope you don't hear what some of the players call each other. Funny stuff, but not fit to be on the news.”

“I'll keep that in mind.” Georgia hoisted her briefcase up. There was something else she needed to keep in mind too. She was so close to graduating that she could taste it. A year behind her classmates—but she wasn't resentful about that because she'd chosen to take time off school to support her dad while he'd been campaigning. It had worked out: Patrick Fulton was president of the United States, and she was here because she'd chosen the internship with the shortest time frame—two months. Her eagerness had landed her smack in the middle of a pile of athletes. Most women her age would be practically melting from the excitement of it all, but, where athletes were concerned, Georgia had a love-hate relationship. Mostly hate. Ogling them was one thing, but getting mixed up with one of them was quite another. Been there, wished she hadn't done that.

“Here we are!” Fred exclaimed. He threw his arms wide as they emerged into the blinding sunlight. “Just look. Gorgeous infield, isn't it? And the sight lines are incredible. Over there's the home bullpen. That's where Booker the Hooker spends most of his time. Solid relief man, that one. If he hadn't been throwing brush backs and walked a batter today, he might've pitched a no-hitter. But gotta love him. He's got the best ERA in the league—you know what I mean?”

“Sure. Incredible ERA.” She didn't have a clue what Fred was talking about.

“I'm tickled to know that a presidential kid is such a baseball fan,” Fred said and then wrinkled his nose. “I don't mean kid as in child. You're a young lady,” he continued.

Georgia gave him a patient smile. “That's okay, Ship. I'm a kid at heart.”

Not really
. And sports fan? That would be a big no—not that she was going to admit that. “So, uh, I appreciate your showing me the field. The heat's getting to me just a bit, though, so do you mind if we go to the press box?”

“Oh, sure. Would you care for a cool drink?” Fred asked.

She'd give her left arm for it. “That would be nice.”

“Concessions aren't open after the game, but there's a case of cold water in the gift shop. We can stop by there on our way.”

Georgia nodded, shrugging her briefcase strap higher on her shoulder. She followed Fred up steep concrete steps to a covered deck and then down a long curved concourse. By the time the gift shop, encased in glass walls, was in sight, it was all she could do not to pull her blouse off, tie it around her head, and stumble toward it as if it were an oasis in the desert. But she knew she had to wait for one of her agents to check the place out before she could go in.

Ernie opened the door swiftly, disappearing behind racks of baseball jerseys and plastic cups. Thirty seconds later, he reappeared and Stan gestured for her to go inside. “We're all good, Cherry Blossom.”

Georgia smiled at the use of her Secret Service code name. “Thanks, Stan.” The cool air hit her like a blast of pure heaven, and she closed her eyes. “Ahhh.”

Fred chuckled and followed her inside. “Lots of great souvenirs in here. Think your dad might want a cap?”

Actually, he probably would. “Good suggestion. I'll browse before I come to a game, which I'm sure will be soon.” She made a mental note to stop by and purchase a cap, even if she managed to get removed from the baseball assignment.

“Good.” Fred walked to a case and pulled out a large bottle of water. “Here ya go.”

“Thanks.” Georgia took it with a smile and followed him toward the back of the shop, glancing at the souvenirs she passed. Reaching out, she flicked a wide-eyed bobblehead of a player named “The Fox,” watching it grin and jerk. Hopefully, that wasn't what she looked like at the moment. She forced her face to relax as Fred opened a door at the back of the shop and stepped into a carpeted hallway.

“Right through here are the steps to our premier luxury box and the press box,” he told her, and she followed him to a door marked “Staff Only.” They went up a staircase, emerging into a small lobby. He opened another door and gestured grandly. “The press box.”

As Georgia stepped inside, she noticed a middle-aged man in a baseball uniform standing a few feet away, his arms folded over his paunchy stomach. When he caught sight of Georgia, he removed his hat and stepped forward. “Hi there. I'm Monty Ballard. Coach Ballard.”

“Nice to meet you.” Georgia shook his meaty hand. She didn't know much about coaches, but this one looked every inch like what she expected. Weathered face, sharp eyes, and a no-nonsense attitude.

“Just wanted to stop by and introduce myself. Anything you need, let me or Ship know. We'll round up players for you.”

“I'm already on top of that,” Ship commented.

“Thanks.” Georgia knew she ought to at least go through the motions of pinning down the interview with the catcher, but that could wait ten minutes, couldn't it? “I'll let you know when I'm ready.”

“Please do.” Ship clapped a hand on Monty's shoulder and ushered him through the door.

When the men had lumbered down the steps, Georgia turned to Ernie and Stan. “Guys? I need a moment to . . . process my life.” They nodded and stationed themselves just outside the open doorway. Dimly, she heard voices from the stairwell, and then the door at the bottom of the stairs shut. Ernie and Stan muttered to each other for a moment and after that—silence.

Georgia sighed in relief and glanced around the large room, which was made up of tiered platforms, with table space for reporters. She stared out the wall of windows for a moment, which offered an eagle-eye view of the playing field, and then she walked around a large post in the middle of the room and put her briefcase on a table.

After unscrewing the bottle cap, she leaned against the post and took a healthy swig of water. Too healthy, because some of it escaped her lips and splashed down the front of her blouse. “Great,” she muttered and lifted her blouse out of her skirt to flap it against her body. “Now all I need are some peanuts and Cracker Jack, and I'll be all set for a fun time.”

There was a low laugh behind her and she snickered in response. Ernie and Stan—as far as Secret Service agents went—were pretty funny people. They always got her wry humor. “Go ahead, guys, laugh it up.”

Nobody answered, so she peeked around the post, pushing hair from her eyes.

“Guys?”

“Uh. Hi.”

Georgia splayed her hand over the front of her wet blouse and stared. The impossibly tanned guy standing just inside the doorway, wearing a tight T-shirt, jeans, and a smile, was as still as a statue. A statue with fathomless, unblinking chocolate-brown eyes. She let her gaze drop from his face to his broad chest. “Oh. Hello. I was expecting someone else.”

He didn't comment, but when she lifted her gaze again, past his wide shoulders and carved chin, she watched his smile turn into a grin, revealing way-too-sexy brackets at the corners of his mouth. He walked down the steps and onto the platform where she stood. He had to be at least six foot three, and testosterone poured off him like heat waves on the field below. She shouldn't stare at him, right? Damn. Her gaze flicked from him toward the glass wall but moved right back again.

“Scared of heights?” he asked. His voice was a slow Southern drawl and deep. Sexy deep. “Maybe you oughta sit down.”

“No, thanks. I was just . . . looking for something.”
Looking for something?
Like what—a tryst with a stranger in the press box? Her face heated and she clutched the water bottle, the plastic making a snapping sound under her fingers. “So . . . how did you get past my agents?”

He smiled again. “They know who I am.”

“And you are?”

“Brett Knox.”

His name sounded familiar. “Okay. I'm Georgia Fulton. It's nice to meet you,” she said, putting down her water.

He shook her hand briefly. “You too. But I just came up here to let you know that I'm declining the interview. Too busy.”

Georgia felt herself nodding in agreement even as she realized
exactly
who Brett Knox was. He was the star catcher—and right in front of her, shooting her down before she'd even had a chance to ask. Such a typical jock.

“I'm busy, too, which is why I'd like to set up a time that's convenient for both of us,” she said, even though she hoped it wouldn't be necessary. But she couldn't very well walk into the news station without accomplishing what she'd been tasked with—pinning him down. Georgia was a team player. So was Brett, literally.

“I don't want to disappoint my boss, and I'm betting you feel the same way about yours,” she continued.

“Sure. I sign autographs, pose for photos, visit Little League teams. Like I said, I'm busy.”

“That's nice.” She nodded. “I'm flattered that you found the time to come all the way up to the press box and tell me, in person, that you don't have time for an interview. Thanks.”

He smiled a little. “You're welcome.” Then he stretched his arms, his broad chest expanding with the movement. He flexed his long fingers, braced a hand high on the post, and grinned at her again. Her heart flipped down into her stomach. Oh no.

“I get it, you know. I've posed for photos and signed autographs too. I've visited hospitals and ribbon-cutting ceremonies, and I know it makes people happy. But public appearances can be draining, and it takes time away from work. Right?”

“Right.” He gave her a curious look. “We have that in common, though it's not exactly the same. I may be semifamous in Memphis, but I don't have paparazzi following me around and I like it that way. You interviewing me would turn into a big hassle.”

“I won't take much of your time. Just think of me as another reporter.” She ventured a warm, inviting smile, and Brett's dark eyes widened. “The paparazzi don't follow me like they do my sisters. I'm the boring one.”

“Really?” He folded his arms across his lean middle, and his gaze traveled slowly over her face.

She felt her heart speed up. “Yes, really.”

“I beg to differ.”

Before she could respond, he gave her another devastating smile and jogged up the steps. It was the best view she'd had all day. When Brett disappeared, she collapsed back against the post. He was right, of course. She wasn't just another reporter: she was the president's brainy daughter—who secretly lusted after athletes. And she'd just met a hell of an athlete.

Talk about a hot mess.

Chapter Three

T
HE FOLLOWING MORNING
, Georgia smoothed the front of her dress as she rode to work in the back of the Secret Service SUV. Looking out the window, she strained for a glimpse of the TV station, but all she could see were the huge leafy trees that lined the cracked concrete boulevard in north Memphis. After a moment, the SUV slowed and turned into a narrow driveway in front of a long, low building. It was brick-fronted, and, next to a set of double doors, there was a sign that read “WHAP, Channel Nineteen News. Memphis to the Bone.”

“To the
bone
?” she whispered to herself.

In the front passenger seat, Stan stifled a chuckle, and Ernie slowed the vehicle, grinning. “Sure this isn't a porn studio?” he whispered to Stan. Stan glanced over his shoulder at Georgia. “Ignore him.”

“I would, but I was wondering the same thing.” Georgia let out a pained chuckle. She was rewarded with a peal of laughter from the agents, which calmed her nerves—a little bit.

Stan shook his head. “We don't mean to make fun of your workplace.”

“It's okay. I mean—I just did, right?” She blew out a breath. “But no, you're right, Stan. I need to think positive.” She nodded, and as Ernie drove, she trained her eyes on the driveway, which curved around to a tall metal security gate with a call box outside.

Ernie stopped the vehicle in front of the gate. “Ready, Georgia?”

Hell no
. But she nodded slowly. “Yeah.”

Her stomach flipped as she rolled down the window. After clearing her throat, she reached out, her fingers hovering over the button on the call box. This was it. Her entrance into the professional world of journalism.

Despite the crappy beginning of her internship; a poor night's sleep in a hotel; her agents having to switch her to a different apartment complex, which she'd yet to see; her unfair boss, whom she'd yet to meet—despite baseball and Brett frickin' Knox—she was here, reporting for work at a real TV station. A thrill went up her spine. Taking a deep breath, she pushed the button and waited.

“Yes?” A no-nonsense female voice crackled through the box.

“Georgia Fulton to see Joan Crisp,” Georgia announced. After a moment of static, the voice sounded again, this time so loud that Georgia's head snapped back.

“Oh Lord! For real! We've been expecting you. Please drive through and park, Miss Fulton.” There was more static, and then the voice got even more strident. “Never mind. Ms. Crisp said don't bother to park. Y'all can drive right up to the back door. By the way, the code phrase of the day is ‘monkey around.' Got it?”