The Rush Read online

  Good thing J.T. and Joan had trusted their gut and their daughter. Just recently it had hit the NFL and the media that the team’s former owner had bribed players to manipulate the outcome of games. Simon had claimed that he was screwed over in a conspiracy, but no one proved it yet, and until they did, no team would stick their neck out for him. The man was a liability that not even the most desperate of franchises wanted to touch.

  Simon was mourning the loss of his career. He couldn’t seem to comprehend that his time with the Villains was over, and he was no longer the face of the team. He was no longer Sin City’s devilishly handsome quarterback with a new girlfriend every month and a rebellious attitude that excited some and pissed off others. He’d lived by his own rules—rules that didn’t always coincide with the National Football League’s code of conduct.

  The man was bad juju, as Grace would say.

  Letting him go was good business. Yet apparently her parents had agreed to meet with Simon. They had undermined her.

  As soon as she got settled in her office, she would get them on the phone and find out why.

  As nine o’clock approached, she finally made it to the administration complex southwest of the stadium. The franchise was undergoing a face-lift, which included everything from brand-new turf on the field to building renovations to personnel changes.

  Veronica let her body relax as she took an elevator to the ninth floor and navigated the hushed halls to the managers’ wing. Her office and Heather’s shared a corridor that was vibrant with the vintage-meets-bohemian-Gothic décor that the women had agreed on the day Veronica had treated Heather to a shopping day.

  As Veronica had expected, Heather was gone for the night. Her door was shut and there were no signs of life coming from inside her office. Veronica often worked deep into the night, like so many upper-level stragglers, and never asked her assistant to hang around for company.

  What Veronica hadn’t expected was to find a man waiting in an armchair in the corridor. And for damn sure she hadn’t expected that man to be Simon Smith.

  Startled, Veronica dropped her purse. It hit the floor with a thud and slid across the polished surface. Even as the contents of her purse tumbled out, her eyes remained centered on Simon.

  “Why are you in my office?” She was more annoyed than afraid. Besides, her parents retained a team of highly paid, highly skilled security experts who were always present, alert, and knew how to make themselves invisible.

  “You called the meeting. All I did was show up, like I told Heather I would.”

  Veronica spun to locate her phone. Then she knelt, found the phone still secure within her purse and checked the screen. There was the text from Heather, informing her that Simon had agreed to meet with her and would be at the office in a half hour. Veronica hadn’t guessed that Simon would be willing to drop any evening plans to get face time with the exec who’d fired him.

  She certainly hadn’t been prepared for him. And when you were dealing with a man like Simon, preparation meant everything.

  With an involuntary cringe she imagined how she must’ve looked marching into the corridor, with her hair windblown from drive. And now she was flustered and snatching random items off the floor to shove back into her purse.

  Oh, Christ. Simon rose from the chair, which practically sighed to be relieved of his six-five, two-hundred-twelve-pound frame. Veronica had reviewed his file so many times that she could recite his profile from memory, and she could tell by the way his body filled his clothes that he was all lean muscle.

  He had height, strength, control—physically he was any team’s dream come true. But she suspected he’d let greed get the best of him. Though he insisted he was no longer under investigation in connection with the former franchise owner’s alleged corruption, until the NFL commissioner’s office made a formal announcement confirming that fact, he would be little more than eye candy.

  Eye candy, all right. Mussed dark hair. A light scruff over a strong jaw. And those arresting Paul Newman–blue eyes with touches of gunmetal-gray—as if he wasn’t beautiful enough.

  In a fluid motion Simon lowered to his haunches. His fingers skimmed hers as he tried to press something into her hand.

  At her hesitation, he urged, “Here. Your sex toys scattered when you dropped your stuff.”

  Veronica took the tiny bottle, and finding it unfamiliar, twisted it to read the label. Travel-size massage oil. Cherry flavored.

  A gasp almost slipped out. She pressed her lips together and watched for his reaction. But he was diligently scooping the other runaway items—a silky blindfold, a pair of sex dice, a bullet vibrator, a strip of condoms—into the pink goody bag Grace had jammed into her purse.

  Shit. Crap like this didn’t happen to her. What could she say to kill both the awkwardness and the electric current of tension that ping-ponged between them? “These are gifts.”

  Simon looked her in the eyes, handing her the bag. “Nothing to be embarrassed about. You think I’m going to tell people Veronica Greer likes the extras when she fucks?” His fingers swept her palm, and he straightened, distancing himself. “I won’t.”

  His touch, despite how brief and innocent, had sparked a sensation that penetrated her flesh and was working its way into her bloodstream.

  Count on a few strippers to make her hyperaware of an attractive man. Count on some stupid party favors to challenge her to figure out precisely how much lube it’d take to work his fist inside her.

  “Your gifts? No business of mine.” But the heat that danced in his gaze as it flicked from the pink bag to her eyes told her that maybe he’d like them to be his business. “I’m meeting with J.T. and Joan tomorrow. I know that you know, and that you don’t like it.”

  Veronica got to her feet. “So why interrupt your evening to come here?”

  “To hear what you have to say. It’s what I’ve been asking for since you cut me from the team—the chance to talk and have somebody listen.”

  Anyone would think he’d be all talked out by now. NFL investigators were on his ass. The feds were more interested in determining the extent of the former owner’s wrongdoing than redeeming Simon’s name in the league and media. The corruption had run deep, and once connected the dots showed a picture of crime so clever and so veiled that it’d continued for two years without the public being the wiser. The revelation had caught national attention and even the slightest development in the investigations was the topic of ESPN breaking news.

  It didn’t help that her sister Waverly was involved with Jeremiah Tarantino, a son of the former owner. Jeremiah had been the one to tip off the commissioner’s office, refusing to be caught up in his father’s criminal activities.

  Simon may have said that he’d never known about Luca Tarantino’s scheme, but his past on- and off-field antics had earned him a reputation as a troublemaking asshole, and that worked against him. A popular sports channel poll showed that only 37 percent of respondents believed he was innocent.

  As difficult as it was for the world to believe that nearly an entire team could be paid off to turn on its quarterback, Simon maintained his claims.

  But according to the media, he was a flop and just looking for someone else to blame.

  Veronica had encountered many situations throughout law school and her years as a practicing attorney that weren’t black or white, but some shade of gray. There were exceptions and extenuating circumstances to consider, and there were hard lessons to be learned—one of which was that sometimes law came down to nothing but a kick-ass argument, people skills, and some good publicity.

  From what Veronica could tell, if Simon were ever going to rehabilitate his image, he was in need of all three.

  What could he tell her today that he hadn’t already told investigators? Nevertheless, he was here and ready to talk. Veronica saw no reason to send him on his way—yet.

  Besides, the guy had chivalrously ignored that a sex survival kit had fallen out of her purse. For that alone he des
erved a few minutes of a listening ear.

  “All right.” Veronica moved past him to unlock her office door. She swiped a panel of light switches, illuminating the comfortable space that was always visitor-ready.

  He stepped in behind her. The room suddenly felt as small and airless as an elevator. At her gesture to have a seat, he chose the chair directly in front of her desk, his assessing stare not breaking for a moment. Her power and personality didn’t seem to faze him. She didn’t know whether that made him reckless or sincere or both. “You be ‘talk,’ Simon. And I’ll be ‘listen.’”

  ◆◆◆

  Simon saw the flicker of challenge in Veronica Greer’s eyes. He’d looked nowhere else as he lowered onto a striped oval-backed chair that made him think of the movie Beetlejuice.

  It was almost funny that this office, with its moon lamp shades and dark miscellaneous furnishings, belonged to the brunette in front of him. She was too tempting with her taut body, pale skin, and that up-to-something smirk. Covered from breasts to calves in a little green dress with a black bow, she looked like a present he wanted to unwrap.

  Unwrap and fuck hard on a Beetlejuice chair.

  His pants suddenly felt too tight over his cock, and he hunched, steering his thoughts to the fact that he was unemployed. It wasn’t easy, though. She was mesmerizing. Jarring. Kind of dangerous.

  Which was probably exactly what she was going for.

  Here was a woman who probably got wet observing others’ anxiety. He sure as fuck wasn’t here to amuse her. He stared her down until she took a step back and bumped against the edge of her desk.

  Damn fucking right.

  Playing it off, she rested her butt on the desk and let her purse slide to the floor. “Uh. I offer water to every guest. Would you like one?”

  Guest? That was an odd way to put it. As if she were entertaining, playing the gracious hostess—not diving into a meeting with a man she’d fired. Then again, this was her M.O. Manage a football team, chat it up with the press, terminate and replace a roomful of employees, all while wearing a pretty smile.

  Pretty wasn’t the word for it. More like disarming.

  “No, thanks.” He jabbed a thumb toward the open door. “Shouldn’t this conversation be private?”

  “This floor is management. I don’t keep secrets from the people I work closely with.”

  Simon let his gaze drop to her purse, specifically the bit of pink that poked from the top. Veronica nudged it under the desk with her foot. Yeah, that was subtle.

  What she had in that bag of tricks had nothing to do with him finding his way back into a Las Vegas Villains uniform. Simon could feel it all slipping from him—celebrity endorsements, the fame, the glory, the essence of who he’d become.

  At the age of eighteen he’d had to start over, reset his existence…a boy with no past and nobody to come home to. He was a self-made man, and the only place he belonged was on the football field.

  Don’t let her think you’re desperate. Simon Smith’s world continued to crash and blaze around him. He couldn’t let his career turn to ashes.

  “Bold move—going over my head to get a meeting with the team owners, Simon.”

  “I want my life back.” The sting of truth stunned him.

  “You mean your job with this team,” Veronica said.

  “My job with this team is my life.”

  “Let’s be honest—” Veronica swept a retractable pen off the desk and began clicking it “—about what our objectives are here.”

  “You want a winning team. I want to help you get what you want.”

  “Don’t do that. Don’t twist the situation—it’s counterproductive. Two seasons straight the Villains didn’t make it to play-offs. Your role in that? Last season in the first eight of ten games you were sacked multiple times. Over sixteen sacks in ten games!” At his furrowed brow she continued. “Wait, did you think I fired you without watching your films? I did my homework, Simon. I know you. I know you’re from a small town, you’re involved with Habitat for Humanity, and you made it to pro with unquestionable skill in this game. I know you’re not a quarterback who pisses around in the crux of a blitz. And the interceptions? You don’t throw interceptions on third and goal. At least you didn’t three seasons ago.”

  “I thought I was supposed to be ‘talk.’”

  Veronica gave a short nod but continued to press the top of the pen. Click. Click. Click. Click.

  Was there a cadence to everything about this woman? He’d heard the rhythmic strike of her footsteps on the floor before she’d found him waiting outside her office. Then there was the swish of her dress that twirled every time she turned her body. Now the soft click as she toyed with that pen.

  She was hypnotic. Maybe that explained how she could wipe out half of the administration and still be deemed an American sweetheart in the eyes of the media.

  “Go ahead, Simon. Explain yourself. It’s the only opportunity I’ll give you.”

  “No quarterback can carry an entire team. Passing and reception? That’s a two-person task. When I give my boys a play, I don’t expect to be left hanging. It was deliberate, something my team planned behind my back. And you were so goddamn easy to manipulate.” The unaffected expression on her face told him that his words weren’t taking hold. “If you watched my films, you saw my accuracy, my leadership, how I perform outside the pocket. I brought my team to the Super Bowl my rookie season. I brought the Villains my first season with the team.”

  “You had some incredible years. I’m not pretending you didn’t.”

  “I’m thirty-one years old, in top physical condition. Veronica, I can give you more.”

  She dropped the pen on the floor. While he ordinarily would have made a move to retrieve it for her, he didn’t know if he could resist tearing open her bag, taking a condom, and burying his every frustration in her pussy.

  Interesting, though, that such a powerful woman was also klutzy as hell.

  “Place an inquiry with the league, and you’ll know that I’m cooperating,” he said. “I didn’t know why my team turned on me or why upper management didn’t step in. I didn’t know what it really meant when some of the guys said ‘payday’ after a hard hit. I didn’t ask.”

  “Why not?”

  “You ask why and why not a lot.”

  “Yes-or-no questions rarely give me the info I’m fishing for.” She shrugged, the overhead lights glowing over her bare shoulders, the top of her dress drawing tight across a pair of high-set tits that his large hands could palm with ease…

  Simon stood, because he couldn’t sit still any longer. Restlessness was riding his blood, anxiety banding around his muscles. “The truth is, I was thinking about myself. My contract. The way I saw it, as long as I did my job, I’d be in the clear, and when the time came for housekeeping, the front office would take care of it. I didn’t push.”

  Her mouth opened—probably to ask Why not? yet again—but she blinked those long-lashed gray eyes and said, “So, what does your family think about this?”

  “I don’t have family to answer to.” Not anymore. But if she had been as thorough about doing her homework as she’d insinuated, then she would have known that he’d disgraced his family long before losing his father, then his mother, and finally his NFL career.

  “Well, I do, Simon.” She crossed her arms, a gesture that seemed standoffish, but on closer inspection was…vulnerable. “My expectations for this team are in line with theirs. They haven’t changed their decision. Going into that meeting tomorrow, you should know that. Ignoring my authority isn’t going to get you your position back. Brock Corday is our quarterback.”

  Simon bent, grabbed the pen from the floor, and drew the point of it lightly from her neck down to top of her dress. Then across the swells of her breasts.

  Veronica wet her lips.

  Stop me, he silently begged, because someone needed to save him from this.

  She swallowed, watching him with wide eyes.

/>   Call security, Veronica. Direct them to throw me the fuck out of here.

  But she didn’t. Her legs parted. Slightly. Slowly.

  Slap me. Tell me to leave.

  She curled her hands into her dress, drawing it up. Eyes closed. Thighs spread. For him.

  Fuck.

  Simon had the pen in his grip, and that’s what he used. If he touched her, skin to skin, he would lock the fucking door and wouldn’t leave until he smashed her within an inch of her life.

  He teased her with that lucky pen, envying it for knowing the shape of her clit and the wetness of her pussy.

  “Touch me,” she said, but she wouldn’t open her eyes. Still she shut him out.

  Simon withdrew the pen, now slick from her body. “Hey, Veronica.” As she looked at him, so subdued and vulnerable with arousal, he flung the pen onto her desk and turned to leave. “Brock Corday isn’t me.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Dateless. The following morning, Veronica slouched ever so slightly in her chair, drummed her fingers on the linen-draped table in the Villains Club Lounge’s private dining room, and stewed. Her friend Thomas had just called to say that he was on his way to McCarran International Airport to resolve a work emergency at his candy manufacturer’s flagship store in Atlanta. There was no hope that he’d return to Las Vegas in time to escort her to Grace’s wedding tomorrow. There was also no hope that, in just over twenty-four hours, she’d find a suitable plan B. Thomas was her plan B. Her on-again, off-again relationship with Ollie Johan, a polo player she’d met months after her divorce, was now permanently off.