“Well,” she drawled, picking up a pencil and tapping it on the desk, needing an outlet for the adrenaline coursing through her body. “You’ve had some bad press, what with the fight and being out for part of the season. The public needed a reminder that you may be more good ol’ boy than bad boy. I suspect your team did, as well.”
“My agent agrees with you on that point, even if I don’t see it. I guess I’ll cut you some slack on the superstition thing.”
“So kind of you. I was worried. Really, I was.”
“You really are a good smart-ass. I noticed that when you talked to Jack.”
“Jack,” she said, her lips thinning with the name. “Such a nice guy.”
Brad let out a bark of laughter. “Right. I could see how well you two got along. Now, back to the article and my thoughts on it. You left some unanswered questions. It felt a bit unfinished.”
She frowned. “What unanswered questions?”
“Who is the real man behind the ballplayer?” he recited the question she’d posed in her story.
“It wasn’t meant as a literal question,” she replied, wishing like hell she could answer it herself firsthand. Wondering why she wanted to so badly. She didn’t get distracted by such things. “It was meant to pique interest.”
“I think you owe it to your readers to find out.”
“Oh, really?” she said, forgetting Kevin and that hate mail. “I got the impression you wanted the ‘real man’ kept private.”
“Depends on who’s involved,” he said, his tone low, suggestive.
“You’re offering me an interview?”
“That’s right. Tonight. After the game.” He paused. “Strictly business, of course.”
If it was strictly business, why say so? “Of course,” she agreed, though she sensed there was more than that going on between them. And, damn it to hell, her fantasy image of him, gloriously naked and tied to her bed, chose that moment to flash in her mind.
“Goodbye, Amanda.”
She blinked away the erotic images, reprimanding herself for allowing them to surface. “Goodbye, Brad.”
The line was silent a moment, neither of them hanging up, their breathing soft, intimate, sizzling with promise. Amanda forced herself to set the receiver on the cradle.
What had just happened? She grabbed a piece of paper and fanned herself. She’d never been this tempted to stray from a goal. And her career represented an important goal. Yet, Brad had most definitely proven he could seize her attention and make her forget all the reasons she needed to avoid him. If the man could get her this hot on the phone, what could he do in person?
And there was the question she couldn’t help but want answered. Yet, she couldn’t—no, wouldn’t—allow herself to find out. Brad Rogers was off limits. She wasn’t about to compromise her journalistic integrity to discover if some ballplayer with a God complex burned up the sheets as much as his voice promised.
She pushed to her feet, and made herself repeat her vow. She would not be seduced by Brad Rogers.
And that was that.
She hoped.
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