Chapter 2
Chapter Two
BIANCA
Brody’s few bewildered words explode into my consciousness, utterly destroying the world and my life as I know it.
As my heart settles back down in my throat with much coughing, I wrangle control of my emotions, the fear of failure and the crushing disappointment.
It takes a second for my brain to stop spinning and the power of reason—and not to mention the power of speech—to return to me.
Then I screech into the phone—apparently still not fully in control of my emotions, namely my anger. Or more likely I’m using anger to chase away the panic and horror of disappointment.
“What the heck are you talking about, Brody?”
“Wow. And here I thought you were a cool, calm professional,” he says in a tauntingly calm voice. The bastard.
In an attempt to calm myself, I squeeze my eyes shut and count to three, but only because I sense I don’t have time to count to ten. Then I open my eyes and stare at one harmless inanimate object, the ironing board, and I’m ready to speak.
“Maybe I didn’t hear you correctly,” I say, matching his reasonable tone even as I sit on my bed to ease the wave of dizziness. But there’s an unmistakable breathiness in my voice, like I can’t get enough air, like I may be hyperventilating.
“Take a deep breath, Bianca.” His voice is low and soothing, and he sounds like he actually gives a shit, like he’s being kind. Shit. I’ve turned the ultimate alpha male playboy Brody Holden into a soft-bellied beta boy.
“Never mind my breathing. Explain the part about you being married.” I grit my teeth now, letting myself go with the anger, toughening up for both of us.
“Okay, okay… It’s just that when I woke up this morning, I had a wedding band on my left ring finger and—”
“What the fuck, Brody!” I’m losing my cool again. When was the last time this happened?
“You already said that.”
“Are you married or not?”
“I don’t think so, but—”
“How about if you ask your lovely bride?”
Silence.
“She’s not here.”
I breathe a sigh of relief, though I’m not sure why because I’d rather the overzealous showgirl were there so I could strangle her when I get to his room.
“I’ll be there in ten seconds. Don’t move.”
He chuckles and tries to say something, but I end the call because this is a conversation best had in person.
Barely remembering to grab my room key and handbag before I whirl out of my hotel room door, I stem my panic with hurried steps in my sensible pumps down the carpeted hallway, feeling more in control now that I’m in motion.
I’d half expected trouble. But not like this—married overnight to a Vegas showgirl?
My jaw clenches and my heartbeat and pace pick up until I’m flying down the hall to Brody’s room. I get a concerned stare from a hotel maid and instantly slow myself down, smiling at her and nodding in reassurance.
Darting my eyes around, I check to make sure no one else is around, especially from the press or the All-Star team, to see me before I knock on Brody’s door.
I need to get my shit together because this hallway is lined with guys from the team and their families.
The last thing I need is for any of them to get a whiff of reckless behavior the morning of the freaking game.
I take a deep breath, figuratively pull up my secret red-lace sexy girl panties—the ones I wear for good luck and to give me that extra bounce of confidence, the ones that I wear as a fake-it-til-you-make-it reminder that I will one day have my pick of any man I want, that I won’t have to fantasize about having my own personal romantic hero hunk, that I’ll have hordes of them flocking after me because I’m the bomb—all of me, including the extra thirty pounds, the thick glasses, and the outsized ambition.
Time to do this.
As soon as I knock on the door, he opens it.
My breath stops, and I stumble with dizziness, almost going blind with spots in my vision. But not before I see that Brody Holden, a certifiable super hunk, is stark raving naked.
He catches me and pulls me into his room as he kicks the door shut behind him. “I forgot to mention that she took my clothes. And my wallet.”
He’s magnificent. It’s all I can think with my eyes squeezed shut as if I’ve stared at the sun too long. Unfortunately, my closed eyes don’t stop me from feeling the heat of his body or inhaling the heady scent of him, close up and personal as I am with his bare skin.
He seems to remember the inappropriateness of our close proximity in his state of undress at the same time I do because he lets me go as I jump away from him.
Turning away, I laser in on the hotel phone and rush to it because I have my work cut out for me.
And that’s what I’m here for—to work on fixing this problem.
“Put a towel on or something until I can get you some clothes,” I toss the words over my shoulder with exaggerated irritation—mostly because I don’t want him to hear the nervous excitement in my voice, but also, I am irritated.
“Yes, ma’am. Wouldn’t want to get you all hot under the collar.”
I don’t turn to look at him, but I can feel his grin and imagine that sexy dimple in his left cheek giving him that irresistible come fuck me now look. Shit. “And don’t you dare flirt with me,” I say. Unfortunately, someone at the lobby desk chooses this moment to pick up the phone.
“I… Of course—” the young man stutters, and I squeeze my eyes shut.
“I’m sorry, I was talking to someone else—”
“Is everything alright?”
“Fine. I mean, no, but the problem isn’t about flirting—what was your name?” I say and blow out a breath. At least not yet.
“Bigelow.” I summon up my professional voice and smile into the phone.
“It’s like this, Bigelow, I need a big favor from you.
I would appreciate it very much if you could procure some clothing for me—very discretely, mind you—and send them up to the room as soon as possible.
Here’s what I need.” Without waiting for him to agree—because we’re at a five frigging star hotel and the premium we’re paying for rooms has to come with some perks, right?
—I proceed to tell him the exact sizes and items Brody will need to look presentable making his entrance at the arena and hope to heck they won’t cost the agency too much.
And I truly hope Jett won’t take it out of my bonus.
When we’ve come to an agreement, I hang up the phone and turn around.
And holy shit, I find him sitting there in the chair watching me with those bluer than blue eyes, his messy bed hair and those rippling abs looking like butter and begging to be touched.
Calm down, Bianca. At least he has the towel wrapped sufficiently enough to cover those unforgettable strategic body parts that I wish I hadn’t seen because now I’m imagining them under the towel. Shit.
“That was impressive. You know my pants size—”
“Of course I do. I make it my business to know everything about you. Don’t make a thing about it.”
He grins and looks me up and down. “No problem. Same here. I know your size because I make it my business to know—”
I put up a hand to stop him as my face heats up. “You don’t know anything, Mr. flirty pants.”
He snicker-laughs, then ignores my hand-order to stop flirting. “You’re a size twelve and you fill out your clothes to perfection,” he says.
I open my mouth and then close it, trying desperately not to be flattered or alarmed or impressed, but failing.
Putting up my defensive wall to shield myself from his efforts, I’m wondering if he even considers this flirting or if it’s his normal behavior.
Either way, I flatten my mouth and furrow my brows into a stern frown.
“Stop flirting. It’s unprofessional.”
He chuckles. “You’re funny, Brooks. I’m sitting here in a towel—and you’ve already seen everything there is to see, so I think worrying about professionalism this morning might be what you’d call a lost cause.
I don’t know what to say to that, partly because my mind keeps reliving the moment I laid eyes on his everything there is to see which is very distracting and partly because he has a point.
He picks up his phone and starts tapping.
“What are you doing?”
“Calling my bank to cancel my credit cards.”
“That’s right. Your wallet…” shit. “I can take care of that for you.” I’m all business now, finally remembering my role and that I have more work to do here—grateful that I have more work to do while we wait for his clothes.
I grab the pad of hotel paper and pen and toss them to him.
He catches both with one hand. The feat mesmerizes me for a split second.
Not again, don’t get distracted all over again, Brooks.
“Make a list of everything that’s missing, starting with the contents of your wallet.”
“You can start by reporting the theft—”
“No!” I take a breath because his eyebrows rise at my overreaction. “I mean, not at this time. We need to get through the game without the complication of a police investigation.”
“Or the publicity. I imagine it wouldn’t look too cool if—”
“No. It wouldn’t.”
He shakes his head and swipes a hand through his substantial head of hair.
For the first time, he breaks from character and no longer looks like the devil-may-care kid out for a good time and be damned the consequences. He actually appears worried, or at least bothered.
Well of course, he’s bothered, Brooks. He was just robbed blind and left naked and vulnerable. Could he be traumatized? And here I am all business and uncaring, worried only about the publicity. Shit. What’s wrong with me?
Heart pounding and sweating with guilt, I ask in a whisper, “What did that showgirl do to you, Brody? Are you alright? Did she drug you?” I glance at his ring finger as he swipes at his hair again.
“I don’t think so.”
“What about the ring? We need to take that off.” I grab his hand to pull the ring from his finger, tugging at it, using both hands.
He pulls his hand back. “What the hell are you trying to do? Make me a four-fingered phenom? That’s my shooting hand.”
“The ring seems to be stuck.”
“No kidding. Don’t you think I tried to get it off? I even used soap. I don’t know how she got it on me.”
“What happened? Tell me everything.”
“The details are fuzzy.”
“You must remember something. What chapel did you go to?”
“As far as I know, I never left the room.”
“What’s her name?” I’m thinking we can leave the police out of it and hire a private investigator, but I don’t share that because I’ll need Jett’s approval.
“I don’t know her name. I’m not sure if she’s a showgirl or a stripper. Though I am getting flashes of a naked body.” His devilish grin returns, the full-frontal dimple version. And damnit, I picture him naked.
I clear my throat. “Do you remember the party? Her asking to go to your room? Me chasing you to the elevator?”
He nods his head; his smile takes a different form, causing that notorious dimple in his left cheek to deepen like the mark of Satan—if Satan were Adonis—a big red beware sign for women everywhere to hang onto their panties.
“That’s right. She invited you in,” he says, and I can see his imagination working, distracting him from the mystery that needs solving. Well, hell. I guess it won’t do any good for me to say I told you so.
“Focus, Brody. We need to figure out if you’re married or if that chick was playing games.”
“The last thing I remember clearly is the party. Things get fuzzy after that. Why don’t you tell me what you know and see if it jogs my memory?”
I look at him, reluctant to give him credit for a good idea. “You really don’t remember?”
Heaving a breath and trying to hold my shit together while I refuse to think about the possible horrible things that might have happened—like that she drugged him and maybe took compromising pictures—and that she has something devious in mind about that wedding band.
“We need to find her—I mean I need to find her.”
“Right. So she doesn’t ruin my reputation.”
He’s being sarcastic, but we both know there’s a lot worse she could do to him. His smirk fades.
“Don’t worry, Brody. I won’t let anything bad happen.
” The ridiculous words are out of my mouth before I think, and my face flushes.
I don’t know where the fantastical superhero-like promise came from, except maybe deep down my conscience collided with my imagination, because I really feel strongly.
Strong enough not to back-track or soften the promise in spite of the cliché of its over-the-top nature and, not to mention, my embarrassment.
He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t call me out on my melodrama.
We stare at each other for a few beats of silence, and it feels like we come to some understanding, like a kind of trust, a pact between us that we’re in this mess together and we’ll work together to get out of it.
Only I’m just not sure what exactly we’re dealing with yet.