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  “And your father’s okay with it?” he asked carefully, with good reason.

  Her father was one of the owners of the Heat. Her uncle owned their sister team, the Charleston Bucks. The McNead brothers were famous for getting their way, or more accurately, infamous.

  And they were baseball royalty.

  Or had been until Samantha’s brother, Jeremy—her equivalent at the Bucks—had stepped over the ethics line, the moral line, and several other lines as well, and brought the wrath of the press down on the McNeads. “Yes,” she said quietly. “He thinks it’s a good idea.”

  “So they’re willing to pimp out their princess as it suits them.”

  A McNead was expected to stick to the pack. “It’s just an illusion, Wade.”

  “It’s an entire month, Sam.”

  The reminder made her stomach quiver. An entire month of being his “girlfriend.” “We’re grown-ups.”

  “Really? Because we’ve not spent more than two minutes together without snarling at each other.”

  True.

  “Well . . .” His smile turned sleepy and sexy. “Except for the elevator.”

  Also true, and her stomach executed a somersault as the memory flew back, hot and sexy, resurrected by nothing more than the sound of his voice and the look in his eyes.

  It’d been last season. The Heat had just lost, bad. Her family had been driving her insane, and she’d been in desperate need of a pity party for one.

  Instead, she’d gotten stuck in that damn elevator on the way to her hotel room with Wade and a couple of little bottles of airplane Scotch. Adrenaline still racing, she’d found something she hadn’t expected—a naked party for two.

  And now erotic, alcohol-tinged memories came in slomo and without conscious bidding, and as always, always, sent her spinning between total and complete humiliation and an even more devastating aching hunger.

  Neither of which she was comfortable with.

  If she could erase from her memory bank the pictures of Wade taking her straight to heaven in under five minutes, she would, but those memories seemed to strengthen with time, teasing her. She darted a quick glance at their driver, who was currently sipping a seventy-two ounce soda and rocking his head to the radio as he beat the steering wheel like a drum.

  Not listening. Good. “I don’t want to discuss that night.”

  Wade shrugged. No skin off his nose. Hell, he’d probably had lots of nights like that since.

  Dammit.

  She concentrated on the view. Not a hardship. Santa Barbara wasn’t called the American Riviera for nothing, and she watched as they passed 4,000 foot peaks covered in unique and beautiful chaparral and sandstone outcrop-pings. Their destination was the famous OC, Orange County, specifically Laguna Beach, for a “magical” weekend. “So we’re good?” she asked quietly.

  Wade smiled. It was his professional smile, the one that could melt a woman’s panties at fifty paces and make men wish that they had half his athletic prowess, and it was a charmer. She knew its potency, braced herself for it, and still felt her panties begin to melt.

  “What the hell.” He stretched out farther, his thigh sliding against hers. “I’m on board. Girlfriend.”

  “Fake girlfriend,” she corrected, shoving his leg over, telling herself she was absolutely not noticing the heat of him, the feel of his rock-hard thigh . . .

  He stretched some more, straightening his arms above him, for a minute exposing a brief flash of washboard abs between the hem of his shirt and the waistband of his jeans. Jeans that were faded to white at all the stress points. He had some very fine stress points . . .

  Sam saw more men in a day than the average woman dreamed of, many—if she was in the clubhouse before a game—in various stages of nakedness. She was immune to tantalizing glimpses of male skin.

  Completely.

  Immune.

  And yet her mouth went dry.

  Wade finished stretching. “Maybe we should kiss on it.”

  “What? No!”

  “Spoil sport,” he said so good naturedly that she knew he was only teasing. He’d probably be shocked if she had said yes, which she absolutely wouldn’t do. Even if he was the kiss master. Which he was . . .

  His leg was touching hers again. He was hogging the backseat, albeit unintentionally. He was a big guy, and he smelled good. He looked good, too, which really didn’t seem fair at all.

  But he was here, not pitching a diva fit, and she owed him for that. “Thank you,” she said. “For agreeing to this.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Well, that seemed surprisingly genuine, and she had to wonder if maybe she’d anticipated trouble with him simply because of their past. Maybe . . . Maybe deep down he really was a good guy.

  It was possible.

  Maybe they could laugh about this, someday.

  This could possibly be funny. Maybe.

  Sort of.

  And maybe they could even become friends. That would be nice—

  “You packing any Scotch today?” he asked, looking around the limo. “Should I brace myself for you to tear my clothes off again?”

  With a sigh, she leaned back and closed her eyes.

  Okay, so they weren’t going to become friends.