Page 32 of Playing for Keeps

“I’m not finished with my drink.” I manage to sound normal, but I don’t know how I keep the tremor from my voice.

Some of the fans I’ve incited with my comments are shouting in my direction, but I ignore them. They’re giddy to see Tate and Sean here and goad them to give me shit.

Sean stands behind Tate, looking uncomfortable as a couple of guys rib him about not standing up to me, insisting he should be defending Tate’s honor.

“Fontanna can take care of himself,” Sean smirks.

I’m not surprised, and as I look around, I realize there’s only four of us and a dozen rambunctious half-drunk men with chips on their shoulders and axes to grind who are not friendly or reasonable. There are a few fans at the bar who appear to be rational to be sure, and I think I can count on the bartender and even Louie would jump in if push came to shove, literally, but it could get ugly. Because of the comments I made and the kinds of comments some of the fans made, I know they’re not a wholesome bunch, and based on the increase in volume and foul language as they drink, not fun drunks either. Possibly the kind of drunks who could turn violent.

“Hey, you, girlie,” some guy says with a drink raised over his head, “You gonna fight Tate Fontanna? That I’d pay to see.” Ribald laughter follows that comment.

“You don’t think I can take him?”

“I think you should have some respect.” The man is big and burly and sounds like he’s been drinking all day, possibly all his life. He shoves Sean Patrick out of the way and nods at Tate.

“You’re not going to take shit from a girl reporter, are you?”

I don’t know what Tate would have said in response, because Burly Man reaches his big paw out then and shoves me, knocking me off my barstool. In my defense, he caught me by surprise because I had my eyes on Tate, his tight smile. And his goddamn dimples.

What happens next is a blur. As Maguire grabs my arm to steady me, Tate snaps a fist to punch the obnoxious man, but he misses because Sean yanks the man out of the way. Then the bartender literally jumps over the bar to help, shocking the bystanders into frozen awe. After a beat to thaw from the shock, everyone snaps into action. Foley and the bartender join up to drag the half-drunk guy who shouts but doesn’t have much fight in him against the two men seeing him to the door. I notice lots of cell phones raised and flashing as I process the scene, returning my gaze to Tate.

Standing before him, looking up at his blazing eyes, I realize that he risked a lot going for a punch to protect me, that if he’d been successful in hitting the bastard he would have gotten in deep trouble, arrested and sued and probably put on probation by the team. The scenario of consequences flashing through my head makes my knees weak.

“I’m ready to go now,” I whisper.

Taking my arm, Tate nods at Louie who says under his breath to follow him to the back door.

I toss my keys to Duff and he and Sean Patrick block for us as we leave, covering our flank. Outside, Tate still has my arm as he hustles me to his car, something low and sleek that I can’t identify in the dark. Opening the passenger door, he unceremoniously shoves me inside. As I fall into the seat he shuts the door, and my heart starts pumping like I just swallowed a bucket of crack. I seriously worry, putting a hand to my chest, not about having a heart attack, but about the fact that I’m so turned on by Tate Fontanna right now that I might do something so forward, so bold, that I’ll actually regret it in the morning.

And I’m not in the habit of regretting much. Owning your actions is key when you have the kind of chip-on-your-shoulder boldness like I do, a kind of us-against-the-world, take-no-prisoners attitude that I’d been raised on between my father’s larger than life persona and my pinup girl looks, I’ve had to perfect the bravado until it wasn’t bravado anymore. Until the bombast took root in my personality, right alongside the gracious southern charmer my grandma had taught me to be whenever she had the chance, the persona that flourished during my time at Georgia State.

I feel like I have two people inside me, one of two faces I can bring out to accommodate any occasion, handle any situation. Except this one, right now, as Tate gets inside the driver’s side, slams the door closed and faces me.

Holy shit. His dimples aren’t showing and I find this intense, crazed, worked-up version of the man even more attractive, more exciting than the affable dimpled version. I clutch the seat, curling my fingers over the sides until I have to force them to relax before I puncture the leather upholstery with my red fingernails.

I know he’s going to say something, probably swear at me, so I don’t wait, don’t think or question my instinct for even a breath. Leaning over the stick shift between us, I wrap my arms around his neck and press my mouth to his in a hot, seething, hungry kiss that’s been waiting all night to devour him.

He’s surprised at first, but he goes along. Big time. Kissing me back, his tongue is like a hot explosion in my mouth. He bunches his fist in my hair and punishes me with a hard, passionate response until my head spins from lack of oxygen, my breathing unable to keep up. Then he lets me go abruptly, pushing me away from him.

“Damn you.” He turns away, punches his ignition button, and pulls away from the curb. I’m surprised he doesn’t leave rubber, but he’s totally back under control now, ignoring me like he’s a taxi driver.

After a minute, when we get to the turnoff to the highway on-ramp, he stops at the stop sign and, without looking at me, asks, “Where do you live?”

I give him my address in Chelsea and he instructs his navigation system to direct us there. Since he’s clearly still cooling down, I don’t bother pointing out that I could have given him directions. Even I know I’ve pushed him too far tonight. Or maybe not. Do I really need to mollify him? Hell no. I didn’t invite him to the bar. Not exactly.

“Quite a car,” I say. He ignores me and it seems like it takes only another minute before he’s pulling up in front of the old triple decker house with the ramshackle garage where I live.

“Is this right?” he says, giving a dubious look at the house and neighborhood.

“Home sweet home.” I don’t push my door open because I know he has more to say.

“I can’t believe you live in this part of town. I know you have the money to live somewhere better than this.”

I shrug, feeling the defiance in me kicking up, the pleasure along with it. Then he turns to me and the way he looks deflates all that cool defiance, but not the pleasure.

“I don’t care how tough you are, you don’t have any business living in this neighborhood, looking the way you look.”

“You like how I look then?” He doesn’t answer, just simmers.