Man of the Year. Lisa Ruff

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СКАЧАТЬ her creative process. Teasing comments flew, but they were never aimed directly at her. Their quips were saved for one another, each one trying to insult the other better than he had been insulted. Their jokes told her volumes about each man. Her anxiety had nearly disappeared, and she began to worry less about being the only woman here as her hope grew. This might not be such an impossible job after all. With the right hook, a good spin and a few flashy graphics, the public would love every single player—even if they didn’t think much of the whole team.

      The Rainiers were a challenge for any advertising firm. With a string of losses and a host of scandals, their public image was at rock bottom. Before meeting these men, when she had first won the dubious honor of promoting them, she had wondered about the chances of increasing ticket sales. And her own chances at helping them do it. Now before her was a room full of boys pretending to be professional athletes. It was comical, even touching. They wanted so much to be liked, respected and admired. It seemed hopeless. Yet she had to come up with an idea that would capture the very jaded hearts of former fans and regain some of their lost loyalty. The Rainiers’ future was at stake. So was hers and her company’s.

      Her mind wandered off on another tangent. Maybe she could use the idea about little boys playing baseball. It would make a cute, humorous TV spot, something endearing that would show their innocent, earnest side. While considering this, she found herself standing before a tall man. He was clad only in a towel, which draped around his lean hips precariously. That towel drew her eyes as well as her imagination. She stopped thinking about the appeal of little boys in TV commercials and started considering other appealing possibilities. As she stared at the towel, the tall man reached down and tightened the damp cloth to fit more snugly. The white terrycloth barely left enough room for her imagination to work.

      “Samantha, this is Jarrett Corliss.” Coach Cummings’s voice reached her ears dimly. “He’s a pitcher, one of our starters this season.”

      “Pleased to meet you, Samantha.” His voice was deep and mellow, with more than a hint of a sweet, country drawl.

      His hand reached out, and she unconsciously met it with her own. Samantha barely heard someone call to the coach from across the room, telling him that he was wanted on the telephone. The coach excused himself, but it was as if he had ceased to exist already. Everyone had. For Samantha, the steamy locker room had emptied except for her and this man in front of her. Her eyes crawled upward from the white towel, over the flat, tautly muscled belly to the broad chest scattered with curly, dark-blond hair. The corded neck and shoulders invited her touch.

      Her gaze went farther up and finally met a pair of eyes. They dazzled her with the blue of a summer sky over a wide, endless prairie. The eyes were set in a sun-bronzed face, and a wave of hair the color of corn silk dipped over one arched brow. A dimple flashed beside the sculpted lips. The eyes had followed her deliberate stare as she made her way from the towel to look directly into them. Now those blue eyes twinkled with unabashed amusement.

      Without a word, the man—she had forgotten his name already—took the same liberty. He was in no hurry, either. His gaze traveled slowly from the top of her head, down across her breasts, her legs and back to her face. She felt a prickling sensation on her skin where his eyes touched. She bridled at being gazed at so intensely and deliberately—never mind that she had committed the same crime just seconds ago.

      Samantha struggled to retain her professional demeanor. Why did this man in a towel affect her so much more than the other half-dressed men? By now the clasp of their hands had strayed far from a polite greeting into something more intimate and dangerous. Realizing she was holding his hand, not shaking it, Samantha pulled back abruptly.

      “Well.” Her tone was husky, reaching for brisk firmness and failing. “It’s nice to meet you as well, Mr.—” she said, fumbling for his name.

      “Jarrett. Jarrett Corliss.”

      “Right. Mr. Corliss.”

      “Just Jarrett,” he interrupted before she could say any more. “Mr. Corliss is in Oklahoma getting ready for this season’s crop of peppers and tomatoes.” A slow grin came to his lips. “I always thought Dad had it bad, sittin’ on a tractor all day in the sun. But standin’ around in a towel meeting beautiful women is a whole lot hotter and sweatier work than plowin’ up a field.”

      His voice had lowered, and the words steamed in Samantha’s ears, hot with meaning and suggestion. His eyes were trained on hers. Their laughing sparkle invited her to share the joke. She could feel the heat—the heat that came from their blue depths as much as his bare torso.

      “If it’s that unpleasant in here, you ought to take a nice cold shower,” she suggested. Samantha stepped back a pace, but he moved with her. He was deliberately trying to throw her off balance.

      “And take off my towel?” His glance flickered over her once more in swift appraisal. “Is that what you want?”

      Samantha got a grip on herself. Her immediate attraction to this man’s physical presence was undeniable. She felt it down to her bones. But she didn’t intend to let that get in the way of her job. She smiled coolly.

      “It would be a fabulous publicity shot. But not suitable for our target market.” Before he could take her up on the offer to pose naked, she changed the subject abruptly. “So, you’re the new kid on the mound.”

      “Yes, ma’am. And real eager to work closely with you on publicity. Very close.” Jarrett’s lips curved into a smile that deepened the beautiful, mischievous dimple in his left cheek.

      Samantha almost smiled at his persistent charm. His wide grin told her that he read her amusement. She ignored it and said crisply, “Good. We’ll need everyone’s cooperation.”

      “Well, you let me know when and where you want me to cooperate, Samantha,” he drawled. “I’ll come runnin’.”

      Whatever she might have said next was interrupted when a muscular arm suddenly dropped over her shoulders. Then a whisker-stubbled face smacked a kiss on her cheek.

      “Sammy, what’s a nice girl like you doing in a dump like this?”

      

      JARRETT WATCHED IN AMAZEMENT as the left fielder, the biggest, most obnoxious womanizer on the team, swooped down on Samantha and kissed her. Jarrett’s lips tightened as irritation washed through him. Boomer—nicknamed that because of his power hitting—was a jerk and here he was hanging all over this gorgeous woman. Jarrett silently cursed him.

      He had been making progress with Samantha. Despite her cool replies to his bantering, she was attracted. There was nothing cool in her green eyes when she looked at him. They had burned his naked skin wherever they touched. She liked what she saw. Hell, if he ever got the chance to look at her wearing only a towel, he wouldn’t pass it up, either. Now Boomer had blown everything.

      “So you had to make a personal appearance, Sammy,” Boomer teased. “What? Don’t you trust any of your flunkies to do the job?”

      “Oh, I trust my employees. It’s you and your little friends here that I have misgivings about.”

      Their banter was comfortable—familiar. Obviously, they knew each other well. They might not be doing this chummy routine to aggravate him, but that was the result. Jarrett ground his teeth. He watched with annoyance—and no small amount of envy—as Boomer curved an arm around Samantha’s waist, and gave it an affectionate squeeze.

      “Yeah, you may not trust me, but you gotta СКАЧАТЬ