Secret Baby Scandal(3)

"Oh!" With a yelp of surprise, she gripped his forearm to stay upright.

"Shh," Jean-Pierre warned her, tucking her under his arm and pressing a  finger to her lips. "There's a camera crew just down that hallway." He  nodded to the ramp just ahead on his right.

Tatiana tensed at his touch. His scent. His maleness. She'd spent so  long avoiding him, but in spite of all logic, he affected her. At  six-three, and at this close range, he had to peer down at her, his  brown eyes flecked with hints of gold and green. She'd fallen for him  hard back in prep school, a young love that had only felt more poignant  after they'd been torn apart by their families' sudden rift. They'd both  moved on, of course, two thousand miles of separation proving as  effective a deterrent as the well-publicized feud. But when he'd joined  the Gladiators and she'd seen him at the occasional party, she'd been as  drawn to him as ever. It had been an attraction that hadn't been  reciprocated, judging by his cold words about her court case last  winter. She still didn't understand how that terse confrontation in the  courtroom had turned so heated.

Now, heart hammering, she simply nodded, knowing they needed to avoid  the press. Heaven forbid the media were to overhear what she had to tell  Jean-Pierre.

He frowned down at her, not moving.

"What?" she whispered, shaky and off balance as she peered up into his shadowed face.

"We could let them find us," he suggested, his gaze roving over her as  he seemed to weigh the idea. "They could photograph us kissing."

The mention of kissing should not have sent a bolt of lightning through  her. Especially when Jean-Pierre seemed to be mulling over the idea  with the same attention he might give a playbook. Dispassionate.  Assessing.

"Are you insane?" Her whisper notched up an octave as she grabbed his sleeve and tugged him in the other direction.

Not that he moved.

"It would end the speculation that we're enemies," he said. They stood  facing each other in silence for a moment until she could hear the echo  of footsteps in the northern corridor.

"We are enemies," she reminded him, tugging his arm with more urgency.  "Just because you and my father patched things up enough for you to play  in New York doesn't mean the Reynauds and Doucets suddenly became  friends. When your grandfather fired my father from his old  director-of-personnel position with the Mustangs, it might as well have  been an act of war."

Her father had moved the whole family across the country, pulling her  out of school and demanding an end to her relationship with Jean-Pierre.  And if her father hadn't been adamant enough, her mother had been  downright immovable on the subject. Seventeen at the time, Tatiana had  fallen in line and put Jean-Pierre in her past...right up until that day  he'd approached her after court and her old feelings had spun out of  control for one passionate night.

"You think I don't remember?" He fell into step beside her now, guiding  her deeper into the private areas of the stadium. "But I'd call us  casualties of that battle, not enemies. And either way, I would have  preferred to lock down any mentions of bad blood to the media."

He nodded to one of the guards outside the locker rooms as they passed a secured area.

"I realize that." Her heart hummed along at high speed even as she  warned herself to be coolheaded. To ignore the feel of his hand on her  waist when he ushered her through the heavy steel door that led to the  parking garage. "I'm out of practice dealing with the media or I never  would have been so flippant with a stranger. Obviously, I know better. I  apologize."

His terse nod gave away nothing.

"I'm parked over here." He hit the fob on his key chain and the lights  on a nearby gray Aston Martin coupe flashed twice. "I can give you a  ride home and we'll...talk."

She wondered at that meaningful pause. Was he still stewing about her  comment to the reporter? Regardless, she needed to do some talking of  her own.

"Thank you." The clamminess that she'd felt on her skin earlier  returned. Her time to tell him was running out. "I took a car service to  the game so I appreciate the ride."                       
       
           



       

She'd timed her arrival so that she wouldn't set foot in the stadium  until a few minutes before the game ended, hoping to avoid her father  and spend as little time away from home as possible.

The tail end of the silk scarf she'd tied around her head caught on one  of the sequins of her dress and she struggled to untangle it as she  walked to his car. She was hot, tired and out of sorts, so it was no  surprise that she popped a whole row of sequins off. They bounced around  the floor of the parking garage while Jean-Pierre held open the door of  his sports car.

It wasn't fair that he looked impeccable in a custom Hugo Boss suit  while her life frayed at the seams. With an impatient swipe, she slid  the scarf off her hair and lowered herself into the leather seat.

When he came around to the driver's side, he wasted no time putting the  car into Reverse and heading out the exit. Game traffic had thinned out  by now, putting them on the highway in no time. At this rate, in ten  more minutes they'd be at her front door. Her stomach tightened at how  fast her time was running out to make her cool, calm announcement. If  she could even remember that speech she'd practiced in her mind a  thousand times. She toyed with the fringe on the edges of her silk  scarf, watching the play of pink, green and blue threads over her  fingers.

"You didn't hear my answers in that interview, did you?" Jean-Pierre said suddenly, diverting her thoughts.

"No, I'm afraid not." She seized on the reprieve with both hands. "I  ditched the Coaches Club the second I recognized that reporter's face on  the big screen over the bar. I knew he was about to corner you with  what I'd just told him, so I left before my father could blow a gasket  and blast me in front of five thousand fans."

She studied Jean-Pierre's expression in the dashboard lights, his  chiseled profile deep in five-o'clock shadow and a fresh scrape visible  on his right cheekbone. He'd been lucky today. She'd spent enough time  in her father's world to see the toll that football could take on the  strongest men.

"I told the media you were joking." He glanced at her as they neared signs for the Lincoln Tunnel.

"Of course I was. I thought I was talking to a Gladiators fan and I was  just messing around." She knew from experience she didn't need to  stroke this man's ego, but she also didn't like the idea that he might  think she'd been in earnest. "Obviously you and Henri are supremely  well-matched. If you played ten games, I'd give you each five."

"Very generous of you." He downshifted as traffic slowed in a sea of  brake lights. "And probably accurate given our stats in backyard games.  But back to the interview. I not only told the reporter you were joking,  I also assured him you were going to be my guest for the bye week and  that you couldn't wait to return to Louisiana for a visit."

He said it so tonelessly that she hoped she'd misheard. Surely he  wouldn't have done that. He didn't even like her anymore. He'd made sure  she knew as much when he'd walked out of her home the last time.

"No. You. Didn't." The words were a soft scrape of air, her voice  vanishing as they entered the tunnel, the regular intervals of  fluorescent light flashing through the car and making her dizzy.

"Oh, yes, I most certainly did. What would you have suggested I say,  Tatiana?" His grip on the wheel tightened for a moment before he  loosened his hold again. He removed one hand from the wheel altogether  and flexed his knuckles, as if forcing himself to relax. Or maybe he was  nursing an injury.

And, oh, God, how could he have just told the whole world they were going to be spending a week together?

"I just-" She swallowed hard. Tried to channel her inner lawyer and  come up with a quietly reasoned argument. But all the arguments that  came to mind were conversational dynamite. "That can't happen," she said  lamely.

"And yet, we'll have to make a good show of it since your comment could  cause the kind of media uproar that steals focus away from a team. I  can't afford that distraction right now." He lifted a hand to his tie  and loosened the knot, looking for all the world like a dissolute  playboy with his unshaven jaw in his sexy car.                       
       
           



       

But looks were deceiving, and nothing about this man was dissolute or  inclined to play. It didn't matter that his weekly contests were labeled  "games," Jean-Pierre Reynaud was one of the most serious and  hardworking men she'd ever met. He was relentless in achieving what he  wanted, in fact. So she understood immediately that he wouldn't back  down on the good show for the media now that he'd promised it.