Lisa Ruff - Man of the Year

“Honey, you can get as personal with me as you’d like,” a voice called out from the back of the room. The remark was accompanied by a loud snap that could only have come from the elastic of a jockstrap. The words and the snap brought a burst of laughter from the rest of the team.

Jarrett watched to see how the redhead, Samantha, took the teasing. He thought she would either wither and crawl under a rock, or storm out and threaten to sue the whole bunch of them for sexual harassment. He saw her crane her long, slender neck to find the perpetrator.

“Well, honey,” she said, a faint smile on her lips, “the first thing I’m looking for is a spokesman in a TV commercial. A really loud one. You might just get the part.”

This comment raised another round of laughter. The redhead gave as good as she got, without ruffling any feathers. Jarrett’s admiration reluctantly rose a few notches. Sexy as sin and a sense of humor: the woman might be dangerous.

“All right, listen up!” the coach yelled over the raucous banter and hooting that had resumed. He paused for a fierce glare at the players. “As I was saying before I was interrupted, Ms. James would like to meet all of you—God only knows why. So cooperate with her and try to act your best for a change.” As soon as the coach finished speaking, the noise in the locker room went back to its previous high decibels.

Jarrett watched discreetly as Samantha moved from one player to the next. The coach performed introductions. She seemed to be joking with each guy, if the smiles and laughter were any indication. She was even getting along with the worst chauvinists on the team. Such a sweet little thing, she was. Pretty as the dew on a honeysuckle vine, as his daddy in Oklahoma would say. Too bad sweet things got chewed up and eaten in this locker room.

She and Coach Cummings circled the room, starting at its far end. With each handshake and burst of small talk, those long, gorgeous legs took one more step toward Jarrett. He had to admire her poise. The only woman in the room, she seemed indifferent to the state of dress—or undress—of the men with whom she shook hands and talked. He glanced at his own towel and decided to leave it. Besides, he couldn’t very well drop it to the floor with her in the room. Or could he?

SAMANTHA PUT ON HER best business smile and gave each player a firm, confident handshake. She asked questions, tried to remember each name and laughed where appropriate. All the while, her head swirled with ideas for an ad campaign. Each man put on a show for her benefit, unknowingly fueling 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 love me anyway.” He gave Samantha another bold, bristly kiss, then turned to Jarrett. “Hey, Jarry. How’s the ol’ shoulder holding out? I hear you might have to pitch underhanded.”

Jarrett crossed his arms over his chest. Boomer thought himself a great comedian. “It’s fine. How’s your ol’ arm doing?”

“Great. Never felt better,” the left fielder replied and flexed the biceps in his free arm. “I’ve been knocking them out of the park.” Boomer turned his attention back to Samantha again. “Listen, Sammy, have you got a minute? I need to talk.”

“About what?”

Boomer flashed a glance at Jarrett. “Not now, you’re too busy. How about later, when you’re done here?”

Samantha’s curiosity was evident. “All right. I’ll try to catch up with you after I’ve finished.”

“Great!”

Boomer pressed another kiss on her cheek and walked away with a parting wave. Jarrett noticed how Samantha’s eyes followed him out the door.

“Known him long?” The question rushed out before he could stop it.

“Since we were in diapers,” she quipped. She wore a generous, teasing smile, as if she knew that this vague information would really goad him.

“I guess ‘Sammy’ comes from a long way back, too.” Jarrett tried to sound politely interested. To his ears, he failed miserably. He was surprised to see Samantha’s cheeks tint lightly in a rosy blush.