lived for drama and excitement, and she was perceptive enough to know the star athlete was only after one thing. Refusing to fall for his slick line, she said, “Terrence, you don’t even know me.”
“That’s why I’m here. I want to change that. We were friends once and—”
She met his gaze head on. “I don’t need any more friends.”
“Is this about Charles?”
The truth stuck in her throat. “Yes and no.”
“Are you guys serious?”
Kyra felt her face flush. She’d given new meaning to stretching the truth, but what choice did she have? Terrence had more questions than Katie Couric during a sit-down interview, and he wasn’t easily satisfied. “He’s a good, decent man and I’m not willing to jeopardize a great—” she stumbled over the word “—relationship by being friends with you. It’s nothing personal, Terrence. It’s just not worth it.”
“Do you love him?”
How had a conversation about an edible fruit basket led to this? she wondered, retrieving her car keys from her pocket and dangling them between two fingers. There was a time when Terrence had been her best friend. They’d lie in bed for hours, talking, joking and planning for their future. But that was a long time ago. Ten years, to be exact. And she didn’t feel comfortable talking to him about her relationship. In part because she didn’t know how she was supposed to feel. Nothing about Charles thrilled her. He was just…okay. A hard-working, decent guy who’d be a good husband and provider, so why wasn’t she sprinting to the altar? “My private life is none of your business.”
“I’ll take that as a no.”
They slipped into silence. Unable to control herself, her eyes strayed to his chest and slipped down his stomach. Kyra roped in her emotions before they got the best of her. Lusting led to fantasizing, and in the last three days she’d done enough daydreaming to last her a lifetime. Personal history aside, she was paid to do a job, and flirting with Terrence wasn’t one of the requirements. They were working together and it didn’t matter how many gifts he sent her, she wasn’t going out with him. Not in a romantic sense, anyway. Charles didn’t light her fire, but he was safe. He wouldn’t hurt her, and that beat tall, dark and sexy any day.
“Are we still on for tomorrow?” Terrence asked.
“Yes. I informed the assistant coach that we’d be coming and Mr. Mayo is very excited to meet you.”
“Do you know what I’m excited about?”
Terrence lowered his head and for one fear-packed second, Kyra worried he would kiss her. The closer his mouth came, the faster her heart beat. When his lips were just inches away, she forced a cough. “Oh, look, we’re here,” she said, backing up. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Feeling a sudden burst of energy, Kyra waved goodbye and skated over to her red car. A minute later, she chucked her Rollerblades into the truck, tugged on her sneakers and hopped into the driver’s seat. Lurching out of her stall, she shot through the parking lot and disappeared into rush-hour traffic.
Chapter 5
Terrence watched Kyra shoot across the parking lot, a gleam in his eye and a wry smirk on his lips. Had he ever seen a backside so sweet? In his heart, lust, confusion and remorse battled for supremacy. And like a tourist wandering through the streets of Amsterdam, he couldn’t tear his gaze away from her luscious body. Was this just about their intense attraction, or something more? Seriously hot, Kyra Dixon had the carefree disposition of an all-American girl and the sexual energy of a pinup model.
Kyra towed the line between sweet and sexy, but there was a very elegant way about her. A down-home beauty with bewitching eyes and a flirty laugh, she embodied all the qualities he admired in a woman—optimism, passion, honesty.
Terrence had been back in Hollington for seventy-two hours, but he felt as if he’d never left. The energy between them was electric and as he headed back up the trail, he reviewed their brief but noteworthy conversation. A woman in love talked with animation. Her face lit up at the mention of her man’s name, and her cheeks flushed with delight. Love literally oozed from every pore. Not only were those telltale signs missing from his conversation with Kyra, her voice had flatlined when he asked if she was in love in Charles.
Terrence was no relationship guru, and he’d never have his own syndicated talk show for the brothers, but he knew complacency when he saw it. Hell, he’d been in that dark, lonely pit before. Since his rookie season, he’d dated one brainless woman after another. Sisters who’d rather spend the day at the beauty shop than volunteer in their communities. They all looked good, and smelled good and filled out their designer dresses better than Kim Kardashian, but they couldn’t hold an intelligent conversation. Beauty and brains were the perfect mix, not booty and beauty, as his teammates used to say. Too bad it had taken him ten years to realize the truth.
Kyra exuded a confident-in-her-own-skin vibe and didn’t have any of the generic traits he was used to seeing in females on the west coast. He liked his women real, natural, fresh-faced, and the curvy PR director certainly fit the bill.
“I can’t believe it, it’s Terrence Franklin!”
Turning around, he matched the sultry voice to an oval face with red pouty lips.
“I’m LaTisha.” The temptress smiled.
Terrence gave her a quick once-over. It was a punishing eighty degrees, but her makeup was flawless. What kind of woman wore fake eyelashes and diamond earrings to the park? Kyra wasn’t even wearing a watch, while this girl looked like she was ready for a semi-nude video shoot. Her fuchsia bra-top overflowed with silicone, and booty hung out of her Daisy Duke shorts. Shoulder-length, honey-blond hair twirled in the wind like strings of nutty putty. Her face was impassive, but her eyes shimmered with mischief.
“You probably don’t remember me, but we met at an L.A. night club the year your team clinched the playoffs.”
His groupie antennae shot up. Only a woman who memorized team schedules and charted the hangouts of professional athletes would remember a five-second meeting in a packed club. Had she followed him to Atlanta? Before entering the league, he wouldn’t have believed it, but groupies were inventive and dedicated to their craft. In Las Vegas, a burlesque dancer once cornered him in the men’s room; at a friend’s birthday party a pair of twins had bum-rushed him in the hot tub; and at his grandmother’s church a few years back, the pastor’s teenage daughter had surprised him with a French kiss in her father’s office. Terrence hated being suspicious of fans, but when females stepped up to him, caution had to be the order of the day.
“I have a flat,” she announced, pointing a finger toward the parking lot, but not singling out a specific car. “Think you can help me out?”
LaTisha appeared to be in her late twenties, but he couldn’t be a hundred percent sure. Her outfit said junior section at Macy’s, but her body language suggested she was mature, conspicuous, experienced. Glad Kyra wasn’t around to witness this blatant display of entrapment, he pulled his keys out of his back pocket. He’d had enough sun for one day and they were starting to attract curious stares from sunseekers passing by. “I wish I could help,” he lied, starting for the marked crosswalk, “but I gotta jet.”
The woman pursued. “It’ll only take a minute and I promise to make it worth your while.” He heard
