stool creaked under Spencer’s two-hundred-sixty-plus-pound frame. “The answer is yessir, I got what it takes. That shoulder injury is a thing of the past. Shit, my shoulder’s not just mended, it’s evolved.”
“Don’t push it, Spence. Remember that time your hamstring was acting up—”
“Hey, I just wanna get on the field to show what I got. Check this out.” Spencer flexed his massive brown arm, decorated with a bright yellow lightning-bolt tattoo. Several women down the bar craned their necks for a better look.
“Better than Popeye,” Coyote said.
“Better? If that dude were still alive, he’d turn greener than his spinach lookin’ at The Monster’s bicep.”
“I don’t think Popeye died.”
“Huh?”
“He’s a cartoon character.”
Spencer snorted, dropped the pose. “I knew that. Anyway, all I’m sayin’ is I’m ready to come through in the red zone for the Stars.”
The L.A. Stars, the new NFL team for Los Angeles. Everybody was eagerly watching the new team’s first season, and Coyote knew Spencer felt the pressure to perform not just well, but damn well.
“Glad to have you back, Coyote,” greeted the bartender, her long blond hair pulled back in a ponytail. She wore a sea-green tank top decorated with palm trees, hula dancers and the word Taboo in silver sequins across her chest. “Your usual?”
“Thanks, Eva.”
While Spencer ordered, Coyote scanned the roof and its lagoonlike pool, scattered teakwood tables and plush couches nestled in private cabanas—all with a view of the distant bay. This was a great date spot—women loved curling up in those cabanas to watch the sun go down. Today, however, was business. A get-together for the Times employees and their friends hosted by none other than the publisher, Anthony Tallant, himself. Cash bar, but the treats—trays heaped with exotic-looking appetizers being circulated by waiters—were free for the taking. When a daily paper splurged on anything, it meant good news.
In the center of the rooftop loomed a copper fountain nestled between swaying potted palms. The metal sparkled gold and orange under the gurgling cascade of water. Nearby stood the associate sports editor, Dean Rock, who flashed Coyote a baleful look. Poor Dean, cornered by Barbara Bitterman, the managing editor, who was undoubtedly spouting corporate tripe ad nauseam. Which was why Coyote made it a habit to be too busy to attend bullshit management meetings and send his associate sports editor instead.
Tallant, impeccably dressed in his usual three-piece suit, strolled from table to table while glad-handing employees. Coyote respected Tallant for his energy and drive but didn’t entirely trust the man. But then, Coyote didn’t trust anyone who’d been “to the manor born,” which was a world apart from the subsidized housing he grew up in, where a walk to school meant sidestepping winos and junkies.
At the end of the bar sat Lester, staring off into the distance and looking like a puppy that’d lost its favorite toy. Lester, pining?
Coyote followed his line of vision.
His breath hitched.
Kathryn.
Across the rooftop, she sat at a small table with Zoe, their heads bent toward each other conspiratorially as they talked. Sea breezes lifted and played with Kathryn’s hair, which she’d occasionally brush out of her eyes. Despite the scattered conversations, clinking glasses, and waiters barking orders at busboys, he could still catch fragments of Kathryn’s low, throaty laughter. The sound rippled toward him, warm and inviting and sensual.
Her suit jacket lay draped over the back of an empty chair next to her. She wore a short-sleeve green blouse that looked almost prim the way it buttoned neatly to her neck. In contrast, its simple look accentuated her long, slender arms. When she talked, she had a way of gesturing that reminded him of a dancer. Poised, elegant. Had she learned that in dance classes, or was sophistication inbred?
Funny how he knew more than he wanted to know about Anthony Tallant’s blue-blooded heritage, Ivy League education and three marriages, but he hadn’t a clue about Kathryn’s past. He’d never overheard her talking about her family or where she’d gone to college or if there was a Mr. Kathryn.
Coyote paused on that last one.
Was there a man in her life? He’d never seen a ring. And as he recalled, she’d shown up solo at the company Christmas party. But he didn’t need those clues. Any woman who kept up the work hours she did wasn’t going home to a warm bed.
His attention followed the curve of her pale arm, to how the wind rippled and pressed the thin fabric against her breasts. Her round, pert breasts. He ran his tongue along the inside of his bottom lip, imagining the supple, soft texture of her skin. How it’d feel to kiss her, tangle his tongue with hers, to taste her…
He’d found her interesting lately, but his interest was bordering on an obsession after this morning’s crazy group hug.
He’d thought about it all day, trying to analyze what exactly had happened at that moment of contact. He’d analyzed sports plays for years, from who threw the ball to whom and how that affected the outcome of whatever, but damn if he could come up with a blow-by-blow of what had transpired with Kathryn. All he knew was he’d been swept up in a tsunami of heat and need, caught up in a wild churn of needs and desires. In the midst of the chaos, that epiphany—that she was the one—had risen in his mind only to disappear in the fog that descended. Then he’d been left standing there, disoriented and fuzzy brained and wondering what the hell had just happened.
If one hug had affected him like that, he was dead meat should…
“Dollar for your thoughts, man,” said Spencer.
Coyote scrubbed his knuckle across his chin, avoiding his pal’s scrutiny. “Just thinking.”
“Didn’t know that kinda look was called thinking.”
“Didn’t know you’d suddenly become a psychic, reading people’s thoughts.” Coyote snagged an appetizer off a passing tray, a pygmy piece of toast with a glob of green on top.
“Didn’t know you’d suddenly gotten testy about your lady-man self.”
Coyote chewed, knowing his pal was right. It wasn’t like him, but then he hadn’t felt much like himself today. Or since this morning, to be exact. He was edgier, more restless. Except for the few moments when he wasn’t hot and bothered thinking about Kathryn. “Sorry, man.”
“Nothin’ wrong with standing your ground, dog. Lemme see…so you were just thinking about, maybe, that redhead in the corner?” He cocked a look at Coyote. “Very cute. For you, I mean. The Monster Man, of course, ain’t looking.”
“You’d be a fool to. Kimmy’s a catch.”
“You’re preaching to the choir.” Spencer grinned, flashing a silver bicuspid. “She’s class, sass, and if I ever even thought about fooling around, she’d burn my…” He widened his eyes dramatically.
Coyote laughed. He’d always liked Kimberly, Spencer’s soon-to-be wife. Being a personal trainer, she well understood an athlete’s temperament. More important,
