Good thing she was immune.
Mostly.
Okay, she wanted to be immune, she really did, but he’d been lucky enough to be born one of those guys who brought certain things to a woman’s mind, especially one who hadn’t had any of those things in a while.
A long while . . .
“Time’s up,” he said with mock regret.
She smiled back, giving him her own brand of charm. He might be hot and charismatic and able to bend a woman’s mind like Superman bent steel, but she was unflappable and stubborn to a tee. “Your publicist wants these articles written, and so does my boss, which means we’re stuck with each other. So why don’t we go grab a drink and you play nice and give me what I need in order to do my job?”
He studied her for a beat. “The last reporter really did offer to sleep with me.”
“A fact that makes me shake my head at my entire gender.” Certain portions of her anatomy quivered, making her a liar.
A corner of his mouth quirked as if he knew. “Okay, here’s the thing. I know what Sam wants. I even know what you want. But it’s not going to happen. Nice meeting you—”
“Woo hoo, Pace! Oh, Pace . . .”
At the voice behind them, a look of utter panic crossed his face, which was so odd and misplaced on his six foot two frame that Holly turned to see who’d put it there.
A young woman, barely five feet tall, was running through the hot day toward them, wearing only what appeared to be Pace’s white home-game jersey, which fell nearly to her knees. In her hands was a large notebook covered with baseball cards—all Pace’s—her flip-flops slapping the asphalt, her wild, curly dark hair poking out from beneath a Heat cap.
“Pace!” she called out, waving. “I caught you! I caught you! Ohmigod, luck is finally on my side!”
At that, Pace muttered something beneath his breath, which rhymed with that luck the fan claimed to have, and Holly choked out a short laugh.
Stopping just in front of them, the woman put a hand to her heaving chest and beamed up at Pace. “Are you free for dinner tonight to look over the scrapbook I made for you? I’ve brought all the recent clippings—well, except for that nasty one from Sports Life because they didn’t put you in their fantasy lineup. They think you’re too old to anchor their rotation. So are you?”
He blinked. “Too old?”
“No!” She laughed gaily. “Free for dinner, silly.” Her voice was high and bubbly, sort of like Marilyn Monroe on helium. “Because last night you said no, and the night before you said no, and the night before that, too, so I was hoping—”
“Tia.” Looking torn between running and wishing he could vanish into thin air, Pace took off his sunglasses and scrapped a hand down his face. “You’re not supposed to be here, remember? Your doctor told you that, and so did the police. You promised.”
“I know, but you never got a formal restraining order on me. I checked. I know you wouldn’t want to do that to your future wife, because if I get arrested again, I can’t afford to pay for the bail, not after I hocked my Great Aunt Dee’s pearls for the last two times, so . . .” She finally noticed Holly, and all the air seemed to deflate from her lungs, coming out in one unhappy whoosh. “Who are you?”
Holly opened her mouth, but Pace spoke first. “My girlfriend,” he said, shocking both Tia and Holly when he put a proprietary hand on Holly’s arm. His hand was huge and warm, his palm calloused. He looked into Holly’s eyes, his own suddenly not nearly as cold and distant, or even wryly amused, but . . .
Desperate.
Pace Martin looked desperate, which was dumbfounding enough, but then he tightened his grip and said, “Hurry up, honey. We’ll be late.”
Honey?
Before Holly could process that, he shoved her none-too-gently toward his bad-boy car.
“I—”
“Shh,” he muttered in her ear.
Oh no, he didn’t. He didn’t just shush her, and she sent him a glacial stare, but he shot her one of those hey-baby smiles, the one that matched the picture he’d taken for People magazine, while hissing out the corner of his mouth, “I’ll pay you a thousand dollars not to argue with me right now.”
A thousand dollars? That’d make a nice addition to her never-be-poor-again fund. “You’ve got to be kidding,” she whispered.
“Okay, two. Two thousand,” he grated out. “Jesus, just hurry.”
Two thousand dollars.
Holy smokes.
And he clearly wasn’t kidding. Another shove and she was in his car, and he was locking the doors, accelerating them out of the lot with an impressive exhibition of speed as she twisted to look back. Tia stood there hugging her scrapbook, staring after them, looking forlorn.
“Don’t look at her,” Pace directed. “Trust me on this.”
Holly gawked at him. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” she repeated.
“No, seriously. Looking at her only eggs her on.”
She laughed in further shock, even as her stomach quivered at the hair-raising turn he was executing at speeds better suited for a racetrack than the narrow, curvy lanes of the highway. She gripped the console. “You’re more afraid of that little tiny thing than me?”
“Only very slightly.”
She tightened her grip as he took them into another hair-raising turn with shocking ease. It gave her a thrill, a kick of adrenaline. “This is going to cost you.”