Seduce Me. Jill Shalvis

      They were perfect strangers really, and yet…she held on to him as well, and felt a thrill go through her when he looked at her as if she were the most beautiful woman in the room.

      The north corner was set up for dining, with rows of tables covered in white linens and china. In the south corner a band was playing, while people milled, conversed and danced.

      Everyone was dressed to the hilt, sedate and professional in their partying. Sam and Jack passed a group of women in shimmery gowns, each with a man in a tux on her arm. Most stopped talking, shooting Jack more than a passing glance.

      Interesting.

      “Don’t look directly at them,” Jack murmured in her ear, still holding tight to her hand. “Smile, but keep your feet moving.”

      “I think they want to talk to you…”

      “Like I said, keep moving.” Obviously an expert at working a crowd, he weaved and dodged like a pro quarterback even when people turned toward him and tried to head him off at the pass. He kept smiling and nodding his head, but with admirable skill, avoided being detained by anyone with a camera.

      “Impressive,” she murmured, and then began to catch snippets of conversation going on around them.

      “My God, it’s him.”

      “Mmm, looking hot as ever, too.”

      “The Eels never recovered after he left. He shouldn’t have left.”

      That one had Jack’s jaw tightening, and Sam felt an odd surge of protectiveness for the man. How dare these people act as if he couldn’t hear them.

      “Who cares why he really quit. I just miss seeing his buns in basketball shorts.”

      “Take a shower, Marge.”

      The last was probably a disgusted husband, but Sam tripped over her heels as it hit her. Jack Scandal Knight. She was Jack Scandal Knight’s blind date. My God, how had she not realized? He had athlete written all over him—from the long, hard, rangy length of him, to the rigid yet easy control in every movement he made.

      He wasn’t the quarterback she’d just imagined, but a basketball star.

      He caught her. “You okay?”

      She looked up into his startlingly handsome face and nodded. Why hadn’t he told her? What was it he’d said…? He’d retired. She supposed it had been easier to define it that way rather than as millions of others did—going out as a legend in his own time.

      She imagined his reticence was because everywhere he went, people fawned over him, or just talked about him, as they were doing now, as if he wasn’t in the room.

      This was crazy. Jack Scandal Knight, holding her hand, pulling her along.

      “Jack, tell us when you’re coming back to the game.”

      Jack sighed and squeezed her hand. “Sorry, but I have to say something or they’ll never leave us alone.” He turned to the group of reporters on their right. Ten mikes were immediately shoved in his face. Flashes went off. “I had a great run,” he said. “I loved every minute of it, but I’m not coming back to the game. I’m here to support this evening’s charity, which gives money and attention to underprivileged kids.” He smiled, held still for another moment for pictures, then backed away.

      Sam moved with him, wondering how his life had changed since he’d stopped playing. Given the expert weave and bob he was executing, it hadn’t changed much. He didn’t want the press around him, he didn’t want any attention at all. There was something…cute about that.

      If one could call a six-foot-six, tough-as-nails, hard-as-rock man cute.

      In the middle of the large room now, he took a deep breath, and when a group of men came up to him, not reporters, but guests, Jack shook their hands warmly.

      “How’s retirement?” one asked. “Great?”

      “How could it not be?” Jack answered. “And how are you all doing tonight?”

      Everyone murmured their answer, then someone said to Jack, “What are you doing with yourself these days?”

      “Keeping busy, that’s for sure. Who’s actually played golf here? Is it any good?”

      It went on like that for a few minutes, with Jack dodging and deflecting. She could see how private he was, and she wondered how a man like that dealt with such public pressure.

      After a few minutes, Jack excused them and led her away. They passed a waiter holding a large tray of champagne. “Thank God.” He let go of her hand to grab two flutes, one of which he handed to her. Then he let out a long sigh and clinked his glass lightly against hers. “To the best evening we can make out of this.”

      “Well, we’ve done pretty good so far.”

      “Yeah.” A genuine smile touched his lips. “We sure have. And I think most of the press actually left after their photo op. Thanks for being so patient.”

      Around them, the crowd tightened, closing in a little, and she was forced into him. “Sorry,” she murmured, backing away to give him some room, only to bump into a couple behind her, nearly spilling her drink.

      “Come here,” Jack said softly, sliding his free hand down the length of her arm, entwining his fingers through hers. Shifting their connected hands to the small of her back, he gently urged her forward and once again into him.

      Now her hips were cradled rather intimately with his, her breasts brushing his chest. The connection came on like a strong jolt, and her gaze flew up to his.

      Jack felt it, too; she could see the heat in the dark depths of his eyes reflected back at her. “So maybe,” he murmured, “the toast should be to the rest of the evening.”

      “Yes…” Dipping her head, she took a sip from her flute to cover her confusion at her unusually strong reaction to him, but then caught a movement over his shoulder. “Mob closing in at two o’clock.”

      He swore, tossed his champagne down his throat and ditched the glass on a different waiter’s empty tray before getting them on the move again.

      They headed toward the band, who’d struck up a Seventies disco beat. The lights went down and at least ten disco balls lowered from the ceiling swirling and sending flashes of light into every corner.

      “Join us for disco hour,” the band leader said into his microphone. “And at eight o’clock, we’ll move into the Eighties.”

      The crowd perked up, and many moved toward the dance floor.

      Sam looked at the colored lights, at the people starting to move to the beat, and nerves leaped into her throat. Surely Jack wouldn’t expect her to dance in these ridiculous heels and tight dress…

      He stopped at the edge of the dance floor, thank God. They could just watch—

      “Okay, I think it’s safe here,” he said. “Quick, gaze into my eyes like I’m the only man you see. Maybe that’ll keep everyone away.”

      She laughed, but dutifully looked into his eyes. “Like you’re the only man I see? And how does one give that kind of a look?”

      He blinked, then laughed, too. “Actually, I haven’t a clue.”

      “Uh-oh.” She winced. “Sorry to tell you, there are three men in cheap suits holding cameras, making their move.”

      “Damn.” Grabbing her hands, Jack pulled her onto the dance floor, then glanced back at the photographers stymied at the side of the room. Heather swiftly moved in and shifted them out of sight, winking at Jack over her shoulder.

      Jack smiled down at Sam. “Better.”

      They were surrounded by couples gyrating to the music. “Unless you know something else we can do out here,” she said, “we actually