Sly Bullhorn Brodsky Page 2

  Samantha Drake was quality. No slut, no easy chick, no woman to toy with. She was of the “bring ’em home to mom” variety. He was lucky to have her attention. How many bruisers like him ended up with classy women? None he knew of.

  Maybe Bullhorn Brodsky, whose booming voice could be heard in the next county, and who could bring a three-hundred-pounder to his knees, had a shot at a relationship with this exceptional woman. Don’t blow it, Sly, he’d told himself a thousand times.

  If her brother had anything to say about it, Sly wouldn’t be allowed within fifty feet of her. Devon didn’t know the offensive lineman well. But too much bragging in the locker room obviously had Devon thinking Bull was a major seducer, a breaker of hearts, a guy who was only interested in getting into a woman’s pants and then disappearing. But that was a lie. Maybe he’d had a few one-night stands in his life, but Samantha Drake wasn’t in that category. She’d had him half in love with her when she’d first said hello.

  He raised his hand in farewell and descended the stairs. His lips tingled, and his mind locked away the sensation to trot out and relive in his dreams.

  * * * *

  Samantha closed the front door and leaned back against it. Her pulse was racing, her face was hot, and she was a bit breathless. She had never expected the big man to be able to kiss like that. Of course, if he was a major seducer, that would make sense. But he appeared to be real sweet. He’d helped her move all day then taken her to dinner—his only reward a couple of steamy kisses. Doesn’t fit with the image of a major player.

  He tasted like café au lait, and he smelled like a woodsy aftershave mixed with his own, unique scent. When her fingers had tightened around his biceps, a tingle had shot all the way through her. The man was solid steel. Except his warm skin. She had braced herself against his chest.

  She had wanted him to make love to her. A trip to Nirvana in the arms of the offensive lineman would have been heaven. But her rational mind had stepped in, putting her libido on hold. Besides, he hadn’t asked. He’d been the first to break and left her wanting.

  Her senses hadn’t yet recovered. She could still taste him, smell him, and her fingers missed the feel of him. Left frustrated was not a great place to be. She put the kettle on, hoping a cup of tea would calm her sexual desire. But she knew only a night with Sly would quell her yearnings. Or maybe that would simply stoke the fires to blazing hot, to burn inside forever.

  He could have been trying to take her off guard. According to her brother, Bullhorn Brodsky was a man to avoid, a guy who had no respect for women—he’d take her body and leave her heart in pieces. She shivered at the image. After Harry, the selfish creep she’d dated for over a year, had dropped her like a hot coal in favor of an easy woman with double D’s, Samantha had become wary.

  She was taking cautious to extremes. Totally committed to keeping her heart safe, she’d rather be alone than suffer pain and crushing disappointment again. There she sat. Beautiful, accomplished, sweet Samantha Drake, waiting for Mr. Perfect to pluck her off the shelf and marry her. Could Bullhorn Brodsky fulfill the ideal she had? Probably not. No one could.

  Before she could analyze her predicament further, her cell rang. It was Stormy Gregory.

  “I’ve been cooking for Bull Brodsky, but I don’t know him very well. Where did he take you to dinner? Is he a good kisser? Did you sleep with him?”

  “The Greenery. Get this—a vegetarian restaurant. And yes, he’s a good kisser, but no, I didn’t sleep with him.”

  “A vegetarian restaurant? I didn’t know we had one in Monroe.”

  “It’s new.” Samantha recounted her day with the lineman to her best friend and Devon’s live-in girlfriend.

  “He sounds hot.”

  “He is. In that sleeveless shirt, he’s smokin’. God, he’s so huge, but he’s gentle. Didn’t grab me or crush me or anything.”

  “Wonder what he’s like in bed?”

  “What would Devon say if he knew you asked that question?”

  “Hey, I may be committed, but I’m not dead. I can wonder. Doesn’t mean I’d do anything. Besides, when you have champagne at home, why would you want anything else?”

  “Uh, TMI. That’s my brother you’re talking about. You’re grossing me out.”

  “You opened the door.”

  “I know. Enough.” Sam held her hand up, even though her friend couldn’t see it.

  “Are you going to keep dating him?”

  “We’re seeing each other Saturday. Don’t tell Devon.”

  “I won’t. I think it’s cute.”

  “I don’t know what to believe, Stormy.”

  “Follow your heart.”

  The women ended the conversation. Samantha returned to her kitchen to put away the last few items they had washed and dried. Follow my heart? That’s fine if I knew what was in my heart. Do I trust him? I don’t know.

  Sam climbed into bed with a book, prepared for a restless night. Before she turned out the light, she wondered once more what it would be like to have Sly there with her to break-in her new mattress. She ran her hand over the cold, empty sheet on the far side, imagining he’d be warming the bedclothes. She sighed then lay back and let her mind dream. Feeling edgy, she tossed for an hour. Disgusted with herself, she threw on a robe and padded into the kitchen for some chamomile tea.

  It was midnight, too late to call Stormy. She’d be asleep anyway, since Devon was in training too. She had to smile at the engagement of her best friend and her brother. They were made for each other. Her heart longed for the same closeness with a man.

  Samantha’s thoughts returned to the topic that had been haunting her—Sly “Bullhorn” Brodsky. Six foot three inches of solid man. Light brown hair and bright, piercing, inquisitive gray eyes. Was he the seducer, the rotter her brother claimed, or was he the sweet gentleman who treated her like a queen?

  “Will the real Bullhorn Brodsky please stand up?” she muttered to herself.

  The apartment faced a side street in Monroe, Connecticut, a small town of twenty-thousand people. Sam peered out at the road, illuminated by a street lamp and the moon. Early signs of fall appeared in the small clutch of leaves that had turned red before the rest, and the gold of a small tree between the spacious homes. The street was populated with mostly Victorian, one-family homes, with a few broken into generous apartments that occupied an entire floor.

  Sam wandered through the rooms, suddenly aware of how much space she had for only one person. It will cost me a fortune to furnish five rooms. What will I do with the extra bedroom?

  She perched on the window seat of the bay window at the back of the house. The fenced-in yard was lit only by moonlight. Shadows danced in the cool, September breeze.

  If she had been a more skittish person, the shifting darkness might have frightened her. She harrumphed and squared her shoulders. I’m no wuss. Her bravado remained until a stray cat darted across the browning grass. The sudden movement startled her. She jumped and made tracks for the front door. After checking that it was still double-locked, she returned to bed.

  If Sly was here, I wouldn’t be afraid of anything, ever. Rolling over on her stomach, she punched a pillow under her chest and tilted her head to the left. Thoughts of the strong arms and big hands of the footballer made her shiver. Doubts about the man melted away as the image of curling up in his embrace and falling asleep feeling totally safe touched a need deep inside.

  Denial of their physical attraction crumbled in the dead of the night, when truth can’t be easily sidestepped. She’d noticed him the first time he’d passed in the hallway. Then the second time, when on a search for her brother, she’d spied Sly draped in nothing but a towel in the locker room. Embarrassment had filled her cheeks as she’d scurried outside to wait for Devon. The lineman had simply laughed, showing no modesty at all.

  Sly Brodsky. Bull. Did she want him? Sam smiled to herself. Of course, she did. But she wasn’t about to tell anyone, especially him. She could barely admit i
t to herself. He appeared content to wait, which was fine with her. She enjoyed being in control. Still, to be honest, she wouldn’t make him wait forever. Only as long as she could stand to back away, even when she longed to lose herself in his arms and let him take her home.

  She had to be sure he was genuine, not a player. If the feelings he professed to have were false, fake, made up just to seduce her, she’d run from him as if he had the plague. But if he meant what he said, then she’d gladly warm his bed. Samantha closed her eyes, allowing herself to imagine what kind of lover he’d be. She was asleep within minutes.

  Saturday morning, she plugged in her new coffeemaker and poured a bowl of cereal. As she was putting the milk back, she spied a cap on the counter by the door. She picked it up. It was white with dark turquoise lettering, The Kings. She grinned. Sly’s. Sure enough. Samantha finished her breakfast, showered quickly, and dressed in her best jeans and a bright pink shirt.

  Nice excuse to drop in on Sly early this morning for a surprise visit. A glance at the clock told her it wasn’t quite eight yet. Bet he’s still in bed. A shiver shot through her at the idea of waking him. Wonder if he sleeps nude? She plucked a sweater from a hanger, fished her car keys out of her purse, and headed for the door.

  Chapter Two

  Sly lived in a modern three-bedroom house on two acres just on the outskirts of town. He’d hired a decorator, but the place, furnished in neutral colors, looked stark, uninhabited. It was clean and neat because he had a housekeeper, but cold and sterile. He didn’t like it and found himself spending evenings eating and drinking at The Savage Beast rather than returning to his chilly home.

  When he’d fallen in love with Tiffany, he’d plastered her picture everywhere. There were photos of her and shots of the two of them—on a picnic, at the beach, doing everything except making love. He didn’t need a reminder of that. He’d never forget their steamy nights together and recalled them often when he went solo, until he’d met Samantha Drake.

  Unless he got rid of all the pictures, there was no way he could have Sam over. Sure, it had been a year, but he had nursed a broken heart for six months. He’d only decided to start dating again recently. Now, he was picky, damn picky, and hadn’t found many women who fit his qualifications. He’d be damned if he was going to explain what happened with Tiffany. In hindsight, he realized she wasn’t the girl for him, but at the time, he’d been heartbroken. If Sam saw the photos, he’d have to tell her everything.

  Then, he’d have to say that he’d been dumped. What the hell? He was a top offensive lineman in the NFL. How could he admit he couldn’t bounce back, couldn’t get over a flighty chick who took a powder on him? The humiliation would kill him.

  Besides, Samantha would lose respect for him, assuming she had any in the first place. His heart no longer pined for his old flame. It was beating a mile a minute for the sexy brunette who heated his blood and made him want to take care of her.

  Tired after practicing hard all week for the upcoming game and carting boxes up and down stairs for Sam, Sly had decided to bag taking down the photos last night. After all, she wasn’t coming over to his place yet, so why bother at ten o’clock? Bullhorn had stripped off his clothes and threw himself into bed, falling into a deep sleep.

  As usual, Sly rose and showered early. He wrapped a towel around his waist and padded to the kitchen, scooping up the newspaper shoved through the slot in his door on the way. Coffee was ready. He silently blessed Agatha, his housekeeper. She set up the pot to start at seven in the morning. Poring some brew in a mug, he added a touch of sugar and milk. His first sip was the best. Well, maybe the second. No, the third. He sat at the round table in his modern, stainless steel kitchen and opened the morning paper.

  The doorbell startled him. Who the hell is here at this hour? He peeked out the peephole and dropped his jaw. Shit! It’s Sam.

  “I know you’re in there, sleepyhead. Come on. Get up. Open the door.” He watched her move up and try to look in.

  He jerked his head back, as if she could see him.

  “Sly! Sly, I know you’re home. Your car is here. Get up.”

  He looked around at the pictures he had been too tired to remove. Shit!

  Samantha began to knock. “Sly, are you okay?” The worry in her voice came through loud and clear.

  He cracked open the door. “I’m not dressed yet, babe. You’re early.”

  “Surprised?”

  “You might say that.”

  “You left your cap at my place.” She waved the colorful Kings logo in front of him.

  “Oh, yeah. Thanks.” Think. Think!

  Her smile faded, and her eyebrows rose. “Are you mad?”

  “Of course not. No, no. I’m not mad. It’s just…well, I didn’t expect you, and…”

  “Do you have a girl in there?” Her tone changed as she pushed on the door.

  His bruised pride took over, and he swung it wide. “Are you kidding? No way!”

  Samantha’s gaze ran over him like a warm hand. He gripped the towel to keep it in place and backed up.

  “I’ll get dressed. Be right back.”

  “Don’t dress on my account.” She chuckled, eying his almost naked form with interest.

  Bull ran up to his bedroom and slammed the door. He threw the towel on a chair, yanked on boxers, and then jeans. Then, he grabbed a clean T-shirt from a hanger in his closet and bolted for the stairs. Gotta get down there before she sees those pictures. She’ll never understand, and she’ll leave for good.

  For a big man, he could move fast, especially when he took the steps two at a time. He landed just as Samantha was making the rounds in his living room. Keep her out of the den.

  His bare feet skidded on the highly polished floor. Sam turned to face him when he bumped into the wall.

  “Who’s this?” she asked, pointing to a picture of Tiffany.

  “Who?”

  “The blonde. This woman here? The one right in front of your face?” She waved an eight by ten, framed, glossy photo by his nose.

  “Her?”

  “Uh, yeah, her. Who is she?” Samantha shifted her weight.

  “Tiffany. Someone I used to date.”

  “Used to date? That’s all? Her picture is plastered everywhere.”

  “Uh, well,” he muttered, stuffing his hands in his pockets.

  Samantha moved to the mantle over the fireplace. There were two smaller photos there with Tiffany and Bull, grinning like an ape. Color rose in her neck. “And these? Tiffany?”

  He nodded, taking the pictures from her as she yanked them off the shelf.

  “And this?” She plucked a smaller frame from a bookshelf.

  “Uh huh.” He tried to balance the growing stack in his arms as Samantha grabbed each photo and handed it to him. The blush in her cheeks grew redder with every step.

  As she reached for one on the coffee table, he freed a hand and fastened it on her wrist. “Wait, wait, Sam. What are you doing?”

  “You say you’re so crazy about me, but it seems to me, she’s the one you love.”

  “Not true. That was a long time ago.”

  “How long ago?”

  “A year.”

  “Then why do you still have her pictures everywhere?” Samantha’s eyes filled, but she blinked the wetness back.

  He laid the frames down gently on the table, took her hand, and led her into the kitchen. “Coffee or tea?” He shuffled over to the coffeemaker.

  “An explanation.”

  “I got that. I need a little more coffee. You?”

  She shook her head. She wasn’t falling for his stalling tactics.

  He heaved a sigh. Time to come clean. He refreshed his mug, dousing it with milk and sugar before sitting down next to her. Wrapping his fingers around hers, he held her hand captive. She tugged for a second then let them be joined.

  “Tiffany and I dated for a year. Yeah, I had been the player Devon thinks I am now. Was. I was. Until I met her. She turned everything
around for me. Or so I thought. I proposed. She accepted.” Surprised that there was still pain for him when he recalled the story, he stopped to take a breath.

  “Why aren’t you married?”

  “I’m getting to that.”

  She tapped her foot, her gaze darting from the cabinets to the sink to the floor.

  Humiliation reared up in him. He lowered his head, stared at his hand. Tell her or lose her.

  Samantha extracted her fingers from his grasp and pushed her chair away.

  Bull stopped her movement by placing one large paw on the back. “She left me at the altar,” he blurted out.

  Sam stopped dead then eased down. “She what?”

  “You heard me.”

  “Really?”

  “Standing there, wearing that fuckin’ monkey suit. In front of a hundred people. Teammates, Coach, my family.” Forgotten heartache reared up, slicing through him like a well-honed knife. The heat of anger inched up his neck.

  “Oh my God. Sly. I’m so sorry.” She rested her hand on his brawny arm.

  “She married a guy she’d been working with. Guess they were doing more than working together.” He shot a wry smile at Sam.

  “She married someone else?”

  “On the same day. He was waiting at the end of the street. She ran off, in her wedding dress and everything. Jumped in his car. They took off. I haven’t seen or heard from her since.”

  “That’s awful. How terrible for you.” She leaned over to kiss his cheek.

  Sly pushed to his feet and yanked open a lower cabinet door. “That chapter’s closed. Might as well get rid of the evidence.” He hoisted the garbage can in one hand and ambled into the living room. One by one, he threw each memory in the trash.

  Sam halted his motion. “Are you sure you want to do that?”

  He shrugged. “No sense keeping them now. Just a waste of space. Besides. They’re upsetting you.”

  “Don’t worry about me. These are part of your past.”

  “And that’s where they belong. In the past. Forgotten.” He nabbed his cap from the coffee table where Samantha had dropped it, slung it on his head, tied the bag, and headed for the back door. “Be right back. Then I’m taking you out to breakfast.”