“Your voice. Do you do that voice thing on purpose?”

One hand flew to the base of her throat automatically. “What’s wrong with my voice?”

“Nothing at all. It just gets deeper when you’re in business mode.” Greg’s eyes danced as he watched her. “It’s sexy.”

“My business voice is sexy?” Panic wanted to fight its way in. Was this how men were viewing her when she made professional phone calls? As a sex kitten? Did they think she was doing it on purpose? “Oh my God.”

“Don’t freak out.” He laid a hand over her forearm, thumb caressing over the skin inside, up to her wrist and back again. “Seriously, it’s not a bad thing. And frankly, I’m probably partial because, well.” He winked. “You know.”

“You’re a horndog?” she said dryly, then gasped and covered her mouth.

He laughed. Then when she thought he was done, he started chuckling and built right back up to a belly-shaking laugh.

Reagan glanced around, saw people watching their table with avid interest and kicked him under the table. “Shhh! People are staring!” she hissed.

He finally quieted down enough to wipe at the tears at the corners of his eyes. “You kill me. Seriously, you do.”

“Such a compliment. However will I resist,” she muttered as she stabbed her steak with something akin to rage.

“I’m hoping you don’t.”

He saw by the way her eyes widened for just a second before she looked back down at her plate that she’d heard him.

CHAPTER

6

“I’m not sure how you did it,” Reagan said as they walked to Greg’s car, “but I didn’t actually get any answers out of you.”

“I’m good, what can I say?”

“Maybe you should be the one in PR. Oh!” Realizing she’d left her notebook behind, she turned to go. Greg caught her wrist and pulled her against him.

“I’ve got your notebook.”

Thanks to her heels, she was nearly two inches taller than him. She expected to feel awkward, or maybe powerful, with the height advantage. But her knees were nearly water as he nuzzled his nose against her jaw. Maybe her brain was liquefying, too, because she actually felt herself lean into the caress. His warm breath against her neck sent a tingle of gooseflesh racing over her exposed skin. And as his arm wrapped around the small of her back to pull her tighter against him, there wasn’t a single protest in her mind. He could have laid her down on the asphalt and it wouldn’t have occurred to her to voice an alternative.

“We should get going.”

He stepped back, and she was left to blink at the immediate lack of warmth. “Going . . .” was all she could say.

“Long drive home, and we’ve got work tomorrow.” He shifted his hold on her wrist lower to lace his fingers with hers. “Besides, I have to be well rested for my media debut, right?”

“Uh-huh,” she said stupidly, following as he walked to the car. Had she really been so naïve to think he’d start putting the moves on her in a parking lot? No, that would be ridiculous. And she was nothing if not practical.

In everything but footwear, anyway.

When he opened her door, she turned. It was wrong, and she shouldn’t press, but she had to know. “Why did you stop?”

His smile was slow, and it sent alarm bells ringing in her head, but she wasn’t quite sure which ones. The alarm that said Run now! or the one that said Supper’s on, come and get it!

“You were expecting it.”

“I . . . okay.” She crossed her arms over her chest and leaned against the back door. “So what if I was?”

“When I kiss you the first time, it’s not going to be expected. And it’s not going to make you feel the way you think you should feel.”

Reagan turned that over in her head for a moment as she got in the car. She let it marinate while he drove them out of the parking lot, and half the way home.

“How do you know what I think I should feel?”

“Legs,” he said without taking his eyes off the road, “you’ve got TTBP all over you.”

“I’m almost afraid to ask, but . . . TTBP?”

He grinned, his face illuminated in the headlights of a passing truck. “Trying to Be Professional. You play the starched business lady during the day, and you tried to bring her out tonight. But you’ve got a wild streak you’re trying to keep hidden for one reason or another. When you’re ready to let that loose, then we’ll see.”

“That’s insulting,” she said with a huff, staring straight ahead. She couldn’t even get into lip-syncing along with the radio. But curiosity had her asking, “And how do you know I even have a wild streak?”

“Shoes,” he answered quickly, without hesitation. “And partly because of your endearingly horrible lip-syncing on the way down . . . but mostly the shoes.”

“Why does everyone comment on my shoes?”

“Because they make a statement. And you know that, or you wouldn’t pick them. You’d wear some flats or plain ones with just a tiny heel. Or you know, some white running shoes with those scrunchy, puffy socks that come halfway up your calves.”

“Uh, the eighties called. They want their working woman stereotype back.”

He just snorted.

“And you never answered an interview question.”

“That’s because all these interview questions are boring.” He reached into his pants pocket—which took a little maneuvering—and tossed the notebook on her lap. “Who cares where I’m from or why I’m in the Marines or why I joined the boxing team? They should care about my stats or how I box or what I do when I’m down and have to rally for a come-from-behind victory. What matters is on the mat.”

“You want to get to know my wild side, away from my work persona. Why is it so weird to think others might want to know you beyond the ring?”

“Because nobody cares.”

She watched him—difficult as it was—in the darkness for a bit, and realized he wasn’t being facetious or difficult for the sake of being annoying. He honestly believed it didn’t matter.

“I care,” she said softly.

“To peddle some human interest story?”

That stung, but it wasn’t completely unwarranted. “I care because I like you. And this dinner—”

“Date.”

“This dinner—”

“Date,” he said more firmly. “Can you just call it what it is?”

“I’m sorry, I don’t recall you asking me on a date. I remember being bamboozled into coming out in order to get my job done.”

“Well, I did. You must have slept through it.” He reached over and squeezed her knee. “Damn shame. It was a good story. One for the grandkids, I’m sure.”

“Uh-huh.” She took a chance and put her hand over his. When his fingers curled up and caught hers, she smiled. He couldn’t see, so it wouldn’t hurt anything. “You still have to answer one of the questions.”

“My prematch routine,” he said, in a monotone voice like a seventh grader reading a report off of cue cards as he answered one of her questions, “includes lots of protein that morning, a light workout to stretch and establish muscle memory and some mental moves before I step into the ring.”

She waited a beat. “Wow. That was inspirational.”

“You want inspiration, you pay a thousand bucks and go to a business conference. You said one question, I answered one question.”

And he picked the single most impersonal one to give, too.

“Fine.” She settled back in her seat and prepared for the rest of the drive home.

“Fine . . . what?”

The barest hint of trepidation colored his question. She bit her cheek to keep the smile from her voice. “Fine, that’s all. You’re a smart guy. I’m sure you can handle yourself tomorrow at the interview.”

He seemed to take this news with slightly less happiness than she thought. “You’re giving up? I thought we talked about that this afternoon.”