"Sure," he said. "You've got to be the hot babe. And then you've got to teach me how to resist you." He dropped his gaze to her breasts. "Don't worry that you're all natural. That won't throw me off at all. Real, fake, as long as they fit right here."

Hoping he could make her laugh instead of walk out on him, he cupped his hands in the air and moved them slightly, as if he were holding a soft weight.

"You didn't actually just pretend to squeeze a pair of breasts, did you?" Fortunately, she looked more amused than annoyed.

"You know how us jocks are. Now, back to your role as hot babe."

"As if I'm stupid enough to fall for this."

He was all innocence. "For what?"

She opened her mouth. Then closed it.

Her lower lip was plump and he wanted to gently sink his teeth into the sensitive flesh, see if she would shiver, if her nipples would tighten in response.

The thing was, they both knew he'd painted her into a corner. Because she sure as hell wasn't going to say, "You're just trying to get me to kiss you, to sleep with you again." Not only was she Little Miss Proper, but she had far too much pride to set herself up for the possibility of being shot down.

She also clearly had no idea that no sane man on earth would shoot her down.

"Fine," she finally said in a tight, pissed-off tone. "The things I do for my company," she muttered. She shook her hair out, stuck out her chest, and pouted at him. "Just as you ordered, one hot babe, hold the side of skank."

Ty had never tried to seduce a woman while he was laughing; fucking had always been more of a serious endeavor. Never a challenge, though—he was always trying to answer the question, "How fast can I leave when we're done?" He very rarely had sex with anyone at his own house. Because it was harder to kick a woman out than it was to zip up his pants and drive away.

"Okay," he said, "throw yourself at me."

"You might find this hard to believe, given that we're in 'Ty's Weird World' right now, but I wouldn't have the first clue how to throw myself at anyone."

"Not even your favorite football star?"

"I don't have a favorite football star," she said. "Or baseball, basketball, or hockey. Gerard Butler is kind of cute, though. Maybe i could pretend you're him?"

Ty wanted to crack Gerard Butler's head against a brick wall. He couldn't believe he was actually jealous of an actor.

Clearly, when it came to Julie Spencer, there was a first time for everything.

"Pretend I'm Gerard Butler, then," he forced out between his teeth. She held out her hand. "Hi, I'm Julie Spencer. Your movies are really great. Especially that foreign one where you pretend to be the little boy's father."

"That's it? What about trying to get in his pants? Where was the flattery? The finger running down his arm? The I-want-to-fuck-you-all-night-long look?"

"You didn't say anything about trying to get in his pants!"

"Duh." He rolled his eyes. "What do you think all of those women in all of those pictures are trying to do to me?"

"It looks like you're trying to get into their pants, not the other way around" He shrugged. "Sometimes I am. But not as often as you'd think." Which was true. He tended to be a moving target and women just threw and threw and threw themselves at him until one of them stuck for a night.

Ty had never really wanted any one woman in particular—except for this one. Only Julie. He'd wanted her when he was eighteen, and he wanted her now.

"Try again," he said in his most encouraging voice. "I still don't see how this is going to help," she argued.

"I'm like an old dog. You've got to teach me new tricks, right?" She chewed on that for a while. He liked watching her face while her mind worked. It was like she momentarily forgot to be in control of absolutely everything, and when her white teeth came out to bite her lower lip she was sexier than any skimpily dressed model had ever been.

"You're definitely a dog."

He was just going to let that one go. "So it's time to throw yourself at me. Don't worry, I won't laugh."

She glared at him. "The only reason you're not doing this little exercise with one of my assistants is because I can't trust you to behave with any of them."

"Their loss," he said. "I'm waiting. And remember, you're trying to get my pants off." Sighing in resignation, she fluttered her eyelids and said in a high-pitched baby voice, "Oh Ty, you're just my favorite football player of all time, even though I just slept with a bunch of your teammates last night."

He couldn't help laughing.

More eyelid batting. "I hope this doesn't come across as too forward or anything, but would you mind if I just gave you a teensy-weensy little kiss and let my friend take a picture of it so that everyone will believe me when I say that I kissed the great Ty Calhoun?" Julie's parody was hitting a little too close to home. How many women had he slept with who actually did talk like this, who had the brain power of an ant?

A little more seriously than he meant to, he said, "Why not? I'm game." Julie came out of character. "You said you wouldn't laugh at me." He held his hands up. "Did I laugh?"

"No, but if I'm going to act like an idiot, you can't sit there playing the straight man. You need to play yourself."

"Now you're going to tell me how to play myself? All right, I already know there's no point in trying to stop you. Who am I?"

She waved her hand in the air. "You're the obviously jaded yet horny sports star. You only think about your own needs, but you're more than willing to bump and grind with a pretty stranger after a good game to celebrate."

Ty couldn't think of the last time anyone had said anything that unflattering to his face.

"You really believe that's how I am, don't you?"

She frowned, possibly noticing for the first time that she was hurting his feelings with her blunt assessments.

Or maybe she was doing it on purpose. Revenge

and all that.

"It's not just you, Ty. All sports stars are exactly the same." Ty wanted to disagree, wanted to tell her about all the guys he knew who spent more time taking care of their families, their friends, and the underprivileged than they did their own health. He wanted to tell her that his friend Tim had gotten out on that field every day for ten years as a defensive tackle and let the other team beat his body all to hell, out of sheer desperation to help his whole extended family rise up out of the trash heap of a town they'd been living in. He knew guys who treated football like any other job. They put in the hours, gave their all, and then they went home for dinner with their wives and children. They didn't waste time in bars or hanging out with groupies. They earned their money with quiet power. But he knew there wasn't any point in trying to change her mind about professional athletes, or about him. Not when she'd made up her mind long ago.

Plus, he had to admit that she wasn't too far off the mark for many of the guys he knew. Even, at the start of his career, himself.

He ran his fingers through his hair. "Okay then, I'll play the highly stereotyped version of myself." He gave her a hard, hungry look.

"A kiss from you is what I've been waiting for my entire life, baby. Come sit on my lap—but only if you're not wearing anything under that short skirt."

She pushed her thighs together, a nearly imperceptible movement that he might have missed if he weren't so attuned to her. Or, more precisely, how much he wanted her.