He jammed his hand against the closet door, dropped his head and let out a string of curses. How had Izzie found out about the illegal painkillers? The only person who knew he’d taken them was his former teammate, Xavier Jones. And Xavier wouldn’t have talked to a reporter. No way.
But then again, he thought, agitation rocketing through him, what did it really matter now? His football career was history. He’d paid for his mistake in the worst way possible. And he’d moved on. He didn’t need football anymore.
So why did he feel gutted? As if someone had sliced him wide open? Because the only thing worse than reliving it all over, a little voice in his head said, would be to be made into a pity party all over again. To have the whole world know his shame. He’d worked too hard building Sophoros into an international powerhouse to let the media make a tragedy of him a second time. To overshadow everything he’d done since.
He would not let it happen. Could not.
He yanked his shirt out of the closet, found some boxers, and pulled them on. He would do exactly as he’d said. He’d do this interview, he’d draw the lines, then he’d never talk about it again. No one could prove anything. And as for Izzie? He grimaced as he did up the finicky little pearl buttons on the shirt. He was at a loss. Ever since she’d walked into his life, she’d been driving him slowly, surely mad. And it wasn’t getting any better. When he should be thinking about Frank Messer and the case his lawyers were mounting against him, he was wondering instead how to get her into bed. How to satisfy the craving in him that ached for another taste of her.
His shirt finally done up, he located his tuxedo trousers, pulled them on and went searching for his bow tie. He should hate Izzie for setting him up. For digging into his painful past. But the satisfaction of harboring that against her was being called into question after the conversation he’d had with Laura Reed this morning. He and his head of PR had been covering some items that couldn’t wait until he was back in New York when Laura’s tone had changed into that serious, “you need to listen to me” one she reserved for the most important points. “Alex,” she’d censured. “I met James Curry at an industry breakfast this morning. He asked me what the deal was with you. Said you tore into him at the Met fund-raiser about him setting you up...and he still couldn’t figure out what you were talking about.”
“The guy’s an underhanded son of a bitch,” he’d replied. “Let’s leave it at that.”
“He’s an important son of a bitch,” Laura had reminded him drily. “He’s the news director at one of New York’s most influential television stations. You want him on your side. I don’t know what issue you have with him, but he’s a straight shooter, Alex. In my ten years of working with him I’ve never seen him do anything unethical. Set anyone up. So whatever you’re thinking, you’re wrong. Kiss and make up and play nice.”
He’d muttered something to pacify her, then moved on. But the conversation had been playing over in his head ever since. Izzie had steadfastly stuck to her story that their meeting in the elevator had been a coincidence. His receptionist in London had confirmed she’d lied to Izzie about his whereabouts to get rid of her per his standing instructions to do so. Which left him wondering if maybe their elevator meeting had just been a bizarre coincidence.
He located his shoes and jammed his feet into them without care for the supple Italian leather. Izzie was up for a big promotion at NYC-TV. It explained why she’d been so desperate to land this story on Sophoros. And made the heavy weight sitting in his chest sink even deeper. What if his paranoia about the media had led him to a completely wrong judgment of Izzie? What if she was the woman he’d thought he’d met that night in London? And if she was, what did that mean?
His mind buzzing, he recalled the look of complete incomprehension on Curry’s face that night at the Met when he’d accused him of setting him up. Izzie’s frantic attempts to hide the fact that they’d slept together. Curry hadn’t known.
He picked up his watch and strapped it around his wrist. Had that night in London been so intense, so real for him that he’d been willing to believe the worst about Izzie to avoid making the same mistake twice? A search for any reason not to fall for another woman as hard as he had Jess?
He glanced at the clock and gave his head a shake. He had a black-tie party for a hundred people to get through on a night when he’d rather do anything but. But his bigger problem by far was Isabel Peters. And what the hell he was going to do with her.
* * *
If there was anything she should be good at, it was the fine art of negotiating a cocktail party. Izzie plucked a glass of champagne off a passing waiter’s tray and perched herself against a tree in the lantern-lit gardens of Alex’s Malibu hideaway. Years of reluctantly attending her mother’s premieres and engagements, not to mention the local events the station sponsored, should make this all second nature to her. Instead she tended to feel like a fish out of water, always the gauche, awkward daughter of Dayla St. James who did not thrive in the spotlight.
She took a sip of the bubbly, dry vintage, taking in Agape’s party planning genius. Alex’s sister had done an amazing job transforming the pool and garden area into a lush, exotic oasis—as if you’d entered the Garden of Eden on a particularly electric, sensual night. Flaming torches glowed around the outskirts of the gardens, and floral-shaped candles floated on the pool, casting a muted glow across its surface. And the breezy, lazy music coming from the hip-looking DJ in the corner was typical laid-back California cool.
She frowned. She might actually have enjoyed a party for a change if she weren’t wound so tight she felt as though she was going to snap in half. Her confrontation with Alex yesterday had left her shaken—utterly unsure what to do. She had the true story about what had happened on the last night of his career. At least most of it. Had an explosive angle that would ensure a headline story. But she wasn’t sure she could do it. Wasn’t sure she could blow Alex’s life apart like that.
Letting out a long breath, she leaned back against the pillar and scanned the crowd for him. Long, lean and outrageously handsome in a perfectly tailored tux, he was chatting with a group of people in the center of the buzzing, affluent crowd that, according to Agape, consisted of everything from film directors to financiers to every type of entertainment industry professional in between.
She studied the tension written across his strongly carved features. Brooding, tunnel-visioned since their confrontation yesterday, he’d avoided her completely. And she wondered why she just couldn’t stay immune to him. Why her pulse, even now, raced in a zigzag of confusion.
What was it about a brooding, fabulously good-looking man that made you want him to turn all that intensity on you? Even if you knew it was a bad, bad idea?
He turned his head, their gazes meeting and holding. Her breath caught in her throat as an emotion other than anger flickered in his eyes. Desire? Confusion? She’d been expecting hatred. Antagonism. Not this.
Her mouth went dry as he worked his way down over the sexy spaghetti-strap dress she’d bought in Malibu today to fit the occasion. To catch his attention if she was honest. And why do that? Why play with fire now, when she was so close to escape?