Cole laughed. “That’s what I thought, too.”
He should ignore her and concentrate on the two other women. But for some reason she kept grabbing his attention and wouldn’t let go.
Maybe it was because she kept staring at him. Not in the way other women looked at him—the take-me-home-with-you-tonight plea. Her gaze was cool and assessing. An occasional brief glance and then she’d look away, like she wasn’t at all interested in him.
Oh, she was interested all right. They all were.
So maybe she was a game player after all, and this was a new kind of game.
He pushed off the bar and headed her way. She could throw off all the stay-away signals she wanted, but he was curious now. Someone that beautiful was alone for a reason.
He stopped at her table and her gaze lifted, slowly assessing him. She didn’t smile, but she didn’t frown, either.
“You here alone?” he asked.
“As you can see, I am.”
Southern accent. It fit her. She was all peaches-and-cream complexion, full lips, and the prettiest eyes—the color of his favorite whiskey.
He slid his hand out. “I’m Cole Riley, wide receiver with the Traders.”
She slipped her hand in his and finally gave him a smile—the kind of smile that made a man glad to be a man.
“Hello, Cole. I’m Savannah Brooks. Won’t you sit down?”
Bingo.
LORD HAVE MERCY, BUT COLE RILEY’S PHOTOS AND videos did not do the man justice.
In person he made a woman go weak in the knees. Savannah was glad she was sitting down, because now she understood the mystique she’d read about in the tabloids and all the articles about him as a lady-killer.
Sure, she’d seen all the photos, and he was certainly pretty. Great body, beautiful dark hair. She could see how some women might be attracted to him, but she hadn’t understood why he was such a hot commodity.
But in person? Oh, yes, definitely. He had charisma, a way of looking at a woman that would make her drop her panties faster than he could flash those unusual eyes in her direction.
She’d felt the heart palpitations when he slid his very large hand in hers and graced her with one look of his drop-dead—what color were his eyes anyway? They were gray, tinged with blue, like a sky coloring up for a storm.
Amazing. When he looked at her it was as if everyone else in the room fell away and she was the only woman on earth. Which she knew wasn’t true, because she’d studied him all night long, and there were at least twenty women focused on him as if they were a starving pack of wolves and he was meat.
He wasn’t meaty at all. He was perfect and absolutely delicious. About six foot one and 215 pounds of sex on a stick would be her guess.
If she were out scouting for a man—which she wasn’t—she’d pick him out of a crowd. With his inky black hair and gorgeous, well-toned and muscular body, he stood out, even if he did wear his hair a little long and shaggy. There was a certain presence to him. Arrogance, maybe. She’d read his file, and so she was surprised when she hadn’t found him commanding the room or involved in a brawl or wrapped around two or three women in a dark corner.
Maybe the media had blown his off-the-field antics out of proportion. Maybe his reputation was more hype than anything.
But she’d reserve judgment until she got to know him better.
“So, Savannah Brooks. Why are you sitting here all alone?”
“I’m observing.”
He cocked a brow, his defenses obviously up, as he leaned forward on the edge of the chair like he was ready to take flight. “You’re not a reporter, are you?”
She smiled at him. “No. I’m not a reporter.”
He relaxed and leaned back against the chair, stretching his long legs out in front of him. “Okay, then.”
“I take it you don’t like reporters.”
“Nope.”
“And why is that?”
“They lie.”
“About you.”
“All the damn time.”
“What kind of lies have they told about you?”
“I don’t want to talk about me. Let’s talk about you. You have a beautiful Southern accent, Savannah. Where are you from?”
Not at all what she’d read about him. That he was an egomaniac, that every conversation centered on him, his stats, his prowess in the bedroom, that he hit on women as a second career, pressuring them to go home with him.
Maybe the media did have it wrong.
“I’m originally from Atlanta.”
“But you don’t live there now.”
“No.”
He smiled when she didn’t offer any more information. He had an amazing, off-kilter smile that made her stomach flutter. She had to stop being such a girl about him. He might be flirting but she was here on business.
“Do you want me to guess?” he asked.
“Not at all. I live in St. Louis right now.”
“Right now. Are you moving soon?”
“No. My job’s keeping me here for the moment.”
“A lady of mystery. I like that. But this hardly seems the city for a Georgia peach like you.”