She rang his doorbell and, when he didn’t answer, hit the button again. His house was located in an exclusive Miami neighborhood, a huge structure with gorgeous colored shrubbery, trees, and flowers surrounding the white stucco set back from the road. A gate surrounded the perimeter of the house, open at the drive. And neighbors were far apart, further proof that the cars did indeed hold paparazzi looking for the million-dollar photograph.
She rang again, growing concerned.
She was about to knock once more when the door opened and a sexy, disheveled Damon stood before her. He wore a pair of low-riding gray sweatpants that revealed more than they covered, and her stare lingered on the bulge in his pants and the deep V on the sides of his hips.
He cleared his throat.
Caught, she forced her gaze up past his tanned chest to meet his amused expression, heat rising to her face. But as he took in her carefully made-up face and chosen outfit, his indigo eyes darkened with definite approval, making her glad she’d chosen the white low V-neck lace camisole tank that revealed a good amount of cleavage, her beloved leather jacket that covered her scar, a pair of tight designer jeans, and a pair of high wedge shoes that showed off her coral-colored toenails.
He met her stare and grinned.
She forced a smile at the damned good-looking man. His hair appeared as if he’d run his hand through it … or had just gotten out of bed, and she wished she’d been there with him. The errant thought rushed through her and she stifled a groan. She was here for business. Even if that kiss last night and that hot body now had rocked her world.
“Did I wake you?” she asked, hoping she sounded composed.
“It’s fine. I just need some coffee.” He turned and walked away, apparently expecting her to follow him.
“I take it you’re not a morning person,” she said to herself and shut the door.
She found him in the kitchen with a K-cup in hand. “Want one?” he asked before popping it into the machine.
“No, thank you.” She’d had her caffeine earlier at home. “Are you up to talking?” she asked.
“Yeah. Just dealing with the remnants of this head injury. It’s annoying as fuck. I’m not used to the constant spinning, throbbing, and general dizziness. And if I win the appeal, they’re not going to let me play until I can pass concussion protocol.”
“I’ve read up on that.” She nodded understandingly.
He gestured for her to take a seat at the table, and she chose a chair and lowered herself into it.
His coffee finished dripping into a large mug, and he sat down, obviously taking it black. “So, what do you want to know?” he asked as he took a sip.
She pulled a notepad from her purse, foregoing her phone app or taping. “I want your daily schedule, what you do, who you see, what supplements, if any, you take, things like that. Who likes you, who’s jealous of you, who tolerates you? And after we discuss your weekdays and friends, I want to know your weekend schedule for the last month including the women you’ve been with. So, take out your calendar and get to it.”
“That’s pretty thorough,” he said, sounding impressed.
She nodded. “It’s going to help us figure out who’s setting you up.”
He placed the mug on the table, picked up his phone, and leaned back in his chair, scrolling through his apps, she assumed.
“Okay, on a normal day, when I’m not suspended, I wake up around five a.m., drink a smoothie—”
“Where do you get the protein powder?” she asked.
“From my trainer, recommended by him and my backup quarterback. When I’m at the stadium, the puppy dog brings me one every morning.”
She jerked her head up at the nickname. “Puppy dog?”
Damon smirked. “Gregory Emerson’s a lick-my-balls—” He cleared his throat. “I mean a lick-my-ass kind of kid. Not great at throwing the ball, which is an issue, but he wouldn’t hurt me.”
She narrowed her gaze, not as sure as he was, and wrote down the name on her notepad. “Go on. What’s next on your schedule?”
“I get dressed, head to the gym at the stadium. I work out with Jimmy O’Roarke, the head trainer.”
She added to the list. “Who else do you train with?”
For the next thirty minutes, she wrote down the names of other team trainers, doctors, and players who were usually around at the same time as him. Knowing they’d revisit each person, she let him talk.
“How about jealousy? Anyone you have issues with?”
He treated her to his most winning smile. “Everyone loves me.”
She frowned despite being drawn to that grin. “Be serious.”
He sobered, his expression somber. “I’m damned serious. I don’t know anyone who dislikes me enough to sabotage my entire career.” He put his mug down and shoved it away.
She felt bad for him and understood how much was on the line. “Okay, who would benefit with you out? Any other player?” she asked.
He drummed his fingers on the table, then met her gaze. “No.”
“Let’s move on to women. The paparazzi like photographing you with the various females on your arm. Did you dump any of them and piss them off?” She’d already done a quick internet search and knew he wasn’t the long-term dating type.
“I hate to sound like a cliché but they know the deal before we go out. I’m not interested in a relationship.”
She wondered why he didn’t want romantic entanglements, but it wasn’t part of her job description to ask. “I’d still like the names of the most recent women you’ve been with.”
He rambled them off, then braced his hands on the table and stood. “And I’m finished for the day. There’s not enough coffee for this shit.”
He rose, walking to the counter and putting his coffee cup in the sink.
She gathered her things and rose to her feet. She’d peppered him with enough questions and had sufficient information to begin digging into the people he surrounded himself with. “I’ll let you get back to your day and I’ll be in touch.”
“Sounds good.” He turned, folding his arms across that golden muscular chest. “Thank you, Evie,” he said gruffly.
She nodded, understanding the depth of meaning behind the words. “I’ll work as quickly as I can. I know the appeal is going to come down fast.”
“Yeah. It is.” His tone told her which way he thought the decision would go.
A few steps ahead of her, he walked her to the entryway and opened the door, when she saw what looked like dark marks on the upper part of his back and shoulder.
“What’s this?” she asked, coming up behind him and touching his skin, her body immediately reacting to his heat and masculine scent. “It looks like adhesive,” she said, her voice husky. She rubbed at the marks, and some residue came off on the pads of her fingers.
“Probably remnants from the pain patch my trainer gave me. Now that I’m suspended, he said he’d meet me at his private office, not at the stadium,” he said, his upper torso shuddering at her touch.
He turned slowly, placing one hand on the doorframe, blocking her in with his body, her nipples puckering at his warmth and closeness.
“If you didn’t notice last night, you affect me, Evie. A lot. And if you keep touching me, I’m going to want to taste you again. So, if you want to have any hope of keeping this a purely professional, fake relationship, step back.”