Quarterback's Unknown Baby Daughter: A Secret Baby Sports Romance Read online

  Wyatt chuckles and turns me to face him. “Just use that natural Southern charm and manners you were raised with, sweetheart; that’s all you’ll need to knock ‘em dead. C’mon. Limo’s waiting.”

  “Okay,” I say, exhaling a deep breath as he slips the matching wrap over my shoulders and guides us out the door.

  I can hardly believe the events of the past weeks or this magical new relationship that Wyatt and I have been building. It’s wonderful, but we haven’t had time to discuss any details of how it will work in the long run. We lead completely different lives, and nothing illustrates that contrast sharper than this glitzy limo ride to a high-profile event at a world-famous venue.

  A crowd has already formed alongside our vehicle as we arrive, faces practically pressing against the glass of the car’s windows. It’s claustrophobic and borderline frightening.

  “Wyatt...” I whisper, laying my hand on his forearm.

  “It’s alright, honey. Don’t worry, you’re with me. This is normal; just follow my lead, and we’ll be through it in no time.”

  Wyatt steps out into the parting sea of reporters and photographers, his outstretched hand my anchor in these strange and uncharted waters that I am truly a fish out of. I grasp onto it like a hungry trout.

  He leads us through the gauntlet of red carpet onlookers lining the massive entrance steps and through the magnificent halls of the building to the American wing. The sparkling array of ball gowns, jewels, gleaming silverware, candles, and crystal, not to mention the edifices and statues in Engelhard Court, is overwhelming; all I can do is focus on placing my stilettoed feet firmly one in front of the other.

  The moment we enter the ballroom, Wyatt is accosted by an endless stream of friends, acquaintances, sports colleagues and league officials. I feel invisible, as most of them don’t spare me more than a glance of disdain. Wyatt tries his best to include me, introducing me simply as Deanna Murphy, like my name alone should justify my presence.

  I smile and nod, accepting the occasional proffered hand and utterings of “... my pleasure.”

  As my eyes wander, I begin to notice who is definitely not ignoring me, which seems to be every woman in the room. An icy shell forms around my body from the cold stares cast in my direction, each one adding a layer of chilly judgment against me, convicting me of my unworthiness to bask in the sunny company of the NFL’s most desirable bachelor.

  The scrutiny intensifies through dinner and the presentations that follow offer even more opportunity for silent but caustic gazes. By their equally frequent glances at Wyatt, it suddenly dawns on me; I’m an unknown quantity in their social equation – an interloping female in their midst. They are all marking their territory, broadcasting their claim to some degree of attachment to him. Dear Lord – has he dated every woman New York?

  At last, the program concludes and the bar service re-opens. Aside from the occasional fortifying shots of whiskey, I’m not given to drinking; but a fresh round of champagne is most welcome right now.

  “Glad that’s over for another year,” Wyatt says, giving my hand a squeeze. “You okay? You enjoyed the meal?”

  “Dinner was fabulous,” I say, lifting my refilled champagne glass and downing a large swallow.

  “And the champagne, too?” he asks, amused.

  “Well, you have to admit those were some pretty dry speeches,” I offer in my defense.

  “True enough,” Wyatt concurs. “Best to stay hydrated if we plan to dance later.”

  “Dance?” Panic rises in my throat.

  Wyatt nods. “Yes, dance. You know, move your feet in time to music?”

  “Yes, I know. But you’re the one with the fast feet. I haven’t danced since our prom; I’m sure I’ll look as graceful as a newborn calf in front of all these people.”

  He laughs and shakes his head. “You’ll do fine. I don’t think anyone’s going to notice your feet.” One hand dips below the fine silk tablecloth to land on my knee. “They’ll be too busy looking at this smoking hot body.” He rubs my thigh suggestively, and already I feel a helpless twitch in my pussy. Perhaps we can skip the dancing and go straight home to his king-size bed instead.

  “I think I’ve had all the noticing I can stand. I’m a fish in a bowl here. These women—” I roll my eyes in a circle. “—look at me the way a cat looks at a goldfish. And the way they look at you, why... you’d think they own a piece of you.”

  Wyatt’s hand rubs a little higher, caressing the curve of my butt. “You’re the only piece I’m interested in.”

  “Wyatt!” I scold, looking about to ensure his moves are unseen. “I think I need to visit the ladies’ room.”

  “Mmmm, that could be exciting. Want some company?”

  I gently remove his hand from my leg, my eyes flashing warning signals. “I think I can find my way alone, you naughty rascal. But hold that thought.” I lean forward to plant a kiss on his lips. Watching now, ladies? Quite honestly, I need to put some space and distance between me and the star attraction. Not only to deflect this unwanted attention away from me but to calm my hormones that Wyatt has set to galloping with his fast hands and slow words.

  The restrooms are nearly as impressive as the museum itself. I check myself in the polished antique mirrors as I freshen up; the reflection staring back at me looking nothing like the simple Texas girl beneath the glittering outfit and salon updo. I’m a charlatan, an impostor. I can paint on the face of a high society starlet, but I’m an outsider looking in. And the women in the room sure as hell know it. How long will it be before Wyatt realizes it?

  His life and his career are here; in private we may fit together, but his life is anything but private. Whoever he decides to openly share his life with has to withstand the harsh public spotlight, not wilt under it like flower petals. This fancy shindig is a prime example. How many splashy affairs must he attend in a year? The pressure to maintain such appearances must be tremendous, and I’m afraid this Yellow Rose might be crushed under the weight of it.

  I’d told Wyatt we would be prepared for media attention, but now I’ve got a glimpse of what to expect I’m not so sure. I don’t want Grace to be under such a harsh lens either. He needs someone stronger, more resilient. Someone to be witty and charming behind a microphone or in front of a camera. Maybe that’s not me.

  I retouch my lipstick and take a long, hard look in the mirror. I am who I am. That will just have to be good enough. I straighten and put on the stiff Texan upper lip as I exit the palatial facilities and march back into the “Court” where the orchestra is warming up on a small side stage. When I reach our table, Wyatt is missing. I glance around in the immediate vicinity and spot him talking and laughing with a group of people. They stand in a circle with their backs to me, creating an impenetrable enclave against newcomers.

  I take my seat and polish off my half-empty glass of champagne. Nothing to do but wait. The remaining couple at our table smile and nod in acknowledgment.

  “You’re a new face in the crowd,” the elderly man says. “And a welcome one, too. These events get more predictable every year. It’s nice to have a change-up.”

  The elegantly coiffed, silver-haired woman with him agrees. “Oh my, yes. I take it you’re a friend of Mr. Connor’s?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I say, appreciative that these folks are speaking to me like human beings and not a witch tribunal. “We’ve known each other a real long time.”

  The lady smiles. “My I should say so. Your Texas accent is very strong. So charming.”

  “Thank you.” I think?

  “If you’ll excuse us, they’re playing our song,” the man adds as the orchestra starts up. He leads the lady away from our table and onto the dance floor, leaving me alone once more.

  I glance over at Wyatt’s group that has grown by a few more bodies and doesn’t appear to be breaking up any time soon. A woman in a deep green satin dress lets out a high-pitched laugh at something Wyatt’s saying and moves in close to him in response. My fing
ers drum on the tabletop in frustration. Watching this will only ramp up my anxiety, so I head over to the bar for another glass of champagne.

  As the bartender serves me, a gentleman appears at my elbow. “Good evening, miss. Would you care for something stronger?” he asks, indicating his choice of bourbon to the barman. He’s a middle-aged fellow, dressed to the nines like everyone else but has longish salt and pepper hair that reminds me a bit of Richard Gere.

  “Perhaps later. I’ll finish this first, thank you.” I lift my glass in a small toast.

  “At your pleasure, madam. You’re from the south?” he asks, but in a kindly way that says he finds it interesting and a compliment, rather than a criticism.

  “Odessa T-X, sir. And you?”

  He smiles and motions for us to move a few steps away from the bar. “Oh, I’m a born and bred New Yorker; however, I must warn you, my dear, I’m a sucker for Southern charm.”

  Judging by that statement, Southerners certainly didn’t have the market cornered on charm.

  “Bless your heart,” I say, playing into his little joke and laying my accent on even thicker.

  He winks, then casts his twinkling gaze over the room while taking a sip of his bourbon. “Speaking of which, there’s our most upstanding Southerner right there, holding court as usual.” I follow his line of sight to the adoring queue of admirers surrounding Wyatt. The woman in the green dress is still with him, talking animatedly. “Wyatt Connor is a true gentleman and a hell of an athlete, not to mention one of the highest paid. Can’t figure how he’s still single. See that woman in green next to him? That’s Lilah DeWitt, heiress to the DeWitt diamond mine fortune. They’ve been an item for years, but so far nothing official. The newspapers snap a photo of them together often enough, especially at events like this.”

  “I see.” Boy, do I ever.

  I toss back the rest of my champagne and turn away to hand the glass to the bartender. I’m starting to see a lot of things; things I wish I hadn’t. He’s been seeing this Lilah for years? And never thought to mention her? A bitter laugh escapes my lips. Maybe he reckoned it was his turn to omit certain facts.

  “Well, a shame to waste such fine musical entertainment,” the man says. “Would the lovely Southern belle honor a jaded old New Yorker with a dance?”

  I muster a polite smile. “Thank you, but I’m here with someone,” I answer. “I should be getting back to my table. Goodbye, sir, a pleasure talking with you.”

  “Enjoy your evening, Miss Odessa T-X.” With a chivalrous nod and bourbon in hand, he walks away.

  Fuming, I head off in Wyatt’s direction, only to see him dragged off to another part of the cavernous ballroom by yet more colleagues who seem to want to talk his ear off. Does he even remember I’m here?

  With a huff, I pivot and return to the bar for another drink. Maybe I’ll try the bourbon this time, and order the same brand as Richard Gere.

  The strong, dark liquid steels my spine and calms my nerves, and when I feel emboldened enough, I turn and make a beeline for the last place I saw Wyatt.

  I get within about twenty feet of his tall, tuxedoed figure when Lilah DeWitt suddenly appears in the frame in a flash of green satin. I stop dead in my tracks as she wiggles her way right to Wyatt’s side, intertwining her arm with his like some satin-skinned boa constrictor. The room seems devoid of air; I can’t breathe. Lilah’s curvy frame is pressed so close to Wyatt’s you would think there was glue on that dress. No. More like slime.

  But when she cranes her pale neck and kisses Wyatt on the cheek, it feels like flames ignite beneath my feet. This is the last straw. How dare he flaunt that woman in front of me, after all the talk about second chances, and becoming a family.

  I turn on my spiked heels and bolt from the room like a spooked horse. This Texas filly has had enough and knows the way to the barn door. She’s going home.

  Where she belongs.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Wyatt

  PASS INTERCEPTED

  “You’re absolutely right,” I say to the Director of League Operations. Not so much to agree with him as to shut the old windbag up. “There should be a mandatory retirement age for professional athletes. It would free up team money spent on unrealistic contract deals and use it to create more attractive salaries for rookies and draft picks.”

  “I’m glad you see it my way, Connor. But you realize, establishing a retirement threshold would put you within kicking distance of the pasture yourself.”

  “I’m not ready for retirement just yet, Bill. This arm’s got a few good yards left in it.”

  “You might think on it, son. You’re not getting any younger. And you’ve yet to settle down and have a family. Won’t be much good to them if you sustain a bad injury late in your career. Us old farts just don’t heal the way we used to.”

  “Speak for yourself.” I laugh. “Maybe we’ll use the extra funds to pay the player pensions, then.”

  You’re wrong, Bill. I’ve already got me a family.

  The director laughs, and I smile into my glass as I take a drink. I need to shake these talkative, shriveled old cats off my legs and quick. I’ve done nothing but yak since dinner, and I promised my best girl a dance. I know she’s still uneasy at being here, so the sooner we make an exit, the better she’ll feel and the sooner we’ll be having Olympic-worthy sex in a proper bed instead of a leather sofa.

  I nearly spill my drink as a warm body sidles up close to me and links a silky bare arm through mine.

  “Oh, there you are…” I start to say but am rendered speechless when a hot kiss lands on my cheek and I realize that the intruding limb doesn’t belong to the person I thought it did. I flinch on reflex and pull away.

  “What are you doing?” Goddammit. I thought I made myself clear earlier.

  “Just protecting my investments,” Lilah says, smiling up at me. “Can’t have my star performer wandering off and getting lost.”

  I peel her hand from my arm, straining to keep my anger at her insolence in check.

  “Excuse us,” I say to Bill and the others, leading Lilah away by the wrist.

  “Hey, baby, not so rough.” Lilah laughs.

  “What’s wrong with you? I thought I told you we’re done,” I say when we get out of earshot from the others. “I don’t want to see you anymore, and I’m here with someone else who’s very important to me.”

  “Oh really? I don’t see anyone,” Lilah quips while casting a circular glance around the room. “Who is she, another Jets cheerleader fresh off the turnip truck? Starstruck by the great Wyatt Connor and his Texas-size cock?”

  “You’re drunk,” I say with contempt. “Let me call you a cab to take you home and sleep it off.”

  Lilah reaches out to tug on my bow tie. “Only if you join me, Mr. 4H Club. Let me ride that prize-winning stud horse one more time.”

  I don’t have time for this. I have to find Deanna.

  “Look, it’s been fun but I’ m sure there’s a lineup a mile wide behind me waiting to pay homage to the diamond heiress. You won’t be lonely, I’m sure.”

  Her pink lips form a pout as she steps back, nearly turning an ankle on account of the four-inch heels she’s wearing. “You don’t know what you’re saying. You can’t ditch me. We’re so good together, babe. You know that. Why would you want to mess that up?”

  “We’re not. We’re entirely bad for each other, Lilah. We’ve been playing a game that neither of us can win. It’s time to end it.”

  Lilah shakes her brunette head, some of her pinned-up curls coming loose. “That’s all you big dumb jocks know is games, isn’t it? We had a good thing going, Wyatt. A shame you’ve got so much brawn and so little brains that you don’t know a good thing when you see one.”

  “Goodbye, Lilah.” I turn away from her for the last time. Good riddance. At this moment, I can’t imagine what I ever saw in that self-indulgent, sharp-tongued hussy.

  I hurry toward our table, hoping to see Deanna still engaged in
conversation with the other guests, but find it disturbingly empty. I look in all directions but see no trace of her. She might be in the ladies’, or at the bar; I make my way to the latter. If she’s not there, I’ll at least have a good line of sight to the former.

  “What can I get you, sir?” the bartender asks.

  “Nothing, thanks,” I mutter. “Did you happen to serve a pretty blonde in a gold-colored dress recently?”

  “I believe so, sir. But she left a while ago,” he says, gesturing at the exit behind him. “Seemed in a bit of a hurry, too.”

  Fuck. I head back through the American wing and search the route through the building the way we came in, but there’s no sign of her. I reach into my pocket for my cell phone and punch in her number. I curse again as I hear it go to voicemail. Has she switched it off? Why would she do that? Surely she would keep it on in case Grace or her mama called. Perhaps she’s talking to them right now, which would explain the no answer.

  I return and scour Engelhard Court one more time and then try her number again. It goes straight to voicemail, and this time I leave a message, asking her to call or text ASAP.

  When ten minutes go by with no response, what started as annoyance grows into fear and is progressing rapidly to panic. The only other thing I can check is with the security desk at my building. She has nowhere else to go in New York except my place.

  Sure enough, security answers and tells me that Deanna returned to the penthouse just minutes ago. Dammit. I page my ride and head for the main exit onto Fifth Avenue. Surely she understands I have career obligations. If she can’t handle being on her own for a while at these engagements, how the hell can we make a go of this? She runs her own business for Christ’s sake; she’s an independent woman with true Texas grit – the kind I need by my side through this crazy life I lead. It’s not like her to run off at the first sign of trouble.

  Even though it’s only blocks away, the ride home seems damn long, and I redial Deanna’s number several times during the trip, but she refuses to pick up.