When Collin O'Patrick swaggered into the KNOA radio on Tuesday night, his short,
dark hair curling across his forehead, an overdue shave shadowing his square chin,
and the set of his broad shoulders telegraphing the fact that he was ready to
rumble, Megan practically swallowed her microphone. She didn't know what she'd
been expecting—a fresh-faced beach boy in a numbered jersey? A clean-cut,
debonair European? Definitely not those daunting gray eyes, the worn khaki Tee
and a pair of blue jeans that bracketed his slim hips like a lover.
She ripped her gaze away from the tell-tale crease across his fly as Cecily
inhaled sharply beside her.
"Be still my beating heart," Cecily muttered.
"He's just a man," Megan whispered in return, pulling her unruly
hormones up short.
"Yeah. A man I'd like to smoke a cigarette with," said Cecily.
"You quit," said Megan.
"I meant metaphorically."
Metaphorically—Megan might, too. That was if she hadn't learned good
looks were a very poor gauge of gray matter. And if her producer hadn't already
warned her that Collin was an unreasonable, ego-bound jock.
She took a deep breath, rising to her feet to hold out her hand. "You
must be Collin O'Patrick."
He nodded, taking a few long strides toward her. "Megan or Cecily?"
His big hand closed around hers. It was cool and dry, exerting enough strength
to made the contact meaningful, even while he obviously held his power in check.
Megan tried to keep her hormones from revving up again. "I'm Megan Brock.
And this is Cecily Cassell."
One side of his mouth curved up in a mocking half-smile, the flint in his eyes
throwing out a definite challenge. "Of course you are. I'd have recognized
that rapier voice anywhere."
She let her gaze travel down his worn blue jeans to his scuffed hikers. "Funny.
I barely recognized you without your ball."
He cocked his head sideways, the other side of his mouth turning up as the
grin became full-fledged. "Oh, I brought my ball all right."
Her eyebrows flexed.
His tone dropped, and his Irish accent became more pronounced. "Figured
I'd be needin' both of them, goin' up against you."
Megan felt a shiver of sexual awareness, followed by a quick adrenalin rush
as her brain latched on to the challenge of his words. She determinedly put the
sexual awareness on hold. "Collin, by the end of the hour, your balls are—"
"Sound check," came the technician's voice over the loudspeader.
Cecily pointed to a chair for Collin. "Put on the headset," she instructed,
sounding as if she was holding back a laugh. "And don't lean into the microphone."
Collin folded his big body into the padded chair, the casters whirring against
the plastic at as he settled into place.
"My balls are what?" he asked into the microphone.
"That's a check on Collin." The sound man's voice was laced with
laughter.
Megan hesitated for only a split second. "Mine," she stated crisply
as she sat down.
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