Uninhibited. Candace Schuler
of man who based his opinions of women on how they looked.
It wasn’t that Zoe minded being thought of as attractive, or having men think she was sexy or beautiful. Or even having them say so. That would have been stupid, because she was all of those things. And she liked being those things. Most of the time. No, what she objected to were men who thought what was on the outside was the sum total of what was on the inside. Or men who thought her spectacular physical attributes constituted a deliberate come-on, and got bent out of shape when she failed to deliver on what they thought she had promised, simply by being.
Not that Reed Sullivan actually fit either of those profiles, precisely. But he’d disapproved of her at first sight, on the basis of her looks alone, and that was enough to condemn him in her eyes.
Or should have been.
It was just the tiniest bit distressing that she couldn’t seem to work up the proper contempt for his sexist attitude, not with him running up and down the field in those little red shorts and the bright color block jersey with the word Bulldogs emblazoned across his broad chest.
Which meant, Zoe realized, totally amazed at herself, that she obviously had a few sexist attitudes of her own to address.
“What are you standing there looking so pensive about?” Gina asked, breaking into her reverie.
Zoe shook her head. “Nothing,” she said, her eyes still focused on the playing field.
Gina followed the direction of her gaze. “He’s got great thighs, doesn’t he?”
“Mmm,” Zoe murmured, absently reaching up to tuck a blowing tendril of hair behind her ear. “Great thighs.” They were long, tanned and heavily muscled, the rock-hard thighs of a dedicated athlete. It was amazing what that expensive navy-blue suit had kept hidden.
“And a really cute little ass,” Gina said. “World class, I’d say.”
“Oh, yeah, definitely world—” Zoe broke off guiltily. Her hand stilled at the back of her head, and she cut her friend a quick, sideways glance.
Gina smirked. “Gotcha.”
“I was talking about that blond Adonis.” Zoe gave a final pat to her hair and lowered her hand. “The one with the shoulders and the stubby little ponytail.”
Gina’s derisive jeer was good-natured. “Sure you were.”
“I was. I—”
“Heads up!” somebody yelled.
Both women ducked as the football came sailing over their heads into the crowd where they stood. By the time they’d straightened up and turned backed to the field to see what had happened, men from both teams were rapidly converging in front of the nearest set of goalposts.
“What’s happening?” Zoe tried to stay out of the way as players who’d been standing on the sidelines rushed onto the field to join their teammates. “Is it a fight?” she asked, and then realized that no one was swinging fists. Instead, the men formed a loose circle and began to chant.
“Is the game over?”
“Yes, the game’s over.” Gina laughed. “But that’s not what this is about. It’s a Zulu dance.”
“A what?”
Gina waved at the action on the field. “Watch.”
“Watch what? Oh, my goodness. Is he taking his clothes off? He’s taking his clothes off!”
The blond Adonis Zoe claimed to have been admiring was stripping down, egged on by the rhythmic chanting of both teams. Shirt, shorts, jockstrap, everything but his cleated shoes and heavy white athletic socks came off in turn. Each garment was grabbed by a teammate as the Adonis discarded it, and flung up over the crossbar on the goalposts. And then, as naked as a newborn baby except for his footwear, the player began climbing up after his clothes. The crowd cheered and clapped, taking up the players’ chant.
“Is that some bizarre kind of penalty?” Zoe asked, her eyes on the bare white bottom of the naked rugby player as he wriggled up the goalpost.
“No, it’s not a penalty. It means he scored his first try.”
“Try?”
“Like a touchdown in the NFL,” Gina explained. “The team gets five points when the ball is kicked or carried over the try line and touched down.”
“And for that the poor man is publicly humiliated?”
“The Zulu dance is a time-honored tradition. Every player does it after he scores his first try.”
“Every player?” Zoe’s glance darted over the men in the field. Over one man in particular. “Every time he makes a touchdown?”
“Try, not touchdown,” Gina corrected. “And only the first time he does it.” She followed the direction of Zoe’s gaze and grinned knowingly. “I’m afraid you missed your chance there,” she said. “Judging by the way he played today, the stuffed shirt isn’t new at the game. He probably scored his first try years ago. You’re going to have to figure out some other way to see him naked.”
“I have no desire to see Reed Sullivan naked,” Zoe said, but it was a lie.
And they both knew it.
Any healthy, red-blooded, heterosexual woman in the world would have paid good money to see this Reed Sullivan naked, whatever they might have thought of the stuffed shirt. This Reed Sullivan was all-male: tousled and grass-stained and sweaty, his big hands clapping in time to the deep-throated masculine chant, his head thrown back, laughing, triumphant, as he watched his teammate struggle to climb out onto the crossbar and retrieve his clothes. Blood trickled down the right side of Reed’s face, evidence that the cut bisecting his eyebrow had come open. One of the shoulder seams of his rugby jersey had been torn and the sleeve was hanging down, exposing his arm from the rounded bulge of his shoulder to the swell of his heavily muscled biceps.
That tailored blue suit, Zoe found herself thinking again, had covered up a lot, including a good deal of his…uh, personality. This Reed Sullivan wasn’t poised and polished. He certainly wasn’t repressed. He didn’t even look quite civilized. He looked basic and elemental and male, like a man who’d know how to appreciate a beautiful woman. Or any woman at all, for that matter. A man who’d know exactly what to do with one if he ever got his hands on her.
He turned his head just then, catching her staring at him, staring back, registering no surprise at seeing her there even though they weren’t scheduled to meet again until Monday morning at his office in the Sullivan Building. Even with half the width of the field between them Zoe could see the change in his eyes—the laughter fading, the heat slowly building, the blatant, unabashed, purely masculine speculation in his gaze. It was a scorching, searching look, akin to the one he’d given her when she’d handed him his tea in his great-grandmother’s parlor, only more so. And this time she had no trouble reading it.
What was she doing here?
Was she available?
Would she let him take her?
When?
Zoe couldn’t look away. She didn’t even want to. She’d never been the focus of that much heat before, the center of that much concentrated sexual intensity. It was as if the world had suddenly narrowed down to only two. Him and her. Man and woman. Everything else faded into insignificance. She forgot all about the laughing, cheering crowd. Gina. New Moon. His disapproval of her. His perfunctory, albeit charming, apology over the phone. Her own doubts and misgivings about what she might be getting herself into. She forgot everything except the look in his eyes and the thrilling, exhilarating, frightening sense of anticipation and excitement it generated in her.
Then the men turned, seemingly en masse, and headed for the sidelines. He was coming right toward her, that heat still in his eyes, his eyes still on her face, purpose in every step.
Hail the conquering