Without giving me a chance to gain my mental equilibrium, he spoke. "Are you single, Miss Avesque?"

Van Stelson had women drooling over him all the time and here I was doing the same thing. I hadn't given him a single reason to think I was the least bit professional. Failure clenched my gut. A pretty body and my brain cells turned to goo. I completely ignored his question. "I'm sorry, Mr. Stelson." I rose from my chair fighting stupid tears. "I'll call the newspaper and have another journalist take my place." I would lose my job, but it's what I deserved.

"Hey," his large hand came down on my shoulder, stopping me. "Look, I'm the one who's sorry." I glanced at his hand and he released me immediately. "I think, Miss Avesque, that I owe you an interview. Could we please start over?"

He was no longer grinning. There was such intensity in his gaze. He reached up and nudged my glasses higher on my nose. "I'll behave, I promise." Just a smidgen of his previous grin returned. He put his hand out. "Please call me Van."

My trembling hand somehow ended up in his again. He gave it a brief squeeze and let go.

"You need a shirt on," I blurted out. Oh God, why did I say that? Dumb, dumb, dumb. His answering bad-boy grin almost killed me. He walked behind the desk closest to us, grabbed a t-shirt lying over the back of the desk chair, slipped it over his head, and turned around. The slogan on his chest had me giggling like an idiot, but I couldn't help myself.

Ruck me.

Maul me.

Make me scrum.

"You asked," he said when I shook my head. He waved to the chair I'd vacated. "Have a seat and I promise to answer all your questions and be on my best behavior, Miss Avesque."

His muscles bulged beneath the tight shirt. The suggestive quote had added another gush of wet and sticky to my panties, along with taking twenty points off my IQ. "Umm, Cami. Call me Cami." God, I sounded like an idiot. I walked back to the chair and sat down, needing to get off my feet. Professional. I had to act professional. "Do you mind if I record this, Mr., I mean, um, Van?"

"By all means, please record this, Cami." His lips tipped up on one side, deepening just one dimple. It had to be a practiced move because it worked and my insides turned to mush. I needed Tyson here to throw ice-cold water over me. I reached into my bag with trembling fingers and pulled out one of my recorders. I turned it on and sat it on the arm of my chair. I pulled my notebook from my bag and flipped it open. All without looking at Van.

He waited patiently without saying a word. When I finally looked up, his bad-boy grin was still in place and he was studying my breasts. I know the bra flattened them, but again, I'd swear he could see through my clothes. I quickly turned my gaze down to the first question, thankful I had notes because my muddled brain forgot everything I recently learned about rugby.

"Why rugby?" I was proud I got it out without stuttering.

"Why breathe?" was his quick response in that sexy voice of his.

I wanted him to keep talking so I could sink farther into the rough waves of his voice. I gave him my best don't mess with me look. Or was it my please shut up and fuck me look? I guess it was the former because he sighed loudly before answering my question with more than two words.

He leaned back a little in his chair, getting comfortable and making my heart miss a few more beats. "For me it's more than a game. It's not about money, not that you make much in the U.S. The game attracts local fans, but rugby fever isn't a main topic of conversation outside the small population that supports it. Rugby is in the blood, like oxygen." For the first time his eyes lit up with something besides sexual innuendo, which made him appear even more erotic. I could see and feel the passion of each word. The real Van Stelson was actually harder to resist.

I had to clear my throat to speak. "The Inn I'm staying at has walls paying homage to rugby. Why is that?"

He gave me his all-knowing sexy grin, damn him. "Colt is a rugby townyouth, college, and semi-pro. You'll find others like it scattered across the U.S. Never large, but you know as soon as you walk in a shop, hotel, or bar that rugby fever hit."

I immediately asked another question. "I'm trying to understand what you mean when you say 'fever.'" Because I was burning up and it wasn't because of a damn ball game.

Van slowly perused my body. He momentarily stopped at my breasts before continuing lower. He stared at my crotch even longer. I shifted uncomfortably, wondering if my wet panties seeped through my linen pants. This interview wasn't working. As his gaze came back to my eyes his voice went huskier. "It's that kind of fever." He lifted his eyebrows letting me know he made his point. "No different. Once you catch it, nothing on earth will keep you from reaching your goal."

He purposely shook me up and, shit, it worked. I couldn't stop myself from crossing my legs. My panties just caught fire and I needed to smother it. I adjusted my glasses and focused on the next question. I didn't even know how to flirt properly, and his sexual aggressiveness was more than I could handle. I silently prayed his team would lose Saturday so I could get the hell out of town.

A few questions later, Van looked at his watch. "Some of the team will be arriving soon. They work out in the mornings."

I was more than ready to be out of there. I clicked off the recorder. Thank God I recorded everything because, as of this moment, I couldn't remember most of the conversation. "Your practice is at two?" I asked nervously. My itinerary gave me the time. Chalk up one more check mark for idiocy.

"Yeah. I won't have time for more questions then, but you can watch and I'll explain what you don't understand tonight at dinner."

"Dinner?" I squeaked. Why would he want to go out with me?

His fuck me smile appeared again. "Yes, I'd like to take you out."

"Van, I-"

He cut me off, lifting his hands in the air, palms facing me. "Best behavior. You'll have lots of questions. Rugby is nothing like football. Scoring is different, terms are completely different, and you'll need clarification."

He'd correctly assumed I knew nothing about rugby, and I felt deflated. "Then I'll buy you dinner," I said so he knew this was business only. Not that I expected he wanted anything more than to embarrass me.

He only laughed. "I'll arm wrestle you for it. Come on, I'll walk you out so you're not mauled by one of the players."

Like that would ever happen. I don't know where my snappy comeback came from; it just fell out of my lips. "I take it rugby players do a lot of mauling?" I saved myself by pointing to his t-shirt.

He laughed that low sexy chuckle of his and casually put his arm over my shoulder, steering me out of the locker room back to the front doors of the stadium. "You have no idea, baby."

Van was so smooth, but, yuck, my father called me baby.

With his arm around me, I could smell him again and I didn't want to like it. But I didtoo much. Surely he had women at his feet daily. Walking next to me, I judged him at a little over six foot. His muscular arm was bigger than my thigh. And that made me think of other bigger things. God, I was hopeless. A week ago I'd have bet good money that my wild side was gone forever. Now, I couldn't think straight with his scent and the warmth of his arm wrapped around me. I had no idea how to wiggle away gracefully as he walked me clear to my car.

For all my shyness and pride in appreciating a good mind, I was a sucker for the Van Stelsons of the world. Though really it wasn't me, it was wild Cami and I needed to lock her away and throw out the key. I couldn't handle another heartbreak at the hands of a jock.

When we got to my car, Van gave me a final squeeze, like he had the right to do itreleasing me with a, "See you at practice, baby." He walked away.

Crap, crap, crap. I should know how to handle these situations. I jumped in the car and locked the door like he would turn around and attack me. I looked over my shoulder to check behind me before pulling out. A huge man leaned against the tailgate of a lifted smoke gray truck. Arms crossed, muscles bulging beneath a plain white t-shirt, he stared at me with an unpleasant expression. It took a moment before I realized it was Joel Stelson. His head turned slightly as I backed up, and the scar on his face showed prominently. It was almost scary. A shiver of awareness ran across my skin. I turned the steering wheel to pull forward. Joel was now even with my window, his gaze still locked on me. I gave a tentative smile. His expression never changed, and the look in his eyes told me to get away as quickly as possible.

What the hell?

I drove through the parking area and pulled onto the main street before taking a slow, deep breath of relief. I'd noticed Joel's large size in the picture when he stood beside his brother, but the real life version was bigger and scarier. Eventually I needed to interview him and the thought wasn't pleasing. If this was a typical adventure in sports journalism, I needed to request a series of articles on knitting. Large pointy needles were much less terrifying.