Page 15 of Power Play

He blows out a breath of frustrated air. “You’re slick, Charlie Denton. I’ll give you that.”

I keep my gaze fixated on the wall. “Not enjoying our double date, Mr. Harrison?”

He leans forward and, oh God, his knee is now touching my bare leg. Shivers chase down my spine, and the thrill has nothing to do with the food in front of me and has everything to do with the man at my side.

“This date is a sham and we both know it.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I sniff. “Caleb and I—”

“Are not together,” he finishes in clipped tones. “Let’s not even pretend that he’s remotely interested in you. I walked up to you both, and his gaze went immediately to my crotch.”

Ah, hell. I can’t even blame Caleb for that reaction. Anyone with a pair of eyes would have a hard time keeping their gaze above the belt when it came to the man seated beside me. Duke Harrison just has that magical effect on people.

“He swings both ways,” I say, offering up another healthy lie. “Obviously he was just struck dumb by your presence.”

“A presence you ensured would happen when you reached out to Gwen.” His voice is a growl, and hearing it sends a flicker of awareness through my body. Is this how he sounds in bed?

I ignore the flutters in my belly. “Do you want me to be honest?”

The exaggerated wave of his left hand snags my attention, and I finally turn to him. He’s already watching me, I find, and his blue eyes are nearly a dusky black. “That’d be a nice change of pace.”

My eyes fix on his handsome face. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He plants a hand on the table and leans in, invading my personal bubble. This close, I can see that he has a scattering of light freckles spattered across the crests of his cheeks, as well as a deep, pink scar that extends from his left nostril to the corner of his mouth. My lips part on the breath I’ve been holding, and Duke’s gaze drops down to my mouth.

“It means,” he says in a low, rumbling voice, “that you play dirty.”

“No, it just means that I play to win.”

Almost despite himself, his mouth kicks up in a wry grin. “Like I said, dirty.” He breaks eye contact and slouches back in his seat. “The answer is still no.”

“Because Gwen said so?” Now it’s my turn to plant my hand on the table and lean forward.

Chin tucked to his chest, he lifts his gaze to my face. That one look is potent. Sultry. Dangerous. It’s a very obvious reminder that while he might be playing nice with me right now, this is a man who is generally feared on the ice.

I lower my voice, mainly to conceal the quiver I fear will emerge when I speak. The way he is affecting me issonot in the plan. “Is it because you do everything she says, even if you two aren’t together? You sure she isn’t secretly your girlfriend? Oh, wait, I do believe I hear wedding bells ringing.”

He ignores my blatant taunting and plays it cool, reaching for his beer bottle and touching the glass to his mouth. He’s on empty, if I recall correctly, but perhaps for the sake of our battle of the wits, he doesn’t let on that anything is amiss. This almost makes me grin, because who knew little ol’ Charlie Denton from Cambridge, Massachusetts, could throw off the big, bad Mountain?

“You were saying?” I prompt with a littleI’ve-got-thisgrin.

“How badly do you want this interview?”

Badly. And now that I’ve had the chance to speak to him alone, I’m craving more contact. It’s completely unreasonable, seeing as how we exist on two very different planes.

Him: professional athlete.

Me: struggling journalist.

Nevertheless, I tell him, “I’m not willing to go to jail over this, but yeah, I need this interview to happen.”

His left brow arches high. “Even though I’m ‘overrated’?”

Now my grin is full-fledged. “We’re all overrated in some capacity, don’t you think, Mr. Harrison?”

“All right.”

“All right, what?”

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