Sam sighed. He just wasn’t in the mood for this. “What’s up?”
“Quite a lot, Slam Man, quite a lot.”
Sam grunted. Lee took it as a cue to continue. “Got a call from Vantry Sportswear this morning. They want you to model their new swimwear line. I think it would be an excellent career move, Sambo. They want to start shooting a month from now.”
Sam shook his throbbing head. “Forget it, Lee. You know how I feel about modeling.”
Hell, everyone knew how Sam Tremont felt about modeling. He hated it. Actually, hate wasn’t strong enough a word. He detested it, felt like a fool sitting there striking a bunch of ridiculous poses. The cereal and shoe ads were okay because there wasn’t any acting required—he could just be himself—but he’d never forget the time he’d agreed to model for a cologne manufacturer’s new line called “Obsessive.” Their art director had wanted him to pose naked with another guy… said it looked artsy. Sam might not know much about art, but he knew when he felt stupid. Needless to say, he’d told them to forget it. He was not, after all, an actor.
Lee apparently wasn’t interested in hearing his chief rainmaker say no. He plowed determinedly on. “Why don’t you take a few days and think it over? The shoot doesn’t begin for another month so you don’t have to make an immediate decision, Slammy.”
Sam grumbled something imperceptible into the phone line. At this point he’d say anything to quit Lee from yappin’—and to get him to quit calling him by all those dumb names he always made up. “Fine. I’ll think about it.”
Lee knew when to apply the pressure. Conversely, he recognized when it was time to ease up. “No problem. I’ll be in touch, Samarino.”
Sam grunted, then returned the phone to the desk. A hunger pang jolted through him, causing him to remember his breakfast. He whirled around to find it, then frowned at the sight that greeted him.
The redhead. Very much naked. Very much lying on his bed spread eagle. Very much playing with her engorged clit. And apparently very much without any food whatsoever in tow. Odd, but it was the last revelation that got to him the most.
She smiled sinfully from the bed. “I’m a big fan, Mr. Tremont.”
“Uh huh.”
“I have something for you here that’s better than bacon and eggs.”
“Somehow I doubt that,” he mumbled under his breath.
The redhead’s smile wavered. “What was that?”
Sam shook his head. He was just too damn old for this shit. “Nothing. But if you don’t mind, I need for you to leave.” He placated her with his pearly white smile. “I never have sex before a big game.” He batted his sinfully sexy eyelashes. “Kills all my energies.”
“But the game isn’t until tomorrow night, and it’s for charity, not a real game,” she determinedly argued.
Sam’s smile faltered. Apparently Red wasn’t as dumb as the usual groupie. “Yeah well, I never have sex for two full days before a charity game. Makes me work out all my frustrations on the field.” His grin was breathtaking. “For the little kids and all.”
Red was apparently appeased. She sat up and crossed her legs. “If I leave my number, will you call me?”
“Uh huh. Yeah. Sure.”
She bolted up from the bed, threw back on the waitress garb she’d obviously pilfered from the hotel, and handed Sam a card. “There’s my number. Call me after the game.” She winked provocatively, running her tongue across her lower lip. “I’d love to help you celebrate.”
It took five minutes and lots of evasive answers to get Red out of his hotel room, but once Sam did she was forgotten as though she’d never been. He plopped down on the chair nearest the desk phone and stretched out his long, muscular legs. Damn but his head was killing him!
Picking up a room service menu, he mentally listed the goods the hotel offered for breakfast. Quiche? Tarts? He glowered at the menu, his mood taking a turn for the worse. This just wouldn’t do.
Oh and looky here, Sam snorted to his self, bran muffins and fresh berries. Well yeeee-haw. Maybe if he was real lucky they’d be sure to serve it to him on one of them doily doo-hickies.
Disgruntled and seriously considering writing a scathing letter of complaint to the hotel’s president, Sam scanned the menu thoroughly for something he could eat. Something that might actually fill up his gut.
Ahhh. His eyes at last settled upon a feast of fortune. Bacon, eggs, pancakes, and grits.
Hell yeah!
Nothin’ artsy here. It was just what a man with a bitch of a headache needed.
* * * * *
Sam picked up the copy of the Los Angeles Times that had been left for him alongside his breakfast. He opened it and immediately turned to the sports section, because hey, that was really the most interesting thing about the paper.
