"Oh God, it's Uncle Yank." Micki groaned and wiggled back under the covers, pulling the blankets over her head. "He's going to kill me," she said in a muffled voice.
Damian cursed. More like Yank was going to murder the man in Micki's room.
He headed for the door, drew a deep breath and let her uncle inside. "Hi, Yank."
"What the hell are you doing in here? Never mind, I don't want to know. I do want an answer to who's responsible for this." He shoved a newspaper beneath Damian's nose.
The press. Damian had pushed Micki past the flashing bulbs last night without pausing or stopping. For her sake he'd hoped they hadn't gotten a good shot of her face and he thought the two of them had made a semi-decent getaway.
Obviously not. And though they were both used to the media, he as an athlete, she as a publicist, Micki certainly wouldn't have ever expected to be photographed in such a compromising position. And she didn't deserve to be. Or to have her hard-earned reputation in the business world trashed.
Damian recognized the New York daily and pulled the paper out of the older man's hand. On opening the page, he groaned at the full-color shot of himself carrying a half-dressed Micki out of Lacie's Lounge, Tampa's most notorious strip joint.
"Shit.”
Yank slammed the door shut behind him. "Now what do you have to say for yourself, big shot?"
"Hey, keep it down," Micki said from across the room.
"Get up, young lady, and explain this. What the devil are you doing with your dress hiked down, the twins on display and this clown carrying you out of a strip club?"
Micki pulled the covers off her head and faced her uncle. "Damian saved me from being even more of an idiot," she said, defending him at her own expense.
Everything this woman said or did surprised him. She'd been blindsided, given alcohol she hadn't asked for, and Damian never should have let her set foot in Lacie's in the first place.
"Let me see the paper," Micki demanded.
He didn't see any point in arguing. Reluctantly, Damian walked over and held out the news.
She took in the picture and her skin turned paler, if such a thing were possible. “Those are my twins."
Yank let out a disgusted sound. "Since you're obviously hungover now and you normally don't drink, what gives?”
She pushed her curls off her face. "A lot of it's still fuzzy but Carter spiked my drinks and I couldn't taste the added alcohol because of the spicy food." She shut her eyes, obviously trying to remember more.
Damian found himself touched by her fragile vulnerability, making him want to protect her even more.
"I'm going to rip his nuts off," her uncle growled, breaking any tender moment Damian had been experiencing.
"Get in line," Damian muttered.
"If Atkins represented him, Carter would be dog shit. Unfortunately he's a Cambias client," he said, referring to one of the newer, younger, money-hungry agents.
Damian knew both Yank and Atkins Associates were losing clients to men like Cambias. The older players possessed agent loyalty but the younger ones, like Carter, only cared about contracts, perks and cold, hard cash.
"Eventually he'll bury himself." Micki rose from her bed, glanced down at her T-shirt and shot Damian a questioning glance.
He wasn't about to explain how he'd undressed her and changed her clothes. A smart girl would figure it out on her own.
Her cheeks stained red in embarrassment. Nothing wrong with her intelligence, he thought wryly. Her modesty was another unique aspect to her personality, since most women he'd been with willingly bared their assets.
Ignoring him, Micki turned to her uncle. "How's this story playing in New York? Because we've got to spin it somehow."
"Well, the AP's got ahold of it. With Fuller's injury just a month shy of the postseason, his carrying you out of there has the reporters speculatin' that he'll be back on the field in no time. He's being portrayed as a hero."
"That's just great," she said, frustrated.
Damian said nothing, knowing it wasn't the best time to pat himself on the back for gaining positive media exposure at her expense.