Plunge (Alpha Athletes 1)

That was a story.

People needed to know. The world deserved to hear what was happening at the games.

Vic might not choose my piece at first, but if he read it he might change his mind. I could guarantee no one else on the team had scored an interview with a star athlete like Blaine. This could be huge for me.

“This is where you’re staying?” Blaine eyed the small hotel.

“Rio’s best.”

“I should give you a tour of the village.” He pushed the door open for me.

I felt a brief gust of air, but it seemed to escape out the door. I watched as the invisible cloud vanished and we were engulfed by the warm air of the lobby.

“Why? Something wrong in the village?” Blaine could be a source for more than one story.

“No, it’s a hell of a lot nicer than this place.”

“Oh.” I was surprised.

So far, Rio hadn’t impressed me with the accommodations. I knew if I had traveled on my own I would have had a different experience, but I was here on the company’s expense and they weren’t going to blow the travel budget on five-star hotels and meals. This wasn’t Sports Now. All the rules were different.

I was basically a contractor—I needed to remember that.

He leaned toward my ear. “And there’s AC.”

“Oh God,” I gulped. It was the combination of Blaine’s breath over my skin and the thought of not being hot to the touch. The Olympic village sounded like paradise right now.

“Think you might want to change your mind?” He tempted me.

I shook my head. I had to stay strong and apparently very, very hot. “I think this place is charming. Plus, there’s no one here. I’m sure the village is crowded. I don’t want your story getting out before I have a chance to write it.”

He shrugged his enormous shoulders. Blaine didn’t have the shoulders of an ordinary man. His were crafted to perfection. Every muscle and every tendon was toned and shaped to make him the fastest, most powerful swimmer in the world. I shuddered with a sudden sweep of desire at the thought of those sculpted ridges hovering over me. Damn it. They reminded me of what the rest of him looked like. Oh, that deep V twisting around his torso—God, I wasn’t going to be able to do this.

I slid into one of the open tables and tried to organize my notepad. There were only a few sips of my smoothie left, but the condensation managed to make a puddle on the table.

“How about I get us some drinks while you get set up? I think that chap could help us out.” He pointed to the bartender.

“Sure. Whatever.”

I scrolled through my notes from this morning’s meeting until I had a blank page. I had a recorder, but I didn’t trust it. It had eaten interviews on more than one occasion. I stuck to the pen and paper method after the last time. This was too important to take a chance.

A few minutes later, Blaine returned to the table with a couple of drinks.

“What are those?” I asked, staring at the frosted glasses filled with lime wedges and ice.

“Caipirinhas,” he replied.

“What?” My mouth watered at the sight of the ice.

“The chap said they’re the drink of Brazil. Made it with cachaça, or however you pronounce it.”

I covered my mouth to keep from laughing at how his Australian accent butchered the Portuguese word. It was cute, sexy, and all the things I wasn’t supposed to notice. I doubted Blaine ever wanted to be considered cute. He wasn’t that kind of man.

At six-five he towered over almost anyone in the room.

“I didn’t think you liked to drink during competition.” I hadn’t decided if I was going to try mine yet. Alcohol and Blaine were a dangerous combination.

He picked up the glass. “It’s hot as fuck outside. I’m bored. I’m in Rio. Why not?”