Jane Millionaire

She rolled her eyes, but when her gaze met his, happiness danced in her green depths. “Show off.”

They battled another two no-scoring change of possessions. She ducked around him and sank the ball for another two points, taking the lead by one.

He shot. She jumped, caught a piece and knocked it off course. It hit the backboard with a thud. He jumped for the rebound, but landed his front to Jane’s backside. Her firm buttocks pressed against him. Heat--her heat--radiated through the thin material separating their bodies, scorching his brain.

Rebounding plummeted to the bottom of his priority list.

The ball hit the floor and rolled away. Neither of them moved. He honestly couldn’t recall putting his hand around her waist, but it was there, so he must have. Her flat abdomen contracted beneath where his palm pressed against her right side. Every drop of blood in his body headed south.

She inhaled with a noisy catch as he grazed his thumb along the lower edge of her breast. Needing to see her face, he rotated her. She met his gaze with wide, kryptonite eyes full of desire. Every reason he shouldn’t kiss her disappeared as insanity for her filled him. He lowered his head, almost stumbling backwards when she yanked free from his loose embrace to dart after the ball.

He frowned. What had happened? Why had she run off when she’d admitted she wanted him only minutes before?

Because she wanted him to pay for his callous comment in the exercise room. She wanted him to sweat. To squirm.

And he was.

Aw hell.

The cameras.

He’d almost kissed her. He wanted to kiss her. And he was battling to ensure another man got what he wanted. Idiot.

He wiped moisture from his brow. He needed to win this game and get away from the sight of Jane’s sexy rear-end. Pronto.

She pressed her way toward the goal, arm pushing, butt bumping as she held him back. He didn’t want to touch her, but he wasn’t going to let her score. She only needed two baskets to win.

And then he’d have to kiss her.

He blinked. She scored. Damn.

With a feisty grin she tossed him the ball. He inhaled, caught the ball, and tried to refocus on the game.

He didn’t score, but neither did she.

He fought to make two more baskets. She battled just as hard to make sure he didn’t. She was good. He admired her spunk. Did she put her heart and soul into everything she did? Without a doubt, he’d never met anyone like this feisty woman.

“Give up?” he mimicked her earlier taunt, knowing she’d rather take a punch to the gut.

“Never!” she declared, swiping at the ball without luck.

He shot, missed, but caught his rebound and slammed it. One more and victory was his. No more squirming. Not until he had to watch her kiss one of the bachelors. “Sure you don’t want to call it quits before I humiliate you?

”

She shot him an eat-crap-and-die look, and he burst out with laughter.

“Just make sure you don’t blame it on your old age when I beat you,” she warned.

“Okay, spring chicken. Bring it on.”

She brought the ball in, and he blocked her shot. She got the rebound and shot again. He jumped and snagged the ball. She stayed on him, fighting gallantly, but he pulled back at the last second and sank another from three-point land.

Yes.

“Game over.”

“Best two out of three?” She wiped her hand across her brow, then bent over to catch her breath.