Smooth Play (Brooklyn Monarchs 2)

. She was more animated than Troy had ever seen her. He couldn’t take his eyes from her. “Petty and jealous describe Gerry.”

“But look at who the Insider attacks. Jackie Jones and Mary Devry-Evans. In those posts, she tells both women they can’t hold on to their men. Does that sound like Gerry?”

She scored some points there. Still, Troy wasn’t convinced. “But in his first post, he attacked Jamal and Rick.”

Andrea raised her index finger, a smug expression on her heart-shaped face. “No, she used Jamal’s words to attack Rick. That first post was an anomaly.”

“I’d noticed the difference between the posts, too.” Could Andrea be correct? Was the Insider a woman?

Andrea stepped toward him. She moved as confidently as though they stood in her living room. Troy kept a close watch, ready to save her if she fell. She leaned against the rail, and this time he was certain the fire escape swayed.

“Then, this morning, she attacked me.” Andrea rested an elbow on the railing beside her. “My name never came up in your interview. Still, she said the only reason I was able to cover the Monarchs is that you and I are having an affair.”

Once again, regret pressed heavily on Troy’s shoulders. “I’m really sorry about that.”

Andrea shrugged. “You don’t need to apologize. She’s the one who attacked me.”

“But I feel responsible.” He hesitated. “Do you want me to speak with your editor?”

Andrea blinked her pretty eyes. “And tell him what? That you and I aren’t sleeping together? I think I can handle that.”

“Is her accusation going to cause you any trouble in the press section?”

Andrea looked away. “Do you mean more trouble?”

Troy traced her delicate profile with his gaze. He’d be lying if he said he’d never noticed the tension between Andrea and her colleagues or that he’d never wondered about it. But he’d save that discussion for another time. Right now, he wasn’t ready to give up the idea of Gerald being somehow responsible for the Monarchs Insider blog.

“Even if the Insider is a woman, that doesn’t mean Gerry isn’t somehow involved.”

Andrea started to move away from him. Troy stepped from the wall and reached for her shoulders. The warmth of her skin through her thin T-shirt carried through his palms, up his arms, and to his chest. He didn’t want her to walk away from him. If she did, somehow he knew he’d be lost.

Troy searched Andrea’s startled eyes. “What do we do now?”

Was he talking about the blog or the attraction growing between them? His heart beat slow and hard against his chest. Her lips parted, drawing him even closer to her.

The window opened behind them. Faith interrupted the moment. “Troy, would you like to stay for dinner? I’m making spaghetti. Serge is joining us.”

Troy couldn’t look away from Andrea’s sherry brown eyes. “I don’t want to impose.”

Faith chuckled. “You’re not any trouble. I’ll set another place.”

The window slid closed behind him. “Will you help me?”

Andrea stepped back. Troy’s hands dropped from her shoulders. “Right now, I need to help Faith.”

Troy watched her hurry to the window, then climb back inside. An electric awareness had arced between them. He couldn’t have been the only one to feel it. He’d seen the reaction in Andrea’s eyes. Troy frowned. He wasn’t the Monarchs’ vice president of media and marketing anymore. What was standing in the way of his acting on the attraction he’d felt since they’d first met?

Nothing.

Andrea hadn’t wanted to let Troy into her modest apartment. She’d caught the look Faith had flashed at her after she’d introduced Troy. It screamed, “What are these millionaires doing here?” Andrea shared her friend’s horror. Serge and Troy could probably buy everything the women owned with the cash in their wallets. Troy may have traded his fashionable business suits for expensive casual clothes, but the simple lifestyle she and her roommates enjoyed still didn’t fit his image.

Or so she’d thought.

She took in the crowd seated at the rectangular, dark wood dining table. The camaraderie made it seem as though the motley crew—the professional basketball player, the NBA executive, the single mother and her toddler daughter, the cartoonist moonlighting as an accountant, and the sports reporter—had been together for years. Constance had even stopped calling Troy “Mr. Marshall.”

Andrea stood to clear the table. “Does anyone want seconds?” She grinned at Serge. “Or thirds?”

The forward patted his flat stomach. “No, thank you. Everything was delicious.”