Scoring with the Wrong Twin (WAGS) Read online

  Sheila paused at the edge of the organized chaos, and Sophia followed suit, mentally flipping through the poses her twin had taught her in a modeling crash course. Hips tucked. Back arched. Smize. She absently glanced at the huge backdrop dominating the wall…

  Ay que papi mas lindo.

  That man. What a beautiful hottie.

  He was huge. Like Titans-roaming-the-earth-making-mountains-tremble huge. Well over six feet and probably closer to three hundred than two fifty, he and his shoulders seemed to dwarf the wall behind him. Tautly corded arms hung loosely beside a wide, bare chest and a

  one-, two-, three-, freakin’ four-rung ladder of ridged abs.

  A vee only the truly ripped—or photoshopped—sported cut above his hips, arrowing beneath a tight pair of black football pants that clung to a pair of thick, heavily muscled thighs. Large bare feet she could easily picture smashing small villages were braced almost arrogantly apart. She used to spend hours watching Fred Flintstone powering his prehistoric car with his feet, and that part of the body had never been particularly sexy. Until now.

  With a struggle, she shifted her gaze upward, and it snagged on the miles and miles of gorgeous, caramel skin. And not just any caramel. Salted caramel. Rich. Smooth. Honey brown. Yummy. And covered in a palette of ink. Mesmerized by the rich, beautiful art, she inched closer, eager for a closer look.

  Bold, black tribals; snarling black panthers; fierce angels with flaming swords; flowing script… The tattoos flowed up his arms, over his shoulders, and across his chest. More beautiful calligraphy ran down the sides of his torso and spanned the bottom of his stomach, disappearing into the low band of his pants.

  He was…wow. She had no idea who he was, but he definitely got her vote for sexiest athlete.

  She caught a sigh that wormed its way up her throat…or maybe she didn’t.

  Because his attention shifted away from the photographer in front of him and toward her.

  This time, she couldn’t hide the swift intake of breath. Was too stunned to try.

  Jesus H. Christ.

  He was gorgeous.

  No, no. That sounded too superficial. Too…shallow. And his face of sharp, defined angles, shadowed hollows, and stark yet patrician lines spoke of strength. The dark hair that dusted his jaw and surrounded the almost lush fullness of his mouth damn near shouted of a carnal sexuality that had heat curling low in her belly like an undulating plume of smoke.

  And those eyes.

  Amber and green with flecks of gold. An eagle’s eyes.

  A predator’s eyes.

  Her heart thudded against her chest and she stiffened her legs. Sprawling out on the floor like a pagan sacrifice eager to be devoured would probably be frowned upon.

  Probably.

  “Good, you’re here. We’re ready for you, Giovanna.” The photographer lowered his camera and handed it to another person standing behind him.

  For a moment, she didn’t move. Couldn’t move, totally ensnared by the golden gaze that hadn’t released her yet. Then, the photographer’s words penetrated her lust-dense stupor, and she flinched. Right. He was ready. For Giovanna.

  For her.

  God, I promise if you get me through this without me embarrassing myself, I’ll start attending mass more than twice a year. I’ll stop lying to Mama about her arroz con pollo, and quit thinking evil, homicidal thoughts about Brian… But I’m gonna need you to increase my faith on that last one. I mean, he’s a complete douche.

  Oh shit. She mentally slapped a palm to her forehead. Calling her supervisor a douche in a prayer had to at least be a venial sin.

  Uncertain whether she had God on her side or not, she forced her mouth into a Giovanna-like smile and stepped forward. Closer to the beautiful Titan.

  She risked a peek at him, and once more became instantly ensnared by his intense, multi-hued stare. This close to him and that piercing scrutiny, one thought reverberated in her mind like a foghorn echoing over the Puget Sound…

  The gig is up.

  No one else had sniffed out the imposter in their midst, but he seemed to peer underneath the makeup, the poofed-and-curled hair, and the skimpy outfit to the gangly, shy, fashion-oblivious nerd beneath. Would he rat her out? Demand to know who she was in front of everyone? Hell, she’d failed Giovanna even before one click of the camera…

  But he remained silent. And more importantly, he shifted that eagle’s gaze away from her and back to the photographer.

  Relief coursed through her.

  But that relief didn’t last. Because as she neared the giant in tight pants, her skin pebbled almost to the point of pain. Heat washed over her like a tidal wave, and those tap-dancing nerves erupted into a full-out samba up and down her spine. She didn’t have the courage to glance down, but no doubt her nipples were on full display against the flimsy jersey. Damn things.

  Stepping close, she gathered the remnants of her rapidly fleeing courage, skipped her gaze up his chest and—was that a dime hanging from a thin chain around his neck?—voluntarily met his eyes. “Hi.”

  Ay Dios mio. Hi? She needed to get out of her office and to the corner bar more often if that was the best she could offer.

  “Hello,” he replied. “Nice seeing you again, Giovanna.”

  Molasses—warm, dark, thick. The deep timbre heavy with the flavor of the South slid over her exposed skin like a caress to her senses. She’d never had the pleasure of visiting Louisiana, but she’d bet her DVD of Sixteen Candles that sexy drawl came from there.

  Then the name he’d called her penetrated. Giovanna. But for the first time since embarking upon this ill-conceived farce, excitement spiked with recklessness skipped through her veins.

  That’s right. She was Giovanna Cruz, confident, gorgeous, and an up-and-coming supermodel. For today at least, Sophia Cruz—antisocial app developer, eighties movie hoarder, DC and Marvel comics geek with a sweets addiction—had been locked away.

  Giovanna wouldn’t have a problem touching the Titan with the salted caramel skin, eagle eyes, and sun-warmed molasses voice. Wouldn’t see an issue with palming those muscular biceps, draping her arms over those wide shoulders, or pressing herself against that hard, big body. Nope. It was part of the job.

  And for the next few hours, part of her job.

  Anticipation and a whole lotta inappropriate lust fluttered in her belly.

  Oh hell yes.

  Chapter Three

  When Zephirin Black left his grandmother’s home in New Orleans for college at Louisiana State University ten years ago, she’d sent him off with three pieces of advice.

  One. Wrap it up. Josephine Felice Black was too young to have grandbabies.

  Two. Go to class and get your education. Josephine Felice Black also didn’t raise no dummies.

  And three. Whether he had a football in his hand or not, he would always be Josephine Felice Black’s oldest grandson. So he’d better act like he had sense, mind his manners, and like the good Lord, don’t disrespect her family’s name.

  She’d doled out other gems along with those main three, but nothing in her seemingly bottomless repertoire had addressed how to conceal a boner when a gorgeous woman pushed up against you during a photo shoot.

  Clenching his jaw, Zeph locked down the groan that shoved its way up his throat. With the focus and intensity that had earned him the title of All-Star and Pro Bowl tight end for the Washington Warriors, he concentrated on the whir and click of the photographer’s camera. As a six-year veteran in professional football, he had the art of blocking everything out by the goal down. This wasn’t his first shoot. It wasn’t even his first shoot for Sports Unlimited, a magazine that was a cross between Sports Illustrated and Maxim. Being a popular player for his team and in the league had garnered him endorsements and ad campaigns that had required hours in front of a camera. This was old hat—

  Giovanna Cruz arched her back, her head pressing into the crook between his shoulder and neck, the blue, black, and white jersey with his
number stretched across the front barely covering her small but firm breasts. Her long, dark hair with its surprising—and sexy as hell—bright blue tips draped across his chest, the strands caressing his skin, the flower and fruit scent teasing his nose. Her fingers splayed across the tops of his thighs, fingertips subtly flexing against him as if testing the muscle. Hell, was she even aware of the little hum she made every time she touched him? And her ass…

  Jesus Christ.

  He had to think of something, anything else besides her ass notched up against his cock.

  Frolicking puppies, the smell of the Warriors’ locker room after a grueling practice… His last conversation with his grandmother about her “keeping company” with Deacon Bossier and the loud, lascivious snicker that had followed the announcement…

  Yeah. That did it. Erection killer.

  Slowly relaxing his muscles, he released a low, inaudible breath.

  He and his dick were going to have a serious Come to Jesus talk about professionalism.

  After hours of organized team activities, or OTAs, his body should’ve been tired. Even without contact drills, the late June meetings, watching tape, training, and running of basic technique drills still had him yearning for a couch and remote at the end of the day. But energy coursed through him like a live wire, stringing him tight. And he didn’t need to risk a glance down to recognize why.

  “Do you mind if I try a couple of different poses?” Giovanna asked Gerald, their photographer for the day, her voice a husky, low timbre that reminded him of pure sex. Of the hoarseness that resulted from a goddamn perfect mouth fucking.

  His cock twitched behind his pants, obviously agreeing with his mind’s train of thought. Gritting his teeth, Zeph forced his body under control. The last thing Sports Unlimited or the PTB of the Warriors organization wanted was him on the cover of the magazine sporting wood.

  “It’s all yours,” Gerald replied, momentarily lowering his camera. “Go for it.”

  Straightening from her pose, she turned to face Zeph. Her teeth worried her full bottom lip, and he clenched his fist to prevent himself from freeing the tender flesh and rubbing his thumb across the lush curve, soothing it. Soothing her. She lifted her chin to meet his gaze with eyes so deep a chocolate brown, he couldn’t smother the sudden craving for the rich, strong chicory coffee so popular at home. Dark. Exotic. Beautiful. And if he didn’t know any better…uncertain.

  Impossible. This wasn’t his first time working with Giovanna Cruz, and there were several things he’d call her—stunning, aloof, professional—but uncertain wasn’t even included in the top twenty-five. She’d radiated confidence. He frowned, already lifting his hand to cup her hip, ask if something was wrong…

  But then she smiled, erasing any hints of insecurity, and his common sense decided to slap the shit out of him with a reality check. This woman had posed for Maxim in what could optimistically be called a bathing suit. Whatever he imagined he’d glimpsed must’ve been a result of lifting too many weights and not drinking enough water.

  “Do you mind?” she murmured, shifting so her shoulder pressed into his chest. “Can I get a lift?” She treated him to another small smile. And once again, his apparently delusional mind whispered, “shy,” but that was as ridiculous as his “uncertain” observation.

  In lieu of answering, he wrapped an arm around her thighs, and bending his knees, hiked her slight weight into the air.

  “Thank you for not groaning,” she teased, and without questioning where the impulse originated, he released a grunt as if he’d just blocked a three-hundred-pound linebacker from going after his quarterback.

  A snicker sounded from above him, and for the first time ever in a photo shoot, he had to fight a smile. That thought sobered him. That and a whole lot of what the hell?

  Then, he wasn’t thinking anything at all.

  Not with her arranging her body over his shoulders like a graceful, slinky feline wrapped around her master’s neck. He stiffened, shocked but also conscious of granting her all the support she needed with the arm around her thighs and a palm bracing her shoulder. Her movements exhibited no tentativeness, no hesitancy, as if she trusted him not to let any harm come to her. And fuck if that didn’t send an inferno of heat whipping through him.

  He couldn’t see her, but he felt the curve of her hip settle on his left shoulder, and the side of her breast nestled on the opposite shoulder—a fact he actively tried to block out. A slender arm curved under his chin and a hand cupped his cheek. Thick strands of hair tumbled against his face, and he inhaled the scent of the dark, loose curls. In his mind’s eye, he could easily picture how the camera would capture them. Her, curled around his shoulders, her head bent forward as if getting ready to take his mouth.

  Jesus, this shoot had turned into a torturous, hot-as-hell form of foreplay.

  A woman wearing a short black apron with brushes, combs, and other tools tucked into the many pockets rushed onto the set. Holding up a wide-toothed comb, she pinched a lock of Giovanna’s hair. “Let me just move this…”

  “Leave it,” he ordered. The hairstylist froze, blinked. “Please,” he added without softening his tone. He wanted her to go away, leave him wrapped in the silken embrace of this woman.

  “He’s right,” Gerald agreed, his camera already clicking away. “Look at me, Giovanna. Beautiful,” he praised, closing in for several close-ups before easing away, still shooting. “Got it. Perfect.”

  A slight tensing of her body telegraphed Giovanna’s request to be lowered. For a moment, he tightened his hold on her, and above him, she stilled, as if she sensed the frayed rope that was his control at the moment. Shit. What was wrong with him? After so long in the league, he should be used to beautiful women. Hell, he’d been around this particular woman before, and she hadn’t elicited this damn near caveman reaction from him.

  Suddenly needing this shoot over—desperate for space—he set her gently on the floor. Her delicate fingers with their bright blue polish dented his skin as she clutched his shoulders for a second too long after he’d released her. And fuck it, a goddamn Tibetan monk couldn’t have barred the mental image of those same nails leaving marks on his sweat-dampened skin and flexing back as he drove into tight, hot, wet flesh.

  And God knew he wasn’t a monk.

  Shifting back a step, he placed that much-needed distance between them before he did something deranged and ludicrous like throw her over his shoulder and christen one of these walls.

  “Can we try one more?” She turned to Gerald again, and Zeph ground his jaw, surprised he didn’t breathe molar dust. Her last request damn near killed him. What now?

  “You have this.” Gerald waved. “Let’s see what you got.”

  When she pivoted toward Zeph again, took a step toward him, he narrowed his eyes on her, suddenly wary. His muscles tightened, preparing themselves for her touch. For whatever she planned—

  She sank to her knees in front of him.

  Fuuuuuck.

  No way in hell could he have halted the growl that rumbled in his chest and up his throat. Not with her lowering further into a pose that reminded him of Princess Leia at the “feet” of Jabba the Hutt. Except she faced him, her mouth almost level with his cock. Jesus, if he closed his eyes, he could feel her breath on his flesh even through the nylon of his pants. If God suddenly imbued him with the strength of Samson, Zeph still wouldn’t have been able to control the blood pumping straight to his cock, filling it. Hardening it. And when she tipped her head back, lifting her gaze to him, he glimpsed that knowledge in those chicory eyes. Noted the gleam of arousal. Fucking drowned in it.

  Unconsciously, and without her permission, he threaded his fingers in the thick silk of her hair, gripping it. Tugging it. Tipping her head a little farther back.

  He caught the soft gasp of breath that escaped her parted lips. Didn’t miss the flutter of her lashes. Or the runaway beating of her pulse within the shallow dip at the base of her throat.

  �
�Damn,” someone whispered.

  But Zeph didn’t glance up. Refused to free her from his regard. Even when Gerald’s camera started firing away like the rapid pulses of a disco strobe light. Holding the pose and staring down into her upturned face should’ve been uncomfortable; it had been in the past. But with every sense attuned to her—the delicate aroma of her perfume or shampoo teasing his nose; the stroke of her hair against the over-sensitized skin of his hand and wrist; the searing press of her breast against his thigh—discomfort didn’t register. Just the greedy impulse to open his mouth over that fluttering pulse and set his tongue to it. Set it racing harder.

  Only when the photographer instructed her to look at him did he allow her to move. But his hand remained tangled in her curls, the cave dweller part of him he hadn’t known existed needing to remind her of his control, of who touched her. Fucking claimed her.

  Gone was that gentleman he’d been raised to be. He’d been transformed into this primal being by a woman with sultry eyes, a sex-roughened voice, and a walking wet-dream body.

  “I do believe we have everything we need.” Gerald beamed at them, handing his camera to an assistant who rushed forward to take the piece of equipment. “Great shoot.”

  With a sharp nod, Zeph removed his hand from her and just checked himself from curling his fingers into a punishing fist to trap the silken sensation of her hair sliding over his skin. But in a “fuck you” to his resolve not to touch her again, he stretched an arm toward her, that gentleman surging to the forefront again. For a moment, she stared at his palm, then slid hers into his. The touch, wholly innocent, set him on fire. And when he tugged her gently to her feet, he didn’t release her.

  “Have dinner with me,” he said. Ordered. Shit. He hadn’t meant to sound so abrasive, but somewhere between her walking onto the set of the photo shoot and her kneeling at his feet, lust had razed his manners to the goddamn ground.