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  The drive to his Hyde Park home brought with it a tornado of confusion that made his head spin. Craig Wyatt and Sheila Houston? The player rumored to be having an affair with the owner’s wife was Wyatt? Brody would’ve never expected it from the straight-laced Mr. Serious.

  If it was true, then that meant the idea of bribes exchanging hands in the franchise might not be a lie after all. Craig Wyatt might have the personality of a brick wall, but he was the captain of the team, as well as the eyes and ears. He frequently kept track of everyone’s progress, making sure they were all in tiptop shape and focused on the game. If he suspected anyone had taken a bribe, he would’ve investigated it, no doubt about it.

  Jeez, was Wyatt the source Sheila had referred to in that interview? Had he been the one to tell her about the bribes?

  Or…

  Shit, had Wyatt taken a bribe himself? No, that didn’t make sense. Sheila wouldn’t draw attention to the bribery and illegal betting if her lover was one of the guilty parties.

  Brody steered into his driveway and killed the engine. He reached up and pinched the bridge of his nose, hoping to ward off an oncoming headache.

  Damn. This was not good at all.

  He didn’t particularly care what or who Craig Wyatt did in his spare time, but if Wyatt knew something about these rumors…

  Maybe he should just confront the man, flat out ask what he knew. Or maybe he’d ask Becker to do it for him. Becker was good at stuff like that, knew how to handle tough situations and still keep a clear head.

  He rubbed his temples, then leaned his forehead against the steering wheel for a moment. Lord, he didn’t want to deal with any of this. If he had his way, this entire scandal would just disappear; he’d play out the rest of the season then resign with the Warriors or sign with a new team. His career would be secure and his life would be peachy.

  And Hayden Houston would be right back in his bed. A guy could dream, after all.

  * * *

  “I WILL NOT WATCH porn,” Hayden muttered to herself later that night, stepping out of the enormous marble bathtub in the master suite of the penthouse. She reached for the terry-cloth robe hanging behind the door, slipped it on and tightened the sash around her waist.

  Not that there was anything wrong with porn. She wasn’t a nun, after all—she’d watched a few X-rated videos in her twenty-six years. But she’d never used porn to get over a man before, and besides, she’d had six orgasms in two days. She should be thoroughly exhausted by now and not thinking about having sex at all.

  Unfortunately, she was thinking about sex, and it was all Brody Croft’s fault.

  At dinner, Darcy had again pointed out that a fling wouldn’t be the end of the world, but Hayden still wasn’t sold on the idea. She got the feeling that if she gave Brody an inch, he’d take a mile. That if she suggested a fling, he’d show up with an engagement ring.

  Barefoot, she stepped out of the bathroom into the master bedroom, pushing wet hair out of her eyes. She’d finally gotten around to unpacking her suitcase this morning, but the suite’s huge walk-in closet still looked empty. She changed into a pair of thin gray sweatpants and a cotton tank top, brushed her hair and tied it into a ponytail, then headed for the kitchen.

  Normally she hated hotels, but her father’s penthouse at the Ritz-Carlton surpassed any ordinary hotel suite. He’d lived here before marrying Sheila, and the apartment had everything Hayden could possibly need, including a large kitchen that was fully stocked and surprisingly cozy. It reminded her of her kitchen back home, making her homesick for the West Coast. In San Francisco, she hadn’t needed to worry about anything except how she was going to get her boyfriend into bed.

  Here, she had her father’s problems, her stepmother’s lies and Brody Croft’s incessant attempts to get her into bed.

  Quit thinking about Brody.

  Right. He was definitely on tonight’s don’t-think-about list.

  After she’d made a bowl of popcorn and brewed herself a cup of green tea, she got comfortable on one of the leather couches in the living area and switched on the TV. She was totally ready to lose herself in that van Gogh biography. Since she was teaching an entire course on him next semester, she figured she ought to get reacquainted with the guy.

  She scrolled through the channels, searching for the program, but couldn’t seem to find it. The Biography Channel was telling the life story of a Hollywood actress who’d just been busted on cocaine charges. The History Channel featured a show on the Civil War. She kept scrolling. No van Gogh to be seen.

  Great. Just freaking great. Could nothing go right in her life? All she’d wanted to do tonight was watch a show about her favorite artist and not think about Brody Croft. Was that really too much to ask?

  Apparently so.

  She skipped past a shocking number of reality shows, finally stopping on the Discovery Channel, which was playing a special on sharks. She sighed in resignation and settled the bowl of popcorn in her lap.

  “The great white shark can smell one drop of blood in twenty-five gallons of water,” came a monotone voice.

  Hayden popped a few kernels in her mouth and chewed thoughtfully, watching as a lethal-looking shark swam across the screen.

  “The great white does not chew his food. Rather, he takes massive bites and swallows the pieces whole.”

  Yeah, like Brody…No Brody thoughts allowed, missy.

  “There have been reports of great whites exceeding twenty feet in length. They can weigh in at over seven thousand pounds.”

  Ten minutes and fifteen shark facts later, Hayden was stretching out her legs and wiggling her toes, wondering if she should apply some red nail polish. This shark documentary was getting old.

  She pressed the guide button on the remote control, scrolled down, skipped the barrage of sports channels, stopped briefly on CNN, then scrolled again. She saw a listing for something called The Secretary and decided to click on it, but what came on the screen wasn’t the sitcom her students at Berkeley were always raving about.

  It was, of course, porn.

  “You’re a very fast typist, Betty.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Larson. My fingers have always been my biggest asset.”

  “I bet they have. Bring your hand a little closer.”

  “Ooh, Mr. Larson, that tickles.”

  “Do you like it?”

  “Mmm, yes.”

  “What about this?”

  “Mmm, even better.”

  Hayden had to bite her lip to refrain from bursting into laughter. On the screen, Betty and her boss began making out. Mr. Larsen’s big hairy hand disappeared under Betty’s conservative skirt. Loud moaning ensued.

  She shook her head and pressed a button on the remote. Betty and Mr. Larson disappeared, replaced by a great white shark.

  You want me, come and get me.

  The sound of Brody’s sandpaper-rough voice filled her head. She let out a long breath, exasperated. Why couldn’t she stop thinking about the guy? And why couldn’t she stop wanting him? She wanted him so badly she could practically feel those big muscular arms around her waist.

  But sometimes the things you wanted weren’t necessarily the ones you needed.

  At the moment, she needed to concentrate on supporting her dad through his divorce and maybe finally call Doug back to tell him she’d slept with someone else and that it was time to turn their break into a breakup.

  But what she wanted was one more night with Brody Croft.

  It doesn’t have to be black and white.

  She sat there for a moment, chewing on her lower lip as Darcy’s words buzzed around in her brain.

  Was her friend right? Was she overanalyzing all of this? She’d always had the tendency to pick and prod at each situation until she’d sucked every last drop of fun or enjoyment from it. This wasn’t an art history lecture she needed to plan for—it was just sex. Was there really anything wrong with delving into that gray area and enjoying a carnal ride with a man she found wild