Caught by You (14 page)

Every time he said the word “marry,” little thrills pirouetted across her skin. “You're right. I probably won't. I'm not perfect, like Angela. I have more flaws than you could ever imagine.”

He cradled her face in his palms, the sheer size of his catcher's hands taking her breath away.

“You know something? I once caught a perfect game at the Naval Academy. Matt Durham, right-­hander from Florida. I'll never forget it, and I may never catch another perfect game. It was the most stressful goddamn experience of my life. Sweat was pouring off my body, I stank like a locker room. Especially as we got into the later innings. My heart was beating like a drum, every single pitch I called. What if I made the wrong call and ruined his chance for a perfect game? A chance at history? Nope. I don't want perfection. Give me a grind-­it-­out, back-­and-­forth, wild and crazy free-­for-­all any day of the week.”

“Are you still talking about baseball?”

“Among other things.” Oh that wink, that little flash of the devil. How could any woman resist it? She didn't stand a chance.

“Listen. I want to do something before the game,” he told her, running his thumb across her dimple.

“What?”

“Will you trust me?”

“I hate it when ­people say that.”

“This won't hurt a bit, I promise.”

“I hate that one even more.”

Laughing, he wrapped his arm around her, hugging her close. “It'll be fine. Now let's get out of here.”

By then it was time for him to dress for the game, but he still wouldn't let her take her seat. He insisted she wait for him in the shadow of the wide ramp that let onto the field. For a while she watched all the bustle of activity—­a microphone set up near home plate, the players filling the dugouts, the crowd filing toward their seats.

Finally, a girl in a blond ponytail and Catfish cap pranced onto the field and grabbed the mic. “I'm Angeline and boy, do I have a treat for you tonight!” She reeled off a hip-­hop dance move. “Before we get into our Memorial Day tributes, a little catbird told me we have a certain someone at the ballpark tonight who's about to join the Catfish family. Catcher Mike Solo, come on out and bring that new fiancée of yours with you!”

Suddenly Mike was next to her, his grin lighting up the dim ramp. “Come on, Donna MacIntyre. Let's get famous.” He swooped her into his arms and strode onto the field. Green grass punctuated by white lines and grinning baseball players slid across her vision. Red, white, and blue brightened the stands in a Memorial Day bonanza of flags. The crowd went crazy, jumping onto their feet with whistles and cheers. When they reached the microphone, Mike set her down, but he kept her clamped firmly to his side.

He spoke into the mic. “If you're lucky enough to land a Kilby girl, you don't ever want to let her go, know what I mean?”

Whoops and foot stomps rocked the stadium.

“This is Donna MacIntyre, and we're engaged.” He had to pause for more raucous cheering. Dazzled, Donna scanned the crowd. She'd never stood in front of so many ­people before. Was this what it felt like for her mother, singing backup in front of stadiums full of Sting fans? As she scanned the crowd, she spotted a small head of copper-­red hair and an exuberant smile—­Zack. He jumped up and down, waving at her. On either side of him sat Harvey and Bonita, who looked sour enough to pickle a radish.

The crowd was chanting now.
Donna. Donna
. “Say something,” Mike whispered in her ear. “I know you're not shy. Go ahead.”

She stepped to the mic, her mind blank. Say what, exactly? As always in moments of stress, she went for the comedy. “Thank you, thank you very much,” she drawled in a perfect imitation of Elvis Presley. “How y'all doin' tonight?” The crowd roared in response; Elvis was still big in Kilby.

The blond girl, Angeline, claimed the mic. “So, Donna, how did you meet your sexy ballplayer fiancé?”

Donna sighed inwardly. If only she could turn back time and meet Mike in a way that made for a better story. “If I say he turned up in my Cracker Jack box, would you believe me?”

“Hear that, ladies? I bet we sell out of Cracker Jack today. Was it love at first sight?”

Geez, the
Kilby Press-­Herald
should hire this girl instead of Burwell Brown.

“It definitely was. He's got such a cute butt.” She winked over her shoulder at Mike, who grinned broadly. A few female catcalls floated from the crowd.

“Any hot tips about how to catch a baseball player?”

“Um . . . wear a big glove?”

Mike nearly choked, the crowd laughed, and the blonde went speechless.

“When's the wedding, Donna?” someone yelled.

“That's a real good question.” Her voice echoed weirdly in the stadium, amplified by the microphone but also deadened by the variety of surfaces. She glanced at Zack, wondering if he understood what they were talking about. Did he even know what “engaged” meant? She hadn't told him about any of this because the court case was so up in the air. Once there was a ruling, hopefully they could all work together to help Zack through the transition.

Bonita was pulling at Zack's shoulder, trying to get him to sit down. He shook her off and waved excitedly at Donna. She waved back, and blew a kiss at him. Bonita shot her a glare, then firmly yanked Zack backward into his seat.

Donna felt the blood drain from her face. Time slowed down, and at the same time sped up, so that even though she was standing on the middle of a baseball diamond on a late May evening, the future rushed at her like a wind tunnel. If Harvey and Bonita had Zack full-­time, his life would be full of moments like this. Bonita would always want him to do what she said,
be
what she said. Zack would never get to be his own self, his own goofball, energetic, enthusiastic self.

None of this was about her. It was about
Zack
.

Her best chance to save Zack was to marry Mike Solo—­as soon as possible.

With a wide smile masking the deep determination that had seized her, she took the mic, and spoke into it, carefully enunciating every word. “Our wedding will take place on June twenty-­fifth.”

The day before Harvey and Bonita's wedding.

 

Chapter 14

“J
UNE TWENTY-­FI
FTH, HUH?”
Mike shook his head as he let her into his apartment after the game, which the Catfish had lost thanks to a ninth inning rally by the El Paso Chihuahuas. “That part about blurting things out before you think them through? I'm starting to see what you mean.”

She brushed past him and went straight for his refrigerator, hoping to find a Lone Star. Nothing there but several takeout containers that could have dated from any previous decade. “If you're thinking about calling off the engagement, forget it,” she said. She showed him the paper she'd picked up on the way over. “Early edition. Practically the entire sports section is devoted to us. Mostly you and your kidney. Oh, also? The Kilby Catfish have a YouTube channel and we're the most viewed clip. I'm really sorry, Mike. We should have decided on the date together.”

She debated excavating one of the take-­out containers but decided she wanted to live, for Zack if for no other reason.

“No worries. We can throw a wedding together by June twenty-­fifth. That's what, nearly a month? I'm up for the challenge if Crush is, with all those big plans of his.” He pulled her in for a hug, which she needed more desperately than he could possibly know. She couldn't stop thinking about that moment in the stands, and how the stakes had suddenly skyrocketed. “Actually, I'm glad you set the date. It makes things less amorphous.”

“Amorphous?”

“Without shape. You know my brother's a professor, right? A few things rubbed off over the years.”

With his warmth seeping through her clothing, things didn't seem so bad. “You're just . . . always surprising me, that's all.”

“I can definitely say the same for you. Especially after today. By the way, Crush thought you were great. He says you're a natural. Wants you to audition for the part-­time promotions girl gig, for when Angeline is busy.”

“The what?” She couldn't even focus on what he was saying anymore because his hands were tracing the path of her spine, releasing tension as he went.

“I told him you'd be even better than Angeline, because you're funny and adorable and kind of kooky.”

“I'm not koo—­ooky.” A gasp broke the word into two when he slid his hands to her ass and hauled her against him. An iron rod had developed in his pants. Pleasure formed like crystals in her veins, instant and breathtaking.

“I guess we'll stick with adorable then.” He nuzzled her neck with his bristly jaw.

“What's . . .” She gasped at the sensations sparked by the rough stubble against her skin. “What's all this about?”

“This is what happens when you say, ‘Prove it.' ”

Memory rushed back. The PT supply closet at the stadium earlier in the day. Before the game, before Angeline, before Zack. “I already agreed to get married. That's what the whole June twenty-­fifth announcement was all about. You don't have to prove . . . Oh God, that feels good.”

He was dropping kisses along her collarbone, every touch sending a wakeup call to her sex.

“Too late. The challenge has been issued. The challenge shall be met. I'm going to take you to bed now.”

“Bed sounds good.” She gave an exaggerated yawn. Now that Mike was following up on her “prove it” command, nerves fluttered all through her. “It's been a long day and I'm practically dead on my feet.”

“You'll be wide awake soon enough.” For the second time that day, he scooped her into his arms. With a sigh, she settled against him, soaking in the heat of his skin and the flexing muscles of his abdomen. Magically, her jitters disappeared in a flood of desire.

Carrying her as if she weighed no more than Zack, he walked through the apartment into his bedroom. From what she could see, the entire space held nothing but boxes, a couch, a computer, and a bed.

“You don't do much decorating, do you?”

“Nope. That's a wife's job.”

“Well, good.” She smiled up at him innocently. “Because I have some extra football stuff that would look great in here. How about a carpet that looks like AstroTurf? Life-­size cardboard cutout of John Elway?”

“You, woman, are asking for trouble.” He tossed her on the bed, which was practically the size of a football field itself. “No more out of you, Red. This bed is going to be your home for the next little while, so get used to it. Take your clothes off.”

His caveman manner sent ripples of excitement through her, but she didn't want him to know that. “Where'd you learn your seduction technique? The Croods?”

“I could have done this instead.” He grasped one foot and slid her across the bed to where he still stood, legs spread apart like a curly-­haired colossus. Quick as a blink, he whisked her jeans off her body. She hadn't known that it was physically possible for a piece of clothing to disappear that fast.

“How did you . . . Is that some sort of special baseball skill?”

“Take off your shirt,” was his only answer. His eyes had gone a smoky dark green. “Please.”

“Saying please helps, of course, but you're still kind of bossing me around,” she grumbled.

“
Off
.”

Her hands flew to the hem of her top, which had two layers of filmy fabric, one a tomato red, the other a hazy gold. Together they looked sensational and really set off her hair and . . . whoops. The shirt was gone, floating through the quiet air onto the nightstand. This time she'd stripped it off herself, as if hypnotized by the way he was talking. He ate up the sight of her, eyes sweeping across her body until she felt a deep flush come over her. She wasn't shy, and was generally okay with her body, but she'd never been scrutinized this hungrily before.

“You are a dangerous man, Mike Solo.” She shivered as he came onto the bed, prowling on hands and knees across the covers like a tiger across the savannah. “It's like you have magic powers.”

“That's right. Just call me Magic Mike,” he growled.

“Nope. Not until you strip your clothes off.”

“Oh, I will. When the time is right. For now, I want to feast on your naked body. Get rid of the underwear.”

“Would you stop that?” Her laughing protest only made him lunge at her, teeth bared, to snag the thin elastic at the top of her panties. He gave an inarticulate roar of triumph and dragged the flimsy scrap of rayon down her body. “You know,” she said conspiratorially, “those panties only cost me about fifty cents at the Rite-­Aid. I'm very thrifty when it comes to shopping. Bet you didn't know that about me. I can probably save you tons of money. Socks, for instance. You tell me how much you spend on socks and I guarantee I can cut it in half.”

He put his hands to her underwear and tore them in half. Holy Catfish, that was hot. Good thing she bought such cheap underwear. Her feminine parts launched into an insistent throbbing that made her shift restlessly on the bed.

“From now on,” Mike said in that same intense tone of command, “you don't buy your underwear at Rite-­Aid. Got it?”

“Um . . . why not?”

“Because you're beautiful and we can afford nice underwear. You can skimp on my socks, but not on anything else.”

Hot shivers were racing through her. “You're not the boss of me.”

“What did you just say?” He pinned her arms over her head and separated her legs with one big thigh.

“I said, you're not the boss of me,” she repeated weakly, her breath coming in unsteady little whooshes.

“No, I'm not the boss of you. I'm just the man who's going to make love to you until you forget who you are. But first, I have a problem.”

“What?” Her heartbeat fluttered madly in her throat. His gaze dropped to that pulse point and held. The proof of her arousal in her bared neck.

In a voice thick with desire, he told her, “I've wanted to take you to bed since last June. I want you so bad, there's no way I'm going to last more than a few strokes. So here's what I'm proposing. A quickie, followed by an all-­nighter. What do you think?”

She felt her lips quiver into a smile. “Whatever you say, boss.”

Oh man. With that permission, Mike let loose of the tight rein he'd been keeping on his libido. He flipped her over so she lay on her stomach, the soft globes of her bottom quivering from the quick movement. Her skin was pale where the sun never touched it, fading into a burnished peach right about where her shorts would end. The contrast made him nearly lose his mind. He shaped the cheeks of her ass, delighting in the fine texture, so silky and vulnerable.

He dragged her ass into the air, putting her on elbows and knees before him.
Condoms.
He had some, somewhere, left over from the time between baseball seasons. Where were they? He couldn't think, she was too beautiful, spread open in front of him like this. His hands brushed over her swelling curves, the deep valley between, and down to the wet, hot cleft below.
Condom, condom
. Where the fuck was it?

“What are you waiting for, Solo?” Donna wiggled her butt back and forth. “You said quickie.”

“I'm trying to remember where my condoms are. I'm the guy who took a Vow of Celibacy, remember? I don't usually have to worry about protection.”

“Back pocket of my jeans,” she said, peeking over her freckled shoulder at him. His hands stilled on her skin. “Don't look like that. I challenged you, remember? And the last thing I need is for another accident to happen. I wanted to make extra sure.”

He shook off his momentary hesitation and gave her a little pat on the rear. “Hang on. This'll just take a second.”

He found her jeans draped across a box and rummaged for the condom. The thought of Donna carrying around protection had jarred him, because it made him wonder who else she'd had sex with. Which was idiotic, because obviously she'd had a whole life before him. A life that included a baby. Donna was no virgin.

Angela . . . Angela had been a virgin when they first had sex. He'd been her first, and she'd been his first.

He found the condom—­not a brand he normally used—­and viciously ripped open the package. What was he doing, thinking about Angela? He'd had sex with plenty of women since her. Fun, meaningless sex.

His movements slowed as he withdrew the condom from its foil package. It was a familiar sight. After Angela had dumped him—­and after he'd recovered from the surgery—­he'd gone on a sex binge, fueled by bitterness and the need to drive her from his mind. That was one of the reasons he'd started taking the vow at the start of the season. Sex was fantastic. He loved sex. But he was on a mission to reach the major leagues, and he didn't want the distraction.

Off-­season, he'd done whatever he wanted, with whatever girl was interested. No strings, no drama, no regrets sex. About as shallow as a puddle in a Texas heat wave.

He traced the rim of the condom, readying it to slip on his penis. Donna was different. Obviously, she was different because he planned to marry her. But it was more than that. She touched a part of him that he'd thought beyond reach. He
felt
things for her. And now they were about to have sex, which was great and he was incredibly excited about it . . . but it was serious too. The first time with Angela—­a full year after they'd gotten engaged—­had been hushed and tentative; it had felt almost sacred. For the first time since his heart had been ripped from his body, he was about to have sex that
meant
something.

He swallowed past the sudden lump in his throat. In a way, this was good-­bye to Angela. Good-­bye to the death grip she'd put on his heart.

Shaking off the dark thoughts, he rolled the condom onto his erection, which had begun to soften. When he turned back to the bed, it was empty.

Donna had left him. He felt hollow and ridiculous, standing alone with his latex-­covered dick pointing at nothing. Hell, he probably deserved to be kicked to the curb, with all his morose thoughts about Angela. He reached down to peel the condom off his penis, when a sound made him look up.

“Dah-­
dah
-­dah-­dah-­
dum
.” The classic stripper theme. One naked leg peeked from the other side of the doorjamb. “Dah-­
dah
-­dah-­dah-­
dum
.” She straightened that leg, so the whole limb was exposed, then slithered around the edge of the door. Completely naked, except for his baseball glove, in which her hand was engulfed, shielding her sex. With the other hand and arm, she covered her breasts. Sweet little mounds of flesh plumped above her forearm. A cheeky smile dimpled her mouth. Her hair curled in wild fiery tendrils, just brushing her shoulders. She was adorable and sexy, and his cock went hard as wood.

“That's my glove,” he said stupidly. His glove had never been anywhere near a woman's body before. Even from here he could smell the faint scent of oiled leather.

“Yes. Want it back?”

She executed a sexy little twirl. When her back was to him, the riveting sway of her ass gave his cock another infusion of stiffness. Once she was facing him again, she pretended to drop the glove, which gave him a quick flash of her coppery curls.

“Oopsies.” She put a bashful hand over her mouth and batted her eyelashes, covering herself again with the glove, which looked like a leather fan. Or a big, thick-­fingered hand. His gaze shot to her breasts, which were now exposed, her rosy nipples erotically engorged.

Lust flooded his brain, and all he could think was
Woman . . . want . . . now
. He strode to her, plucked the glove from her hand, lifted her with both hands under her ass, and crowded her against the wall. “Wrap your legs around my waist.”

“The bed's right—­”

“Too far,” he grunted. “Do it.”

She did it, and the feel of her soft flesh surrounding him made the mad need pound through his veins. With his last scrap of rational thought, he reached between them to stroke a finger inside her. Wet and warm and velvety heaven. Groaning, he took hold of his cock and poised it at her entrance. She tilted her head against the wall, her eyes half closed, glowing gold. So beautiful, so sparkling and vivid and fiery and . . .