Curveball (14 page)

With a 3-2 count, Chaser saw Romeo glance toward the press box. Romeo and the reporter definitely had something going outside baseball. Rolling his shoulders, Romeo stepped into the batter’s box and stared down Roger Cooke.

The pitcher fired a curveball. Romeo loved curveballs. He connected with the sweet spot and took pleasure in his second straight double for the day.

Chaser watched Psycho take up his bat. The man was all raw energy and competitive spirit. If anyone could hike it out of the park, Psycho could.

He was never given the chance. Psycho was feared as a home-run hitter, and the pitcher didn’t take any chances with him. Cooke pitched around him, and the crowd broke into hisses and boos as Psycho took a slow walk to first.

Psycho was as ticked as the fans. He shouted a few choice words in Cooke’s direction. The firstbase coach met him halfway down the baseline and escorted Psycho to the bag.

Chaser heard his name announced over the loudspeaker. The Rogues’ best hope of scoring sat with him now. He approached home plate with a mental vision of slamming the ball out of the park. He’d never let pressure faze him.

Jaw clenched, his shoulders hunched, he blocked out the noise from the stands and focused solely on the first pitch.

It was down and outside. He checked his swing on ball one.

An inside fastball shot by him, was called as a strike.

He punched the next ball foul.

One ball, two strikes. His entire body tensed, then released on a slider. Hit off the end of the bat, the line drive followed the right field chalk, stayed in play.

From the corner of his eye, he saw Romeo run as if his life depended on it. Psycho was on his heels.

Chaser wasn’t a great sprinter. As catcher, his legs were muscled for stamina, not speed. First base seemed a mile away. His heart pounded as the Yankees first baseman stretched, keeping one foot on the bag, for the incoming throw from right field.

Chaser wasn’t going to make it. The ball would be relayed to first, then fired home. Three outs, and they’d be into extra innings.

He dove, sliding headfirst into the bag. His fingers connected the exact second the ball smacked into the first baseman’s glove. Shit.

Safe!

The umpire’s call had him blinking dust from his eyes. Romeo and Psycho had crossed home plate.

He’d scored a victory for the Rogues.

The Bat Pack was back.

Fans screamed; the noise from the stands was deafening.

Mobbed by his teammates, Chaser was hauled to his feet and slapped on the back. Arms pumped and high fives were exchanged all around.

“Could you run any slower?” shouted a grinning Psycho as he pushed through the players to
punch Chaser’s shoulder. “A snail could have beaten you to first.”

Romeo found them both. “We brought it home,” his voice shouted over the celebration.

Following lengthy interviews, a short locker room celebration, and a very hot shower, Chaser faced fans gathered by the exit collecting autographs. He signed alongside Psycho and Romeo. Ninety minutes passed before security broke up the fan frenzy.

“Beer?” Psycho asked.

Romeo shook his head. “Interview with a reporter.”

Psycho cut Romeo a look. “You still newsworthy?”

“I’m good for a few more articles.”

“I’m catching up with Jen Reid,” Chaser told them.

Psycho scratched his jaw. “Old neighbor drawing new interest?”

Chaser nodded. “View’s decent over the hollyhocks.”

Psycho didn’t press. “Guess I should check on my designer.”

“Guess you should,” Romeo agreed.

The three men parted ways.

Without a second thought.

As Chaser went in search of Jen, he realized that this was the first time the Bat Pack had passed on a round of beer. The men had always played fast and hard. Yet each now went his own way to be with his chosen woman.

He found Jen on the mezzanine level, at her desk in her business office, enjoying a blueberry snow cone. Spreadsheets littered her desk, while her fingers punched figures on a calculator.

He removed his sunglasses, took her in. Her back was to him; she looked sleek and slender beneath a scarlet T. Her hair hung straight down her spine in a fancy braid. The roll of her hip on the seat of the chair indicated her legs were crossed. Her bottom was encased in designer jeans.

He cleared his throat, and her fingers skittered over the calculator pad. She turned to him, her amber eyes bright, her lips parted and slightly blue from the snow cone.

Her reception made him smile. Jumping off her chair, she charged him. As hard and fast as he’d run for first base. Six steps and a leap, and she was on him. Her arms wrapped his neck, her legs his waist. She squeezed so hard, he got a fullbody press.

She felt good.

“You won!” Her excitement rolled over him. “I stood frozen over the ice machine until you were called safe at first.” She punched his shoulder. “Run faster next time.”

“I’m built for stamina, not speed.”

She smiled. “Stamina is good.”

“I’m good for an hour.”

She eased off him then in a slow slide so that every inch of her sweet body put him on alert.

Moving to the door, Jen pulled down the shade and slid home the dead bolt. Crossing to her work
area, she switched the three-way bulb on her desk light to low. The room was enveloped in shadow. As was her face. Darkness deepened the natural hollow beneath her cheekbones, along with the soft indentation between her lower lip and chin. The sweep of her neck, the dip at her throat, all hid from his eyes, waiting for him to rediscover her.

“Here, Legs? In your office?” His voice was barely audible.

She folded the spread sheets on her desk, shoved the calculator to one side. Boosting herself onto the polished oak, she leaned back on her hands and finally answered, “Doesn’t matter where, Chaser, as long as I’m with you.”

Frustration hissed through his teeth. “No condom.”

She plucked a foil packet from beneath her desk calendar. “I’ve got you covered.”

He went hard.

So hard, he barely managed the four feet to her desk.

She welcomed him between her splayed legs. He slid his hands along her thighs, pulled her to him. The press of denim between them was rough and arousing.

He took her mouth, kissed her, the barest touch of his tongue inside her lower lip. She bit the tip and drew his tongue fully into her mouth, where she sucked and teased and showed no mercy.

Slipping his hand beneath her T-shirt, he ran his palm over her belly, then up and under her bra. He cupped the warm underside of her breast,
flicked his thumb over her nipple. Her nipples went as hard for him as his dick was hard for her.

Jen touched him with need. A lifetime of need. No part of his body escaped her fingers. Each stroke sent blood to his groin. He’d never wanted a woman so badly.

She wanted him right back. Unbuckling his belt, she pulled the leather free. Tossed it to the floor. The flick of the snap on his jeans, the lowering of his zipper, seemed life-altering sounds.

Now, as he stripped away her jeans and panties, he understood commitment. After tonight there was no going back. The thought of having sex with Jen for the rest of his life created a physical ache so strong he could barely breathe.

He prolonged their kiss. Ran his hands over every erogenous zone of her body. He wanted to satisfy her as no man before him had.

It was Jen who shoved his jeans over his hips and tugged down his jockeys. Jen who tore open the silver packet and rolled on his condom. Jen who wrapped her dancer’s legs about his waist, and tilted her hips to accept him.

He gave one shallow thrust. Found resistance. Not a virgin’s resistance, but the tightness of a woman who did not have regular sex.

“It’s been a while.” Her words, spoken against his neck, were soft, almost apologetic.

A while
…His body grew even hotter. Withdrawing a fraction of an inch, he worked his hand between their bodies and touched her. Touched her with all the knowledge he had of a woman’s body.

She grew slick, and her body loosened. He watched as her eyes closed and he took her to the edge of orgasm. He held her there, spread, flushed, and finger-stretched.

Ready for him now, she accepted him easily. They moved as one, their focus on the sound of their breathing, the rhythm of their bodies, soon bringing them to climax.

Jen shattered with Chaser’s name on her lips.

A single heartbeat later, and Chaser’s own satisfaction spilled deep. It took a very long time to catch his breath.

Muscles slack, he slid out, eased back, and disposed of the condom. Then he bent his head for one last kiss. A kiss that tasted of woman and lovemaking. The scent of sex surrounded them. She sat before him, her T-shirt shoved over her bra. She was naked from the waist down, looking dazed, disheveled, yet sated. The dampness from the backs of her thighs and bottom slicked the desktop. “Great post-game sex,” she murmured, smiling.

“This was a regular season game.” Confidence curved his smile. “If you think I’m good now, wait until we win the World Series. You won’t leave my bed for a month.”

Psycho McMillan burst through the front door of his Colonial, all wired and ready to celebrate the team’s victory. “Keely—” His voice echoed off the newly paneled walls in the foyer. His boots scuffed the polished hardwood floor.

“In here,” she called from the formal living room.

He found her seated between Rebecca Reed Custis and architect Franklin Langston on a newly arrived blue velvet sofa with ornate carvings across the back. An antique tea caddy rested on a cherry-wood coffee table. The room smelled of apples and cinnamon.

The threesome looked too damn cozy, like a family. A rather disjointed family with Rebecca dressed in her prim gray suit, Keely in her faded T-shirt, worn jeans, and mismatched flip-flops, and Franklin in his wrinkled khakis.

Psycho didn’t like this picture at all.

“Becky,” he acknowledged the older woman.

“Mr. McMillan.” The Daughter of Virginia tilted her head, looked down her nose at his white T-shirt enscripted with
First the Good News—I Made Bail.
She sniffed disapprovingly.

“We’re taking tea.” Keely reached for a cup and an assortment of decorative tea tins. “Would you like blackberry, cinnamon apple, or Earl Grey?”

Screw the tea.
“I’ll pass.”

Keely sat back on the sofa. “How was the game?”

Obviously, she hadn’t watched him play. Disappointment socked hard. “We won, 5-3. The Bat Pack kicked butt.”

She nodded. “That’s nice.”

Nice?
The word ripped through him. Nice was used for sweet old ladies, vanilla ice cream, two-for-one pizzas. He didn’t want nice. He wanted Keely all amped up and ready to party.

“Did you catch any of the game?” He’d be happy with the last fifteen minutes.

She shook her head. “Rebecca stopped by to check on the restoration. Turns out she and Franklin are old friends. He did some work for her years ago. They both lost their spouses last September. They’ve been catching up on old times.”

Keely had played tea party while he’d played ball. A part of him hated the fact that her interest lay in his Colonial, not in his career. She’d taken more pleasure in the over-sixty crowd than she had in his victory.

Locking his jaw, he tried to contain his anger.
Unreasonable anger that left him as mad at himself for seeking Keely’s praise as he was at her for not paying him tribute.

His lips flat against his teeth, he managed a civil “Enjoy your tea” before stalking up the staircase.

He hit the second floor and made it to his bedroom without slamming his fist into a wall. Energy pounded through his body. The hot, restless need-an-outlet energy he’d wanted to expend with Keely. Now he needed another form of release.

His thoughts ran to Peek-A-Boobs. Only a twenty-minute drive. He’d be welcomed with a stiff drink and a sexy lap dance. Both would take his mind off his designer.

He drew off his T-shirt and drop-kicked it across the room. Shucked his jeans. He located a pair of workout sweats. A round or two with the speed bag would take the edge off and contain his need to race off somewhere in his track.

The Hemi on his Dodge Ram kicked ass. He’d talked his way out of several tickets over the past year. But there was always the off-chance a cop meeting his quota would write him up. He needed to pull himself together before he headed out.

Bare-fisted, he went after the bag. He punched until his arms ached and he was soaked in sweat. Gradually, the tension left his body. As he relaxed, his mind returned to Keely once again. He’d been rude to her, his usual m.o. He’d hired her to restore his Colonial. It shouldn’t matter
whether or not she followed baseball. But somehow it did. A whole hell of a lot.

His disappointment had struck him in a way he’d never expected. It slammed into his gut and brought back the misery of his childhood. Of the time when his mother had told him that his old man had deserted them.

Back then, his dad hadn’t cared enough about him to stay. Today, Keely had blown off the Rogues’ game. The similarities stung. More than he wanted to admit.

“Psycho?” Her voice turned him toward the door. She stood, one narrow shoulder hitched against the frame, her deep blue eyes filled with concern, her ponytail lopsided. “Rebecca and Franklin have left.”

He wiped the sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand. “You should have invited them to dinner. Unpacked the fine china and broken in that fancy new dining room table.”

“The oil smell from your dismantled dirt bike would turn everyone’s stomach.”

“Bike’s almost ready to ride. I’ll have it out of the dining room in a week or two.”

“During tea, Rebecca suggested an open house once the Colonial’s fully restored. She’d like to invite the Historical Society and the Daughters of Virginia for brunch.”

“My house, my invite. Becky’s not on my list.”

“Your home would be worth showing off.”

He narrowed his eyes at her. “You deliver Colo
nel William Lowell’s oil painting as promised and I’ll do brunch.”

She looked at the floor, stared at her mismatched flip-flops. No comment.

He knew she didn’t have the oil paining. Without it, there’d be no brunch with the Daughters. Ever. “I’m headed out—”

“You and your raw knuckles?” She’d lifted her gaze, noticed his damaged hands.

Without his gloves, the speed bag had torn up his knuckles. The skin was split over two fingers, his hands red and slightly swollen. He didn’t give a damn.

“I’ll get some ice,” she offered.

“Don’t do me any favors.”

She pushed herself away from the door frame and stood a little taller. “You have a problem with me?” she demanded.

A big problem.
“No.”

She wouldn’t let it go. “You came charging into the house, ignited like a fuse. A fuse that soon fizzled. What’s got your jockeys in a bunch?”

“I’m not wearing jockeys.”

She rolled her eyes. “I came upstairs to discuss the furniture I’ve ordered.”

“Leave the invoices on the kitchen counter.”

“I thought we’d go over them together. I wanted to justify the costs. I’ve spent a lot of your money.”

He looked her over. “Money spent on furniture, but not a dime on yourself?”

Her chin shot up. “I’ve cashed my paychecks,
bought a few new items. I don’t plan to work in my good clothes and get them dirty.”

Growing up, Psycho had worn the same pair of jeans throughout elementary school. The jeans had been purchased long and got shorter with each grade. His first day of middle school, his mother stretched the family’s budget and bought him a new shirt and pair of slacks. He’d hung the clothes in his closet and never removed the tags. He’d been afraid to wear them, afraid to get them dirty. In six months, he’d outgrown them.

“Psycho?” Keely’s voice pulled him from the past. “About the furniture—”

He shrugged, blew her off. “I don’t care what you spend. The furniture means as little to me as my game meant to you today.”

She stood silent for longer than he liked, as if fitting missing pieces into a puzzle. She had no business trying to figure him out.

“Later, Keely.” He nudged her toward the door.

He jerked off his sweatshirt, in need of a shower. He tugged on the drawstring of his sweatpants, realizing she hadn’t budged. “Staying for the show?”

She shook her head. “It’s Memorial Day weekend. I’m taking two days off. The Rogues play at home. You’ll be around for the dogs. I’m going back to my apartment.”

Back to her place?
He’d allowed her into his life, only to have her cut him out? Son of a bitch. “Your bed’s here,” he reminded her.

“I’d planned to sleep on my couch.”

He hoped she’d get a crick in her neck. “Deliveries,” he ground out. “If furniture arrives, I won’t be here to sign off on the pieces.” His gaze narrowed. “Can your assistant work this weekend?”

“I never hired anyone,” she returned evenly. “I wanted to save you money. I can work hard enough for two people.”

Irritation pricked him. She had dark circles under her eyes and looked even skinnier than usual. “Hire someone.”

“If I get behind on the restoration, I will. Besides, there won’t be any deliveries this weekend,” she assured him. “I’ve lined them up for next week.”

Isn’t she efficient?
He sliced his hand through the air. “Fine, see you Monday.”

Expecting her to leave, he dropped his sweatpants. One step toward the shower, and an unexpected slap on his bare ass spun him around.

“Congratulations on your win,” Keely managed, blushing. “Isn’t that what jocks do? Slap rear ends to celebrate?”

“You’re not a jock.” Psycho stared at her, finding it hard to believe she’d smacked him.

The sting of her slap had shot straight to his groin. His wood hardened. Nothing outside of sex was going to appease him now.

What had she done? What repercussions would she face now? Keely’s mind scrambled with questions. She urged her body to move, and move fast. Her legs refused to walk away.

Psycho stood before her, tall, dark, and fully
aroused. His arms hung loosely at his sides, his legs braced. His muscles stood out, ripped and defined. His erection pointed directly at her.

Expectation rolled off him in tangible heat. His body promised sex, hard and fast, down and dirty.

Panic pounded in her ears. She saw his lips move, but didn’t hear his words.

Ten minutes had passed since she’d realized his bad mood stemmed from her not cheering his win. The boy inside the man needed rah-rahs and she’d offered him tea.

She’d hurt his feelings, let him down. She’d realized she needed to make it up to him. But being spontaneous wasn’t her strong suit.

When he’d dropped his sweatpants, swatting him had seemed like a good idea. But only jocks slapped asses. She should have kept her hands to herself.

“Keely, get out.” The harshness in his voice drew her gaze to his face. His eyes had gone jetblack; his expression warned of sexual consequences should she stay. “Don’t trust me to do what’s right.”

The pull between them was poignant and strong, and made her stomach go soft. She was a heartbeat from staying when he abruptly turned his back on her. “I’d be your biggest mistake,” he warned over his shoulder.

The slam of the bathroom door sent her down the hall to her bedroom. She grabbed two clean pairs of jeans, tank tops, and underwear, and
stuffed them in an expensive leather suitcase Psycho had given her on one of many birthdays. She escaped the house before he stepped from the shower. Her battered station wagon got her across town. Her need for coffee landed her at Jacy’s Java.

“Toffee Nut Latte,” Keely ordered at the counter.

“Whipped cream, cherry?” Jacy offered with a smile.

Keely nodded. “And an apricot scone.”

Once served, Keely found a table near the newspaper stand. A copy of
Jocks
magazine caught her eye. She flipped through the pages until she found Psycho’s interview. The article made her smile. The photograph of him wrapped in a towel fresh from his shower gave her a hot flash. She now knew what lay under that towel. He was more man than she’d ever imagined.

“Where’s my favorite wild man?” Jacy asked, joining Keely at the chrome table. Dressed in a plum-and-silver brocade jacket and zebra-printed cropped pants, Jacy was as brightly decorative as her café. Red highlighted her blond hair. Gold and silver bracelets curved around her wrists. She wore a ring on every finger.

Keely took a deep breath, sighed. “Psycho’s going out to celebrate the Rogues’ win.”

“And you’re…?” inquired Jacy.

“Alone, enjoying a latte and a scone.” Keely sipped her latte from a china cup rimmed with holly berries. She let the flavor play over her
tongue, then confessed her sin. “I didn’t watch the game.”

Jacy looked surprised. “That upset Psycho?”

Keely bit her lip. “Bothered him a lot.”

Jacy’s grin was unexpected. “Well, it’s about time.”

Keely didn’t understand. “Time for what?”

“Time for another scone.” Jacy rose, then returned with both an apricot and a chocolate chip scone.

Keely ate hungrily. Her conversation with Psycho had delayed her dinner. The scones hit the spot. “I’ve decided to buy a television,” she told Jacy between bites. “A small eighteen-inch screen for my apartment.”

“So you can watch baseball?”

“Once the renovations are completed, I’ll need my own television for next season.”

“Out in right field, Psycho’s a show unto himself,” Jacy said fondly. “Quick and explosive, and very intense. Psycho comes across as tough, bored, and totally crazy. He looks like a fallen angel and sins on a regular basis. Most people never see his good side, but it’s there.”

Keely finished off her latte. “You know him well.”

“Strictly through observation,” Jacy admitted. “He’s my second favorite Rogue.”

“I damn well better be your first.”

The deep male voice came from behind Keely. She tilted her head and found herself staring at a massive chest. Looking up, she admired the ma
turity in the man’s face, the strong character lines about his eyes and mouth. The strength of his jaw.

“My husband, Risk Kincaid,” Jacy said. “This is Keely Douglas, Psycho’s designer.”

Risk had a strong handshake. His gaze seemed to evaluate her. His words held understanding and an offhanded compliment. “Psycho’s not easy to work for. You must be doing something right to have lasted a month.”

“She’s doing everything right,” Jacy told her husband. “I hear the Colonial’s coming along beautifully.”

Keely wasn’t so sure. One mistake, and Psycho could boot her to the curb.

“Close the coffee shop and have dinner with me,” Risk invited. He moved to stand behind Jacy, who was perched on a turquoise stool. He curved his hands over her shoulders and pulled his woman back against his chest. The gesture was intimate, possessive, loving. “Rogues won. I want to celebrate with you.”

“Excellent triple,” Jacy said, complimenting his hit.

Risk’s eyes warmed. “Connected with the sweet spot.”

Keely took it all in. Jacy’s easy slide off the stool, her stroll to the door, the easy flip of the
OPEN
sign to
CLOSED.
The regular customers took her hint and cleared the café within seconds.