Curveball (3 page)

Renovating a Colonial couldn’t be all that tough. She loved history, found the Civil War fascinating. When a close friend employed by Tashika Designs mentioned that the most infamous Rogue in Richmond baseball planned to have his Colonial restored, Keely had taken a chance. She’d parked her car a mile from the
guard gate and snuck in when the guard conversed with one of the Colonial Hill residents.

It hadn’t been hard to pick out McMillan’s home. It was architecturally challenged. A total eyesore with chipped cornice trim, two crooked windows and missing bricks. She’d researched the Colonial inside and out. Had spent a chunk of her last paycheck on architecture books covering the period.

She’d bluffed her way through much of her life. Fabrication came as naturally to her as breathing. Envisioning the Colonial fully restored, she propped her portfolio against a dark, pinepaneled wall and entered the formal living room, left off the entrance hall.

After a dozen steps, Keely slowed. Her eyes went wide and her jaw slack as red and green Christmas lights blinked their welcome. The décor was complemented by dark green lawn furniture and an electrical cable spool functioning as a table. A wooden sign hung on the wall above an enormous home theater television: A
GOOD FRIEND WILL COME AND BAIL YOU OUT OF JAIL, BUT A BEST FRIEND WILL BE SITTING NEXT TO YOU SAYING
, “D
AMN, THAT WAS FUN
!”

Through a scarred wooden portal leading into the dining room, she caught sight of a dismantled dirt bike on a tarp smudged with grease. Every drawer of the nearby Craftsman tool chest stood open. Dirty rags littered the floor. The scent of oil was overpowering.

Her smile broke, and relief settled bone-deep.
Any redecorating would be an improvement over the way McMillan now lived.

More confident, she informed the Daughters, “On our first meeting, Mr. McMillan and I discussed the living room. He confided that his favorite season is autumn, when the sun glistens off the trees surrounding the house. We agreed the room should be decorated with that warmth. Glazed yellow walls that glow like aged maple leaves on an October afternoon. All highlighted with sage, burnt orange, and russet red.”

“I’m an autumn as well,” Rebecca piped up, pleased.

Keely glanced at the man she’d labeled “fall”. Too masculine to be handsome, he radiated a raw intensity that intimidated her. Enigmatic eyes, a deceptively casual stance. She had a hunch he was a ticking time bomb.

“Mr. McMillan wants authenticity rather than reproduction,” she pressed forward. “A camelback sofa in apricot velvet, chintz-covered slipper chairs, and oriental carpets.”

“A fine rosewood piano,” Rebecca chimed in.

“An antique secretary. One with scalloped pigeonholes and paneled doors,” Helen Adler Paine suggested.

Charlotte Maitlan Moss swept her blue-veined bejeweled hand toward the double-sashed windows, now covered by bedsheets. “Sheer inner curtains beneath tailored swags.”

“A tea caddy,” added Olivia Morris Tuthill.

“Definitely a tea caddy,” McMillan muttered darkly.

“Perhaps a tall-case clock by Simon Willard,” Rebecca put in enthusiastically.

“Mr. McMillan’s already placed the clock.” Keely motioned the Daughters toward the entrance hall. There, she pointed to the wide landing at the top of the twin staircases. “He’d like the grandfather clock centered between a row of newly constructed windows.”

“Impressive,” echoed the Daughters.

Keely moved to the east staircase. “Mr. McMillan also suggested a tri-corner table bearing a silver tray, holding candlesticks and an oil-burning lamp,” she said straight-faced. “Something that would call to mind a time when candles were carried upstairs to light the way to the second floor.”

“A lovely idea.” Rebecca looked at Psycho with new respect.

The man remained silent.

Climbing the first step, Keely let her imagination go. “Polished hardwood floors, a low fire burning in the hearth…” She ran her hand over the banister and paused. “Teeth marks on the newel post?”

“Mr. McMillan’s dogs,” Rebecca informed her. “The black mongrels have chewed the history right out of the house.”

“They’re Newfoundlands, Becky,” McMillan said denfensively. “Six months old and full of themselves.”

At this mention of the pups, loud barking drew everyone’s attention down the center hallway to the back of the house. Trailing McMillan, the Daughters marched out the rear door with Keely on their heels.

Her eyes widened at the sight before her. Two of the biggest dogs she’d ever seen had broken from a fenced run and now romped playfully about a small cemetery, set back from the house.

“Boris, Bosephus,” Psycho called to the Newfies, who totally ignored him.

“Those animals are as undisciplined as their owner,” Rebecca huffed.

Undisciplined
and mischievous,
Keely noted as Psycho jogged across the lawn toward the dogs. The man was fast, but the pups were faster. He didn’t reach them in time. To everyone’s horror, one dog lifted his leg on a headstone, while the other started digging at the grave site. His front paws scooped like a bulldozer. Chunks of grass and dirt went flying.

Rebecca gasped, swooning. “That’s the Lowell Family Cemetery!”

Keely caught the matron’s arm, held her upright.

Helen Adler Paine shuddered. “Colonel Lowell must be rolling over in his grave.”

Keely watched as Psycho grabbed one Newfie by the collar, only to have the second pup escape. “Boris!” she called out, hoping to draw one of the dogs toward the house, and away from the graves.

She drew him all right. One hundred pounds of
drool loped across the yard in her direction. Boris had no brakes. His front paws struck her chest and knocked her to the ground. He sniffed her crotch, then slobbered all over her suit and licked her cheek. He had the worst puppy breath on the planet.

Beside Keely, Rebecca hyperventilated. Scrambling to her feet, Keely snagged Boris’s collar and held on tight. It wouldn’t take much for the Newfie to drag her across the yard.

From the corner of her eye, she saw that Psycho had penned Bosephus and was coming after Boris. He took charge of the pup with one hand, then patted her down with the other, checking for broken bones.

He probed her shoulder, her clavicle, and smoothed down her lapel. Her heart skipped when his fingers brushed her breast, then swept over her grass-stained skirt. His palm curved her hip, swept her butt. Lingered a moment too long on her left thigh. He skimmed dirt off one calf, traced a new ladder in her nylon. Then met her gaze. “You hurt?”

Not hurt, but downright tingly. There was nothing caressing in his touch, yet she felt aroused. Her nipples peaked and warmth filled her belly. “I’ll live.”

“Miss Lowell was attacked.” Rebecca came to stand beside Keely. “Those animals scared the life out of us.”

“There’s a leash law on Colonial Hill,” Olivia Morris Tuthill informed him. “We’re appalled those black beasts run free.”

“The boys have learned to flip the latch. I need to get a lock,” Psycho said as he led Boris to the pen.

“Miss Lowell,” Rebecca said with southern dignity. “We would understand if you no longer wish to work for Mr. McMillan.”

Psycho
McMillan. His reputation and news of his suspension had preceded her visit. Commentary on every radio and television station reported him wild and impulsive. A man on a short fuse. He’d fought his own teammate. It had taken the strength of six men to pull Psycho off Chris Collier.

As he came toward her now, his dark gaze narrowed. She took him in. Unruly black hair, bruised hip and foot, and raw male swagger. He’d yet to snap his jeans. His
Stands on Command
tattoo was still visible.

Naughty, notorious, and an avowed nudist, he was like no man she’d ever met. He both scared and attracted her. The attraction won. She would take her chances with him and his Colonial.

She cleared her throat. “I appreciate your concern, Rebecca, but I’ve never backed down from a challenge. I will return the house to its noble heritage.”

Admiration shone in the older woman’s eyes. “The colonel would be proud.” With those words, the Daughters picked their way across the lawn and departed.

The moment they were out of sight, Psycho turned to her. He rolled his shoulders, dug his
hands deep into his jeans pockets. “You saved my butt. Got the Daughters off my back.”

“They want their heritage preserved.”

“Can you make it happen?”

“I can try.” He hadn’t officially offered her the job. “Am I hired?”

“Against my better judgment. You’ve no experience.”

“Allow me to decorate the entrance hall and living room,” she bargained. “If you’re not satisfied, I’ll walk.”

“If I’m not satisfied, you’d better run.”

“I’ll also train your dogs,” she suggested to sweeten the pot.

“They’ve been kicked out of two obedience schools.”

“They need hands-on discipline. How long have you had them?”

“Long enough to build a run and learn they can flip a latch.” He raked one hand through his hair. “My brother recently separated from his wife. She kicked him out of the house and forced him into an apartment with no room for the dogs. I took them off his hands. They’re playful and clumsy. Tend to be wild.”

Wild, just like their master. “I can handle them.”

“Question is, can you handle me?”

“Handle you
how
?”

“I’m a nudist. I like being naked.”

She’d bet he looked good nude. “Whistle a warning before you enter a room.”

“I’m not a nice guy,” he told her straight out. “I flip off the world. Play by my own rules. I hear son of a bitch more often than my name. I tend to piss people off. I’ll tick you off too.”

“Maybe I’ll tick you off first.”

One corner of his mouth curved. “Maybe you will.”

There was a moment of silence before she shuffled her feet. “Guess I should be going.”

“Guess you should.” He rolled his tongue inside his cheek. “I’ll be at James River Stadium tomorrow. Call my secretary for a key to the house.”

She hesitated. “Mrs. Smith, right?”

“If she doesn’t answer, I keep an extra one taped to a brick beneath the second window to the left of the front door.”

She scrunched up her nose. “You don’t have a secretary, do you?”

“No more than you have an oil painting of Colonel William Lowell on his warhorse Danger.”

“Ranger,” she corrected.

“Stretch the truth all you want with the Daughters, but be straight with me.”

“I’ll work on it.”

“Work sky blue, sun yellow, and outfield green into the interior design,” he said. “I’m pure summer, sweetheart. Not an autumn.”

Jesse “Romeo” Bellisaro mentally relived Media Day. The fight had been unavoidable. His collision with Emerson Kent, totally inexcusable. In all his thirty-three years, he’d never purposely hit or knocked down a woman—even though retaliation had been justified when he was eleven and a jealous Sylvie Davenport punched him on the school playground. All because he’d shared his Milky Way with Avery Jane Carmichael. The first girl in his sixth grade class to wear a bra. Sylvie’s birthstone ring had cut the corner of his right eye. He still carried the scar.

Sylvie had been the only female ever to hurt him. On the whole, women loved Romeo. He loved them back. He kissed, stroked, and took them to bed as often as was humanly possible. He enjoyed buying them gifts, taking them on expensive dates, making them feel desirable.

He could always find something special that set each one apart. Soft skin, pretty eyes, a good
personality, a nurturing nature, a love of sports or politics.

He drew women with a wink and a smile. He liked to flirt and tease. Liked to fill the ladies with as much lustful yearning as he felt in their presence.

He’d known a lot of lust in his lifetime.

It was now five o’clock. The exact time the receptionist had told him Emerson Kent would be leaving the
Virginia Banner.
Housed in a building older than time, the
Banner
occupied the top five of the twenty floors. The majority of the reporters had passed retirement age. Emerson was the first new blood in a decade. The first to write a sports article for women, and make it to syndication.

Romeo planned to charm the sports reporter into a new outfit, as well as writing a nice article on the Rogues.

He’d circled the block twice and found parking places nonexistent. Engine running, he doubleparked his Dodge Viper behind a sporty BMW Z4, then focused on the main entrance to the building. People slowly trickled out. Mostly men. He waited and waited. No sign of Emerson Kent.

Two minutes after six and she appeared. He recognized her immediately. Feathered chestnut hair, her signature red-framed glasses, and a cocoa-brown pantsuit that didn’t hide her curves. Her leather briefcase was her only concession to the fact that she worked in a man’s world.

Her strides purposeful, she walked directly toward him. He tracked her movements as she
rounded his car. Disregarding his smile, she jabbed a finger from his Viper to the Beemer. “You’re blocking my car.”

So the hot little ride belonged to her. He’d have taken her for an Avalon or a Lumina, not red, sleek, and convertible. He wondered how often the woman went topless. If she let the wind muss her hair? Threw caution to the wind? “Didn’t know that was your car.”

“Now that you do, pull up so I can back out.” She retrieved her car keys from a cigar box purse.

She hadn’t given him a second look.
Major putdown,
he could hear Psycho and Chaser chuckle. A first for Romeo.

Swinging his car door wide, he unfolded himself from the driver’s seat. Emerson jumped back, frowned. He’d nearly taken her out a second time. She took him in, from his long-sleeved white shirt rolled up his forearms, down to his dark jeans and black Pumas. Her eyes narrowed and her lips pursed. The air between them cooled.

She didn’t like him. The thought struck him square between the eyes. Left him uneasy.

“Romeo Bellisaro.” He went with a formal introduction.

She was slow in taking his hand. A quick connection and release. “I know who you are, but not why you’re here.”

“I came to apologize for backing into you on the sidelines during Media Day.”

Her green gaze sharpened behind her red frames. “You
slammed
into me. Knocked me down.”

“I would have helped you up if the player I was fighting had backed off an inch.”

“Ryker Black
was
in your face.”

“Our fight went beyond the Psycho-Collier skirmish. It gave Black an opportunity to pound me for smiling at his girlfriend.”

“Must have been some smile.”

“Harmless, but Black read it as a sexual invitation.”

“Was that your motive?”

“I don’t mess with other men’s women.”

“I guess Black saw it differently.”

“He’s gone dumb and blind over some Hooters chic. He doesn’t trust other men near her. Black’s an ex-marine, served his country out of college before signing with the Rogues.” He ran his thumb over a split lip. “Man has a wicked hook. The fight should never have reached the sidelines.”

“You got in one good punch.”

“You saw?” The fact she’d noticed pleased him. “I blackened his eye.”

“You’re lucky he didn’t mess up your pretty face.”

His pretty face.
The bane of his existence. “Black can be intimidating.”

“I’ve heard he chews pitchers up and spits them out.”

“Leaves only bones.”

She smiled then. And Romeo fell to her smile. He’d never been affected by the simple parting of
a woman’s lips, yet Emerson Kent struck him harder than Ryker Black.

Her green eyes held humor. Her cheek a dimple. Her mouth was perfectly formed, he noticed. To him, the slight gap between her front teeth was a total turn on.

He stared so long, her smile faded. She tapped her watch. The band was fashioned with curved sterling silver spoons, and it sported a wide Roman numeral face. “It’s late.”

“You have plans?”

“Plans to eat dinner and work on an article for Sunday’s paper.”

“What’s the article about?”

“A column predicting the pennant races.”

Romeo hated reporters and their predictions. “Rogues are a safe bet.”

She shook her head. “Not this year. The Bat Pack’s out of the rotation for thirteen games. The Rogues have always banked on their power hitters.”

“Others will step up to the plate,” he said with more assurance than he actually felt. “Rhaden Dunn and James Lawless have power.”

“Both are hitting weak, .226 and .215 respectively for the spring. They need support. The only player with plate power is Risk Kincaid. He can’t carry the team.”

“Our bullpen—”

“Is lean,” she said, cutting him off. “Tendonitis in his elbow could sideline Cooper Smith. The
stress fracture in Roan Ginachio’s back could end his career. Psycho took the only pitcher with promise out of the game. Chris Collier will be sitting the bench until his vision clears.”

“What about Jason Maseratti?”

“No speed. No command. Last season he walked eighty-six batters in one hundred fortytwo innings.”

Romeo shifted his stance. “Thought you wrote about players, their dates, and dining experiences. When did you start quoting stats?”

“I flew to Fort Myers and watched spring training.”

She’d been in Florida? “I didn’t see you with the media hounds.”

“I bought a ticket and sat in the stands.”

“How many games?”

“Six. No one played harder than the Bat Pack. You took preseason as the real deal. Set the standard for Opening Day, until Psycho took out his own teammate before God and the press.”

“Chris Collier threw to maim. Psycho had no other recourse.”

“Fists are always the answer.” She nodded toward her car, bent to open the door. “I need to leave.”

Kiss off.
He could picture Psycho’s and Chaser’s wide grins. They’d be loving the fact that Emerson Kent wasn’t into him.

“I hoped to buy you dinner,” he said to her back.

She looked over her shoulder. There was a
flicker of surprise in her green eyes. “Reason behind the invitation?”

“So I could take you shopping afterward and buy you a new suit. The one you wore on Media Day got torn and grass-stained.”

She turned slowly. “Guy Powers sent you to pacify me.”

Heat crept up Romeo’s neck. “He made the suggestion; I acted on it.”

She stared at him, openly assessing his offer. “What color was my ruined suit?”

Color?
“What does it matter?”

“On the sidelines with other reporters, I’m one of the guys. I don’t expect to be treated any differently. If you’d knocked down Albert Timmons, would he have gotten a meal and a new pair of pants?”

Timmons…reporter for the
Richmond Times.
Emerson’s chief competitor covering Sports. And a thorn in every player’s side. Short and wiry, the man would elbow his grandmother in the gut to get a story. More than once, he’d shown up in the Rogues locker room, as excited over a loss as over a win. Albert rubbed the players’ noses in their mistakes. The man was mean-spirited. Took cheap shots.

“Timmons wouldn’t have gotten even an apology.”

“Let it go, Romeo.” Her car door clicked, and she eased it open.

Damn! He’d noticed Emerson on the side
lines, had checked her out just like every other member of his team. Romeo had liked what he’d seen: an attractive, no-nonsense woman who fit into a man’s world and held the respect of her peers.

There was a heartbeat of silence before he raked his hand through his hair and said, “Red blazer, white blouse, and navy slacks. When I first saw you, I appreciated your sporting our team colors. Your hair was braided. Navy pumps.” He paused. “Media badge on your left breast.”

Her eyebrows arched. “Pretty detailed for a man posturing for the press.”

“I never posture,” he corrected. “You were the only female on the sidelines. I gave you a second look.” He always noticed how a woman dressed. From suits to panties, he complimented them down to nothing but skin.

“Jewelry?” she tested him further.

“Hoops at your ears, and as for a necklace”—he lowered his gaze, took in her breasts—“classic gold chain with a cross nestled in your cleavage.”

“Lucky guess.”

“Lucky breasts.” A lazy smile spread across his lips. “I own Bellisaro Americano, a sports bar at Riverside Mall. We can dine in privacy. Make it a working dinner if you like. We can talk World Series.”

She hesitated. Her reluctance confused Romeo. Women asked him out as often as he requested dates. Psycho and Chaser would be laughing their asses off over Emerson’s indecision.

“I owe you a new suit and I’ll toss in a pair of shoes,” he added for good measure.

“I’d prefer a gift certificate.”

“I’d prefer to be there for your selection.”

She blew out a breath. “As long as we make it quick.”

“I don’t do quick.” He cured her of that notion. “Time spent with a woman is best enjoyed slow.”

Returning to his car, he pulled forward. Once she’d backed out and was behind him, he eased into traffic. He kept a close eye on her in his rearview mirror, not wanting to lose her in rushhour traffic.

His heart slowed when he ran a yellow light and she chose to stop. After that she disappeared in traffic, and he wasn’t sure she’d even show until she pulled into the parking lot twenty-seven minutes later. He released a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

She’d had him wondering…

He jumped out of his car, went to meet her.

“I stopped for gasoline,” she explained, her laptop in hand.

Gasoline
and groceries.
He caught sight of three brown bags on the passenger seat. A loaf of bread, bottled water, and a roll of paper towels were all visible. Emerson Kent had hit a convenience store while he’d sat in his car and counted the minutes.

She hadn’t been in a hurry to meet him.

There’d been no breathless giggle or kiss to his cheek. No reaching for his hand. No brush of her body.

Damn disconcerting.

There was silence between them as they crossed the parking lot and entered the sports bar. Two feet inside the door, Romeo was recognized. And mobbed. So much for privacy.

He shot Emerson an apologetic look as requests for autographs multiplied. Autographs were as much a part of professional baseball as playing the game. He’d never turned a fan away. He signed place mats, napkins, unpaid bills, and T-shirts. Two female fans kissed him. One on the cheek, the other full on the mouth. With a hint of tongue.

Ladies slid their phone numbers into the pockets of his jeans. Their fingertips stretching toward his sex.

From behind, the scrape of a tapered nail along the waistband of his jeans warned of someone checking to see if he wore boxers or briefs. He twisted slightly. No need to flash his bare ass.

Thirty minutes shot by before the crowd thinned enough for him to locate Emerson. He found her seated in a black vinyl booth against the wall, her laptop on the table. Typing furiously.

His gut told him he wouldn’t be happy with her latest article. He caught the title beneath the blinking Budweiser sign: B
URGERS, FRIES, AND A SIDE OF JESSE BELLISARO.
Which set his teeth on edge.

Scooting in beside her, he tried to read what she had written. He caught
A woman could starve to death waiting for a Rogue to join her for dinner
before she hit
SAVE
and closed the laptop on his fingers.

“Thought you were forecasting the upcoming season.” He tried to pry the laptop open.

She leaned her elbow on the lid, squished his fingers. “That’s for the Sunday edition. Sports has space for another piece this week. Something for women. Something fun.”

He winced. “You’re going to make fun of me?”

“You’ve got entertainment value.” She cracked the top of the laptop and he pulled his fingers free. Her gaze next lit on his mouth. “You’re pretty, Romeo, but red lipstick’s not your color. You might try dusty rose or champagne pink.”

Romeo snagged a napkin, grimacing when he scrubbed his split lip. “Better?”

She nodded. “Now how about some space. Would you mind sitting across from me? I feel crowded.”

Crowded?
His dates always snuggled close. Some hand-fed him the entire meal. Emerson, however, tapped her fingers, waiting for him to move. He begrudgingly did so.

Emerson Kent breathed a sigh of relief when Romeo got to his feet and slid into the other side of the booth. If truth be told, she couldn’t bear his sitting so close. He was simply too good-looking. She didn’t want to stare.

A male in his prime, he bore the all-American blond hair of his mother, the brown eyes and charm of his Italian father. He was built for play, both on and off the field. His gaze hit her like a surprise kiss. Quick, intense, and oh-so-very hot.