From Left Field: A Hot Baseball Romance (Diamond Brides Book 7) (8 page)

“Sorry, darlin’,” he said. “You’re the one who’s going to be beat. As you say, fair and square.” He slipped his fingers around his shaft, and his balls tightened on command.

“Sure,” she said, her voice low and tempting. “Because you’re raising a million dollars while you’re out there on the road.”

He was raising something. He tightened his jaw so she wouldn’t hear his stuttered breath, and he forced his voice to stay level as he said, “I’ve got minions, babe. And they’re planning a BUNT gala, even as we’re talking.”

Which was the truth, even if he didn’t give a damn about the dinner dance right now. He’d hired the best party organizer in Raleigh, about five minutes before he’d headed out of town. Monique would organize the whole thing, and all he had to do was show up.

“Ooh,” Haley cooed, as if she were impressed. “
Minions
. I bet they take care of
everything
for you. Aren’t
you
the big man around town.”

Jesus. Minions couldn’t take care of his hard-on right now. Minions couldn’t take care of the image he had, of Haley’s arched eyebrows, of her snort of disdain. He forced himself to answer, to say something that sounded remotely normal, even as his cock told him to finish up the conversation
now
. “One week from tonight. At the Claibourne, in the Grand Ballroom. Wear your dancing shoes, and bring your checkbook.”

She snorted. “Adam Sartain, have you
ever
seen me in dancing shoes?”

His breath came faster. He closed his eyes, imagining that it was Haley’s hand on his cock, her tongue that licked his lips, imagining she was hot and sweaty beside him, beneath him. He grunted, “What are you wearing now?”

Her guffaw shocked him back to reality—to a New York hotel room, a glass of watered-down booze, and a cell phone that burned against his ear. “Does that line
ever
work with women?”

As his dick wilted, he forced himself to match her laugh. “I thought it might with you,” he said.

“Hello? Have we just met? I’m Haley Thurman, your next-door neighbor? The girl you’ve known for more than thirty years?”

He blew out a breath and gulped the last of the Scotch. “Okay, so you won’t be wearing dancing shoes. But you’ll come to the gala?”

“To help you raise money so you can buy the Reeves farm out from under me.”

He shook his head, lips pulling down at her acid tone. “Pretty much. Yeah.”

She sighed and said, “I’ll be there.”

He lay on the bed for a moment, trying to think of something else to say, something to keep the conversation going. Haley took away the option, though. “
You
should get some sleep,” she said. “And I have the end of a movie to watch.”

“Haley—” he started, even though he had no idea what came next.

She made some sort of questioning sound, giving him permission to go on.

“I just… I wanted…” What the hell was he going to say?
I was hoping for some scalding phone sex, so I made this long-distance booty call?
Yeah. Right. He swallowed hard and said, “Congratulations on the bake sale. It looks like it was a good start.”

“Sure,” she said, her teasing tone make him go hard all over again. “Go ahead and humor me. But you won’t be laughing when I show up at Sam Reeves’ front door with the winning check.”

He couldn’t think of a smart answer to that. Instead, he settled for, “Dream on.” He shoved down all the things he wanted to say, all the things that would change their friendship forever. He followed up with, “Get a good night’s sleep.”

“You too,” she said.

He didn’t want to be the first one to hang up. But it seemed like Haley didn’t have similar qualms. He was left staring at a scorching phone, an empty glass, and the sorriest excuse for a hard-on he’d ever seen in his life.

Haley made a last-minute check in the bathroom mirror at the Claibourne Hotel. No mascara smeared under her eyes—check. No lipstick on her teeth—check. Single strand of pearls that had been a Sweet Sixteen gift from her grandmother—check. Little black dress not slipping off her shoulders, bunching under her boobs, or otherwise preparing to embarrass her—check, at least for the moment.

That just left the shoes.

Haley owned precisely one pair of shoes that had a prayer of elevating her simple knit dress from casual wear to evening attire. Girlfriends had assured her multiple times that the three-inch heels really weren’t that daring, but she begged to differ. Three inches were a hell of a lot more than the Keds she usually wore. They even put her navy pumps to shame.

And they rubbed blisters around the backs of her heels like a mother.

She rolled her eyes and told herself she was a big girl. She could take it. The alternative was letting Adam think she was too chicken to show up at his gala.

The bathroom door opened and a trio of Raleigh society matrons rolled in, bringing a cloud of perfume and stern looks of disapproval at Haley’s decidedly unfashionable dress.

Time to take her leave, before the old biddies started making pointed comments about how
some
people couldn’t be bothered to put on decent lip-liner these days. Haley grabbed for her ridiculously tiny clutch purse and escaped toward the ballroom.

She had to hand it to Adam—he’d pulled together a classy event. She wasn’t quite sure how he’d done it, either. He’d been on the road until Wednesday, and the Rockets had started a grueling home stand against St. Louis. At least they’d had an early game that afternoon; Adam had ended up with a few spare hours before he’d needed to don his tuxedo and play host.

The ballroom was decorated with accents of bright green, BUNT’s signature shade. Tall tables held arrangements of wildflowers, thrown together with such haphazard grace that Haley knew someone had taken hours to complete the displays. Four bars were scattered around the room, serving up complimentary beer and wine and a specialty cocktail that riffed on a Lemon Drop and was called a Sunny Afternoon.

Giant screens dominated the walls, and carefully synchronized photos flashed across the surfaces—laughing children running across a green field, studious boys and girls peering into a jar of pond water, kids of every age leaning out the windows of a giant treehouse.

The good mood was infectious. Everywhere Haley looked, people were smiling, laughing, having a good time. More than once, she saw the flash of pen on paper, the discreet movement as a check changed hands. Everything was classy. Everything was elegant. Everything connoted big money for a big cause, and Haley felt a surge of jealousy so hot she almost fell off her three-inch heels.

“Wow!” she heard behind her—Michael’s voice. She turned around to meet her brother’s goggle-eyed astonishment. He surveyed her from head to toe and said, “You look exactly like my sister, but she wouldn’t be caught dead in a dress and heels.”

She smiled her sweetest smile as she flipped him the bird. “Come on, big brother. If I have to be here, at least I can take a turn on the dance floor.”

Adam had skipped an expensive band, opting instead for a disk jockey. The woman wore a black T-shirt tucked into black skinny jeans, and she looked comfortable enough that Haley seriously considered bribing her to change clothes. Not that Haley could get the DJ’s attention. The woman was working with actual vinyl, managing two turntables at once, mixing her own transitions from song to song. While she looked likely to handle anything the hip-hop world might throw at her, she was sticking to much more traditional music for the gala. Frank Sinatra gave way to Nat King Cole who yielded the floor to Louis Armstrong.

Michael bowed like some sort of medieval knight. “May I have this dance?” he asked, extending his hand in perfect cotillion etiquette.

After completing painful dance classes with her Girl Scout troop, Haley was the one who’d taught her brothers to waltz, Michael and Billy both, with Adam thrown in for good measure. They’d spent hours in the basement, Haley switching to hiking boots when her toes screamed in protest at the boys’ clumsiness. With each of them, she’d started out leading, getting them used to the rhythm, but then she’d handed over responsibility, letting them guide her around the coffee table, over to the TV, back to the card table in the corner.

Adam had been the slowest study of all.

She’d expected more from him. He was an athlete, after all. He listened well enough to his coach telling him how to slide into second, how to adjust his throw so he could hit the cut-off man every time. But no matter how often she shifted Adam’s hand on her waist, no matter how many times she folded her fingers around his, he just couldn’t get the feel of a waltz.

Michael, on the other hand, was a natural. He guided her onto the crowded hardwood floor, dropping into the easy one-two-three of the dance without any visible thought. “I’m surprised to see you here,” he said.

“Why? Adam’s a friend. It’s only neighborly to show up at his fundraiser.”

Michael snorted. “What is it with you two and neighborly?
Neighborly
is buying a Christmas wreath from a Boy Scout—not underwriting his effort to buy the Reeves farm out from under you.”

“Right. Like any check I could write would make a big difference to him now.”

A vertical line cut into the space between Michael’s eyebrows. “I don’t know, Haley. From the stuff that’s coming out in the paper, he’s in bad financial shape.”

“Bad shape for a millionaire is different than bad shape for you and me. He owns his house outright, so he won’t be out on the street any time soon.”

She felt Michael’s tiny shrug through her fingertips on his shoulder. “I’m just saying it looks strange. The two of you are fighting over that piece of land but you’re here to support him, all dressed up like a fish out of water.”

“B minus for the mixed metaphor, brother dearest,” Haley said, but she had to consider the truth of his words. Why
was
she at the gala?

Because Adam asked her to come
. There it was again—that stupid, swooping feeling, hollowing out the pit of her stomach like she was looking over the edge of a twenty-story building.

When Adam had invited her, she’d heard something in his voice, a tightness, a
need
. The guy was going through hell with his manager. And even though she was pissed that he’d interfered with her plans for the farm, she knew how dedicated he was to the Foundation. He truly wanted to help those kids. He wanted to make a difference—now and long after his playing years were over. She
had
to help.

Michael pulled her into a tight turn. “I just don’t want you getting hurt, Haley.”

She smiled into his concerned eyes. “I won’t,” she said. “I’m not a little kid any more, waiting for my big brother to rescue me on the playground.”

“Did I ever do that?” Michael asked.

“Huh,” Haley said. “I guess not. You and Billy just toughened me up at home so I could stand on my own two feet. Thanks, I guess.”

He grinned. “You know, you
could
show your eternal gratitude by weekly deliveries of Triple Chocolate Brownies from now till the end of time.”

“Fat chance of that,” she said. “I served my time.”

“With
nothing
off for good behavior.”

She was just shifting her hand to punch him on the arm—hard—when she saw Adam on the dance floor.

Adam, dancing with Missy Newton. Adam, a full head taller than the doll-like Missy, even though she wore spiky stilt-like sandals. Adam, looking like a movie star with his tux framing the perfect folds of Missy’s crimson, floor-length gown.

He was still a lousy dancer. But he looked down into Missy’s eyes, and he smiled at whatever she said, laughing as he pulled her close before he attempted an awkward little whirl at the edge of the hardwood. Missy threw back her head like she was having the time of her life. Adam pulled her even closer, barely keeping the timing right, just maintaining the rhythm.

And then he caught sight of Haley, and he nodded, flashing her the roguish smile she’d known her entire life. “Shit,” she whispered to Michael, and then she bit her lower lip, remembering too late that she’d smear her lipstick.

Adam swept up with Missy in his arms. He jutted his chin toward Michael in a casual greeting, and then his gaze took in Haley from the top of her messy-haired head to the tip of her aching toes. He looked earnest when he met her eyes. “I’m glad you could make it,” he said.

“You know me,” Haley said, fighting to ignore the ridiculous tightening in her gut. “Raleigh’s number one party girl.”

Michael gave her a look that said she’d gone insane. Adam understood she was joking. But Missy narrowed her eyes and said, “That’s what I like about you, Haley. You always have such a sense of … personal style.”

Haley started to spout off a hot reply, but she remembered just in time that she was a guest at this event. At a bare minimum, she was expected to keep the peace. “It’s not often I have a chance to dress up. Not with all the time I spend at Paws.”

Missy’s tight smile turned into a pout, and she shifted her hand from Adam’s shoulder to the back of his neck. Her elaborate shrug seemed designed to pull her closer to Adam. At least, he obliged. Haley tried to make his fingers combust through the power of her glare as Missy sang, “What can you do, when you’re dealing with mutts and misfits?”

Bring it on, bitch.
Oh. That wasn’t something Haley could say, at least not out loud, here, at a society event. But she could think it really loudly as she said, “A lot of mutts are healthier than purebreds. They’re far less likely to have epilepsy, hip dysplasia, or hypothyroidism.”

Missy glared from the shelter of Adam’s arms. “My puppies have none of those—”

“Of course not,” Haley agreed rapidly, because Michael’s fingers were excavating her hip. But she knew three different customers who’d put down puppies they’d bought from Missy. And that didn’t begin to take into account the living hell of the breeding animals at the puppy mills that fueled Fab Fidos. The woman was a menace.