Holm, Stef Ann (6 page)

"Let
me assure you," she continued, "this is on the up-and-up."

For
an instant, he let himself think about getting all that money. Then his mind
flashed on what he'd have to do for it. He couldn't. Not for six thousand. Not
for sixty thousand.

"Did
you know Cy Young has only given up two home runs so far this season? Pitch
against him and you could shake up the statistics, Mr. Cordova."

Trying
to sweeten the deal by appealing to his ego wouldn't work. But his pulse picked
up a notch. Cy Young. The last time Alex had pitched against the right-hander,
Young had been playing for the Cleveland Spiders. And beat him and the Orioles.

Six
grand.
Hell.

He
rose from the crate. "Young's in the National League—I couldn't very well
play against him now, could I?"

"He
left the National League for a better offer," she quickly replied. She
kept her distance, but she was close enough for her perfume to encompass his
senses like a lover's embrace. "This year, Mr. Young is with the Boston
Somersets. American League."

Conflict
raged in Alex, twisted in his belly. It would be fun to go after Cy, but that's
not what this was about. She'd put the offer on the table. Big money. But how
could he take it without going back on a promise he'd made to himself?

She
waited, expectantly. She showed no signs of relenting. He cursed. She'd hit him
up on a day where he couldn't say no. He needed the money. He had no choice.

Straight
white teeth snagged her bottom lip. She hastily added, "I can also offer
you your own hotel room on road games and—"

"You
had me with the six thou, Miss Kennison." It was with a clenched jaw that
he said, "I'll do it."

"You
will?"

He
quipped, "You want me to change my mind?"

"No!"

"Then
you'd better close your mouth and get that contract written up before I
do."

He'd
only play out the season. A bonus for advertising rights was usually paid up
front but covered a long period of time. The extra money now would give him
living expenses while he had to cut back on carpentry jobs. And as soon as
September was a page off the calendar, he'd be on a train to Buffalo with
Captain.

"Oh...
oh, well!" She extended her hand for him to shake.

He
did so. Only this time he didn't let himself feel the softness of her skin—just
the grip of her fingers. This was a business transaction. Cut and dried.

"Welcome
aboard, Mr. Cordova," she said eagerly. "The Keystones are happy to
have you."

"Yeah.
Sure."

"My
father's lawyer will draw up the contract. He can meet with you in Mr. Stykem's
office—shall we say eleven o'clock?"

Alex
nodded.

"Eleven
o'clock, then." She walked backward while she said it, as if she felt she
had to make a quick getaway or else he would back out in spite of what he said.

He
let her go with a warning not to set him up in the future. "I can be
bought, honey, but I can't be had. Cy Young's given up only one home run this
year. To Roscoe Miller of the Detroit Tigers."

Her
cheeks paled; then she turned in a swirl of skirts and left the wood shop.

Camille
attempted to walk away as gracefully as she could, but it was an effort to keep
one foot in front of the other. She could feel his gaze on her back, hot and
steady. Observant. As if he could see right through her skirt to the frilly
petticoat beneath.

She
never should have fibbed about Cy Young. But just how had Alex known about Cy
when he claimed not to follow baseball? The embellishment had been meant to
entice Alex into taking her offer.

But
it had been she who'd been enticed by him.

From
the moment he'd taken her hand in his, an unfamiliar thrill had swept through
her. She'd felt breathless and warm. Almost unable to move. Although she'd been
taken by him, she'd done her best to hide her emotions. And was fairly certain
she had succeeded.

But
it hadn't been easy.

His
eyes were dark and fathomless—keepers of the enigma that was Alex Cordova. And
for a reckless moment, when he smoothed the wood with a caressing hand, she'd
imagined what it would be like for those large hands to skim over her body.

As
he worked, black hair fell in a part down the middle of his head; the ends were
just shy of being long enough to tuck behind his ears. He probably thought the
wild, untamed image suited him. Kept people at bay.

Well,
it
hadn't kept Camille Kennison at bay.

She'd
gotten him.

Oh
my goodness!

Rounding
the corner of Elm and heading down Hackberry Way, she was able to relax. But
her mind continued to whirl. As she walked, she went from laughing to keeping a
hand over her heart to still its thumping beats. She couldn't wait to share her
news. She felt like dancing on air.

But
then she hurtled back to earth as reality struck.

Her
father had decreed that whoever got Alex Cordova could be the manger of the
Keystones. Of course he would never hold her to that.

She
wanted no part of the job. She liked baseball quite a lot, but for the most
part, the players were crude. All that spitting and adjusting their athletic
supporters. Most of them cursed and few of them apologized for it. They carried
on with women in saloons. Drank beer. They thrived on fistfights and arguments
with the umpires.

Manage
baseball players? No thank you.

She'd
be happy to sit and enjoy the games now that the Keystones had a chance. Seeing
Alex Cordova play would be wonderfully exciting.

Who
was she kidding? When she told her father whom she'd payed a call on before
Alex, whom she'd asked for thirty-five hundred dollars, she wouldn't be around
to watch Alex pitch in his first game.

Because
her father was going to kill her.

* * * * *

The
slam of the front door announced James Kennison's arrival home. Camille and her
mother sat in the parlor when he came in and went to the liquor cabinet
straightaway. Without a word, he poured a himself a short tumbler of sipping
whiskey.

As
he sank into his favorite lounging chair, he moaned and stared into space with
a blank and beaten expression on his face. "We lost again."

Camille
waited several seconds before speaking.

"Then
my news will be just the thing to cheer you up," she said in a bright tone
though her insides were quaking.

"Nothing
could cheer me up."

Looking
up from the needlework in her lap, her mother said, "Maybe you should hear
her news, James. I know I'm interested."

"Very
well, what is it, Camille sugar?"

"I
went to see Alex Cordova today," she divulged without preamble.

Surprise
registered on both her parents' faces at the same time.

"Camille,
you didn't," her mother admonished.

Blustering,
her father said, "I told you not to go out on Elm Street."

"Yes,
I know. But I went out there on Keystones business for you, so I didn't think
you'd mind."

"I
do mind. I said that it wasn't respectable for a young lady to—What kind of
Keystones business?" A questioning expression crossed his face. "You
didn't approach Cordova to play baseball, did you? I told you nobody—"

She
cut in with a rush. "As a matter of fact, I did. I offered him the
standard American League salary. Twenty-five hundred dollars."

"Camille"—her
mother leaned forward—"did you really make him an offer?"

She
nodded.

"And?"
Her father eyed her with the dubious scrutiny he'd give a new hardware catalog
with prices lower than his.

"And,"
she echoed, "he accepted."

Her
words hovered in the air and his eyes grew large. "You're not
serious."

"I
am serious."

"Twenty-five
hundred? You asked him? He said yes?"

"Yes."

"My
God." The mustache on his lip curved—actually, more like twitched. "I
can't believe it." Then his eyes narrowed. "What did you do to make
the difference?"

The
front bell cranked, chiming through the parlor like a shriek. Her father
jumped. So did Camille, but for different reasons. She still had that other
matter to mention and she wanted to get it over with.

The
caller cranked the bell once more, a long and deliberate spin of the chime key
that ground out the monotone note for a full five seconds.

"Leda!"
His brows shot into an angry frown. "Answer the door before whoever's out
there breaks the bell!"

"Hold
your shirttail. I'm on my way," Leda snipped, walking across the parlor
rug. She entered the foyer and swung the door open. "Yes?"

A
man's voice drifted to the parlor. "Good evening. Bertram Nops to see the
rusty hinge who calls himself a merchant."

Camille
sucked in a sharp breath and was certain the color drained from her face.

"Nops!"
her
father spat. "I don't want to talk to that lug nut. Leda, tell him to get his
carcass off my veranda."

In
spite of his directive, the housemaid appeared beneath the grillwork that led
into the parlor. She wasn't alone. "Mr. Nops is here."

Jerking
out of his chair, Camille's father blared, "Nops, I want you out of my
house."

Mr.
Nops didn't heed him. Instead, he held out his hat for Leda, who took it, then
proceeded into the room as if he were an honored guest.

"Kennison,"
he greeted his rival in a well-pleased tone. "Mrs. Kennison. And Miss
Kennison, a pleasure to see you again."

She
forced a smile. Mr. Nops had no upper lip, a fact that was brought to attention
when he smiled and his mouth grew wide. A brown hairpiece swooped far down on
his forehead, making what would have been obvious more so. His eyebrows were a
bit too pointy in the middle—as if they'd been drawn by Old Scratch.

What
had she been thinking?

"So,"
he said, rubbing his hands together and clearly relishing the moment. She knew
full well why. "I gave Alastair Stykem a bank note for the thirty-five
hundred. Everything is neat as a pin. All set for tomorrow."

Her
father's stare traveled between her and Mr. Nops. "What's all set for
tomorrow? And what in the blue blazes does thirty-five hundred dollars have to
do with it?"

Mr.
Nops chuckled, then chortled when he apparently realized her father was in the
dark. "She hasn't told you?"

"Told
me what?"

It
was impossible to steady her pulse, so she might as well say what she had to.
"You see, Daddy, I needed a bonus to convince Mr. Cordova to play for you.
Without an added incentive, I knew I couldn't have gotten him to sign. After
all, he has turned you down for the same amount. So I asked Mr. Nops to go into
partnership with us on this one small thing."

"Good
God, Camille. Why did you do
that?"

"Because
I needed three thousand five hundred dollars."

"So
you went to the biggest double-talker in Harmony?" Because her father
stood nearly on top of his competitor, his irate voice practically blew Mr.
Nops's toupee up his forehead. "Nops, you could argue a gopher into buying
a tree."

Mr.
Nops snorted with laughter. "That's a good one, Kennison. And quite
true."

Bertram
Nops wasn't Harmony's most trusted businessman. But he'd been a sure thing when
it came to supplying the money Camille needed. For nearly a decade, Mr. Nops
had been envious that her father owned his own baseball team. And recently,
with the Keystones going professional, Mr. Nops had turned a full shade of
green.

The
look on his face when Camille had presented him her idea... well, he'd gotten
so excited he'd had to flip the open sign on the door to closed so no customers
would intrude when he made her repeat herself just to be sure he'd heard her
correctly.

Her
father acted as if she'd schemed up something foolhardy. She'd put a lot of
thought into her plan. "Daddy, my intentions were to bring an end to the
ridiculous hardware store war you two have been engaged in for the past ten
years. This way you both have a vested interest in Alex Cordova and can work
together."

Her
father yelled, "Nops owns more of him than I do by
one thousand
dollars!"

"But
you still own the whole team, Kennison!" Mr. Nops yelled back.

Her
mother interrupted. "Gentlemen, I think there's validity to what Camille
did, and if you'd both stop shouting at one another, you'd see that this could
be a very beneficial arrangement."

Her
father braced his hands on his waist. "A beneficial arrangement? I fail to
see the benefit in it." Turning to Camille, he lashed out. "How could
you promise this flathead screw a part of the Keystones without asking me? It
was stupid of you, Camille." He drew in a deep breath and exhaled,
"It was beyond
stupid!"