Love of the Game (18 page)

R
eally? Axel could taste it too?

Kasha stopped breathing. With a trembling hand, she raised the glass to her lips and swallowed. The wine tasted even better than it had before—brilliant and warm and sweet and rich. Just as she imagined his lips would taste.

God, she wanted him to kiss her so badly she couldn't stand it. Even as she understood that desire had the ability to dismantle her life, she could no more stop her thoughts than she could prevent the sun from setting.

“I know why you told me it tasted bad.” He waggled a jesting finger at her. “You wanted to keep it all for yourself.”

“Uh-huh,” she said, because she could barely breathe. Let him think that she was greedy instead of petrified.

He held up the bottle. Examined the faded label. “True Love, huh? Hmm. Gotta say, it's true love between me and this wine, and I'm not much of a wine drinker.”

Kasha could hear her own heartbeat whooshing through her ears, rushing hard and fast.
He's the one. He's the one. He's the one.

No. Couldn't be. Myth. Folly. Active imagination.

But her inner self whispered,
Truth
.

“You like it?” she said, scandalized at how smoky her voice sounded.

“I love it. Best damn wine I've ever had. Where did you get it?”

A flush of emotion pushed at her as she experienced overwhelming emotions—bliss, fear, disbelief, hope, excitement, dread. She set the wineglass back on the table, folded her hands in her lap. She wasn't about to tell him about the hope chest. “Jodi.”

“Ask her where she got it. I want to stock up.”

Every cell in Kasha's body was trembling, and her blood sang.
It's him. Axel Richmond is your soul mate.
Nonsense. Craziness.

But oh! How she wanted to believe, and that was scariest of all.

To calm herself, she slowed her breathing and turned her attention to the lake. A trio of sailboats listed into the wind, sails rippling whitely under the dusky sky, and the lulling sounds of gently flapping canvas traveled across the water.

She remembered coming to the lakeside when she was young, picnicking with her family, swimming in the cove, sunbathing on the sand. Breeanne would rest under an umbrella with a book while her father fished and her mother spread out the food, and she and Suki and Jodi chased each other along the shore.

The images came to her, a flipbook of sweet, happy memories crowding out the darker ones buried deep in the basement of her brain, memories of the days before she found her way to the Carlyles.

Kasha closed her eyes and bit her lip, trying to keep those visions at bay, but she couldn't help seeing the small girl hiding at the bottom of her closet, or climbing up on the roof to get away, or covered in blood, shivering in the Carlyles' garden shed. But she was safe now. Had been for a long time. She'd put
those memories behind her. Hadn't really thought of them since she was a teenager.

Until Howard Johnson called her about Emma and jettisoned her back to the time and place she thought she'd tucked away forever.

“Kasha?” Axel nudged her gently with his foot, dragging the toe of his sandal along the back of her calf.

“Huh?” She blinked at him, surprised to find the sun had set and only tendrils of dying light remained.

“Where did you go?” he asked huskily.

“Nowhere.” She offered up a faint smile. “I'm right here with you.”

He looked as if he was about to say something, but thought better of it. “Are you all right?”

“Fine. Yes, of course. Why wouldn't I be?” She picked up her wineglass, drank more of the miraculous deliciousness to prove she was fine and having fun.

He scooted his chair around so that they were sitting side by side staring out at the water together, the rest of the diners behind them. He was using his body to wall them off in their own little world and she was more grateful than he could possibly know.

The band, which had taken a break, was back now. Playing a slow, sweet ballad that took her a moment to identify. “Keeper of the Stars.”

Axel reached out and laid his hand over hers.

A lump rose in her throat. She closed her eyes, fought back a wave of nostalgia for something she'd never had. Unable to bear the tenderness of his touch, she moved her hand, going for the wineglass.

Took a gulp.

The wine—which tasted of the sweetest corners of heaven—loosened Kasha's reserve, and she kicked
off her flip-flops, tucked her feet up underneath her in the chair, and reached back to undo her braid, letting her hair uncoil across her shoulders.

Be careful that it doesn't loosen your tongue.

She was terrified that if she spoke, she'd say what she'd been thinking ever since they started working together.

Take me to bed.

Thankfully, the waiter appeared with their fajitas, and the band shifted into a far less romantic song. Yay.

They shared the fajitas, sitting so close their shoulders bumped from time to time as they reached over to spear grilled bell peppers and caramelized onion slices and meaty mushrooms and roasted summer squash dusted with chili powder and cumin.

They passed each other tortillas and beans and rice; the easy camaraderie that had been with them throughout the entire day returned. They ate and watched the sunset and drank wine and talked about nothing and everything.

The air around Stardust thickened, and a moist orange hue spilled across the purple-blue stretch of cooling twilight sky. Kasha inhaled deeply, relishing the tangy sting of roasted chipotle peppers rafting on the evening breeze, and released a long, contented sigh.

A perfect day indeed.

“Do you want another tortilla?” Axel asked, lifting the lid on the red plastic warmer, steam rolling off the flour tortillas.

“I've already had three. You're a bad influence.” Kasha laid a hand over her stomach. “I'm stuffed.”

He took the tortilla; filled it with refried beans, rice, grated cheddar, guacamole, and sour cream; and folded it up into a neat little pouch. “Mmm,” he said,
and wagged the burrito in front of her. “Sure you don't want a bite?”

“You go ahead.” She laughed and leaned back against the patio chair, dropped her hands into her lap, and gazed down the end of the dock to the lake glowing in the light from the lanterns.

When he finished off the last of the food, the owner brought them sopapillas. “On the house,” he said, and left a bottle of honey.

“We gotta eat 'em,” Axel said. “They're on the house.”

“You get free stuff all the time, don't you?”

“Yep.” He drizzled honey on one of the fried tortilla pillows and held it out to her. “Open wide.”

He was feeding her. If she wasn't tipsy, she certainly wouldn't let him feed her, but she was tipsy, and she opened her mouth and leaned in, and when Axel's fingertips touched her mouth, she came unraveled.

She closed her eyes, closed teeth over the cinnamon-dusted sopapilla, and an involuntary moan of delight escaped her lips. “Ohh, ohh, so good.”

A drop of honey clung to her lips. She flicked out her tongue to lick it away, and opened her eyes to find Axel staring intently at her mouth, as if he wished he were that drop of honey.

“This is the best damn wine ever,” he murmured, his gaze fixed on her, and breathing as if overcome by a force beyond his control.

“I know,” she whispered. Her heart hopped, hyped up and hopeful. There was no such thing as soul-mate-detecting wine. It was insanity to entertain such a crackpot theory, but here she was.

Entertaining it.

She should get up, make an excuse, and tell him
she had to go home, but inertia welded her butt to the chair, and she couldn't make herself move.

Truth.

She was sitting beside a famous, powerful male, a major league baseball player, and he was drop-dead handsome and passionate. So damn passionate that he stirred the wildness in her.

A wildness that she ran from.

And she was hot and wet and more turned on than she'd ever been in her life. She fidgeted from fear and guilt and pleasure, sliding her bare feet back and forth across the deck boards, halfway hoping she'd get a splinter and it would jolt her out of this craziness.

Craziness.

The old Patsy Cline song “Crazy” popped into her head. She was starting to want this, want him, too much.

Where was the cork? The stopper to shove back into this bottle and pray it would seal up the genie of desire that the wine had unleashed.

Don't blame it on the wine. You were horny for him long before this.

Yes, but until that first blissful sip, she'd been able to control her urges, govern herself. Now? Her organs and bones, blood and skin were anarchists, demanding revolt.

She stole a peek at him as he lazily tippled more wine into both their glasses, his wrist lightly gripping the neck of the bottle. A tiny shiver at how strong that wrist looked, and how close he was, and how romantic this was.

“Aww,” he said, looking into the end of the bottle. “It's all gone.”

She felt both relieved—because she was pretty
tipsy—and sad—because it was gone. No more heavenly wine to share with the man of her dreams.

Rein in those thoughts. Headed down a treacherous road here, Kash.

She turned her head, stared out at the water, felt her heart beating, saw firelights flicker, nature's flying lanterns gently lighting up the bushes against the banks, heard the bluesy music, tasted honey and wine and lust. A breeze blew across the lake, and she shivered.

“Kasha,” Axel murmured, his voice thick and rich.

“Yes?”

“Are you cold?”

“No!” she said, too fast and loud, afraid he would throw an arm around her shoulder to warm her up.

“I could go get that blanket in your trunk—”

“I'm fine.” God, the last thing she needed was for him to make a romantic gesture.

Put an end to this silly drama, and walk away!

Good plan. She was going for it. She planted her feet firmly on the deck, started to push up.

“Look.” Axel pointed up. “A shooting star.”

Kasha raised her face to the sky, followed the beautiful trajectory of the burning star.

“Make a wish,” he said, his voice a silky husk.

I wish you'd kiss me.

Oh fudge, had she actually wished that?

“What did you wish for?” he asked.

“What? You want me to tell you and blow my chances of it coming true?”

“I didn't take you for the superstitious type.”

Shows what you know
, she thought, and took another sip of wine. “What did you wish for?”

“My shoulder to heal forthwith.”

“Forthwith? Where'd you get that? A WWI sol
ider?” Kasha asked, feeling a giggle bubble up from the bottom of her stomach and effervesce into a burp. “Oops.” She grinned and slapped a palm over her mouth. “Excuse me.”

“I like you this way.”

“What? Burpy?”

“Lighter. Freer. Not taking yourself so seriously.”

“Meaning you don't really like me when I'm my normal self?”

“Not at all. I enjoy the many sides of Kasha Carlyle. I just like seeing you relaxed. You deserve to enjoy yourself.”

“Everyone deserves to relax.”

“I'm glad you stayed for dinner with me,” he murmured, reaching over to touch her hand again.

“Me too,” she admitted, even though she probably shouldn't have. “But I'm going now.”

“You are?” He sounded disappointed.

“Yep.”

“We killed a bottle of wine. You should stay awhile.”

“It wasn't a full bottle when we started.”

“Still, I've had too much to drive the Jet Ski back for at least an hour, and I expect you have too. The band is good; it's a beautiful night.”

He was right. She hadn't intended on driving. She'd planned on walking home. Her place was only a couple of miles away. And this was Stardust. The safest place on earth. And someone she knew was bound to stop and give her a ride.

“I'll call one of my sisters to come and get me,” she said, dreading that conversation.

“Why don't you want to stay?” He ran his thumb over her knuckles.

“Because I'm too close to crossing a line with you.”

He leaned in, his voice low and welcoming, his scent distracting. “What line is that?”

“You know.” She waved a hand. “This patient-therapist line.”

“Oh that.”

“Don't dismiss it. This is my career and integrity we're talking about here.”

“We've done nothing but share a day on a Jet Ski, a partial bottle of wine, and fajitas.”

“Don't play dumb. It doesn't suit you.”

“Kasha,” he said, “there's nothing wrong with sitting here talking.”

If he knew what was going on inside her head, he would not be saying that. She was not going to tempt fate. She was getting out of here. Kasha set down her glass and got to her feet, but her toe caught on a knothole in the board, and she swayed precariously. Only years of yoga kept her upright, balanced.

“Steady.” Axel shot to his feet, put out a supporting hand. Touched her elbow. Lit her on fire.

She yanked her arm away. “I'm okay. I'm fine.”

He was right in front of her, not two inches of space between them, his masculine scent filling up her lungs and addling her brain.

“You're sucking all the oxygen from the air,” she said.

“You're holding your breath,” he pointed out. “Breathe, Yoga Girl.”

“I have to go.”

“So you said.”

“Thank you for the Jet Ski ride and dinner and the wine, and—”

“It was your wine.”

“You poured it.”

“Um . . . okay.”

“And the conversation. Thanks for that too.”