Perfect Pitch (10 page)

Sam shook her head, amazed at how creative kids could be.
 

She was still astonished that DJ had given permission for Daniel to attend Musicall. But she’d seen the letter herself—signed in bold black ink by Isabel Hernandez, Daniel’s niñera. Sam had felt like a suspicious witch, double-checking the signature, but there was no question it was an adult’s handwriting. Daniel had not forged the document.
 

And that was good enough for Sam. It wasn’t like she was going to interrupt her nightly phone conversations with DJ to talk about after-school activities for a ten-year-old. Juggling a child’s extracurricular calendar was never sexy. And Sam had to admit that her conversations with DJ had been the sexiest she’d ever had in her life.

He’d been as good as his word back at Artie’s. He’d let her set the pace of everything they said. Everything they did. He let her find her own voice.

And she was more than a little astonished at the voice she’d found. Each night, it was easier to talk to him—about his day, about his past, about all the little stories he’d shared. And about what she wanted to do with him once he was back in Raleigh. She told him how she would use her lips, her tongue, her overheated fingers. She touched herself, describing how ready he had made her, and she listened to his breath come fast and hard in the darkness.
 

And when they were through, when they both lay exhausted on their pillows, thousands of miles apart, they went back to talking about the rest of their lives. She told him about the Summer Fair, about the first rehearsal for the pageant where she would hand off her crown. He told her about the game, crowing over two more great starts—one where he went seven innings and a third, another complete game. The team was playing better than it had in years. DJ was interviewed in all three cities on the road trip, singled out for stories about being the son of the great Dan Thomas. He gloried in being an overnight success, after struggling every day for seven solid years.

They laughed together. They told each other secrets. And they counted the days until DJ would return home, when they could deliver their sweet seductions in person.

So, no. Sam had not spent her time on the phone with DJ talking about his ten-year-old son.

The school bell rang, and Sam was gratified by the groans of her charges. “That’s all right,” she called out. “We’ll finish the projects on Monday. You can think about them over the weekend, figure out what you can add to make them perfect in every way.”

The kids chattered as they returned their art supplies to the appropriate crates. Each unfinished masterpiece was carefully stored away on the shelves that ran along one wall. The kids left the room in pairs and triplets, chattering about music.

Sam looked up as Daniel brought her a pair of scissors. She said, “You were having fun! It’s too bad you can’t take your project home tonight; your father would love it.”

Daniel glanced toward the shelves. “I’m not going home,” he said. “I’m going to Jason’s house. Isabel spends Easter weekend with her family every year and Dad has one of those weird afternoon games. He won’t be home till way after bedtime.” Samantha felt sorry for Daniel, shuttled from one house to another to meet the convenience of his father’s schedule. Her pity was shredded, though, when Daniel said excitedly, “Jason and I are going to have homemade pizza for dinner, and then we’re going to play games on his computer, and we get to sleep in a tent in his backyard!”

“Well,” Sam said, trying not to laugh at the boy’s breathless enthusiasm. “That sounds like a perfect way to spend a Friday night. Do you need a ride over to Jason’s?”

“No. His mother is picking us up. Jason stayed late for band practice.”

“Don’t keep her waiting, then.” She watched as Daniel threaded his arms through both straps of his backpack. “I’ll see you on Monday.”

The boy flashed her a grin as he flew out the door.
 

As Sam finished stowing her supplies in the closet, she thought about Daniel’s excited recitation of his itinerary. Isabel was gone for the weekend. DJ had a “weird afternoon game.” That must be a four o’clock start. Three hours to play the game. A couple of hours to get from the locker room to the airport. A few hours more to fly home, to get to the house.
 

Midnight.

DJ would return to his house near midnight. And, courtesy of Daniel, Sam knew exactly how to get inside that house. She closed her eyes, imagined pressing the buttons that would open the garage door. And the best part was, no reporters would be lying in wait for her. Even the most enterprising gossip-mongers would be camped out on
her
doorstep, waiting for DJ to come to her after his long road trip.

No. The lack of reporters wasn’t the
best part
. The best part was going to be the expression on DJ’s face when he found her waiting for him. Waiting to make their whispered phone conversations come true.

* * *

DJ dropped his bag in the laundry room, refusing to think about the hulking washing machine and dryer. He cupped the back of his neck with his right hand, rolling his head to drive away the worst of his stiffness. He’d never tell Coach, but his left arm was tired, heavy after throwing another eight innings. The flight from Detroit hadn’t helped any—confined in a leather seat, blocked from getting any real exercise.

He shook his hand, trying to drive strength back into the muscles. Damn. He’d have Ernie take a look tomorrow, work his usual magic on the massage table.

Glancing around the kitchen, DJ considered getting something to eat. Those afternoon games before getting out of town were hell—it was too early to eat in the clubhouse, and there was only crap at the airport. He was tired, though. Too tired to fry up a couple of eggs, to shove bread into the toaster. He’d get a real breakfast in the morning.

He’d just turn off the lights in the living room—

There shouldn’t be any lights
on
in the living room.
 

“Isabel?” he called. What the hell? She was supposed to be with her family for a four-day weekend. Nothing would keep her from celebrating Easter with her own grown kids. Nothing, except for Trey, if he were hurt or—“Isabel!” he called again, crossing the kitchen in record time.

“Not exactly.”
 

No. That voice
definitely
did not belong to Isabel. Samantha Winger’s throaty chuckle made him go hard before he even turned the corner to the living room.
 

She was lying on the leather sofa, like an illustration from every dirty dream he’d had over the past two weeks. Her back was propped against the charcoal leather arm of the couch. One leg was stretched straight, her toes pointing directly toward his crotch. Her other leg was bent at the knee, as casual as if he’d caught her in the privacy of her own home.

It took him about a heartbeat to register the muscles in those legs—the tightness of her calves, the tension in her quads. He got distracted by the flash of crimson silk at the top of her thighs—crimson to echo the gleam of her hair. Crimson, cut high on her hips. Crimson, barely hiding the shadowed promise he’d been dreaming about for the entire road trip.

“Jesus, Samantha,” he breathed. She laughed, throwing back her head to display the long line of her throat. She had to know she was stretching that—what the hell was it? A slip? A bra? Something made of scarlet and sin that showed a hell of a lot more than it hid.
 

“I thought you were calling me Sam, now.”

Every one of their phone calls was in her voice—laughing, teasing, making him ache without a hint of effort. He couldn’t take his eyes off her, couldn’t look away from the movie that matched the soundtrack he’d been playing in his mind for days. “How did you get in here?”

“Daniel showed me the combination when I brought him home a couple of weeks ago.”

“That boy and I are going to have to talk.” He tried to sound angry, but he didn’t come close to pulling it off.

“Drink?” She completed distracting him by shifting on the couch, turning those long legs, and leaning forward a lot more than was necessary. A bottle and ice bucket sat on the coffee table, along with an empty glass. She didn’t bother with tongs, just dipped her fingers in among the cubes. His cock wanted to know what her hands would feel like—those long painted nails underscoring the contrast of hot flesh and cold ice, dripping wet.

She was generous with his Maker’s Mark, curling her own drink to her chest as she lured him closer to her side. As if he needed any luring… He was ready to jump her then and there, tear off those increasingly distracting scraps of silk.
 

He forced himself to stay where he was. “I didn’t think bartending was part of the Summer Queen’s job description.”

The look she gave him as she sipped her drink made him wonder how the bourbon didn’t boil dry. “I won’t tell, if you don’t.” She cocked her wrist again, another silent invitation.

This time, he didn’t stop himself.

He took the glass and tossed back a healthy swallow, felt the liquor burn all the way down. She laughed as she raised her own drink to her lips, but he growled and closed his hand over hers.
 

“Hey!” she exclaimed as he took the glass from her yielding hand and set it carefully on the table.

That was the last careful thing he managed.

He crashed onto the sofa beside her, ignoring her startled laugh. His hands closed around the nearest part of her, her ankle, and he measured her fine bones with the strength of his grip. His thumb stroked the sole of her foot, tracing the arch, steadying her against her own reflex. The motion pulled her leg up, and he nearly let himself be distracted by the sweetness revealed behind her scrap of crimson lace.

Nearly. But not quite.

First, there were those calves to pay attention to, the muscles tightening as her toes curled. He brushed his cheek against the tender skin at the back of her knee, breathing in the honey and cinnamon scent of her. Her skin flushed and he could make out the faintest marks, raised by the bristles of his day-old beard. He flicked his tongue over the abrasions, sucking, soothing.

“DJ,” she breathed, and he knew that sound. He’d heard her sigh his name, over the phone and a thousand miles away. He’d imagined how she would look when
he
was touching her, when
he
was doing all the things he had whispered into his phone.

His hands traveled the taut line up from her knee. His palms drank in the heat of her; she burned hotter than any slug of whiskey ever could. She shifted beneath him, softening, melting.

He brushed the back of his hand against her panties. The wet silk launched a bolt of pride straight to his cock. He longed to work the button on his jeans, to ease the zipper and release the throbbing pressure. But not now. Not yet.

He traced the lace with his fingertips, teasing at the tender flesh beneath. Every day of his professional life he read messages in the flash of fingers, in the brush of hands. Now he wove his own language, just for her. His rhythm was steady, driving, speaking through the silk.

She writhed beneath him, lifting her hips. Her fingers slipped beneath the band at her waist; she fought to strip away the panties. They were burgundy now, dark as wine with her passion, but he caught her wrists in one of his hands, pinned them above her head. She moaned in frustration, and he laughed, using the distraction to slip his free fingers beneath the cloth.

She was hotter than he’d imagined she could be, even when he’d heard her gasp over the phone. He traced the path between her folds, found her pulsing clit. One touch, and she caught her breath. A second, and her thighs tightened around his hand. He hovered over her, fingers ready.

“Please,” she whispered. “Now. DJ.”

He pulled his hand free, ripping off the tangle of silk and lace, taking the very action he had denied her minutes before. Even as she gasped, he thrust his fingers into the highball glass on the table. He grabbed a single cube of ice and thrust it against her clit. Before she could react, before she could pull away or cry out or push harder into his palm, he took the ice into his mouth. With lips and tongue and rapidly melting ice, he teased her until she came.

* * *

Sam lay on the couch, trying to remember how to breathe. Her throat was raw, as if she’d sung for hours, and she realized she’d been screaming DJ’s name.
 

Hardly an appropriate action for the Summer Queen.

Hell. Pretty much nothing since she’d left Polk Elementary had been appropriate action for the Summer Queen. She’d bought sexy lingerie for the first time in her life, paying for it in cash, wearing sunglasses so no one would recognize North Carolina’s beauty queen. She’d broken into a man’s house. She’d fortified herself with a glass of bourbon long before he’d ever come home, and she’d seduced him with the liquor when he finally made it back to his house.

And she’d loved every single minute of it.

Except for the fact that he was lying beside her on the edge of his own couch, still fully clothed in jeans and a long-sleeve T-shirt. It was definitely time to do something about that.

As she pushed herself into a sitting position, DJ tried to settle his arm around her waist, pinning her back to his side. “Rest,” he said. “It’s late. You must be exhausted.”

She grinned. “More tired than a guy who worked a full day before flying half-way across the country?” She reached down to trace the seams of his jeans, to measure his obvious arousal. “Look at that! Your body is still on Central Time.”

His shirt was already half untucked from his trousers. She wasted no time finishing the job, quickly stripping the garment over his shoulders.
 

She’d been thinking about his chest since she’d seen him in his kitchen, since she’d held herself back from ripping off the flimsy towel he’d worn that day. Now she laughed when she saw the sprinkle of golden hair across his pecs, when she matched reality to the memories that had teased her for two long weeks. Tracing the outlines of his muscles with her palms, she paused as the nipples tightened.