Strike Zone (23 page)

Brek’s heart kicked. His offer would ease Taylor back into his life. It was time to see if their future could survive their past. As his guesthouse neighbor, she’d cross his path daily. They’d work out, maybe share a meal. Afterward, she could escape to her own space.

He’d let Taylor be Taylor.

No pressure. No commitment.

Only freedom—to stay or to go.

In the end, she agreed to stay.

With his release from the hospital, Brek helped Taylor move. She still limped, and he could lift with only one hand, yet within six hours, she was fully settled in the guesthouse.

“Tired?” he asked when she dropped onto an overstuffed sofa done in blue and white stripes.

“A little.” She slipped off her tennis shoe, gingerly stretched out her leg, then loosened her brace. “No swelling.” She rubbed her knee and breathed easier. “I was concerned, being on my feet all day.”

“You were pretty active.”

“We both were. How’s the hand?”

He shrugged. “Still numb.”

“Give it time.”

He crossed his arms over his chest, looking down at her. “Hungry?”

She traced circles on the arm of the couch. “I’m here to work out. You don’t have to feed me.”

“Look, Taylor . . .” He thought it best to lay out the ground rules now, so they didn’t debate every single issue. “I’m being neighborly when I offer dinner or a movie or something in between. You’re under no obligation. Accept or reject, whatever suits your mood.”

“My mood says pizza. Hawaiian, triple cheese.”

He flipped open his cell phone. “Delivered here or to the main house?”

The main house was a two-story estate with five bedrooms, four baths, a kitchen the size of a small diner, a den worthy of a boardroom, a sunroom with a cathedral ceiling, a library, and formal living and dining areas, topped by turrets with big bay windows and circular window seats.

Brek had bought the house for her. Taylor had lived in it less than a month. She wasn’t ready to face her past. When she did, she’d do so alone.

“Let’s eat here,” she suggested.

Brek ordered, and Rochichio’s delivered.

Taylor kept the evening casual. She pointed to the coffee table and said, “Pizza tastes the same on a plate or right out of the box.”

Brek took the opposite end of the couch. He set a six-pack of Pepsi between them and a handful of napkins. Then he dug in.

Taylor watched him eat. Big man, big bites.

He’d eaten three pieces to her one by the time he came up for air. She smiled at him. And he smiled back.

He went for a fork, scraped the pineapple off his next slice, and slipped it to Taylor.

She returned the favor, but with the ham.

the Pizza had never tasted so good.

At the end of an hour, Brek folded the pizza box, collected the empty Pepsi cans and napkins, and got to his feet. “I plan to work out twice a day,” he told her. “Dawn and dusk. Use the equipment whenever you like. Gym’s set up on the first floor, between the garage and my den.”

He reached into his pocket and removed a key from the ring. “You’ll need this to get in. A cleaning service comes twice a week, Mondays and Thursdays. It takes them a full day to work through the house. Groceries are delivered on Tuesday.”

“Thank you,” didn’t seem adequate to express her appreciation.

“I’m glad you’re here, Taylor.”

“Yeah, me too.”

He went on to dump the garbage, then took off.

Taylor sat alone, wishing Brek had stayed, yet knowing neither of them was ready to share more than pizza.

The next day, she slept later than planned. She’d exerted muscles and energy in her move to the guesthouse, and her knee hurt. A long, hot shower helped. Then she took off for Thrill Seekers.

She found Eve adjusting clients and trips, postponing adventures until Taylor could downhill, white-water raft, and trek the Sahara once again.

Eve caught sight of Taylor from the corner of her eye and smiled. “Good to see you.”

“Good to be seen.” Taylor limped over to the counter. “How’s business?”

Eve flipped through the calendar. “You’re booked two years out.”

“Maybe it’s time to expand.” Taylor proposed what had been on her mind ever since her surgery. “Maybe we should hire a few experienced guides.”

Eve’s eyes grew round. “You’ve never trusted anyone to do your job. You’ve always been hands-on.”

Taylor blew out a breath. “It’s time to let go. Just a little.”

“All this stems from . . . ?”

“I’ve moved out of Addie’s and now live in Brek’s guesthouse.”

“His guesthouse?”

“A safe distance from the main house,” said Taylor. “Brek’s been solid and decent, and given me space. I want him to make a move,
any
move, so I know where we stand.”

“When he moves, you’d better be ready. Don’t lose this man a second time.”

“You’re giving me advice?” Taylor teased Eve. “A woman who won’t return Sloan McCaffrey’s calls? Who ducks out the back door when he appears on the sidewalk?”

Eve pulled a face. “I’ll talk to Sloan eventually. Just not today. Or tomorrow.”

“Don’t let too many days pass,” Taylor told her. “It’s hard to recapture the time you’ve lost.”

She then headed toward her office, located beneath the stairs that led to Eve’s studio apartment. “I’ll be on the computer most of the day. I’ve got people to contact, guides to hire. Knock on the door if you go out for coffee. I could use a hazelnut latte and a raspberry scone.”

Over the course of the day, Taylor sipped three lattes and ate four scones. She’d been diligent in her searches, and was pleased with the outcome.

She’d screened and hired two American men and one European woman to guide Thrill Seekers. They were elite adventurers with
daredevil
tattooed on their souls.

It was six thirty by the time she returned to the guesthouse. She changed into a willow green tank top and black athletic shorts and decided to work out.

She braved the front entrance, then stood in the foyer for what seemed a lifetime. The cleaning crew had left the house immaculate, a showcase of high-end furniture and Oriental rugs.

It was the house of a man who’d walked through life, but never really lived it. Had Taylor not left Brek at the altar, the echo of their teasing and laughter would be as much a part of this home as the stillness that now claimed it.

She walked through the house room by room, a slow exploration of what she’d lost. Even after three years, Brek’s hurt lingered in the hallways. She caught his deep pain reflected in the decorative mirrors. Her betrayal remained in the master suite she’d once designed.

She felt no other woman in his bedroom. He’d spent his nights alone. She dropped down on the oak bench at the foot of his bed, crossed her arms over her chest, and held her own pain inside.

She hurt for Brek, hurt for herself. Hurt for the mistakes she’d made. She needed to fix all that she’d damaged, beginning with Brek Stryker.

The sound of his McLaren drew her from his bedroom.

He entered the house as she came down the wide center staircase. Their gazes locked, and heat crept into her cheeks.

He stood before her in a gray shirt and black slacks, tall, formidable, and all business. His expression was unreadable.

She tightened her grip on the banister. “I came to work out.” Her excuse was lame; they both knew the exercise equipment was on the first floor.

“Thought you might be going through my sock drawer.”

“That . . . too.”

To her relief, Brek shook his head and ruefully replied, “I gave you a key. You’re welcome to look around. The place hasn’t changed much over the years.”

“You’ve added more books to your library,” she noted. “I like the new redwood deck over the sunroom.”

“The deck allows me to breathe. I often sit outside, have a beer, and release the stress of the day.”

She descended the remainder of the stairs. “Time to exercise.”

“I’ll join you shortly,” he said.

Brek soon appeared. He’d changed into a Rogues jersey and sweatpants. The man looked relaxed—and very hot.

Taylor sneaked look after look. His closeness distracted her. The metallic, rhythmic sound of the lat machine broke her concentration while she walked on the treadmill. She nearly fell on her face.

Stryke’s body resonated with strength and testosterone. His workout was a kick-ass release of adrenaline, while her body knotted with each consecutive step. She’d need a masseuse to ease the kinks from her shoulders if the stress of watching Brek lift weights pinched any more of her muscles.

In the days that followed, Taylor managed to relax. She and Brek fell into a pattern of rehab, training twice a day. They often ordered takeout. They spent more time at the guesthouse than the main one. The atmosphere was less stressful there, and new memories were made.

The politeness and contemplative silences in June led to familiarity in July. They’d grown accustomed to each other, yet neither broached the subject foremost on their minds: Did they have a future together?

Taylor took each day as it came. She embraced her time with Brek. He had yet to touch her, yet to kiss her, yet to take her to his bed. The anticipation made her skin itch.

When Brek’s cast came off, she decided to celebrate with a candlelight dinner. Feeling daring, she set up the catered meal in the formal dining room of the main house.

A manicure, pedicure, and a hot little red dress brought the evening together. If Brek didn’t make a move on her tonight, she’d make a move on him.

His bare-chested workouts had gotten to her—badly. She wanted to trace his abs, blow on his belly, and make him hard.

Frenzied, burning, carnal hard.

She knew he wasn’t immune to her either. She’d caught him checking out her butt when she walked miles on the treadmill and did her deep knee bends.

Their bodies wanted contact, even if their minds hadn’t fully accepted the fact.

Brek’s arrival put Taylor’s romantic thoughts on hold. He slammed through the door, looking tense and annoyed. He threw a gray rubber ball against the wall, the resounding bounce an echo of his frustration. Bending, he placed his hands on his knees and breathed deeply.

Taylor froze. She’d never seen him so mad. She took her cue from his mood. Dinner could wait.

“Stryke?” she called.

Surprise hit Brek as he looked up and spotted Taylor. He’d thought himself alone in the foyer. More often than not, he came home, changed clothes, and met her in the gym. She seldom ventured beyond her treadmill.

Yet tonight she stood before him in a sexy red number, wearing Amber Nude, and looking concerned.

“Sorry, Taylor.” His apology hissed through his teeth. “I didn’t mean to take my doctor’s visit out on you.”

She picked up the rubber ball and approached him. She gently touched his arm. “How’s your hand?”

He straightened, admitting, “Not as good as I’d hoped. I’ve got feeling in my fingers, but no flexibility. I couldn’t knead the damn ball.”

Taylor dropped the gray ball onto his palm. “Try again,” she encouraged.

He trapped it within his fingers, then put every effort into the squeeze. His shoulders rolled and his muscles strained. A knuckle cracked. His hand shook.

No pressure. No imprint.

“Shit,” he growled.

Taylor took the ball from him. “Highly compressed rubber. You need to start with something softer. Maybe a tennis ball. There’s one in the gym.”

Brek followed her down the hallway. The brisk, seductive sway of her hips and the soft click of her low-heeled sandals on the brown marble foyer drew his mind off his hand and onto her body.

She was one prime distraction.

The light scratch of her nails across his palm as she handed him the tennis ball tightened his stomach. He liked red polish, and Taylor’s fingers and toes were painted ready-for-sex red.

Brek had given her time. He’d waited patiently, allowing her to call the shots. He’d take control tonight.

“Squeeze,” Taylor prompted him.

Brek tried, unsuccessfully.

He clenched his jaw, refusing to give up.

Taylor looked around and located a rosin bag he often used to chalk his hands before lifting weights.

She switched the bag for the tennis ball. It was light, like a beanbag. “Try this,” she suggested.

Still nothing.

“Foam, a pillow, a sponge, a . . .” She looked around.

Brek sensed her urgency; her concern was as deep as his own. He didn’t want her panicking, so he calmed her.

Catching her arm with his good hand, he eased her toward him. “Slow down, Taylor.” He steadied her.

They’d touched on occasion, lightly, yet hadn’t come together as man and woman. Now, as he held her close, they fit perfectly, an intimate pairing of hard planes and soft curves.

Time had not diminished their heat and need. Desire pulsed, surged south, and stretched him hard.

Taylor released a breath on his neck, warm and moist, as his erection pressed her belly. “I want you, Stryke.”

He wanted her too. He kissed her then, remembering the past, creating the future. He ran his hands down her spine, cupping her bottom.

He’d give his left nut to be able to squeeze her butt.

Taylor Hannah turned him on, and he wanted to return the favor. They kissed until his lips went numb, until his chest heaved, and his breath came rough and ragged.

It was Taylor who remained sane through their insane kisses. Taylor who drew his hand to her breast, a supple, soft, C-cup breast. Taylor who curved her hand over his and urged his fingers to squeeze. Taylor who moaned when he soon kneaded her on his own, slowly, awkwardly, yet with enough pressure to pucker her nipple.

His hand spasmed when she touched him in turn.

She unbuttoned, then spread open his shirt, baring his chest. Her nails scraped and her gaze admired. Her mouth made love to his pecs and abs.

Lower still, she blew on his belly. His erection strained against his zipper. He caught her soft smile. His response pleased her.

He wanted her so badly, the pain in his groin hurt worse than his hand. And his hand was throbbing.

Air jammed in his chest when she shimmied out of her dress. She stood before him in a scarlet strapless bra with a rhinestone clasp and matching bikini panties.