Strike Zone (3 page)

In the stillness, he was certain he’d heard her panties drop.

He felt his dick harden in memory of her sleek and sinewy body. Taylor Hannah was as kick-ass as she was feminine. She’d always embraced shower sex with eucalyptus gel, steam, and pink-skinned slickness. She’d remained hot even after the water ran cold.

His curse colored the air. Disgusted with himself, Stryke left her to the warm spray and walked stiff-legged to his locker. He needed time and whatever distance he could manufacture between them to clear his head.

Time was not on his side. Taylor came to him quickly. She scuffed across the locker room in the mascot’s too-large sneakers, her body lost in his clothes. His XXL T-shirt hung to her knees. She’d cuffed his sweatpants three times over her calves.

As if time had stood still and she belonged in his life, she dropped down on the bench and watched him dress.

Ignoring his glare, she focused on his groin. “I always loved your tat.”

His tattoo from his rookie year, small, yet representative of his pitching career. Taylor had modeled for the drawing. Beneath a miniskirt, a pair of shapely legs spread over home plate, a baseball thrown and centered between her thighs.
Strike Zone
was scripted between her red stilettos.

His tattoo had lasted longer than their relationship.

He nodded toward the double doors. “Feel free to leave.” She’d left him once; she could do so again. He didn’t need an audience while he dressed.

“Yeah . . . I could.” But she didn’t move.

He tugged on a pair of black cargo pants, then reached for a cream-colored polo. Then he slipped on leather loafers, without socks.

Still, she sat, her gaze on him. He noticed the wariness in her eyes and the weariness etched on her features. She suddenly looked tired.

He’d never seen her less than supercharged.

“Point me to a phone and I’ll call another cab,” she finally requested. “My ride’s long gone. I’ll need a loan to get me home.” She patted her thighs. “I didn’t bring a purse to the park. I’ll pay you back when I return your T-shirt and sweats.”

“Keep the clothes.” Their reunion was over. “There’s no need to repay me. I’d prefer our paths didn’t cross a second time.”

“But they will, Stryke,” she told him straight out. “One more time. I’m Rally again tomorrow.”

His stomach clutched. “Not going to happen.”

“It will happen. Charlie’s out of town and the Rogues need a mascot. I’ve got Rally down now. I can control the roll. I’ll have better balance next time.”

“You’re
not
going back on the field.”

“Who’s going to stop me?”

It was an open challenge. During their time together, she’d issued so many. Challenges he’d won more often than lost, but he hadn’t been engaged to another woman then.

Stryke didn’t want Taylor parading as Rally. He was scheduled to start against the Raptors. A glimpse of her wobbling like a Weeble would prove too damn distracting from the mound.

He jammed his hands in his pockets, broadening his stance, and went for intimidating. “I’ll tell management that Charlie’s sick.”

She wasn’t afraid of him. “I’ll phone Guy Powers and offer to replace him.”

She had him by the balls—and knew how to squeeze. They were both aware that the team owner adored her. Powers admired bold, beautiful, free-spirited women—women like his first wife, Corbin, whom he’d divorced when the competition between them as rival team owners separated them as widely as the American and National Leagues.

Corbin refused to sell the Louisville Colonels. And Powers lived and breathed the Rogues. Ultimately, baseball meant more to them than their wedding vows.

Powers had sympathized with Stryke when Taylor had left him at the altar. But he also said he understood Taylor’s feelings.

Stryke didn’t share Powers’s empathy.

Taylor Hannah had ditched him before one thousand guests. Her departure had cut him sharp and deep, and he’d nearly bled out. He’d canceled the reception, then cashed in their honeymoon package to Parrot Cay for half its value.

His good buddies, center fielder Risk Kincaid and shortstop Zen Driscoll, along with their wives, Jacy and Stevie, had helped him pack up and post every gift. It had taken three weeks, six days, and two hours to clear the wedding presents from his living room and foyer.

Taylor had fractured his ego.

She’d made him look a fool in front of his friends.

Worst of all, she’d broken his heart.

He’d never let her near him again.

Nor would he put Guy Powers between them. He had too much respect for the man to involve him in their dispute.

Fixing Taylor with a stern look, he warned, “Go ahead and play Rally. However, if you so much as wobble within a foot of my peripheral vision, I’ll have security haul your ass—”

She flashed her palm. “I get the picture.”

He unclipped his cell phone from a side pocket on his cargo pants and tossed it to her. “Make your call.”

She dialed the cab company from memory. By the end of the conversation, she was frowning. “My taxi won’t arrive for thirty to forty minutes.”

“I don’t have time to wait.”

“I can wait by myself.”

Dusk cast shadows over the stadium and empty parking lot. No matter how anxious he was to send Taylor on her way, he couldn’t leave her alone. It wasn’t safe.

“I’ll give you a ride,” he finally decided.

“he “Harley or McLaren?”

“I now drive an SUV.”

“A family man’s car.”

He saw it in her eyes then; she knew he was engaged. e’d figured the news would reach her eventually. But he had no intention of discussing his present engagement with his ex-fiancée. “Let’s go. I’m late for my dinner date.”

“No reason to keep the lady waiting.”

“No reason at all.”

He followed Taylor through the double doors, separated from her by silence and their years apart. He cut a glance to the woman by his side. Dressed in his T-shirt and sweatpants, she appeared to belong to him—which rode his last nerve.

Once seated in his Cadillac Escalade, he asked, “Where to?”

“Thrill Seekers.”

“On John Adams Parkway?”

She shook her head. “The business moved last week. We’re in the same historical landmark building as Jacy’s Java.”

His jaw worked. The coffee shop was his first stop in the morning and oftentimes his last one at night. Years ago, he and Taylor had been Jacy’s best customers. He’d continued the coffee tradition long after she’d gone.

For two years and four months, he’d ordered an Americana, then sat and read the newspaper. Each new arrival had drawn his gaze. He’d continued to hope Taylor would breeze through the door, as in need of her caffeine fix as she would be of him.

He’d waited and waited.

She’d never shown.

Now, with Thrill Seekers in the same building, chances were good he’d run into her at least once during her stay. Taylor liked her coffee.

That did not please him. At all. He’d hardened his heart against this woman. She could buy her own iced lattes and raspberry scones. Game face on for the next seven days. Taylor would never hit another home run off him. The lady had struck out.

CHAPTER TWO

The sun baked the sidewalk outside Jacy’s Java. An unusually warm spring day had brought out tank tops, shorts, and sandals. Taylor Hannah knew she’d be perspiring freely in the mascot costume later that afternoon. She needed to figure out a way to stay cool.

She stopped short outside the coffee shop and debated going inside. Brek Stryker’s SUV was parked at the curb. She didn’t know whether he was alone or with his fiancée. She preferred not to face him before her first cup of coffee, especially as he’d given her no more than a curt nod when he’d dropped her off at Thrill Seekers the previous evening. His indifference cut deep.

With one hand on the elongated brass door handle, Taylor inhaled deeply. The strong scent of coffee and freshly baked goods drew customers like a beckoning finger. The enormous picture window revealed a crowd inside. Some customers sat while others stood. All were enjoying their favorite blend.

Inching the door open, she slid in behind the last person in line, a big, bald man in a business suit. He completely dwarfed her. If she stayed in his shadow, no one would notice she was there.

Ever so discreetly, she looked around the gourmet café, absorbing the ambience. In her absence, Jacy had gone retro—wildly so. The shop pulsed with her eclectic tastes. Geometric shapes, pop art, and psychedelic paintings, along with an enormous atomic sunburst wall clock, decorated bright orange walls—walls that awakened the coffee crowd as quickly as a double espresso.

Mushroom chairs in funky gray velour, olive green Lucite seats on casters, and white vinyl swan chairs with high backs and wide armrests were tucked into boomerang-style Formica tables and pulled up to solid wooden cubes.

Plexiglas terrariums sat on every tabletop. Vintage metal newspaper racks stood on the floor with a collection of papers and glossy magazines. Subdued lighting from chrome hanging lamps with frosted white bulbs created a feeling of intimacy. Lava lamps at the ordering station drew customers’ smiles.

Taylor’s gaze darted to the darker corners. She needed to locate Stryke before he noticed her, then fly beneath his radar.

She found him at a triangular table, alone, all game-day casual in a white knit shirt and blue jeans; he was reading the newspaper. Six of his teammates were gathered nearby, seated around a 1950s-style diner table with a shiny grooved aluminum edge. Taylor recognized Risk Kincaid, Zen Driscoll, Psycho McMillan, and Cooper Smith—men who set the standard for fair play and athleticism.

The unwritten rule—never disturb a starter on his day to pitch—was upheld here. The men honored Brek’s privacy and need for mental preparation. They left him to his paper.

Since no one other than Stryke knew she was in town, she could order her iced hazelnut latte and scone and hit the door without being noticed. She crowded up against the man ahead of her, who cut her an annoyed look. Taylor willed the line to move a little faster.

If anything, the line slowed. After a second furtive glance at Brek, she breathed easier. He was still buried in the news. She’d seen no sign of Jacy Kincaid.

She had almost reached the ordering station when Jacy pushed through the kitchen doors and spotted her.
“
Taylor
Hannah?”
Her voice carried from the cappuccino machine across the coffee shop. “You’re home!”

Taylor winced. Her cover was blown big-time.

So much for keeping a low profile.

She looked at Stryke and saw him square his shoulders and clench his jaw. When he located her in line, he held her gaze for ten long seconds before returning to the comics. She’d been openly dismissed. He’d chosen Garfield over her.

Taylor nearly folded. Her breath rasped out, and she locked her knees so they wouldn’t buckle. Jacy Kincaid’s warm welcome soothed her ragged nerves. They hugged like two lost sisters, finding each other after three long years.

Jacy would always be Jacy, with her metallic blue hair, dangling red earrings, and generous smile. She was as eclectic as her coffee shop in her burgundy velvet jacket and tuxedo-yoke blouse. She’d stuffed the hem of her pink corduroys into knee-high brown leather slouch boots with studded cuffs. The lady made her own fashion statement.

Jacy immediately tugged Taylor out of line and customer earshot. “When did you get home? How long can you stay? Have coffee with me?” Her words tripped over one another.

Taylor couldn’t help smiling. She and Jacy had grown close during Taylor’s engagement to Stryke. Jacy had been one of few who’d remained her friend following the wedding fiasco. They’d exchanged letters and phone calls over the years.

“I arrived in Richmond two days ago. I’m here through next weekend. We’ll have coffee later this week,” Taylor assured her. “Just not today.”

Jacy nodded toward the corner of the shop. “Have you seen Stryke? Spoken to him?”

Confession was good for the soul. She lowered her voice. “He caught me playing Rally Ball at yesterday’s game. I’d wanted to see him one more time before he got married, and hoped to go unnoticed. Unfortunately, I was discovered. Stryke had me stripping off the costume in the mascot lounge, down to my bra and panties—an unsettling way to face off with the man I left at the altar.”

Jacy covered her mouth and choked back a laugh. “Talk about tense moments.”

“He’s engaged. He had no time for me.”

Jacy looked at her intently. “Can’t really blame him, can you?”

“The blame was all mine,” Taylor admitted. Her stomach twisted on her next request. “Tell me about Hilary Louise Talbott.”

“A need to know?”

“A want to know.”

Jacy understood. “Hilary has brown hair and eyes, and is petite and curvy,” she began slowly. “She’s heavily involved in her father’s mayoral campaign. I don’t believe she works out or is the least bit athletic. She’s quiet, analytical, and a homebody. She teaches Sunday school, loves kids. She’d never take the road less traveled. She’s quite dedicated to Stryke. She defers to him on all decisions. Hilary is sweet and—”

“Predictable.” Taylor’s breath hissed through her teeth. “Hilary and I are complete opposites.”

Jacy nodded. “Pretty much so.”

“Is Hilary”—she could barely get the words out—“the love of his life?”

Her friend shrugged. “There are many kinds of love. You and Stryke sparked so much heat, I’d fan myself. With Hilary, there’s a softer warmth. She’s kind and comfortable and—”

“Reliable. She won’t leave him at the altar,” Taylor finished for her.

“He doesn’t deserve to be left a second time,” Jacy stated. “Stryke’s a good man.”

“Too good for me.” Taylor sighed. “I should be happy for him.”

“But you’re not.” Jacy read her well. “You have regrets and need closure.”

“It’s hard to wrap up loose ends when Stryke wishes me gone.”

Jacy looked toward the players, then linked arms with Taylor. “Hmm, perhaps he’s not as indifferent as he might seem. There’s more than one Rogue checking you out. Stryke’s given you as many slanted glances as Sloan McCaffrey has direct ones. Come meet Sloan. He’s the new reliever. He’s cocky and conceited, and would do himself if he was able.”