Throwing Heat: A Diamonds and Dugouts Novel (8 page)

The breath froze in her chest. How was she supposed to respond to that? Wiping a hand on her cropped black yoga pants, Leslie chose to ignore his comment. “Um, okay, well I’m going now. I’ll talk to you later.”

Hanging up, Leslie shoved the phone back in her purse and opened the studio door. Once inside she glanced around and noted that she was just in time. About a dozen women milled about in various workout getups, and she particularly liked the mini-shorts and legwarmers look. How very
Footloose
. Somebody remind her again why the eighties were making a comeback?

The music changed and went lusty. Her class was about to start.

Slipping into the room and dropping her stuff, she waved to some of the other regular girls and kicked off her shoes. “Hey, y’all.” Unlike most of the other women in her class she wore neither mini-shorts nor stripper heels. She needed the cushion from the fabric on the back of her knees for pole work and the heels, well, just no way. She wanted to keep her ankles unbroken and in good health, thank you very much. It was hard enough just walking in them some nights.

Quickly grabbing an open pole, Leslie caught a glimpse of her reflection in the full-length mirrors on the front wall. Her hair was pulled back in a low bun to keep the strands out of her face when she twirled and she had on a dark pink workout tank top along with her yoga crops. Giving a little shimmy to loosen up, she studied herself and approved.

She looked good. All these pole dancing classes had paid off and her body was nice and firm. Curvy as a Roman statue, but toned and healthy and strong. Leslie knew she packed a punch and liked it that way.

Skinny was so overrated.

With a slight smile she gave a little booty shake. Some junk in the trunk was where all the fun was at. More cushion for the pushin’.

The Pussycat Dolls began to play on the radio, being uber-sexy and singing about loosening buttons with Snoop Dogg. Following the lead instructor, Leslie went through the warm-up routine and then settled into the fun and vigorous workout. Enjoying herself, she swung her legs up and spun on the pole, lowering backward with every whirl until she was upside-down. She was breathing heavy when her spin and the song came to an end, but she had a huge grin on her face.
Leslie Cutter, stripper at large. Watch your men, ladies.

Totally amused with herself, she was giggling a little when she came to a complete stop, her upside-down head facing the door. Her eyes focused and the giggle lodged in her chest. A pair of scuffed up black skater shoes and frayed jeans blocked her vision. Shit. She knew those Vans.

Kowalskin.

Annoyance welled up inside her along with a healthy dose of the butterflies. He’d found her. She couldn’t believe he’d actually been serious about that.

Still panting, Leslie flipped upright and dislodged from the pole. Her heart was pounding and her blood was racing, but that was from the striptease routine, not the hard-bodied man standing by the door currently staring her down with ice-blue eyes full of bad intentions. The half smirk and cocked hip sent alarm bells ringing in her head.

The man was up to no good.

Suddenly on alert, like a predator had just walked into the room and she was its main course, Leslie crossed her arms over her chest and waited until the furious whispering in the room had dropped to a low enough level to allow her to speak. The whole class had stopped the minute he’d entered. He had that effect. And his face was so recognizable.

Yes, ladies. It’s him. And yes, he’s every bit as wild as he looks.
“What do you want, Kowalskin?” She let him hear the irritation in her voice.

It occurred to her that she wasn’t entirely sure if it was him or her thoughts that she was annoyed with, but she shoved the idea aside fast. Of course it was him. It was always him.

He slid a look at her from the corner of his eyes, his spiky black lashes and the mischievous glint in the blue depths making her knees weak. Energy and raw sexuality. That was Peter. And he was turning it loose on her.

“Excuse me, ladies,” he said to the room after shooting her a cocky wink. “Is there room for one more?”

Warning bells turned into flashing sirens. What? No, he wasn’t crashing her dance class, was he? Would he?

Of course he would.

The question was
why
? While she watched, he put his sunglasses in his hat and tossed it on the floor by the wall. He was about the only man she knew who could get away with wearing a black fedora and look good. On him the hat was way sexier than it had any right to be.

The room fell silent as all the women stared at Peter in awe. And she couldn’t blame them, really. The man looked hot in his clingy black button-up, leather bracelet, jeans, and finger-combed black hair. The lean, rugged face and piercing eyes only added to the total package.

One of the young women behind her muttered under her breath, “Oh my God.”

Jealously sunk its teeth into her again.

Mine
.

What the—? The
hell
he was. Now the irritation she felt really was aimed at her. Kowalskin belonged to nobody, least of all her.

She didn’t want him.

“Go away, Peter.”

The man just ignored her and sauntered over to the last remaining open pole. To the petite brunette next to him he flashed his wolfish smile and said, “How about you show me how this thing works?”

She stuttered and blushed profusely. “Okay. Yeah.” Then she stopped and stared at him blankly. “Um, what?”

Poor girl. “Leave her alone.”

He wrapped an ankle loosely around the pole and gave a little shake, causing a collective murmur to rise above the music. Finally the instructor, Carlie, cleared her throat and said loudly, “Let’s continue shall we?” She disappeared into the stock room and started a new
CD
.

An elbow in Leslie’s ribs sent pain and surprise darting through her. She whipped her head around and saw the redhead who’d been next to her leaning in to whisper, “That’s the pitcher for the Denver Rush, isn’t it?”

Leslie nodded, still annoyed. “Yeah.”

“How do you know him?”

She didn’t want to explain because she had a feeling if the women learned of her connection to the Rush, her life of relative obscurity there would be over. And she wasn’t in the mood to be popular. “I manage a club he frequents.” There, hopefully that will shut her up.

Peter caught her attention when he called out to her, “Hey, princess. Go on a date with me.”

There went her obscurity. Terrific.

She shook her head. “No.”

He ground against the pole, rocking his hips suggestively, and she raised a brow. Even though he was totally joking, the man could move. His body rocked with an innate rhythm that had heat flaring low in her belly.

“I’m not leaving until you say yes.” He spun around and used the pole at his back to shimmy against. It made her laugh.

“No.” She had to raise her voice to be heard over Christina Aguilera. So this was his game. He was going to embarrass her into agreeing to go on a date with him. She found it odd that he’d want one with her, but before she could think about that any further, he got her attention with his response.

“Okay, fine.” He straightened and began rolling up his sleeves. Bracing his feet apart, he grabbed the pole with both hands and said, “Let’s dance, ladies.”

And he did. For the next fifteen minutes he shimmied, shook, and rolled—one outrageous move after the other. At one point he even jumped up the pole, locked his legs around it and spun around saying, “Pleeease, Leslie?”

At first she’d been annoyed, then embarrassed, and then finally amused as all get-out. Watching Kowalskin striptease was pure entertainment. And by the time the class was over he’d not only won the adoration of a dozen women, but he’d worn her down too. How could she say no to a man who’d tried an upside-down spread eagle—and failed miserably to her great amusement—just to get a date with her?

She couldn’t.

It didn’t mean she wasn’t going to get him back for pulling this little stunt though. “All right, Kowalskin. You win,” she said to him as the class wound down.

A little out of breath, he grinned like the devil and raised his hands in the air. “She said yes!”

The women watching in avid fascination cheered enthusiastically. From the back someone called out, “Smart girl!” and Leslie laughed right in his face.

Obviously they didn’t know Peter.

Chapter Seven

P
ETER WAS WAITING
outside for her when she exited the studio with her bag over her shoulder. He’d just finished signing an autograph for one of the class regulars—a sweet, plump woman in her late sixties who was gushing and holding the scrap of paper with his name on it to her chest like it was something precious.

“You make sure you tell Bob hi for me, Laverne. And take care of that left hip of yours, okay?” He smiled charmingly like he was a good boy and not the wolf in sheep’s clothing that she knew him to be. “Remember to alternate hot and cold pads on it for the next few days and you’ll be back to good in no time.”

Laverne giggled like she was sixteen and swatted playfully at him, her green eyes sparkling. “Oh hush.”

When Peter spotted Leslie his smile took on an edge, and he removed himself from the small crowd of admirers, giving Laverne’s arm a gentle parting squeeze. “Excuse me, ladies. My date has arrived.” With an unholy glint in his eyes, Peter strode her way.

Carlie walked past her just then and put a hand briefly on her shoulder, whispering, “Way to go, Leslie.” There was a smile on her face that was more than a little good-naturedly envious. “He’s a stud.”

She didn’t need to be told. “Thanks, hon.”

Sometimes it was easier to let people assume something than it was to sit them down and explain the truth. And there was no harm in letting them think there was more going on between her and Kowalskin than there really was. It gave them something to talk about.

If there was a tiny part of her that thrilled at the idea of people thinking she and Peter were an item, she tried very hard to ignore it. It was wrong anyway. Wasn’t it?

“All right, you got me out here,” she said after the crowd had dispersed. “Now what are you going to do with me?”

The man had his hat back on and looked like a whole mess of trouble, an arresting cross between intense athlete and soulful artist. The unexpected blend did funny things to her. And when he looked at her out of the corner of his eyes with an expression that promised her the most erotic time of her life if she were so inclined, her panties went instantly damp.

But when it came right down to it they were completely and utterly incompatible. For whatever reason, when the moment of truth came she just didn’t do it for him. The proof of it had been humiliating and deflating.

She gave Peter a tough time because the fact of it was that she still felt the sting of his rejection every single stinking time she was around him. One moment he’d been all hot and heavy on her and then,
boom
! Nothing. Zilch. Nada.

Wet, limp noodle.

And now the man wanted a date and a do-over. Why? What did it matter to him?

More importantly, what did it matter to her?

She adjusted the strap of the duffle bag slung over her shoulder as he said, “Leave your bag and I’ll drop you back here when we’re done. I’m taking you places.”

Leslie spotted his bright blue Ducati parked next to her Mini Cooper and swallowed a grin. She’d been dying to get the chance to ride on his snazzy crotch rocket. Not that she’d ever let him know that. He’d just get an even bigger head and lord it over her at every opportunity. Like he needed more to be egotistical about anyway.

Although she really wanted to leap on the back of his motorcycle and holler, “Freedom, baby!” with her hands in the air, she rolled her eyes and pretended reluctance. “Really, Peter? I don’t have a helmet and you’re wearing a hat.” She pinned him with a suspicious stare. “
Why
are you wearing a hat, by the way? Did you not wear a helmet?”

The guy was reckless but he wasn’t normally stupid.

“I was a good boy. I just shoved it in the front of my jacket after I zipped it up.” He took his hat off and held it out to her. “But that wasn’t the most ingenious idea so why don’t you toss this in your pitiful excuse of a car and we’ll get going?”

She took offense and snatched the fedora out of his hands. “My car is
not
a pitiful excuse. Mini Driver is fabulous and you know it.” Yes, she’d named her car after the actress. Come on. How could she not?

He smirked. The gall of the man, making fun of her beloved automobile. Now she was back to feeling annoyed.

“Call it whatever you want, but it isn’t a real car unless you can put the seats back and screw in it. Can you?” The look he shot her clearly said he doubted it.

And honestly . . . “I don’t know.” It hadn’t been tested.

Peter raised an eyebrow, giving her a Look with a capital L, pitching her stomach off-center. It wasn’t fair.

“We’re wasting valuable time, girl. Toss it in and let’s ride.”

Caving because she was curious, Leslie dumped her stuff and grabbed a jacket that had fallen onto the floor. It was a black, fitted jacket that Mark had bought for her to celebrate her first winter snowstorm. The material was lightweight, but high-tech and super warm. Tossing it on, she zipped it up to her chin and shoved a pair of gloves in her pockets just in case. Leslie turned around and found Peter already on the Ducati unstrapping a helmet for her from the bike’s seat.

“Are you going to tell me where we’re going?” she asked as she took the glossy black helmet from him and put it on.

He grinned and flipped the visor down on his own helmet. “You’ll find out soon enough. Hop on.”

She did just that, and when she was on the back of his shiny sports bike, he fired it up. The way the motorcycle was designed she had to raise her legs up high to reach the foot pedals. Her knees cradled his hard body, and when he grabbed one of her hands and pulled her forward, putting it around his waist, Leslie found herself effectively wrapped all around him.