Big Leagues (18 page)

“You run.”

Benji’s athletic build had escaped her during
their previous meetings but now, with his wet sleeveless t-shirt
clinging to his broad chest and his shapely calves exposed, she
didn’t know how she could’ve been so blind. She dragged her eyes up
to his. They were a vivid blue—the precise shade of the sky to
come—and the black hair sticking to his flushed skin was the
perfect frame. Bending over, hands on knees, he drew in a few deep
breaths.

“Run? Well, I start out that way, but by the
tenth mile I like to end with stumbling and panting.”

Her eyes widened. “Ten miles? Is that your norm
or are you training to be a Greek messenger?”

He rose and tilted his head to one side.
“Messenger?”

“Oh um, Ancient Greece. Legend has it
Pheidippides was sent to Athens to announce the Persians had just
been defeated in the Battle of Marathon. He ran the entire
distance, twenty-six miles, obviously, and then he collapsed dead
upon delivering the message. Hence the modern day usage of the word
‘marathon.’ ” Cat stopped rambling and cleared her throat. “I used
to be really into mythology.”

Benji’s eyes danced. “Cool. I was never one for
folklore. Unless we’re talking about the mythology of the
Kryptonian people.”

A giggle escaped her lips. “You don’t know what
you’re missing. The Man of Steel’s got nothing on
Cratos.”

He grinned and grabbed the full box out of her
hand. “Let me help you with that.”

They walked across the parking lot. Benji
peered into the box. “Hey, you’re not moving out already, are
you?”

“Oh no. Just bringing some knick-knacks to
work. My office is in dire need of a homey feel, since I’m there
more than I’m home.”

“Ooh! Knick-knacks. The perfect icebreaker to
any budding friendship.” He held the box with his left arm, using
his right hand to feel around and pull out a frame. “We’ve got a
picture of an older woman, your sister?”

“Grams.”

“You’ll tell her I said sister,
right?”

He waggled his eyebrows, causing her to giggle.
He reached in again. “This baseball card of uh …” His eyes squinted
as he strained to read the autograph. “Jan Santa.”

She pried the card from his hands. “Ron, not
‘Jan’. Santo, not ‘Santa’. He’s the best player to ever set foot on
a baseball field.”

Benji shrugged playfully and picked up another
item. “In this bottle we’ve got … oh. Hand sanitizer?” He raised an
eyebrow at the label. “Ninety-nine percent of germs, my ass. Remind
me to tell you the truth about these things later.”

“I can’t wait. Now if you’re done with the
invasion of privacy—”

“Nu-uh, icebreaking.”

“Fine, if you’re done with the
icebreaking
, I should probably get to work.”

Benji’s voice lowered. “So the other night, the
emergency …?”

She sighed deeply. “Eventful. I’m sure you
heard about Jamal Abercromby?”

Benji set the box on the ground and leaned
against her Jeep, crossing his rosy arms over his sweaty
chest.

“That was the player who died,
right?”

“Yup, his heart. He was only twenty-eight years
old.”

“That’s unusual. Did he have a history of heart
problems?”

“Not that I can find out. The team is being
kind of … well …” She shook her head and looked down.

“Kind of what?”

She looked him in to the eye. “Hush-hush. Like
they want the whole thing to blow over.”

“Well, they are a business. Mourning is
inconvenient. And costly.”

She shot him a speculative look. “Each time I
raise the slightest question, everyone starts stammering, like I’m
asking if my pants make my butt look big.”

“Which pants?”

She answered his playful smile with an eyeroll.
“Well, screw them,” he said. “That’s your job.”

“A very good job. A job that pays my bills and
a job I’m very lucky to have at age twenty-nine. Not to mention
that this job doesn’t come with a backup plan. I can’t afford to
burn any bridges. I have to play by their rules. After all, I’m in
their ballpark. Literally, in fact.”

His expression grew serious, causing her to
look down at the pavement. “Is that how you really
feel?”

“I’m not trying to win a Pulitzer,” she said.
“I’m going to keep my mouth shut and handle the questions about
lineups and trades and take the information they give me.” She
raised her head. “Anyway, I better get going.” She picked the box
up and shoved it into her backseat. “We’re playing New York
tonight. Should be a pretty good game. You watchin’?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t miss it for the world. I’ve
already got my DVR set so I can watch it twice.” Benji
grinned.

“Well, you should.”

He opened the door to her Jeep, and she hopped
in. “Maybe I will.” He gave her a wink as he shut the
door.

Ron Bouvier was slumped atop the dugout bench,
legs spread far apart, sunburned arms crossed over his rotund
belly, and baseball cap askew. He snarled, “Any other questions,
McDaniel?”

“With Kenneaster in center now, will the team
be looking to acquire another outfielder before the trade
deadline?”

“That’s probably more of a question for König,
but I wouldn’t say no. We do have some pretty good options in the
farm system, though, and several kids will be able to help out when
we do our September call-ups.”

Cat scribbled a few notes and turned off her
recorder. “Great. That’s all I got. Thanks, Skipper.”

Extra thanks for not biting my head
off.

She started up the stairs when the organ began
the first chords of “The Star-Spangled Banner.”

“Ladies and gentleman, please rise for our
national anthem.”

Cat stopped, laid her hand over her heart and
shot a worried glance at the press box.

“…
And the ho-oooooooo-me of the
bra-aaaaaaaaaaaaaaa-ve.”

Upon the conclusion of the last lengthy
syllable, Cat hopped the stairs two at a time and made her way
through the exuberant audience, cheering for the local nightclub
singer’s melodic rendition of the anthem. She dashed into the press
box seconds before the first pitch. As she gasped, trying to catch
her breath from the two flights of stairs, she frowned at her
colleagues and wondered why she’d bothered to hurry. Not even Andy
St. John acknowledged her arrival. Cat slipped into her seat in the
front row to find Dustin’s paperwork spread over the entire
tabletop. She sighed and cleared just enough room for her
laptop.

“Hey there, Cat! You want your
usual?”

Shannon’s illuminated face peeked in from the
lounge, and she brandished her pen, ready for action. Cat found the
blinding perkiness refreshing in the somber box and copied her
shining smile. “I have a usual?”

“Well, yeah, iced tea. You’ve gotten one every
day so far.”

“Hmmm … well, I want to keep you on your toes.
Gimme a tea with ice instead.”

Shannon nodded and began writing on the trusty
notepad. Cat opened her mouth to tell her an iced tea was fine, but
on second thought kept quiet. Watching the waitress’ intense
concentration, she decided her mean-spirited amusement might be the
only entertainment awaiting her over the next nine
innings.

“Okay, that’s a tea with ice, coming
up.”

Cat’s suspicions were correct. New York hadn’t
come to Las Vegas to grieve over Jamal Abercromby, or to offer
their condolences. The eastern rivals handed the Chips a 7-0 loss
in a painful shutout. The other games in the press box had been
bursting with commentary and banter, but the only communication
shared tonight was word that the clubhouse would be closed after
the game. As the flattened fans moped out of the stadium, so did
the reporters. Cat silently packed up her laptop and proceeded to
the fourth floor.

Hours later, Cat sat in her office rereading
the memo about Jamal’s funeral arrangements. She looked up to see
Erich König whoosh by her office, stop and back up a few steps to
the doorway. Cat took in his slim suit. Just once she’d like to see
him looking relaxed in a t-shirt and stained sweatpants, though she
had a feeling he’d even be sexy in a pair of overalls with a piece
of straw jutting from mouth.

“You have not left? Catriona, the game ended
hours ago.”

“I know. I know.”

He entered her office, picked up the oak frame
that housed her treasured Ron Santo card, and moved the case off to
the side to make room to sit in its place. She frowned
instinctively but recovered before he took notice.

“I worry the evening cleaning crew will suspect
I keep you chained to the desk.”

With furry handcuffs?

She twisted her lips wryly. “I’m just thinking
about Jamal. He was so young and had no health problems. It doesn’t
make any sense. I feel like his fans need more of an answer. What’s
taking the investigation so long?”

Erich glanced at the papers on her desk. He
picked up the top of the pile and absently read the memo regarding
the funeral. Cat’s eyes narrowed as she impatiently waited for a
response.

“Catriona, when tragedy strikes, it is human
nature to search for an explanation. Sometimes, specifically when
dealing with natural deaths, there simply is not one. It was his
time. Jamal’s death is unfortunate, but we must move on.” After a
short silence, he continued, “For the sake of the team, of
course.”

“Doesn’t it seem like there could be more?
Something someone might have seen, a clue something was wrong with
him?”

“If there is, the investigators will find
it.”

“You’re right.” She closed the lid of her
laptop and rubbed her brow in vexation. “Okay, I’m getting out of
here.”

Erich smiled. “Very well. I cannot have my ace
reporter suffering from exhaustion.”

Too late.

He reached into the inner pocket of his jacket
and pulled out a red leather box. “Since time seems to get away
from you …”

He handed it over. Her stomach dropped the
minute she saw the cursive Cartier logo. Maybe it wasn’t, boxes
could be deceiving. Sometimes Grams had wrapped Christmas sweaters
in empty cereal boxes.

She held in in her hands. “Oh I can’t
…”

“None of that. Open it.”

He was the boss, after all.

She cracked the lid and gasped at its contents.
Nestled inside the black velvet interior was a silver watch with
sparkling diamonds bordering its onyx dial.

“Mr. König, this is too nice.” She looked up at
him in awe. “I can’t accept this.”

He waved her quiet. “It is merely a
timepiece.”

A timepiece worth more than her
Jeep.

“I will be insulted if you do not accept it.
Think of it as a thank you for everything you’ve done. Your
sensitive handling of Jamal’s death. And the skill with which
you’ve filled the shoes of our late lamented senior
reporter.”

Cat took a deep breath. She wasn’t raised to
accept gifts like this. Then again, no one in her family had ever
been offered such an expensive piece. She slipped the watch out of
the box, marveled at its beauty, and felt for the clasp.

Erich reached over and gently took it out of
her hands. “Allow me.”

Cat extended her arm toward him and his warm
hands contrasted with the cold metal on her skin. His fingers
tickled the inside of her wrist as he snapped the clasp.

“I had the shopgirl remove a few links. I hope
it was enough. You have such delicate wrists.”

Cat’s eyes flashed back and forth from the
watch to Erich. Both were symbols of a status she’d never imagined
and yet now, without her resorting to black magick or kidnapping,
the billionaire was showering her with jewelry. Not mall jewelry
either, but grand, upscale, shiny,
can’t-even-afford-to-window-shop-there Cartier.

He held her hand in his and examined it.
“Perfection.”

“It is.” As he released his grasp, she marveled
at the watch and smiled at him. “Thank you. I don’t know what else
to say. It’s so nice.”

Erich stood. “Consider it my way of saying
welcome to the organization.”

“This sure beats a coffee mug.”

Erich chuckled. “Now you have no excuse for
working late. Come now.”

She grabbed her bag, cramming in her laptop as
she hurried to meet him. As he escorted her to the elevator, Cat
held her wrist out, admiring the way it twinkled under the office
lights. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Me and my beautiful new
watch.”

He leaned down and a whisper rolled off his
tongue with a hint of German accent, “It’s not half as beautiful as
its owner.”

Caught off-guard, Cat froze. He merely gave her
a smile before turning down the opposite hallway. His words
repeated in her head all the way down the elevator, through the
tunnel and past every stoplight on the drive home.