Bounty Hunter (28 page)

“Bottom of the fourth, and my boy’s coming up!” Cleo announced proudly.

“If Lenny Dykstra really was your boy, we’d have the story of the year,” Jean said,
chuckling. She was tall and angular where Cleo was short and busty.

“I couldn’t be his mama!” Cleo laughed with glee. “Lenny’s Mr. Excitement. Whenever
he’s at bat, he gives me that sexual high.” She belatedly put her hands over Anthony’s
ears. “You cover your ears, baby, you’re not near ready for this. But, oh my, if my
Luther were still alive, I’d be saying ‘Get ready, Luther, tonight’s your lucky night!’ ”

The three older widows erupted into laughter. Anthony grinned. Elaine, normally used
to this banter, found her face turning red because of the man in front of her.

“You hush up and watch, Jean,” Cleo added. “We’re down one run, and Lenny is about
to tie it up.”

“He better,” Mary muttered, the beads moving through her fingers at record speed.
“If someone doesn’t break this game open soon, those you-know-what Braves are going
to win.”

It was odd how she had come together with these women, all of whom were in their sixties,
Elaine thought. They had met years ago right here in this row, when Anthony had been
little. She hadn’t had an interest in the game at the time; she’d come for her husband’s
sake. But they had become friendly with their seat “neighbors.” Mary’s husband had
already passed on after a long illness, so Elaine had never met him. Jean’s husband
had died from a stroke the year after they’d met, and four years back Luther’s heart
had given out suddenly.

And then her own husband, Joe, had died, long before he should have. It had happened
a little over a year and a half ago, Joe had gone out for bread and milk, and someone
had run a red light on Route 70 when Joe had been crossing. She had been left with
a house with a too big mortgage payment, a young son, and little insurance.

The women had been staunch support then, and she often felt she had been blessed with
three extra mothers. Cleo, Jean, and Mary hadn’t given up their season tickets after
their husbands’ deaths because they were true aficionados of baseball. Elaine had
continued going to the games for Anthony at first, because the boy needed men to look
up to, men who could show him man things, who could show him that hard work and dedication
paid off. A baseball team he had idolized all his short life seemed a good place to
start. She had had to learn the finer points of the game for her son’s sake, and slowly
she’d become a true fan.

Jean had started calling them the Widows’ Club, and Elaine had evolved into a chauffeur
for them all. With this season opener at the Vet, she sensed something big about to
happen with the team, and it had infected her. Baseball. Springtime with the ail-American
pastime. Somehow the combination had pushed itself into her soul, and at that moment,
nothing was finer.

It had to be the game, she told herself, because it couldn’t be the man in front of
her.

To her horror, Cleo leaned over and tapped both “suits” on the shoulder. “You boys
better be watching this, or you’ll miss the play of the game.”

“But he’s down two strikes already!” the younger man said in disbelief to Cleo.

Cleo sniffed. “That’s just part of Lenny’s show. He’ll work that count to a full one
and make that pitcher throw ten times, just trying to get him out. Wears those snotty
pitcher boys down and gets them off the mound early.”

“Here endeth the lesson of the day,” Mary said.

“Amen to that!” Jean added.

Elaine looked for heavenly salvation herself, because mortification of the flesh was
already guaranteed. Those three were in rare form tonight.

The younger man made a face. The older one just shook his head. Elaine resisted the
urge to dump her soda all over them. Cleo was only being friendly, which was more
than she could say for those two—even if one was sexy as hell.

The tension in the stadium built to a fever pitch as Lenny Dykstra sent several pitches
foul into the stands and passed on a few more, until his count was three balls and
two strikes, just as Cleo had predicted. A few more pitches went foul as Mr. Excitement
lived up to his name. Elaine forgot about the man sitting in front of her. She forgot
about “suits” in general … and her name, her job, and other vital pieces of information
as her exhilaration level built with each pitch. She squeezed her soda cup, threatening
to overflow the contents, grabbed Jean’s hand with her free one, and thought her heart
would burst through her chest as she waited for each windup and pitch. It was going
to happen, she thought, feeling the truth of it in her bones.

The Sure Thing.

She suddenly understood Cleo’s need for Luther, because her whole body was thrumming
with anticipation, her blood whirling hot along her veins. She was desperate for something
to relieve the growing sensuality … for someone …

Her gaze dropped to the disturbing man in front of her. To her shock, he turned around
at that very moment as if her body had called to his. If his first stare had sent
her spiraling, this one catapulted her into dizzying heights as her body responded
to the physical attraction she felt toward this man. She couldn’t look away, couldn’t
focus on anything but him.

The man broke the gaze as the smack of wood against leather was heard over the stadium
roar, as a ball was hit with tremendous force. Elaine looked up in time to see the
little white ball sailing back … back … The outfielder ran to the warning track … his
arm was outstretched … he jumped right at the wall …

The ball sailed over the right-field fence into the Phillies bull pen. A home run.

Elaine screamed and leaped to her feet, flinging her arms up with joy. Just as she
did, she realized she was still holding her soda cup, and the soda inside was taking
a leap of its own. She watched in fascinated horror as it moved in almost slow-motion
time out of the cup and into the air, the dark liquid spreading out in a kind of wall
twinkling with crushed ice. The soda hit the man in front of her with a solid splash,
and the world, which had been frozen for that one terrible instant, suddenly returned
again in all its loud noisy glory.

The man yelped and jumped to his feet, soda dripping down his head and the back of
his suit jacket.

“Omigod, omigod!” Elaine exclaimed, grabbing up her napkins and rubbing at his hair
and back She could feel her face heating with embarrassment and wondered if she was
getting psychic in her old age. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry!”

He pushed her hands away as she rubbed the already soaked napkins to shreds. People
around them were laughing and cheering, half for the batter jogging around the bases
and half for the entertainment she had just provided. Her three female companions
were roaring with laughter. Even her son was giggling.

“I’m so sorry,” she said to the man. Her face was burning now. “I feel awful. I’ll
go with you to the rest room, where I can sponge the soda off.”

“You don’t put water on an Italian silk suit, you stupid idiot!” the younger man yelped,
waving his hands. “I can’t believe you ignoramuses here. They ought to charge more
for seats so we get a better class of people at the games.”

“Shut up!” Anthony burst out, stepping in front of Elaine as if to protect her. “That’s
my mother and it was an accident!”

Tears sprang to Elaine’s eyes at her son’s action. She forced them away, knowing he’d
be humiliated if she started to cry because she was proud of him.

“The boy’s right, it was an accident,” the older man said. To Anthony he added, “I’m
sorry for what Ed said. Don’t worry about what happened.”

Ed looked about ready to swallow his teeth, every pearly one of them. “But, Graham …”
He stopped and turned to Elaine, a look of disgust on his face. “I’m sorry.”

Elaine said nothing to him, wishing she could crawl into a hole, Anthony, too, had
been made to look childlike with the adult interference.

“Thanks, Anthony.” She squeezed his shoulders gratefully. Her son was her height now,
a fact that brought itself home to her in a poignant way even in this weird situation.

An usher showed up at the commotion, and the man Graham explained that some soda had
been spilled, no problem. The usher left and people began to sit down again.

“Please,” she said to the man before he turned away. “At least let me have your suit
dry-cleaned for you.”

“No. That’s all right.” He sat down, his back to her.

She couldn’t blame him. Cleo sniffed, while Jean made a face. Mary’s rosary clacked.
Elaine took a deep breath and tapped him on the shoulder. He turned, staring at her.

“Really, I want to make amends,” she said. “Let me take care of this for you.”

He shook his head and turned back.

She reached into her hip pack and took out a twenty. She tapped the man on the shoulder
again. He whipped around. She waved the money in his face. “Here. This should cover
it.”

The younger man snorted, clearly indicating that what she offered was far short of
the price the cleaning would cost. Elaine wondered just how much one paid for an Italian
silk suit to be cleaned. Did the silk from Italy have some special property that defied
normal dry-cleaning methods?

“Thanks for the offer,” Graham said, “but I can take care of my own dry cleaning.”

His voice wasn’t unpleasant, she mused. In fact, it sent a slight chill down her spine
that had nothing to do with the April night air.

“No. I insist.”

“Lady, look, it’s not necessary.”

“It is.” But short of stuffing the money into his pocket—and that thought made her
fingers tremble—she didn’t know what else to do. Then an idea occurred to her. She
dug into her hip pack again, while saying, “I have a friend who owns a dry cleaners
in Malvern. She can handle your suit, I’m sure. She does a lot of executives out that
way. Here’s her address.” She finally dug out one of the business cards she carried
for her friend’s establishment. Taking the pen Jean was using to keep score and ignoring
her squawks at being robbed, Elaine scribbled on the back of the card before holding
it out to him. “Nancy owes me a favor, so she’ll be glad to do your suit for you.
I’ll call her tomorrow and let her know. The address and phone number are on the card,
and I put my address and phone number on the back in case you have a problem, but
you shouldn’t. Really, I wouldn’t feel right if I didn’t take care of your suit for
you. Please let me do this.”

The man stared at her for the longest moment. Elaine had an awful feeling she’d just
grown a second head. He had a great ability to skewer people with his gaze, she thought.
So had Dracula. And just like Dracula, he exuded a subtle sensuality. She could feel
it swirling through her, as if he were actually undressing her. More years than she
cared to count had passed since the last time she’d felt this way with a man. Other
women could handle themselves sexually, but after fourteen years of marriage she was
out of practice.
Way
out. And the game was so different at thirty-seven than it had been at twenty.

She shoved the card at him to break the trance. He took it reluctantly.

She smiled in relief. “Nancy does nice work. You won’t be sorry, I promise.”

He turned forward at last. Elaine slumped in her chair, feeling as if she’d just been
let out of prison. She resisted the urge to fan herself. Poise was a better defense.

Opening day was full of surprises, she thought, and not all of them with the team.

Graham Reed sat in misery. Cold soda had wormed its way under his jacket and shirt,
chilling his skin. The cool night air didn’t help. Worse, the liquid left a sticky
feeling on his scalp and neck He, a basketball man, was at a baseball game, a sport
for the unskilled as far as he was concerned. Ed Tarksas squeezed him in on his right,
and a complete stranger continually rubbed against him on the left.

And behind him sat a beautiful maniac.

Maybe “beautiful” wasn’t the right word, he thought. He had been aware of the woman
sitting behind him ever since he’d taken his seat, but hadn’t bothered to turn around
until her screaming outburst. And then he hadn’t been able to look away.

She wore a Phillies baseball cap low on her forehead, and the way her ponytail swept
along her shoulders, curling just at the ends, so dark in color it was almost black,
reminded him of a young girl’s. His fingers had ached to touch it, to feel it twine
around his hand with its own vitality. Large hoop earrings of thin gold hung elegantly
from her ears, combining with the cap for an incongruous look that somehow worked
on her. Her face wasn’t model thin, yet her cheekbones were noticeable and her skin
was smooth, creamy, with a touch of color from the night’s chill. Her lips were full,
intriguing, and he’d found himself wanting to taste them, to see if they would meld
perfectly with his. Her figure was covered up in a sweatshirt jacket and jeans, but
he could tell it was an attractive one. He judged her to be in her mid-thirties, a
time in life that gave her maturity and experience … and a latent sensuality. He could
sense it, he could see it, and he felt as if he’d been walloped by a two-by-four just
from looking at her.

The boy alongside her was enough like her in coloring and features to mark him as
her son. And although he didn’t need anyone to pay for his dry cleaning, he had to
admit he liked her insistence on making amends. That said a lot about her as a person.
And he liked the way the boy had come to her defense. She had stared him down, and
stared down Ed, so she was hardly in need of any defending, but the child’s gesture
said a lot about her as a parent.

Still, a child. He and children didn’t mix well, so he avoided women who had them.
Of course, it didn’t matter in this case; she had to be married.

A trickle of melted ice made its way under his shirt and trailed along his shoulder.
Graham adjusted his shirt collar and pushed at the wetness, trying in vain to shift
it off his body. The wet stickiness around his neck was suddenly unbearable, so he
got up and went to the men’s room on the concourse below.