Curveball (16 page)

Today Psycho had the day off. He lay in bed and stared at the ceiling. A full day of nudity would be good. Keely had promised no workmen in the house. No deliveries. The day was his to enjoy. And he planned to enjoy it…and Keely.

Keely’s thoughts, however, ran to travel. She
entered his room wearing a soft peach sundress and a softer smile, and threw him a curveball. “I’d like to visit Colonial Williamsburg today.”

“Not my idea of a great day off.”

She came closer to the bed, yet remained just beyond his reach. She was wise to the fact that he’d grab her and lay her out flat. The trip would soon be forgotten.

“The restoration on your home is progressing nicely,” she said. “You have a responsibility to this house. In Williamsburg, you can experience the history of this place firsthand. Learn about Colonel William Lowell. Afterward, you’ll feel his presence in your home.”

He wasn’t feeling responsible, nor did he need a Colonial ghost in his life. Three would be a crowd. “I want to feel you, not Lowell.”

“You felt me up all night long.”

“I want all day too.”

“I want Williamsburg.”

Crap.
Psycho stretched, then rolled out of bed. He stood naked before her, fully aroused. “I always get mobbed in public places.”

“The employees won’t bother you,” she promised, holding his gaze and not letting her eyes drop. “They’re dressed in period clothing portraying colonists. Baseball won’t be foremost on their minds.”

She had done her research. “I hate tours.” The thought of sightseeing stole his erection.

“No tours; we’ll walk the grounds. We’ll avoid big groups. We’ll buy you a pair of sunglasses
with an attached nose. There’s a costume shop on our way out of town.”

People would laugh at him. “No fake nose.”

“You can carry a cane, limp a little.” She was on a roll. “No one will recognize you.”

He scratched his belly. “I’m not limping.”

“I’ll wrap a doll in a blanket. You can carry a baby. Fans won’t be looking for a Psycho Daddy.”

No way in hell. “Not going to happen.”

She blew out a breath. “Fine, I’ll go alone. I’ll gas up the station wagon—”

“Your muffler’s broken and blowing black smoke. Highway patrol would pull you over before you hit the city limits.”

“Can I borrow your truck?”

“No.”

“I’ll rent a car.”

He liked that idea even less. “Convince me to take you.” Sex might get him there.

“No convincing, Psycho,” she said firmly. “You have to want to go. I won’t drag you there.”

“I could drag you in the shower.”

“No sex.”

Keely sounded a little cranky. “Your time of the month?”

She shook her head, hesitating. “I’m…sore.”

Psycho couldn’t help himself; he smiled. He’d worn her out. Knowing her muscles ached from bed play made him relax. A cold shower would take the edge off.

“We’ll do Williamsburg today.” Walking would ease her stiffness.

“And I’ll do you tonight,” she promised.

A solid compromise.

Thirty minutes later, they hit the highway and cruised south. Arriving in Colonial Williamsburg, Psycho parked his truck, then agreed to a carriage ride.

Keely was a history buff and knew more about Williamsburg than their guide. She pointed out homes, taverns, and Market Square, relating interesting stories about each. On her request, their driver slowed the carriage near North England Street so they could watch African-American interpreters reenact “jumping the broom,” a marriage ceremony.

As soon as the ride ended, Psycho backtracked with Keely to the numerous locations that had caught her eye.

The Magazine showcased an arsenal of muskets and cannon. Visitors could watch the militia drill and listen to the fife and drums.

Psycho could only shake his head over the Colonial clothing. All along the cobblestone streets, they passed men in linen shirts, cravats, waistcoats, and breeches. They wore cocked hats on their heads. White stockings fell to black buckled shoes. The Colonial costumes looked stifling in the August heat.

The ladies had to be sweating bullets. Whether a wealthy planter’s wife, corseted in taffeta, or a slave wearing coarse wool, they were all weighed down with layers of clothing. Most of them also wore wigs.

The wigs made Psycho’s own head itch. He sweated for the reenactors.

On Duke of Gloucester Street, a milkmaid boldly winked at him. He didn’t wink back. At the milliner’s shop, the dressmaker flirted with him from behind a fan. He looked the other way.

Across the street, the sweaty blacksmith flexed his muscles, and Keely smiled.

Her smile didn’t sit well with Psycho and he tightened his hold on her hand.

They crossed to Palace Green Street, explored the green, and took in the governor’s palace. It was an immense structure, complete with gates, gardens, offices, walks, canal, and orchards.

The George Wythe House came next. A house inhabited by the ghost of Lady Ann Skipwith. Keely knew the woo-woo. She whispered the story to him. “Lady Ann and her husband attended a gala at the governor’s palace,” she began. “Because of some slight, her temper flared and she left in such a hurry, one of her slippers broke. She hobbled up the wooden staircase at the Wythe House, sounding like someone with a wooden leg.”

She swallowed nervously, darted a look toward the staircase in the old Colonial. “It’s said she took her own life. And that she’s buried in the graveyard of nearby Bruton Parrish Church. Many have heard her ascending the stairs in her one good slipper.”

Psycho rolled his eyes. “I’m not staying overnight to hear Annie limp up the stairs.”

Keely poked his chest, then turned toward the door. “Respect the dead.”

In Psycho’s opinion, Keely needed a reality check. Following close behind her, he purposely began to limp. The scuffing sound of one boot drew Keely’s shriek. And his laugh. She punched his arm so hard his muscle spasmed. Seemed she couldn’t take a joke.

Keely was fascinated by the apothecary. She knew all about the antiquated methods of setting bones and extracting teeth. How to bleed patients with leeches. She knew the mystery of mixing various ingredients into potions, which herbs cured headaches and colds. Psycho was impressed.

Back on the street, a puppet show caught her eye at the Folk Art Center. Psycho drew the line at puppets. Not his thing.

Keeping one eye on her, he slipped into a building with a sign that read
ENGLISH REVOLUTIONS.
The room was narrow and dark, and smelled of wealth and age. Oil paintings hung on the walls in heavy frames. Colonial artifacts were displayed on floor-to-ceiling shelves. He’d entered an art gallery.

“Can I be of assistance?”

The male voice hit Psycho like a punch to the gut.
Wimbledon.
It took several seconds for Chris Collier to emerge from the shadows. Psycho stared at the Rogues’ starting pitcher. Lean and blond in a coral polo shirt, charcoal slacks, and tasseled loafers, he had
country club
written all over him.

Whereas Psycho was backstreet Philly.

Dislike churned deeply. Collier wasn’t earning his paycheck. Once his vision had cleared, the pitcher had started strong, only to fade midseason. The man wasn’t “on” with every game. He lacked the all-out dedication that would take the Rogues to the World Series.

He’d pitched straight to Baltimore last week. Every Oriole had gotten a hit. Collier had the outfield running their asses off. He had more hits off him in five innings than the opposing pitcher had in the entire three-game series. The man sucked.

“Williamsburg, an odd place to spend your day off,” Chris said dryly.

“I could say the same for you.”

“My family owns the gallery,” Chris returned. “I chose today to visit.”

“I had my arm twisted.”

“Feel free to look around,” Collier said stiffly. “I’m working in the back.”

Psycho glanced out the front window. A large crowd was still gathered around the puppet show. A show that still held Keely’s attention. He glanced into a side room. Noted oriental carpets on the floor and a dozen large oil paintings. All of Revolutionary War subjects. Battle scenes and decorated Confederate officers.

One painting stood out. Looked damn familiar. He blinked, stared, couldn’t believe his eyes. Before him, a Confederate colonel sat astride his warhorse, amid a backdrop of autumn trees.

Psycho moved in closer. The scripted brass plaque on the heavy gilded frame read
COLONEL WILLIAM LOWELL.
The painter was Winslow Homer.

Keely’s painting.
The one she’d sworn belonged to her family and that she’d promised to place on his mantel when the house was fully restored. A painting Psycho knew she’d never truly owned.

To Keely’s credit, her initial claim to be William’s illegitimate grandniece had won over the Daughters. The restoration had begun.

But the full preservation of the Colonial wouldn’t be achieved without this painting. The painting belonged in his home.

A small discreet sign on the wall indicated that patrons must consult with the gallery owner prior to a purchase. He needed to find Wimbledon to ask the price.

The man hated Psycho, and might not consider him a legitimate buyer. For Keely, he had to try.

He went to the door and shouted down the hall, “Consultation on a painting.”

He swore he heard Collier grind his teeth. “My father does all presale consultations,” the man shot back. “Call him tomorrow.”

“I want to discuss Colonel William Lowell.”

“That painting’s not for sale.”

Bullshit.
Psycho took off down the hallway and confronted Collier behind his desk. “Not for sale to the public or strictly to me?”

“To you.”

At least the man was honest. Psycho fought back his temper. “I own the Lowell House,” he informed Chris. “I’m having it restored. The colonel’s painting belongs in his home.”

“The painting is an original Winslow Homer,” Chris stated. “My father has thought long and hard about donating it to the Museum of Fine Arts in Richmond.”

“Give me a price and I’ll write you a check.”

“Money can’t buy bloodlines.”

Psycho slammed his hands on the desktop. “That painting is very important to someone in my life. I’m asking nicely a second time, how much?”

Ticked by Psycho’s persistence, Chris pushed himself from his chair with a wince. Only a slight wince, but enough of a grimace that Psycho took notice. “What’s wrong with your leg?”

“Not a damn thing.”

Psycho came around the corner of the desk, caught the Ace bandage that held an ice pack to the pitcher’s knee. Chris wasn’t on the injured list. He was scheduled to pitch tomorrow.

“What the hell?” Psycho raised a brow.

Chris dropped back in his chair and swore. “I didn’t want anyone to know,” he finally said. “I twisted my knee two months ago. Some days are better than others.”

Psycho ran the Rogues schedule through his mind. “Did the injury happen on the road against the Dodgers or at home against the Twins?”

Chris couldn’t meet his gaze. “At home, at Hollywood Harts.”

“The animal sanctuary?”

The pitcher’s breath hissed through his teeth. “Never thought I’d be sharing my personal life with you.”

“I’m only interested in the damage to your knee.”

“I was injured by Fancy. I’ve been helping Sophie on my days off. At dinnertime, I mistakenly got between Fancy and her trough—”

“And your life flashed before your eyes.”

Chris rubbed his knee. “Fancy bumped me hard. She let me know in no uncertain terms the food belonged to her.”

The pig packed two hundred pounds of squealing hunger. Psycho seldom laughed appropriately. He broke out laughing now, yet was quick to sober. A right-handed pitcher needed a flexible left knee. Normally his knee took all his weight when he released the ball, but Chris’s knee was damaged. “How bad is it?”

“I’ve seen a specialist; the tear is minor. A cortisone shot controls the pain during the game.”

A bad knee was the reason for Chris’s erratic pitching. “No one knows?”

“You do now.”

Psycho had played with a sprained ankle and broken ribs and never consulted the team trainer. A part of him understood Chris’s need not to broadcast his injury. It would leave the man vul
nerable to both the opposing team and the press. He didn’t need to be under a microscope.

Psycho rested his hip on the corner of the desk. “I’ve played beat up. It’s your business. I won’t say anything.”

Chris looked visibly relieved. “Thanks.”

“My silence comes with a price.” Psycho pressed his advantage. “Sell me the painting.”

Chris’s nostrils flared. “Asshole.”

“Asshole with a Winslow Homer.”

At the end of a short but heated discussion, Psycho wrote Chris a check. A moderate check. Chris agreed to hold the painting until Psycho called for delivery.

“Psycho?” Keely’s voice came from the main door.

“Give me a sec.” Psycho caught Chris’s look toward the gallery, followed by his smile. “My designer,” he explained.

“Yeah, and Sophie Hart means no more to me than a monthly donation to her sanctuary.”

“Mind your own business.”

“You’d better go mind yours. The lady’s checking out the paintings.”

Psycho found Keely by the artifacts. “Nothing worth seeing here,” he told her. “Let’s hit Merchants Square for souvenirs before we leave.”

Souvenirs
was the magic word to get her moving. She’d brought her purse and had her own spending money. She refused to let Psycho pay her way.

At Liberty Gifts, he discovered her flipping through a copy of George Washington’s version
of
Rules of Civility and Decent Behavior in Company and Conversation.
“You wouldn’t have lasted a day in Colonial America,” she teased. “Read rule number seven.”

He peered over her shoulder and read, “
Put not off your Cloths in the presence of Others, nor go out your Chamber half Drest.”
So much for nudists.

He tapped rule number two with his finger. “
When in Company, put not your Hands to any Part of the Body, not usually Discovered.
No slapping my ass.”