Curveball (19 page)

With the series at 1-1, the Rogues returned to Richmond. Fans at James River Stadium gave the team their full support. The Rogues took the next two games. One more win, and they’d take the World Series Championship.

Romeo chose to spend the afternoon before the Saturday night game with Emerson. He knew he wasn’t good company. His thoughts were on the game and not on her. But she didn’t seem to mind.

He’d sent her six dozen white roses and hand delivered a French blue nightgown embellished with lace and seed pearls. She’d bought an expensive bottle of champagne.

“I’ll find you after the game,” he told her as he was about to leave. “Be ready for me.” He was that certain of winning.

Emerson arrived at the park two hours later. She’d chosen to sit in the press box, even though she wouldn’t be taking notes. She’d asked to be taken off the story so she could watch Romeo and not worry about missing any details of the game.

Excited and nervous, she’d morphed from a professional journalist into a cheering, crazy woman rooting for her man.

The game got off to a good start. Chris Collier threw fastball after fastball. Minnesota struck out as many times as they connected for line drives. But eventually those drives got the Twins on base and in scoring position.

In the seventh-inning stretch, Minnesota led 5-4.

At the bottom of the eighth, the Rogues recaptured the lead. Now it was 6-5.

At the top of the ninth, the Twins drew their final bat. Three outs, and the game would end. Unless Minnesota tied or bettered the score.

Emerson forgot to breathe. She was concentrating so hard on the field, she swore her heart had stopped.

Chris Collier struck out the leadoff batter. The crowd exploded. Everyone was on their feet, waving their red, white, and blue rally towels.

The second batter smacked the ball to right field. A perfect rainbow. High, long, and soon to be gone.

Psycho refused to accept defeat.

He jumped, throwing his body halfway over
the cement wall to make the catch. His drop back onto the field seemed to occur in slow motion. He landed on his feet, then hit his knees. One arm cradled his rib cage; the other was held high to demonstrate his catch.

The stadium grew still, quiet as a morgue while Risk Kincaid sprinted to Psycho. Kincaid waved off the team, those who needed to know their wild man wasn’t down for the count. He spoke to Psycho privately.

From the press box, Emerson felt Psycho will himself to his feet. Will himself into right field to finish the game.

The fans’ response broke all sound barriers. The glass in the press box shook. The crowd’s stomping and cheering sounded like an earthquake.

Chris Collier went the distance for the Rogues. The third batter took two strikes and three balls. Full count, and a sly smile slit the batter’s lips. The impact of his swing sent the ball over the first baseman’s head, a line drive directly to Psycho.

Emerson clenched her hands so tightly, her knuckles turned white. Psycho scooped the ball, ready to fire it to second, but muscle spasms seemed to grip his side. He bent to catch his breath. The runner advanced to second before Psycho could cut him off.

The next batter had power and precision. He also looked to right field.

Emerson saw Risk Kincaid shout at Psycho, but the right fielder shook him off. Clearly, Psycho wasn’t leaving the game.

The batter broke the bat on Chris Collier’s heat. The ball jammed between first and second. Psycho got to it quickly. He fired the ball to third.

The Twins player ran all out. He shot by Romeo and was headed home. Romeo relayed the ball to Chaser, who went for the tag at home.

The batter bulldozed the catcher.

Both men went down.

Chaser lost his mask.

The Twins player’s batting helmet flew off.

The stadium held its collective breath.

Out…or safe?

It took the ruling of the home plate, first, and third base umpires to hand the Rogues their win. With that decision, fans screamed and fireworks exploded.

Emerson’s eyes welled up and tears streamed her cheeks. Through it all, she watched the Rogues hug, jump up and down, and go crazy. They sprayed champagne over themselves and the crowd. Shook hands with every fan they could reach.

Em watched as Psycho and Chaser split away from the team.

Chaser tore off his catcher’s gear and trotted to the sideline seats south of the Rogues’ dugout. Among fans who were slapping him on the back, he lifted a tall, slender woman right out of the stands. In front of the television crew and all those present, he kissed her soundly. He’d chosen to share his win with her.

Psycho followed suit. One arm was curved around his ribs, the other around Keely Douglas
as he pulled her from her seat and set her on the field. Keely laid her hand on his chest, her fingers splayed over his ribs in a gesture that was both protective and caring. Just then the team trainer pointed toward the locker room and Psycho obliged with Keely at his side.

It took Emerson a moment to realize her own Rogue was coming for her. Escorted by security, Romeo now climbed the stairs to the press box.

The door swung wide, and his “Privacy, please” sent the reporters and news crew scrambling. “Watch my back,” he said to security before the door closed on the outside commotion.

Emerson’s breath stuttered. Before her now stood the sexiest man in Major League Baseball. All tousled hair, grass-stained jersey, and enormous grin, as if he’d conquered the world.

He had. The Rogues had won the World Series.

Soon, he’d kiss her panties off.

She looked into his eyes, and fell into his arms. His kiss was charged with adrenaline and need. He couldn’t get close enough to her. He curved his hands over her shoulders, then bracketed her ribs, finally cupping her bottom. They were as close as they could get, without being naked.

Naked would come shortly.

“The press, celebration in the locker room, autographs. I’ll be home as soon as I can,” he promised.

Several more kisses and another squeeze to her bottom, and he was called back to the field for the trophy presentation.

The fans remained at the ballpark for hours after the Rogues cleared the field. Fireworks and music sounded until midnight. Emerson sat quietly and took it all in, needing to embrace the win along with the crowd. The Rogues had brought it home.

Around one a.m., she returned to her condo. She read in bed until Romeo showed up at two. She met him halfway on the stairs to her bedroom. She could tell he was hyped, happy, and wanting her bad.

He scooped her up and carried her back to bed. She lost her nightgown between the top step and her feather mattress. Only her French blue panties remained when he laid her down, then covered her. The press of his midnight-blue Armani suit felt rich against her skin. His sunshine and citrus surrounded her.

He slipped off her red reading glasses. Set them on her bedside table beside the Easy Ryder Magnum XL condoms. “A box, huh?”

“You’re the legend.”

“And I’m here to deliver.”

She traced his silver and plum paisley tie with one finger. “Nice suit.”

He loosened the Windsor knot. “Even nicer once it’s off.”

They bumped together, tugging at his clothing.

He shrugged off his suit jacket.

She set her hands to work on his shirt buttons, rolled the dress shirt off his shoulders.

He ripped off his belt.

She went for his zipper.

He rid himself of his slacks, socks, and shoes, then rocked back on his knees, fully naked and aroused. Emerson stared. The man was even more muscular than she’d expected. Curly goldenblond hair dusted his well-developed chest, rippling over his skin as his muscles moved.

He was a man in his prime, full of strength and heat, and born to give pleasure. The sexiest man in baseball had a major league hard-on.

“All for me?” Her fingertips grazed his sex.

“See anyone else in the room?”

“Good, ‘cause I’m greedy.”

He took her hipbones between his broad hands and pulled her toward him. Her knees bent on either side of his hips. The tips of his fingers nosed down, tripping lightly across the silken band of her panties. Easing his thumbs beneath the elastic, he stripped them down. The caress of silk was arousing.

He took his sweet time working his way up her body, going for her most sensitive areas first.

He licked his way up her inner thigh. Kissed her where she was most vulnerable. Then came the touching. So much touching. The man was good with his hands. Every move he made was sexy.

His fingers slid over and inside her. Desire tickled between her thighs. Her hips rolled and her stomach fluttered.

He pressed his mouth to those flutters, delivered a butterfly storm of kisses to her belly. His fingers splayed over her ribs, as heated as rays from the sun.

He tongued her navel, scraped his teeth over one hip. Kissed his way up her body, over each delineated rib to the warm curve of her breast. He took her nipple into his mouth, rolled it with his tongue.

He nipped the pulse point at the base of her throat.

Nuzzled her neck and ear.

Soft shadows from her reading light settled over his body as his long legs pushed her own apart. He rested on his elbows and looked down on her. Smiled.

“You ready for me, Em?” he breathed against her mouth.

“Ready since our first interview.”

Lust and surprise lit his eyes. “You had me fooled.”

“I didn’t want to lose control. Until now.”

“Lose it tonight with me.”

He penetrated her then, and she gasped at the suddenness of it. She arched her back, and bonded her body to his male length. Pleasure pulsed from her breasts to her belly and in between her thighs—pure, raw, endless.

When he finally kissed her, she was lost. Completely, totally, and forever taken.

He controlled his body. And hers.

She accepted his heat with the naturalness of breathing. He moved inside her, deep circular motions that changed the angle of each thrust. The intensity, the ecstasy, the sheer power of the climax rose from deep inside her as he drove for his own release.

Her nails dug into his back, scored his skin.

She craved, throbbed, went mindlessly mad.

The tension in Romeo’s body strained his every muscle. She could feel his body lock, jerk, and come at the exact moment lights brightened, then burst behind her eyelids.

She surrendered to the pulsing of a thousand nerves.

Time shifted, left her weightless. By degrees, her frantic breathing slowed.

She and Romeo lay motionless for long minutes, lacking the energy to roll apart, yet sustained by the warm tangle of arms and legs and remnants of pleasure.

The man was legendary.

He was also still hard inside her.

She looked into his eyes, questioningly.

He gently brushed back her hair, which had gone wild during sex. “I want you again,” he said.

“Again?” She’d yet to blink away the bright lights behind her eyelids.

“Again and again.” His mouth took hers in deep French kisses.

Their tongues once again tangled, as did their bodies.

Hot kisses and hotter hands brought them to orgasm a second time. Emerson was so spent and exhausted, she rolled onto her side with a sigh.

They spooned, her bottom kissing his belly.

His arm curved over her hip, his hand full on her breast. It was the gentlest of touches, yet so full
of expectancy, her body shivered. She would have this man once more, as soon as she recovered.

“Emerson.” His words whispered against her shoulder. “There’s something I need to say.”

She looked over her shoulder, caught his eye. Emotion etched his features. “Tell me.”

“I’ve had sex with a lot of women.”

She’d known that.

“Sex is best with someone you love.”

Love
…the word stole across her heart, caused her pulse to quicken.

“We waited seven months for sex,” he slowly continued. “I can wait seven more if it takes that long for you to love me back.”

She turned fully, faced him. Her soft breasts brushed his hard chest. His sex was wedged between her thighs. “I love you now.”

His throat worked, his smile breaking on a release of breath. “Love is good. Marriage even better.”

The man wanted to spend his life with her. Joy shot through her chest and acceptance tingled her toes. “I’m yours, Jesse Bellisaro.” He would be Jesse to her from this point forth. Romeo was his past.

“You won’t be sorry,” he promised.

In keeping with that promise, he rolled her on her back and kept his legend alive.

“Get dressed, Cody McMillan.”

Keely Douglas had called him by his given name. She must mean business. Psycho turned his darkest look on her. She rolled her eyes, unafraid. “Get out of bed,” she ordered.

Hard to take orders from a woman standing in the doorway in nothing but a tangerine boa. Even if the boa did drape over her breasts and cover her crotch, he still knew she was naked. He wanted her naked in his bed.

Keely, however, insisted he make himself ready to welcome his guests. Those guests invited to celebrate the completed restoration of his Colonial.

He didn’t have a welcoming bone in his body.

He held out his hand. “Come talk me into getting up.”

“Do it on your own.”

He jackknifed from the bed, stood tall. “I could attend nude.”

“Not everyone would appreciate you as I do.”

“You had to invite Becky, didn’t you?”

“Both Rebecca Reed Custis and the Richmond Historical Society.”

“Shit.” The day had doom and gloom written all over it.

“Romeo, Chaser, Risk Kincaid, and Chris Collier will be here.”

“Yippee.”

“And the gang from Wally’s.”

Psycho’s eyes went wide. “Becky and the bar crowd. You’re mixing prude and rude.”

“It will all work out fine.” She hesitated. “I think.”

He understood her concern. Becky had bulldozed Keely into the open house. Keely, however, didn’t have the oil painting she’d promised for the mantel. Only with Colonel William Lowell’s portrait hung over the fireplace would the Colonial be fully restored.

Keely feared having to tell the truth.

Psycho had her back. She just didn’t know it yet. He’d wanted to share his purchase, yet had chosen to wait until the painting was officially under his roof.

His trust in Chris Collier had solidified with the delivery. The Winslow Homer had arrived late yesterday afternoon while Keely was chindeep in a bathtub of bubbles.

From the bubble bath, he’d talked her into his bed. Sex had replaced all thoughts of the painting. There had been no time to tell her about the masterpiece. All his words had gone into sweet
talk. How good she tasted. How he burned inside her. How much he liked her deep blue eyes.

Surprising Keely would be the high point of his day. The painting would be the best birthday gift she’d ever received.

She’d be grateful and loving. His hardheaded woman would go all soft in his arms. He wanted his “thank you” delivered in the metallic-blue boa tonight. It glowed in the dark.

Psycho scratched his belly. “You wearing a T-shirt and jeans?”

Her cheeks turned pink. “I bought a dress.”

“What do you expect me to wear?”

“A suit.”

No way in hell.
“Door number two.”

“You make my life difficult,” she said. “I’d hoped you’d clean up and make as good an impression as your house.”

“I don’t do good impressions.”

“You could if you tried.”

“I try for no one.”

“Not even for me?”

“Don’t ask, and you won’t be disappointed.”

She crossed her arms over her chest, and the tangerine boa fluttered. Just enough to expose her right nipple and a hint of the blond curls between her thighs.

He looked down at his groin.
Batter up, and no relief pitch in sight.

Catching his gaze, Keely covered herself the best she could. She tilted her head, her expression suddenly somber. “How are your ribs?”

He’d fractured three during the World Series. His leap onto the right-field wall had nearly punctured a lung. He remained sore, but on the whole, he was healing nicely. “Two weeks, and I’ll be working out.”

She looked down at her feet. Her toenails were painted hot pink. A thin gold link bracelet wrapped one ankle. Her most recent birthday present. “Now may not be the best time,” she said slowly, “but I’ve been meaning to ask for a letter of recommendation. Rebecca has set me up with an interview for a second restoration. A Colonial on Rhode Island. The owners requested a letter from you. I’ve got a plane ticket to Newport on Friday.”

Rhode Island? Friday?
The thought of her leaving paralyzed him. “You haven’t finished training the dogs.”

“Boris and Bosephus can sit, roll over, and come on command. You may never get more from them.”

“What about me?”

“Untrainable.” Her smile was soft, but didn’t quite reach her eyes. “A woman would be crazy to try.”

“Damn crazy,” he agreed.

“You hired me when I desperately needed a job,” she said. “I’ll always be grateful.”

So grateful she’d leave him.

She turned then, the curve of her shoulder and her round little bottom walking out of his life. Anger and hurt slammed together in his chest,
followed by an explosion of pain. He wanted to punch a wall. Throw back his head and howl. Go after her.

He remained where he stood. He’d never chased a woman. Had never wanted one to stay in his life.

But that was before Keely.

The skinny blonde with the deep blue eyes made him feel and need. Two emotions he’d survived without for thirty-two years.

She made him laugh.

He made her blush.

She satisfied him in bed.

He reminded her how fun birthdays could be every day of the week.

It had been an even trade-off. Until today.

He hated the fact that she’d move on and restore someone else’s house. As if Colonel William Lowell’s home wasn’t enough to keep her happy. Son of a bitch.

Across the hallway, Keely Douglas dressed carefully. She’d spent two weeks’ salary on a designer sweater dress in mauve cashmere. A scalloped gold chain looped her waist. She knew she looked sleek and stylish. The matching sling-back pumps gave her confidence. She’d done a damn fine job on Psycho’s Colonial. It was time to showcase its beauty and heritage.

The only problem she faced was telling the truth. She wasn’t related to the Lowell family, even on the bastard side, but she hadn’t been able to think of a graceful way to admit she’d made
the claim up. Her only hope was that her ability as a designer would outweigh her lie.

She crossed her fingers. Added a silent prayer.

Once downstairs, she checked on the caterer set up in the formal dining room. The King Midas Room, as Psycho referred to it, because the walls were gilded. The cut crystal, china, and vintage table linen gave off a burnished glow in the candlelight.

The doorbell soon rang. Keely greeted the arrivals in the foyer. She directed each person toward a buffet fit for a king. She accepted compliments on the chandelier dripping in prisms, and the bronze lions guarding the antique fire screen. More than one person sat and enjoyed the entry bench upholstered in sky-blue silk toile.

Every other minute, Keely looked toward the fireplace. She’d arranged red amaryllis and peonies in a silver punch bowl next to an antique painting covered by a black silk cloth. She’d bought a portrait of a cairn terrier captured in oils. It was a fine piece, but the little dog couldn’t replace Colonel William Lowell on the mantle, no matter how proudly it posed.

She dreaded the moment when she’d have to unveil the terrier and announce that her ancestors did not branch from the Lowell family tree. The start of a headache hit her square between the eyes.

Rebecca Reed Custis arrived on the arm of architect Franklin Langston. Dressed in a dove
gray suit, the woman looked exactly as she had the first day she’d marched on Psycho’s Colonial, demanding he honor the Confederate colonel. In Keely’s eyes, William had been honored.

The remaining Daughters and members of the Richmond Historical Society followed Rebecca inside. Placing her hand over her heart, Rebecca spoke for the group. “An immense amount of thought has gone into restoring Mr. McMillan’s Colonial. You are to be praised, Keely Douglas-Lowell.” There was a soft round of applause before Rebecca introduced Keely to those guests she did not yet know.

The older woman went on to endorse Gloss Interiors. Keely’s imaginary design firm. Everyone commended Keely on the success of the project. Silently they applauded her patience in dealing with Psycho McMillan.

Rebecca then led her group into the living room. In giving her tour, she pointed out her favorite slipper chair in cranberry velvet; a rococo sofa and the Elizabeth Randolph writing desk. The rosewood piano. Along with a bull’s-eye mirror with an eagle perched on the top.

Romeo Belissaro and Chaser Tallan showed up with their fiancées. Jen Reid, Chaser’s lady, had driven both couples in her classic turquoise ‘65 Thunderbird. An engagement gift from Chaser. Keely had heard that her El Camino had died a quick and painless death at James River Stadium. And never was revived.

Romeo checked Keely out as thoroughly as he did the foyer. “Place looks amazing,” he finally said. “You’ve never looked better.”

His compliment made her blush. The man stood tall and handsome beside his reporter. The diamond on Emerson Kent’s finger cast as many prisms as the entrance chandelier.

“Thanks for coming,” Keely said.

“Psycho’s gone Colonial. Wouldn’t miss this for the world,” Chaser stated. “Where is our man of the hour?”

“Debating what to wear.”

“Or not to wear,” guessed Romeo.

Her shoulders slumped. “I requested a suit, but he—he—”

No one was listening. Every eye had suddenly shifted to the staircase. Utter stillness invaded the foyer.

“Holy shit,” she heard Chaser mutter. “Psycho…”

Keely had never been more afraid to turn around.

Her fists clenched and her temper spiked.

Just once she’d have liked him to play by the rules.

She was going to kill him.

She spun about, ready to do battle…

Only to expel a breath in disbelief. Psycho McMillan descended the stairs in a black suit. His expression was sharp, severe, on the attack. There was more snarl than smile to the man as he hit
the bottom step, daring anyone to make a comment on his formal appearance.

Someone whistled behind Keely, followed by “M-mmm, Psycho Rogue cleans up nice.” The gang from Wally’s Bar had shoved in behind Romeo and Chaser, and it was Mona who’d cut through the silence. Her second wolf whistle put everyone at ease.

The awkwardness was replaced by warm smiles and slaps on the back. As the crowd fanned out to other rooms, Keely faced Psycho. His gaze touched her with heat and intensity, nearly burning the cashmere off her body. She shifted on her high heels and folded her hands over her stomach to contain the flutters.

“The open house is a success,” she finally managed.

“So I see.”

“Most everyone has arrived. Many brought housewarming gifts. I’ve put them in the family room.”

“Good place for them.”

“Risk and Jacy Kincaid are running late, because the cappuccino machine at her café broke down. She’s waiting for an electrician. Chris Collier and Sophie Hart send their regrets. Apparently someone named Fancy caught a cold.”

At the mention of Fancy, Psycho’s lips twitched. “Fancy’s a pig.”

“Oh…” She’d run out of news. Psycho’s short responses indicated he hadn’t much to say either.
While she’d love to comment on his transformation from nudist to major player, he wouldn’t want flattery.

The word
virile
came to mind when she took in the way his black turtleneck defined his chest. As did
tailored
and
tempting.

He was startlingly masculine and totally lethal.

He hadn’t shaved. Late afternoon stubble roughened his jaw. The ends of his overly long hair curled against his collar. He was both handsome and hunted, Keely thought, as two women from Wally’s came to claim his attention. Women who knew Keely only as Psycho’s designer. They had no idea she’d loosened his hips during seasonal play.

“I’d better see to your guests.” She excused herself.

The afternoon progressed in a haze. The Daughters continued to sing Keely’s praises. Their compliments lifted her spirits, but she knew the crash of emotion was but minutes away. No oil painting. No further acceptance. She’d be shown the door.

As the time for the portrait’s unveiling approached, she felt Psycho’s gaze on her. Psycho was not a man to show his feelings. Yet his look stamped her his.

Air. She needed air. Slipping behind Romeo, she wove along the fringes of the crowd toward the dining room. She was feeling light-headed. Absorbed in her many duties, she’d forgotten to eat both breakfast and lunch.

She filled her plate with sherried crab and steamed spicy shrimp, then snuck out the back door. She circled the new stone patio, wanting to check on the two Newfoundlands. Boris and Bosephus greeted her with excited barks. Keely quieted them with a bite of crab.

“Dogs have gourmet tastes.” Psycho approached her, so dangerously handsome her heart quickened. “Seeking solace?”

“I like it out here. Just me and the dogs. They’re better company than most people.”

He rested his arms on the fence, scratched Boris’s head. “You’ll get no disagreement from me.”

She cut him a look. “How are you doing?”

One corner of his mouth pinched. “How do you think I’m doing? I’m a private person, Keely.”

“It hasn’t been all that bad.”

“One hundred people have invaded my home. I’ve lost two hours of my life.”

Keely wished time would stop. In ten minutes, she’d be facing the greatest humiliation of her life.

Rebecca Reed Custis was a clock-watcher. “Keely Douglas-Lowell!” the older woman called from the patio. “Do unveil the painting, dear.”

Keely inhaled slowly. “Guess I’d better go,” she said to Psycho.

“I’m right behind you.” He pressed his palm to her back. It felt big and warm through the cashmere.

Once inside, she squeezed through the crowd gathered near the fireplace. Psycho held back,
standing off to the side. His expression was now unreadable.

Keely looked at all those gathered. Her heart beat in her throat as she fixed in her memory the people that had become such a big part of her life. She’d been unemployed and down on her luck when she’d first knocked on Psycho’s door. Seven months later, she was being praised for a phenomenal restoration. She felt successful. Right up until this moment, she’d never known life could be so good.