Curveball (4 page)

His scent had her inhaling deeply. The man
was all citrus and sunshine. Clean and masculine.

Memories of spring training kept Emerson focused. Women came easy to Romeo. Way too easy. She’d never seen so many phone numbers, photographs, and pairs of panties land at his feet. A bat boy had been assigned to keep the third base line clear. A job that lasted a full nine innings.

She understood his appeal. The man was a sexual force. One look at Romeo, and she’d stopped breathing. Her body had gone all soft and achy when she’d seen him in his blue Viper. Her nipples had puckered; her panties became damp beneath his stare.

A most unnatural reaction from a woman known for her brains and cool observations. Her journalism degree had landed her at the
Banner.
First in Society, then in Sports. She’d covered hundreds of social events, dealt with athletes on a daily basis.

But the most elaborate social event didn’t come close to dinner with Romeo Bellisaro. His family was known for restaurant franchises. His father had started Bellisaro Italiano in Chicago. Built on traditional recipes and the warm hospitality of his Italian heritage, the restaurant was known for its pasta and deep-dish pizza and had become a national chain.

Investing in his father’s footsteps, Romeo had come up with Bellisaro Americano. Surrounded by sports memorabilia, customers enjoyed grilled hamburgers and steaks. Packed booths and tables
and a long waiting line attested to the restaurant’s popularity and success.

This dinner with Romeo would provide Emerson with material for several columns. Juicy columns. She had the inside scoop on the sexiest man in Major League Baseball. A title he’d held for three straight years.

Since their arrival, Romeo had been in constant demand. Autographs. Kisses. Craned necks and sideways glances from both customers and employees. To stay in control, she’d gone allbusiness on him. She’d purposely stopped for gasoline. Purposely shopped for groceries. Purposely started writing her column under his nose.

The man looked uneasy.

Better he than she.

The scent of Chloe arrived seconds before their waitress. Tall, thin Tina dropped a menu before her, then placed one directly into Romeo’s hand. As she laid out the place mats and silverware, Romeo’s expression hardened.

Emerson understood his look. The Rogues’ schedule glared back at him from the place mat, printed out in neat block lettering. A reminder he’d be sitting on the bench for thirteen games.

“Nice of you to make an appearance,” Tina said happily to Romeo. “When you’re here, tips triple.”

“How’s the house fund?” he asked.

She broke into a smile. “I’m almost there. An additional two thousand and I’ve got the down payment.” Tina cast a quick glance at Emerson,
then looked back at Romeo. “What can I bring you to drink?”

“The lady will have a ginger ale; I’ll have a National Bohemian beer,” Romeo replied.

Tina nodded, went for their drinks. She cast two looks over her shoulder at Romeo before she reached the bar. She was openly taken with the man.

Emerson unfolded her napkin, smoothed it across her lap. “How did you know I like ginger ale?” she asked.

“You drank one on the sidelines during Media Day.”

The man had an eye for detail. She tried not to smile. Failed. Once again she found him staring at her mouth. She didn’t understand the fascination. Her lips were too full. Her dimple cut too deep. Her front teeth weren’t quite straight.

He continued to stare until his gaze darkened and his eyelids half closed. Which caused her heart to stutter. In need of a distraction, she picked up her menu. She took several minutes to scan the entries while Romeo studied her.

She didn’t look up until Tina returned with their drinks. “Ready to order?” the waitress asked.

This time Emerson took the initiative. “Two Angus burgers, one rare, one medium, both with extra onion, and two sides of sweet potato fries.”

Romeo’s lips twitched. “Extra onion?”

“So thick and raw your eyes will water.”

“I’ve never had a date eat onions.”

“I’m not your date, onion breath.”

He threw back his head and laughed. The sound was deep and rich. Contagious. She felt her body relax. Grow expectant. She kicked herself for responding to a man known to have the word
Legendary
tattooed at his groin. All the Rogues bore tattoos. The tats were a part of their rookie initiation onto the team.

“Will that be all?” Tina waited for Romeo’s approval.

He nodded. “Onions are good.”

Her gaze still on Romeo, Tina collected the menus and backed away from their booth, straight into a table across the aisle. Glasses and plates tipped. She mumbled an apology to the annoyed patrons.

Emerson rolled her eyes. “Your effect on women is staggering.”

He crossed his arms over his chest, his big body curving low on the vinyl seat. “Do I stagger you?”

“You have every woman in the restaurant trying to catch your eye. Why would I matter?”

“For the simple reason that you’re not trying to impress me. I like that.”

His compliment made her shiver. She could sit and stare at him, enjoying his company and smile, or break the spell and work. She flipped open her laptop. “What else do you like, Jesse Bellisaro?”

“The way a woman smiles, the softness of her skin, the throaty sounds she makes during sex.”

Her hands froze over the keyboard. “Out of the bedroom and back to the park. Talk baseball.”

“Does baseball turn you on?”

“It holds my interest.”

He pulled himself forward, rested his elbows on the table. “I like the sound of the sweet spot, when the bat connects with the ball for a home run. Sliding into a base a split second before being tagged out. Hearing the crowd chant my name. The ultimate rush of taking the division title.” He paused. “No words can describe winning the World Series.”

She typed, then looked up. “You’ll hear more boos than cheers with the Bat Pack warming the bench on Opening Day.”

“Thirteen games will pass quickly.”

“Maybe not. My money’s on the Ottawa Raptors.”

He blinked. “Ontario? You have a pro-Canadian bias?”

“They’ve switched to a traditional pitching-and-defense approach. The Raptors are uniquely positioned to take advantage of the Yankees’, Braves’, and Rogues’ vulnerabilities.”

“The Raptors are a close-but-no-cigar team.”

She flattened her palms on either side of her laptop and leaned forward. “They have an all-star-caliber bat at second and exceptional glove work at short.”

He rolled his shoulders, met her nose to nose across the table. “Their shortstop couldn’t scoop a ball if it stopped at his feet.”

“He was named Rookie of the Year after a long line of jaw-dropping plays at third last season.”

His nostrils flared. “The Raptors are a young team. Their rotation is dubious or disconcertingly raw. They won’t win a hundred games.”

“They’ll take the National League title.”

“Which would take us out of the race.” He shook his head. “Not going to happen.”

“Don’t be so sure.”

“Care to make a wager?”

Why not? She knew the stats of every team going into Opening Day. She’d take his bet and make sure he paid up when he lost. Her winnings would go to charity. “One thousand dollars for every Raptor win over a hundred games.”

“I can live with that.” His sexy mouth slowly pulled to one side in amusement. “What can you live with, Em? What do I win if the Raptors don’t hit a hundred.”

The mood shifted significantly. A heightened awareness and expectation settled between them at the table. She licked her lips. “What would you want?”

His gaze lit on her moistened mouth. “An opportunity to discover if you’re as passionate in bed as you are about baseball.”

Sex with Jesse Bellisaro.
Her throat went dry. Her palms were now sweaty. She reached for her ginger ale, pressed the ice-cold glass to her overheated cheek. “I’d prefer to keep our bet monetary,” she finally managed.

“I guess you don’t really believe in the Raptors,” he said around a deceptively lazy grin. “You were gung ho on Ontario five minutes ago.
Don’t you believe in them enough to lay bed and breakfast on the line?”

She couldn’t fight the look in his eye, all-male and daring her to accept the bet. A sexual heat wound low in her belly. A pulsing heat that made her breathing faster. More irregular.

Their bet set her up to win big bucks if the Raptors scored a hundred wins. If they didn’t, she’d be heating the sheets with a legendary lover.

“Backpedaling?” he baited.

She gripped the edge of the table. Her fingertips were sweaty. “You’re on.” The words came out as barely a whisper.

“I’m always
on.
” His self-assurance forced her to take notice. “I scanned the disabled list before I left the park. A list not yet released to the press. Opening Day, the Raptors starting left fielder is out with a groin injury. A sprained wrist sidelines their lead-off batter. Their starting pitcher has a sore toe, which will keep him out of the opener. The Raptors are playing as handicapped at the Rogues.”

He wrapped up his rundown with a suggestive wink. “Your place or mine, Emerson, at season’s end we’ll enjoy breakfast in bed.”

“Hello, Legs.” Chase “Chaser” Tallan pushed through the gate at the Grand Slam concession stand and crossed to the athletically trim woman perched on a ladder, stacking paper cups on a tiered shelf.

Jen Reid turned slightly, and the wooden ladder shook. Chaser reached out, curved his hand over her hip, not wanting her to fall. Time and again he’d asked Jen to get rid of the rickety old ladder. Each time she’d refused. The ladder had belonged to her father. And his father before him. Generations of Reids had climbed the rungs. Jen held on to all things that were family. No matter their condition.

His hand steadied her as she climbed down. Standing before him, she gently drew his Killer Loops down his nose and whistled. “Nice shiner.”

“You heard about the fight?”

“And your suspension.”

His hand flexed before stroking upward and resting at her waist. A bare waist with an amber stud at her navel. He tugged down the hem on her blue tank top. “Big John would want you covered.”

“I’m thirty-two,” she reminded him.

“Your dad always saw you as twelve.”

He pulled her close, and she went willingly. She wrapped her arms about his neck, rested her head against his chest. An unspoken bond held them in silence. She knew he needed her. And she was there for him.

Her calmness was an antidote to his chaotic life, providing a comfort he’d yet to find with another woman. But along with her comfort, he knew he’d have to face her honesty. Jen always told it to him straight.

He’d known her forever, as neighbors and childhood friends. Each was an only child. Each was born to older parents who had been told they’d never have kids. Jen and he had attended the same schools, been in many of the same classes. Each knew what made the other person tick.

He tightened his arms around her, rested his chin on the top of her head. She was a tall woman at five nine, with her long black hair and longer legs. In between ballet lessons, she’d played volleyball and basketball. Following high school graduation, she’d studied dance at Julliard. She’d performed with the New York City Ballet until her father’s untimely death. Two years earlier.

She’d left New York and returned to Richmond.
Her inheritance lay in six concession stands at James River Stadium. Not in performing
Swan Lake.
She’d never once complained about the turn of events that had brought her home.

Jen adapted to whatever life dealt her.

Although Chaser missed Big John as much as Jen, he was damn glad she was home. She kept him sane.

“Who punched you?”

He felt her breath against his gray T-shirt. Right over his heart.

“Dane Maxin.” A rookie catcher who would slip into the rotation following Chaser’s suspension.

“Why did you fight?”

“I had Psycho’s back.”

“Maxin had Chris Colliers’s.” Tilting her head back, she met his gaze. Her amber eyes were as sympathetic as her tone. “The Rogues are off to a rough start. Thirteen games is a long time to warm the bench.”

“I’ll pack my iPod and the latest issue of
Sports Illustrated.”

She pulled a face. “Heard from Isabella?”

Isabella Mancini, a
Sports Illustrated
swimsuit model and a very possessive woman. After six dates and two breakfasts in bed, she’d announced their engagement to the press. Their breakup had lasted three months. Months of her stalking, whining, and criminal behavior. “She’s gone for good.”

“She was scary.”

Scary
and destructive.
From the beginning of
their relationship, Bella had known he and Jen were close. So close, Bella accused them of being lovers. Which Chaser denied. And Bella continued to hold against him.

The woman carried jealousy to the extreme.

He’d filed a police report when she’d slashed every piece of clothing in his closet. Broken every dish in his kitchen. Smashed the screen on his computer and plasma television.

The night Isabella taunted Chaser by trashing two of Jen’s concession stands was the night he’d taken out a restraining order. The model wasn’t allowed near him, Jen, or the stadium.

“Your track record with women—”

“Sucks,” he finished for her.

“The ladies fall in love faster than you care to commit.”

“I’m thirty-three and enjoy playing the field.”

“No baseball, no woman…Mercury must be in retrograde.”

Chaser grinned. Jen followed astrology. She read her horoscope, charted the planets. She now blamed Mercury for his suspension and lack of sex. His grin widened.

“Want a snow cone?” When times were tough, Jen believed snow cones made life bearable.

Squeezing her waist, he slowly released her. “Make mine lemon.”

Turning toward the shelf, she grabbed two paper cones, then headed for the freezer. She scooped shaved ice, returned, and added syrup. Lemon for him. Blueberry for her.

He planted his hands on the concession stand countertop, pushed up. “The Bat Pack gets to practice and travel with the team,” he said as he accepted his snow cone, inhaling its tart scent.

Jen stood between his splayed legs. “It won’t be the same as playing and you know it.”

He knew it, all right. Eleven years, and he hadn’t missed a game. Sitting on the bench would kill him. “Guy Powers could have gone easier—”

“
No,
he couldn’t have,” she said, and he blinked. “Outside the park, the Bat Pack runs wild. Powers has overlooked your reputations and indiscretions. Today you fought your own teammates. Inexcusable, my friend.”

He took a bite of his snow cone, let the ice and lemon dissolve on his tongue. The taste was as bitter as his suspension. “Thought you’d take my side.”

“Not when you’re wrong.”

That’s what he loved about her. She kept things real. Forced him to face his faults and fix them.

He ran a palm down his blue-jeaned thigh. Blew out a breath. “Powers acquired a bunch of assholes in the off-season overhaul. No one gets along. No unity—”

“No love of the game.”

Chaser cut her a look. “I love baseball.”

“Not the way you used to.” She eased back a step, beckoned with her finger. “Follow me, big guy.”

Snow cone in hand, he hopped off the counter
and trailed behind her. He loved to watch her move. A woman of sleek beauty and Ivory soap skin. Ballet posture and a lightness to her step. A floating grace left over from the stage.

They were the only two on the mezzanine level. Yet the walls pulsed with the expectancy and excitement of Opening Day. On Sunday afternoon, the heart of the park would beat baseball.

Stealing Home, another of Jen’s concession stands, came into view. This one sold soda, cotton candy, Cracker-Jacks, and shelled peanuts. Pennants, baseball cards, bobble-heads, and enormous foam fingers flashed behind the grilled gates at Strike Zone, the third of her concessions, which was located right before the tunnel.

At the tunnel’s entrance, she took his hand. “We were seven years old, Chaser. We’d only watched baseball on television. It was Thursday noon, and Big John called us in sick at school so we could attend the game. A day that gave meaning and purpose to your life.”

Chaser studied her face, her expression soft and dreamy as her memories returned him to his youth. Tugging him along, she led him through the tunnel’s shadows and into the electrifying sunshine.

Even though the stadium was his second home, its sheer size hit him hard. He’d spent countless hours crouched behind home plate, in the dugout and the locker room, but not once since he’d contracted with the Rogues had he climbed into the stands and viewed the game as a fan.

He dropped onto a seat and motioned Jen to join him. A low chuckle escaped him. “I remember Big John holding us to the promise that we wouldn’t move from the seats he’d found vacant. Yet throughout the game, we snuck closer and closer to home plate.”

“You were a fan of Lou Wood. The best catcher of his time. He made the final out against the Yankees that took the Rogues to the 1981 World Series.”

Chaser focused on home plate. “Ninth inning, one out, Yankees were down by two with a man on second. Top of the order, and the Yankee left fielder broke his bat on a pop-up. A mile-high pop-up. Woods made an over-the-shoulder catch, then fired the ball to second. The runner had taken off for third and was tagged out. An amazing double play.”

Jen patted his thigh. “You’re better than Woods.”

“Woods never got suspended for fighting.”

They sat in silence, eating their snow cones, comfortable in each other’s company. Finishing up, Chaser slipped off his sunglasses and stared at the field. He took in the white brilliance of the baseline and bases, the newly designed on-deck circle, the diagonally mowed outfield. The ivy that covered the outfield wall. The eighty thousand seats soon to be filled with screaming fans.

Emotion welled in his chest. The game was his, and he’d lost it in a brawl. He pressed his palms to his eyes. Kicked his own ass hard.

“Stop feeling sorry for yourself.” Jen knew him well.

“I have nothing better to do.”

There was a moment’s hesitation before she said, “Tell me about Dane Maxin.”

He cut her a glance. “Beyond the fact the man punched me?” Maxin had thrown an unsportsmanlike punch, hitting Chaser from the side and not face-on.

“Just curious.” She dipped her head, pink tinting her cheeks. “He asked me out.”

Chaser ran his hand through his short, spiked hair. “He’s not your type.”

She punched his arm. “I think he’s nice. The battery in my El Camino died yesterday, and he gave me a jump.”

If Dane had done a good deed, he wanted to jump more than her car; he wanted to jump her bones. Of that Chaser was certain. “Your father gave you his El Camino when he traded up fifteen years ago. Big John didn’t expect you to keep it forever.”

“The car holds his memory.”

“You could have called me,” he said. “I carry jumper cables. I would have helped you out.”

“You’d already left the park. I didn’t want to call you back.” Finished with her snow cone, she tore the paper into thin strips. “Aside from giving you a black eye Dane’s not a bad guy.”

Chaser had nothing good to say about the man. Dane Maxin was twenty-six and insolent. He had a major chip on his shoulder. He grunted answers
to questions. When he did talk, he bragged about sex and threesomes.

Chaser clenched his teeth, seeking an objectivity he didn’t feel. “Maxin was traded from Minnesota for two solid hitters. He’s not happy being in Richmond.” Dane had swaggered into the locker room snarling. The scowl still hadn’t left his face. “The man’s got attitude—”

“So does Psycho.”

“Dane dates a lot of women.”

“So does Romeo.”

“He owns a souped-up red Corvette. Drives like a bat out of hell.”

“You haul ass in a ‘68 GTO. Major muscle car. You’re always over the speed limit.”

She was right. Fortunately for him, law enforcement preferred his autograph over writing out a ticket.

“I like Dane’s look.” Jen crumpled the torn paper into the palm of her hand. “He’s a sharp dresser.”

Chaser snorted. “The man’s in love with himself.”

During spring training, Maxin had spent an inordinately long time changing from his Rogues uniform into street clothes. He wore imported silk shirts and tailored slacks. Italian leather shoes. He’d held up the team bus a dozen times, until Psycho stole his blow-dryer and styling gel, breaking Dane’s affair with the mirror.

Beside him, Jen looked out over the ball field. She’d gone all quiet and thoughtful as the late af
ternoon sun crept toward them. The lower seats were now cast in shadow.

“Dane and I made plans to jog today,” she told Chaser. “Six o’clock at Battery Park.”

His heart squeezed unexpectedly. It shouldn’t bother him that Jen showed interest in another man. Hell, they were friends, nothing more. But the thought of her with Dane undid him. He tamped down his initial impulse to warn her off the man.

“I’m coming with you,” he stated.

She shook her head. “There’s no need for a chaperone.”

Chaser wasn’t so sure. “I’ll hang for a while, then split. I want to make sure Maxin behaves himself.”

“You’re worse than my father.” Resigned, she linked her arm through his, rested her head on his shoulder. A light breeze caught her hair, stirred the scent of her orange-mango shampoo. Strands flirted with her cheek and flicked onto his chest. All clean and shiny. Dark and wavy.

“I’m being insensitive to the fact Dane hit you,” she said on a sigh. “If you’d rather we didn’t meet up, I’ll pass. It’s not that big a deal.”

He felt like hell. Throughout the years, Jen had rolled her eyes over a few of his dates, but she’d never warned him off. When other women got petty or possessive, Jen never teased or said she’d told him so. She’d allowed him his mistakes, and he’d made quite a few.

He shifted on the seat, slid his hand beneath the turned-up collar on his blue-striped shirt. Blowing out a breath, he caved. “Meet Dane. I’ll drive you to the park, and he can take you home.”

“You’re such a good friend!” She threw her arms around his neck.

He turned his smile on her.

She started to kiss his cheek.

Just as he bent to kiss her brow.

Their lips met.

Time slowed with the exchange of their breath.

He inhaled. She exhaled.

The sweet heat of her slightly parted lips blew across his mouth.

The soft skin of her chin brushed his unshaven jaw.

The clench of her fingers dug into his shoulder.

Her breast pressed his forearm, soft and full.

Neither drew back.

The moment was magnified as each memorized the impact of the moment.

It was startling. Unsettling. And totally unforgettable.

As the afternoon shadows crept over his knee and up his thigh, awareness crossed the invisible line that separated friends from lovers.

The urge to slant his mouth over hers and deepen the kiss hit him soundly. It took all his restraint to pull back. Once they’d separated, he ran his tongue over his lower lip. She’d tasted of blueberries. Wild, ripe berries, warmed by the sun.