Curveball (5 page)

Beside him, Jen touched her lips with her fingers. Fingers that trembled. Wide-eyed, she swallowed hard.

Neither spoke. Neither looked away.

Each stared as if seeing the other person for the very first time. Arousal struck hard.

Clearing his throat, he said the first thing that came into his head. “Let’s go home,” he suggested. “A quick change and back to Battery Park.”

She rose, looking down on him with soft eyes and a softer smile. “Thanks, Chaser. I owe you one.”

After that kiss, he planned to collect. Sooner or later, he’d take her mouth a second time.

It was all in the timing.

The jogging path was thick with runners. Some slow, some fast, all exercise nuts, staying in shape. Jen Reid kept pace with Chaser. A hint of Dune drifted her way. The mandarin and cedarwood scent was as understated as the man. Chaser had worn the same cologne since high school. It was as constant as his presence in her life.

She cast a glance his way, took in his profile. Spiked dark hair and sharp features. A diamond stud in his left ear. Even with darkness descending, he wore his Killer Loops. Sunglasses that hid his ice-blue eyes, so startlingly clear that when he had his game face on, he froze opposing players at home plate.

Sweat now gleamed on his brow, darkened the neck of his navy blue T-shirt, arrowed down his
belly toward the waistband of his gym shorts. He’d set their pace, sprinting fast, as if chased by demons.

Back at the stadium, she’d sensed his dislike of Dane Maxin. She understood. Dane hadn’t fought fair. Chaser now sported a black eye. As her best friend, he had her back. He’d always looked out for her best interests. He’d agreed to keep her company until she located Maxin among dozens of runners.

“Where the hell is Dane?” Chaser muttered.

“He said to meet him by the water fountain.”

“There are twenty fountains at the park. He could have been more specific.” Tugging at the front of his T-shirt, he pulled it free of his gym shorts. In the gap between elastic waistband and skin, Jen caught a flash of his
Slidin’ Home
tattoo right before he said, “I hadn’t planned to break a sweat. I’ll need a shower before I head out for the evening.”

A shower…Her heart beat a little faster, and it wasn’t from the run. She’d always admired Chaser’s body. Wide chest and thick thighs. The man had muscle.

She snuck a second look, and lost her rhythm. He looked incredibly sexy. More than one female jogger did a double take. Even after he’d beaten the path for three miles, his breath came evenly, his gaze straight ahead.

Her stolen glance caused a collision at the next curve in the path. She’d been so busy staring at Chaser, she hadn’t seen Dane Maxin approach.
They caught shoulders with enough impact that he knocked her into Chaser and she started to go down.

Chaser’s reflexes saved her from a scraped knee. One strong arm looped around her waist until she was steady on her feet.

He pulled her against his chest and hissed in her ear, “Damn, Legs, no need to fall at the man’s feet.”

She jerked free, about to tell him she’d been staring at
him,
not Dane, but caught herself just in time. Such a statement would prove embarrassing. Especially following their brief, yet incredible, kiss. She hadn’t expected that kiss, but it had left her wondering how he’d taste if she’d slipped her tongue into his mouth. Curiosity stroked her like a slow hand.

Before her now, Dane Maxin jogged in place. She took in his tawny hair and copper eyes. His lean body beneath the Nike sweats.

Dane ran his gaze over her, looking intimate and expectant, before nodding toward the big man at her side. His lip curled. “You know Chaser?”

“We’re old friends,” Jen told him.

Dane and Chaser exchanged a look, the kind of look in which a man either marked his territory or backed away.

Chaser marginally shifted his stance and Dane stopped jogging. “Glad you could make it to the park, I was hoping for some company,” Dane said.

Jen wiped her terry cloth wristband across her
forehead. “Chaser’s going to jog with us as far as the turn off to the parking lot.”

“Lucky us.” Dane took off ahead of them, only to be brought up short by twin blondes with large, bouncy, barely contained breasts. Black spandex outlined nipple rings.

Jen looked down at her B-cups. If Dane was a breast man, this would be their first and last date. She wasn’t into piercing.

“Implants can’t compare to what’s natural,” Chaser said at her side. He nudged her forward. “Let’s catch up to Maxin.”

Their approach caught Dane memorizing the blondes’ phone numbers. Unabashed, he smiled at her. Jen smiled back. Chaser frowned darkly.

They jogged one mile, then walked the second. She and Dane were two abreast, with Chaser breathing down her neck. Her friend was an ominous presence and hard to ignore.

Dane was a touchy-feely kind of guy. He casually brushed her shoulder as they walked and talked. Bumped her hip more than once. Flattened his hand on her lower back. Then took her hand.

That was when Chaser crowded her further. His low growl forced Dane to let her go. Jen spun about, smacked her palm on Chaser’s chest, and held him back. His muscles bunched and rippled and he gave less than an inch. The man was an unmovable force.

Dane looked over his shoulder more than once. He walked a little faster when Chaser replied to questions Dane directed to Jen. It was obvious
Dane wanted to shake Chaser. But Chaser wasn’t a man to be shaken.

Another half mile and Dane pointed to a sign. “There’s the parking lot path. Get lost.”

Chaser didn’t turn off. He slowed his pace and allowed them to draw ahead, but never let them out of his sight.

“How do you like Richmond?” Jen asked Dane.

His gaze slid over her. “I’m liking it better by the moment. Maybe you could show me the city.”

“Maybe you could buy a road map and drive yourself,” Chaser muttered, closing in on them once again. “Tourist attractions are marked red on most maps.”

“Nightlife.” Dane pressed closer to Jen as they continued down the path. “What’s your favorite club? I’ve heard Jimmy Mack’s draws a crowd.”

“Mack’s promotes hard rock.” Chaser knew the clubs. “Jen prefers jazz. Billie Holiday. Eva Taylor.”

“Chinese, Mexican, Thai? How about dinner tonight?” Dane inquired.

“The lady’s a vegetarian.”

A muscle jumped in Dane’s jaw. “Damn, is there anything Chaser doesn’t know about you, Jen?”

Chaser didn’t know her body. He’d never seen her naked. Jen chose not to share that fact with Dane. She, however, had seen Chaser’s bare backside. She’d snuck a peek one afternoon when he’d stepped from the outdoor Jacuzzi. She’d been in his pool, swimming laps. He hadn’t expected her to break her stroke and track his ass. The tightest
ass in Major League Baseball. Wrangler had him signed to advertise their line of jeans. No one showcased low-slung denim like Chaser.

“We grew up together,” Jen was quick to explain. “Chaser’s my friend and—”

“Freakin’ watchdog,” Dane finished. “Get lost, Barky.”

Chaser’s snarl was lost in the commotion of a group of female joggers. All of them became giggly once they’d spotted him.

“Can we get your autograph?” All four women stood wide-eyed and adoring. “Can’t wait for Opening Day.”

Dane was too new to the team to be recognized. Snagging Jen’s hand, he drew her outside the circle, leaving Chaser to fend for himself.

While Jen felt guilty, Dane didn’t give a damn. Free of Chaser, he came on strong. Jogging became foreplay. Their bodies moved with a rhythm he planned to duplicate in bed.

Within fifteen minutes they’d retraced their steps, reaching the parking lot. She spotted his red Corvette, slanted diagonally across two spaces. He opened the door, then looked at her. His gaze was scrutinizing, sexual. “Your eyes are bright and your body’s flushed and languid. You’ve the look of a satisfied woman.”

“Exercise pleases me.”

“I could please you.”

“I’d prefer a towel and a bottle of water.”

“I can give you both.” Pulling his car door wide, he ducked inside and retrieved an iced Fiji
and a white hand towel. Rounding the sleek hood, he came to stand before her. He topped her by only an inch. She’d never be able to wear high heels with this man. She was a fan of thick cork wedgies and peep-toe pumps.

All around them, deep shadows pushed dusk to darkness. The guard gate stood deserted. Chaser’s GTO was no more than a black shadow in the corner of the lot. Set on timers, the streetlights flickered on. In their fluorescence, Dane’s gaze glinted cougar gold.

With a disturbing slowness, he blotted perspiration from her brow, from beneath her eyes and upper lip. He then drew the towel along her neck, dabbed the V of her sports tank. His fingers tucked into her cleavage. His right palm curved to cup her breast.

His touch made Jen’s skin crawl. A most startling discovery, since she’d looked forward to meeting this man. Yet each stroke evoked only a need for space. She eased back a step.

Her move surprised him. Tossing the towel over his shoulder, he leaned against the passenger door. His gaze was now hooded. “We have heat, Jen. I knew the second you ran into me we’d have sex.”

The only thing she’d known was the strength of Chaser’s arm, solid and secure about her waist, supporting her against a fall.

Dane ran his finger from her shoulder to her wrist. His voice was as smooth and practiced as his touch. “Take me home tonight.”

“Tomorrow’s Opening Day. Shouldn’t you get some rest?”

“I sleep three hours a night.”

“I need six.”

“I want you, Jen.”

She wanted Chaser. Where was the man? How long did it take to sign four autographs? “I enjoyed our run, but I’m going to pass on the sleepover.”

She began to step around him, only to find her path blocked. Displeasure scored Dane’s features. He turned ugly. She had no time to fight him. His strength trapped her between fiberglass and the force of his body. “No one passes on me.”

His mouth clamped down on hers.

She clenched her jaw, refusing his tongue.

He jammed his thumb into her cheek, unrelenting in his determination to part her lips.

She pushed at his chest, shifted her hips, drew up her knee—

And was freed when Chaser’s fist missed her nose by a tenth of an inch and connected with Dane’s jaw. Dane’s head snapped back, and he staggered sideways.

The heated scent of Dune and raw-edged anger struck her as Chaser grabbed Dane by the front of his sweatshirt. “Get the hell off her.”

Dane’s head bobbed in a semblance of a nod. Tossing him aside, Chaser stepped back, allowing the younger man his escape. Jerking open his car door, Dane slid onto the bucket seat and pressed the locks. Cracking his window, he rubbed his jaw, got in the final word. “Jen’s a damn tease.
She came onto me, then wouldn’t put out. I should have gone with the twins.”

He keyed the ignition and the Vette rumbled to life. Floored, the car fishtailed across the parking lot, the taillights dots of disdain.

In the ensuing silence, Jen slapped her palms against her thighs, stalling for time until she was forced to admit, “You were right. I was wrong. Dane Maxin’s a jerk.”

“Did he hurt you? You’re bruised.” Chaser’s tone was one of concern as he smoothed Dane’s thumbprint from her cheek.

“Mostly scared me.” She reached for his hand, ran her fingers over his skinned knuckles. “Major punch.” She’d never seen him so mad.

“I’d always protect you.”

“I’m glad you arrived when you did.”

“Me too.” He flexed his ink-stained fingers. “I signed autographs for the group of women, then got cornered by a Little League Team near the water fountains. I broke someone’s pen in my hurry to find you.”

“My choice of men is as poor as your choice in women.”

“Dane wasn’t the right man for you.” He turned thoughtful. “From now on, if you want to go out, I’ll line you up. We can double-date. I know a few decent guys.”

“As decent as you?”

“I’m as horny as the next guy, Legs. I don’t, however, force sex. It’s always mutual.”

Mutual.
To be taken by a man who wanted her
as badly as she wanted him. “I’ll leave the choice to you.”

“My sports agent’s one hell of a nice guy.”

She’d met Cal Winger. Balding, nervous eye twitch, winged eyebrows. His dealings with the Bat Pack had him working a sixty-hour week. Jen doubted he could fit her into his schedule. “A possibility,” she agreed.

“Maybe Dan Carpenter from the sports clinic.”

The physical therapist had worked on Chaser’s knee when he’d injured his meniscus, a minor cartilage tear between his femur and tibia. Dan was nice. Respectful. Close to her age. Yet there was no spark between them. “Someone to consider.”

“You’ve choices, Jen. Don’t sell yourself short.”

As they walked toward his GTO, she silently wondered if Chaser fell within her options. An outlandish thought, yet one that was oddly appealing. Their brief kiss had left her curious. Perhaps a second taste would satisfy her. Then she could move on to dating other men.

One long, deep, moist kiss.

With enough tongue to make a memory.

The reporter for
Jocks
magazine arrived fifteen minutes early for Psycho McMillan’s interview. An interview set up by Rogues publicist Catherine Ambrose a month prior to his suspension. Running late himself, he answered the door wrapped in a navy blue bath towel. His hair was slicked back from his shower and water dripped at his feet. “You’ve got thirty minutes,” he stated at the onset. “What you see is what you get.”

“I’ll take it.” The redhead with the geometric haircut looked him over with hungry eyes. “Janelle Campbell.” She held out her hand and he gave it a quick shake. “Thanks for inviting me to your home.”

The invitation had been forced. He hadn’t wanted to sit at the clubhouse and answer her questions following the Rogues’ opening loss. The game had been lost by a wide margin. The hitting sucked. The fielding played like a six-pack
Sunday softball league. Yet their suspension stuck. The Bat Pack sat on the bench.

The fans were fickle. Many hissed and jeered, while others wore black baseball caps in mourning.

The locker room vibrated with animosity. Moods had been dark and tempers barely in check. Psycho had punched a metal locker with his fist. He’d needed to get the hell out before he said or did something that would give Guy Powers a reason to extend his suspension.

“Let’s get started.” He motioned her toward the living room, offered her one of the two green lawn chairs. When he was seated, the towel parted over his splayed thighs.

Janelle stared at his groin. He wasn’t a modest man, yet Psycho overlapped the ends of his towel. And Janelle averted her gaze. Brushing dog hair from the vinyl chair, she slowly sat down. Sneezing, she confessed, “I’m allergic to fur.”

Psycho had bought a lock for the dogs’ fenced run. The pups wouldn’t make an appearance unless he or Keely set them free.

Keely…he’d seen her when he’d first come home, but not since he’d showered. She’d been standing in the entryway with a grizzled man, as old as the Colonial, tape measure stretched between them from the doorway to the stairs. She’d nodded to him as he’d dashed by, but she’d been concentrating on the figures she was jotting in her notebook. Dust had smeared her forehead and forearms. She had ashes from the fireplace
smudged over the knees of her rolled-up jeans. Her flip-flops hadn’t matched. One was teal, the other one yellow.

“Questions, then a picture.” Janelle twisted low and retrieved a compact tape recorder from her Coach bag. The hem of her gray suede skirt slid up her thighs as she crossed her legs, then fingered the top button of her white silk blouse.

Psycho sank deeper into his lawn chair and groaned. The day was going downhill fast. The Rogues had lost to the Raptors, and he now faced a pantie-flashing reporter giving him the green light. He wasn’t interested in this woman. He needed to set her straight before she unfastened a second button. The lace on her bra was already visible with each breath.

“The article.” He drew Janelle’s gaze from his groin.

“The Top Ten Sexiest Men in Major League Baseball,” she informed him. “America voted, and you placed fourth.”

“
Fourth?”
He frowned, thought about demanding a recount. “Who beat me?”

“Romeo Bellisaro placed first.”

No surprise there. Romeo had looks and charm. A mere smile and women dropped their panties.

“Risk Kincaid came in second.”

Psycho understood the team captain’s popularity. Risk was a fan’s player. And a family man. Women found monogamy sexy. Psycho, however,
equated monogamy with monotony. He bored easily.

“Chris Collier’s third,” Janelle told him.

Wimbledon?
Had voters lost their minds? The pitcher was a prick. “Fourth sucks,” he grumbled.

Her gaze lit on his towel once again before she got down to business. Flicking on the tape recorder, she said, “You’ve been described as raw and rude. Undisciplined and unpredictable. You’re a known nudist and will do anything on a dare. Why would America find you sexy?”

He rolled his eyes. What a dumb-ass question. Nothing new. Nothing original. He could give a smart-ass answer—

Instead, he bit his tongue. A glimpse of Keely Douglas through the split in the brown bedsheets hanging at one window claimed his attention. Her dog obedience classes had begun. He found the class far more interesting than the interview.

Leaning forward in his chair, he watched as Keely walked the side lawn with Boris on a tight leash in an attempt to teach the Newfoundland to heel. Boris was a slow learner. He lunged, then tried to gnaw through the metal links. Soon he began jerking on the leash as if it were a tug toy. In a very short time he’d knocked Keely off balance and to her knees.

Kneeling, she took the big dog’s face in her hands and spoke directly to him. Boris cocked his head as if listening. Psycho knew that puppy dog look. Beyond the drooling innocence, Boris
was conniving and played people. He was a handful.

Getting to her feet, Keely continued his training. Taking off at a rapid walk, she made a wide circle around a weeping willow. The branches swept the ground, and with each pass Boris grabbed a mouthful of leaves. Easily bored, the dog pulled harder. He flew Keely like a kite. Her feet left the ground several times as she tried to restrain his need to run.

After six laps around the tree, Keely stopped. She bent over, breathing hard. Psycho started to rise, ready to take Boris off her hands. Just then, Keely shook her head and broke out laughing. The pup repaid her patience with a sloppy lick to her cheek before she placed him in his pen.

“Psycho?” the reporter returned him to his chair and the interview. He sat down hard. “Why would America find you sexy?”

Who the hell knew why? Who the hell cared? He might have cooperated more if he’d placed first instead of fourth.

“Mr. McMillan says and does what he pleases,” Keely announced as she entered the living room. She balanced a sandwich on a paper plate with one hand, clutched a Mason jar of milk and a pen with the other. “He doesn’t give a damn. That fascinates people. He’s got the freedom to be himself.”

Psycho blinked. He couldn’t have answered better. Keely had known him a week, yet she’d already seen and accepted how difficult he could
be. He snagged half her sandwich as she walked by. Took a big bite. Peanut butter stuck to the roof of his mouth. “What the hell?” He chewed long, swallowed hard.

“Peanut butter, cream cheese, and sliced banana on sourdough bread,” Keely told him as she took in his bare chest and parted towel, vinyl webbing on the chair. “You need better furniture,” she observed. “An inexpensive couch and chairs before the antiques arrive. I’ll shop tomorrow.” She clicked the pen and scribbled on her hand.

Psycho noticed there was more than one reminder written over her wrist and along her thumb. She looked like a walking sticky note. Reaching out, he caught her leg just above her knee. His hand tightened over the denim. Her jeans were worn white at the seams and threadbare beneath her butt cheeks. Her yellow T-shirt had seen brighter days.

He made a mental note to give her an advance on her salary. A substantial amount to keep her afloat during the restoration.

“My thigh…” Keely looked down at his hand, which had stroked higher. “What do you need?”

Need
…the word was spoken so breathlessly soft, it sounded sexual. He grew hard. “I need milk.” He let her go, hoping she hadn’t noticed the twitch beneath his towel.

She handed him the Mason jar. It was half-full and iced. He’d never known anyone to ice milk. Nor to sandwich peanut butter with cream cheese.

He released her leg, and she stepped away from him. Clear across the room to the doublesashed windows. She tugged at the bedsheet, releasing late afternoon sunlight into the room. The amber glow played across the warped and splintered floor.

He continued to watch as she lifted one of the windows and a soft breeze swept the stale air from the room. When tightly closed up, the house smelled a little of mold and mildew.

Her shirt fluttered and sunlight shot through the thin cotton fabric, outlining small, firm breasts, the rippling of her ribs, and a concave abdomen. Keely was damn skinny. She’d missed a few meals.

Janelle Campbell raised an eyebrow. “Your girlfriend?”

“My designer,” Psycho clarified. “Next question?”

“You’re both street smart and successful. Tell me about your childhood.”

He’d grown up tough. A punk with a load of attitude. Reporters liked to tap into his past. His growing up poor seemed to make them feel richer. “I grew up on the wrong side of Philly’s tracks. I was six when my old man went out for a job interview and never returned. My mom worked sixteen-hour days to feed our family. Two girls and three boys.

“Ketchup packets and warm water became tomato soup. We boiled macaroni noodles, but there was never any cheese.”

“Peanut butter became your steak.” Keely’s
words drifted to him. He looked up, caught her deep in her own memories. “Your mother reused tea bags. You split a candy bar five ways to share with your brothers and sisters.”

Psycho’s jaw locked. Had his designer grown up equally poor? Had she known hard times as well?

Beside him, Janelle fidgeted with the tape recorder. She looked horrified by their comments. It appeared the reporter had never gone hungry, nor worried about having a roof over her head.

Clearing her throat, Janelle nodded to him to continue. He didn’t try to smooth the rough edges of his childhood. “There was no Little League or organized sports in my neighborhood. We used back lots. Stole hubcaps for bases. I played with a secondhand glove, wore tennis shoes without laces. I never had an official uniform until I hit high school.

“Baseball came naturally to me. I played hard. A scout from Florida State caught a few games. He offered me a sports scholarship if I graduated. My coach crammed chemistry and calculus down my throat, and somehow I passed the classes. The rest is history.”

Janelle sighed. “You’ve done exceptionally well for yourself.”

“So well, he bought a Colonial reminiscent of his old neighborhood,” Keely softly added.

Psycho shifted on the vinyl chair. Keely was far too observant. No one had ever guessed the rundown house was a daily reminder of growing up dirt poor. The fact that it stood in a gated commu
nity didn’t block his childhood memories from returning.

The house was as broken as his mother’s and father’s marriage. He’d been resistant to making repairs until Keely Douglas came into his life and wedged herself between his past and his future. He still wasn’t convinced he liked her there.

Janelle moved on. “You’re a dirt bike jumper.”

“I compete in Xtreme Sports during the off-season.”

“All against your team owner’s wishes,” Janelle said. “Guy Powers says you’re a daredevil with a death wish.”

“Adrenaline is my drug of choice.”

“You’ve a taste for trouble.” Janelle licked her lips. “Women like bad boys.”

“Not too smart on their part,” Keely muttered from the window.

Psycho silently agreed.

“Some believe you’re insane,” Janelle put in, probably hoping to get a rise out of him.

He shrugged. “Crazy comes with the territory.”

“Describe your special woman,” Janelle requested. “Date night.”

He finished off his sandwich and washed it down with two gulps of milk. He caught Keely’s look of interest as she waited along with the reporter for his reply.

“I don’t do special or long term,” he finally said. “My bar for dating is low. I call at the last minute. Don’t bring flowers. Most times it’s a surprise to the woman if I even show. I like after
hours bars, strip clubs. I once dated a woman for six weeks steady. She cried more when her plant died than when we broke up.”

“Bet it was an elephant ear,” Keely said. “I’d have cried too.”

“It was a philodendron,” he said to set Keely straight. “She left the plant on the porch in the sun and forgot to water it.”

“Wife and kids in your future?” Janelle asked.

“The Psycho gene dies with me.”

“Pity.”

“Not everyone feels that way.”

Janelle pursed her lips and looked at Keely. “I wonder what it would be like to date this man.”

Keely cocked her head contemplatively. “Dangerous,” she decided. “Like the first pulsepounding climb to the high diving board. The stomach-shifting ride of the Tilt-A-Whirl.”

Janelle nodded. “I see him as a shot of whiskey. The burn that goes straight to your stomach, then to your head. The buzz strips off your clothes and lands you in his bed.”

The women were talking about him as if he wasn’t in the room. Psycho didn’t like being invisible. “Next question,” he prodded.

“Your favorite nightcap after a game?” from Janelle.

“Body shots.”

“You feel sexiest when?”

“I’m hard.” Psycho caught Keely roll her eyes.

Janelle glanced at his towel. “Feeling sexy now?”

“Semisexy.”

Janelle’s recorder clicked off, and she quickly replaced the tape. “If you didn’t play baseball, you’d…?”

“Find a way to play baseball.”

“You’re intense and competitive.”

“I like to win.”

“You’re very restless,” Janelle noted. “Ever try yoga?”

“My life is a sport. Can’t score points in yoga.”

“A quote you live by?”

“Some days it doesn’t pay to gnaw through the leather restraints.”

“Favorite food?”

He looked at Keely. “Peanut butter, cream cheese, and sliced banana sandwiches.”

Keely blushed. A slow rise of color that was sexy as hell. He decided to tease her often.

“Favorite dessert?”

“I try to avoid sugar, but on occasion crave Rice Krispies treats. I make them myself.”

“What else do you crave, Psycho?”

That my suspension was over.

That the Rogues would win the World Series.

That the restoration of the Colonial will get the Daughters off my back for good.

That this interview would end.

Before he could answer, the grizzled old man he’d seen in the entry hall entered the living room, tape measure in hand. He crossed to Keely. “Ready to work?”