Curveball (7 page)

“My chandelier,” Keely said proudly, drawing his attention to the colorful glass drops, beads, and ribbons dangling from a metal frame with a very dull bulb.

“You’re quite…” He searched for the right word, not wanting to hurt her feelings. “…creative.”

“Wait until you see how I fix up your Colonial. You’ll be amazed.”

“Yeah, definitely amazed.”

“Now about the daybed—”

He slapped his palms against his thighs, made a quick decision. “I want to buy you a new bedroom set.”

Her smile faltered. “Why? I’ve a perfectly good bed.”

“It’s covered with a wool rug.”

“Rugs are warm in winter. This one was a steal. Saved on buying blankets.”

The need to lay Keely down on a queen-size bed with silk sheets and down comforters blindsided Psycho. To make her feel warm and safe—

Her soft hand touched his arm. “You bought me cookies, Psycho. Enough birthday gifts for one day.”

He wanted to do more. Much, much more. “We’ll load the daybed, collect a few feathers, but that’s all we’re taking. I need a few pieces of furniture until the antiques arrive. You can help me pick them out. Tonight.”

“The Bargain Barn is right down the street. They have the best used—”

“No bargains, no sales.” His tone was emphatic. “New, never-sat-on-before furniture is what we’re after.”

She stood silently, looking at him with those deep blue eyes; a small smile curved her lips. “You deserve birthday gifts as well,” she finally said. “Let’s celebrate.”

Psycho shook his head. “It’s not my birthday, Keely.”

“Neither is it mine,” she reminded him, “but I got cookies. You, at least, deserve a comfortable couch.”

It took Psycho a very short time to load her daybed and headboard into his pickup. While she packed up her clothes, he bundled up feathers. Keely wanted to take them all. They tickled his nose. He sneezed more than once.

Psycho had an image of her naked body being teased by a peacock eye. One that stroked her as lightly as warm breath and made her entire body blush.

His jeans grew uncomfortably tight as he visualized her puckered nipples, the trembling of her belly, the dampness between her thighs. His hard-on became downright painful. And not easy to hide.

When Keely requested he
hurry up,
he told her he’d lock up and meet her outside. He took several glasses of cold water and a dozen deep breaths before returning to his truck.

Shopping at Architetto Arrendatore was by appointment only. Romeo had programmed the
number of the Italian leather gallery into Psycho’s cell phone after playing poker in his home. The Bat Pack and two other Rogues had sat on the floor. Romeo complained a dozen times that his ass had gone numb.

A quick call, the mention of Romeo’s name, and the owner scheduled time with Psycho and Keely.

“Welcome, Mr. McMillan,” Saviano Annaldo greeted Psycho at the door. He was a tall, thin man in a lavender sport coat and dark gray dress slacks. “Might I interest either you or your lady in a glass of wine while you tour the gallery?”

Psycho didn’t bother to correct the man’s assumption that Keely was his lady. He didn’t do explanations. Nor did he do wine. A shot of whiskey might have worked, or a National Bohemian beer. He looked at Keely. “Glass of white wine?”

She looked unsure. “That would be nice.”

“Trebbiano or verdicchio?” asked Annaldo.

Keely’s cheeks heated. Psycho sensed she didn’t know one wine from another. He’d spent enough time in bars to know the difference. His dates often chose wine over hard liquor. “Trebbiano can be sweet, verdicchio a bit lemony.”

She decided on the trebbiano.

“Excuse me, please.” Annaldo went to pour the wine. He quickly returned. In a most gentlemanly fashion, he handed Keely her glass of trebbiano.

She took a small sip, smiled up at Psycho. “Excellent choice.”

His chest warmed. The sensation felt strange to a man known for his hardened heart. Turning to Annaldo, he told the merchant what they needed in the way of furniture. He caught Keely’s jaw dropping. She hadn’t expected him to choose so many pieces. Pieces she’d inherit once the antiques arrived.

“It’s my birthday,” he whispered in her ear as they entered the intimately lighted showroom. “Let’s do happy.”

He kept a constant eye on Keely as she gently touched and sat on every couch and chair on display. A navy blue leather recliner drew a sigh. Eyes closed, she swore the chair molded to her body, the leather as soft as butter.

Apparently she was drawn to softness, whether in Italian leather or peacock feathers. Psycho nodded to Annaldo. The recliner now belonged to Keely. Psycho’s taste ran to black leather. He dropped onto a curved sectional couch and crooked his finger for Keely to join him.

“Sit closer,” he urged her when three cushions separated them. “I want to see if this is a good date couch.”

She scooted two cushions closer.

He lunged, grabbed her, and hauled her across his lap.

Annaldo discreetly set off for a second glass of wine. Which left Psycho holding a squirming Keely. Her shoulder jabbed his chest. Her wiggling bottom ground into his groin.

His dick sprang to life.

And Keely went instantly still.

Cheeks heated, she punched his arm. “Let me go.”

“A man needs to know if a couch is comfortable for getting it on.”

“I don’t do test drives.”

“Bet you do birthday kisses.”

“It’s not your birthday.”

“I’ve officially changed the date.”

He kissed her then, a light, teasing kiss just to see her blush deepen. Keely’s cheeks flamed. As did his groin. Her hand curled into the front of his T-shirt. He couldn’t tell if she was pushing him away or pulling him toward her. A restless heat filled his body, leaving him fully aroused. Any woman other than Keely and he’d have taken her on the black leather, showroom model or not. He was wired for sex.

It had been two weeks since he’d had a woman claw his back, tear at his hair, and ride his thighs. He was days overdue. And itching to make up for lost time.

Nicki Carter was always good for a quickie. Suzie Jacobs had a mouth meant for sucking more than beer. But one glance at Keely made him realize she was the one he wanted. Wanted, but couldn’t have. She was his designer. Not a onenight stand. Son of a biscuit.

Saviano Annaldo made his appearance shortly after Keely scrambled off his lap and Psycho again took to his feet. He shifted his stance more than once, trying to adjust a hard-on that wouldn’t go
soft. Only when his mind hit on his suspension did his body go lax. The prohibition against playing ball was a total mood killer.

Without further deliberation, Psycho chose the sectional sofa and two matching armchairs for his living room. A tinted blue-glass coffee table reminded him of an aquarium. He added that to his purchases as well.

“A bedroom suite, Mr. McMillan?” Annaldo inquired.

Enjoying her second glass of wine, Keely leaned into his side, her voice low. “Time to pack up your sleeping bag.”

He looked down at her. Her cheeks now glowed, no longer from embarrassment but from the wine. “I see you’ve found my bedroom.”

“Strictly to take measurements.”

“There’s nothing in that room under eight inches.”

She nearly spewed her wine.

“This way, sir.” Annaldo motioned them into the next showroom.

Psycho reached for Keely’s hand, catching himself before their fingers laced. What was it about Keely Douglas that made him want to keep her close? He had no interest in a skinny blonde with fabricated family photos on the wall. She did, however, have feathers going for her. He might keep her around long enough to see if her skin was as soft as marabou. He’d like to see her wrapped in nothing but her boas.

“What style of bed are you interested in, Mr. McMillan?” inquired Annaldo.

Psycho scanned the highly polished Italian bed frames, his focus on the mattresses and the turned-down sheets. A man could score a lot of action in this room.

A dark wood platform bed drew his attention. He dropped onto the mattress, which cuddled his body like a woman. Nice. Very, very nice.

He patted the space beside him. “Keely, come roll around—”

“Not on your life.”

Her comment drew Annaldo’s chuckle. “It is a wonderfully soft bed.”

And Psycho was an inordinately hard man. “You’re no fun,” he said to Keely as he jackknifed to his feet.

“You’re fun enough for two.”

“Chest of drawers.” Annaldo directed them to several intricately designed pieces. “Baroque or perhaps something inspired by Louis the Sixteenth?”

Psycho wasn’t taken by either dresser. What caught his eye was a contemporary double dresser with a mirror. He nodded to Annaldo. “This one works.”

“Most certainly, sir.” The gallery owner gave Psycho a knowing look. “Six deep drawers, a commodity to be shared. Handsome craftsmanship for a man, yet sleek, sophisticated lines for a woman. It will take up less space than two separate pieces.”

Shared?
Psycho hadn’t planned on Keely’s bras and panties lying in a drawer next to his socks and T-shirts. On the flip side, sharing a dresser would bring her to his bedroom. He wasn’t going to touch her. And there was no law against looking.

“Bamboo, eucalyptus, or oyster-colored silk sheets?” asked Annaldo. “The platform bed comes with a comforter and two pillows.”

Psycho stuck his tongue in his cheek and looked to Keely. Let her pick out his sheets.

She set her empty wineglass on a cork coaster atop a high-boy dresser. “Bamboo.”

“Very well,” approved a pleased Annaldo.

Psycho and Keely left the gallery with Annaldo’s promise that the furniture would be delivered the next morning.

Back at the Colonial, Psycho followed Keely into the formal living room. She clutched the cookie box to her chest as she turned in a full circle. “How would you like the couch and chairs placed? Angled east to catch the morning sun? Or west for the sunset?”

Psycho took a moment to answer. “Unload the furniture in the family room behind the stairs. If you decorate that room last, I can set up my television and have a place to hide during the restoration.”

“Works for me.” She smiled then, a very relaxed and pink-cheeked woman after only two glasses of wine.

He stepped toward her, tipping up her chin with his finger. “How often do you drink wine?”

“Not often enough.”

That’s what he’d thought. She was a lightweight. She’d gotten a buzz from the trebbiano. “I’ll unload your bed, get you set up for the night.”

“I don’t have bamboo sheets.”

“You can have mine when they arrive tomorrow.”

“First cookies, now sheets. I do love gifts.”

On impulse, Psycho bent and kissed her on the forehead.

As spontaneous as he, Keely rose on tiptoe and kissed his cheek. “Happy birthday to us.” Her smile was as bright as a cake topped with candles.

Psycho decided then and there, as long as Keely Douglas worked for him, every day would bring a celebration. He would make up for all the birthdays she had missed. He liked seeing her happy.

Romeo Bellisaro was taking great pleasure in Emerson Kent’s smile. A pleasure that faded when she wouldn’t let him touch her. He’d tried all the
accidental
moves he could think of. Romeo had excellent hand-eye coordination, yet Emerson outmaneuvered him every time. The lady was fast.

She’d reached for a sugar packet, quickly withdrawing her hand before he could stroke her fingers. Jarred by her retreat, he’d knocked over the sugar caddy. Decorative pansy sugar cubes and Sweet N Low had spilled onto the floor.

“Smooth move.” Coffee shop owner Jacy Grayson had shot him an amused look. “Keep swinging, Romeo, you’re bound to hit something.”

Curveball. Swing and a miss. Emerson elbowed him back when he tried to scoot closer. His third out came quickly. In an attempt to squeeze Emerson’s knee, he inadvertently bumped the cherry-wood table leg. The cups and saucers
shook, and Em’s mocha latte splashed onto her suit jacket sleeve. Fortunately, a touch of club soda took care of the stain.

All in all, it was a very frustrating coffee date. The continuous tapping of the keys on her laptop didn’t help one bit. He was totally ticked that Emerson paid more attention to her article than to him.

Feeling his eyes on her, Em looked up and met his stare. “You’re sulking, Romeo.”

He took a sip of his black coffee. “Just watching you work.”

“I thought you were upset I wasn’t focused on you.”

She was psychic. “After your last article,
Burgers, Fries, and a Side of Jesse Belissaro,
I’d appreciate your focusing less on me and more on baseball.”

“Ribbing in the clubhouse?”

“No man wants to be likened to a pickle.”

“A
Vlasic
pickle. I meant it in the most complimentary way.”

“I took a lot of hits.”

“Poor baby.” She went back to her typing.

Romeo’s jaw worked. “Any questions for me?”

“Does your butt fall asleep on the bench?”

“Not nice, Emerson.”

She pursed her lips. “The Raptors beat the Rogues by how many runs last night? Seven or was it eight?”

“Rubbing my nose in our loss?”

“I’m winning our bet. You’re down three games.”

Romeo circled the rim of his coffee cup with one finger. A gold china cup with red, white, and blue stars. “Down by three means little. It’s early in the season.”

“Down by thirteen will hit home. I predict the Rogues won’t win a game until the Bat Pack is back in the lineup.”

Romeo slouched on the chrome chair, crossed his arms over his chest. Emerson seemed way too sure of herself. He didn’t like cocky reporters, even when they had thick chestnut hair, startling green eyes, and a turn-on smile.

Yet there was something about her that put him in the mood to hang out with her. He’d had casual relationships. Had juggled a lot of women. He’d never, however, put enough energy into one woman to see if the relationship could last beyond bed and breakfast.

Tonight was his fifth with Emerson Kent. Though her interviews centered on him, he’d learned a little about her as well. Her parents lived outside Washington, D.C. Her mother was an English professor at Georgetown University; her father a renowned cardiologist at Johns Hopkins. She was well read, held up her end of a conversation, didn’t giggle. She finished the
New York Times
crossword puzzle. Collected baseball cards. Had mastered chopsticks. And, most importantly, took control of her destiny.

Emerson never planned to depend on a man for her happiness. She was one self-sufficient woman. She owned a hammer, a set of screw
drivers, and a cordless drill. Could change pipes beneath the kitchen sink. Could hang pictures without knocking out plaster.

He’d caught a glimpse of black lace when she’d bent down to grab her laptop. The lady got frilly beneath her business suits. Romeo liked frilly.

He tapped his fingers on the table and asked, “Care to place a wager on the next ten games?”

“We’ve already bet on the pennant race.”

“Let’s make the season even more interesting.”

She stopped typing, saved her material. “I’m listening.”

“The next ten games: for every Rogue win, I collect a kiss.”

“Is everything about puckering up?”

“I enjoy making out.”

“It’s one quick kiss, Romeo,
if
the Rogues pull off a win.”

“Never quick, Em.”

He caught the slight tremble in her hands as she clutched her ivory china cup and took a sip of her latte. Should the Rogues manage to pull off a win, he wanted her sitting on a hot rock anticipating his kiss.

She exhaled, then slowly countered,” “For every loss you remain celibate.”

Celibate?
He lived and breathed sex. Considered sex the eighth wonder of the world. Suffering blue balls was for teenagers. Not grown men.

He hated the idea that Emerson had written off their first thirteen games. Romeo would never get
more than coffee and conversation from this woman. That bothered him, more than he cared to admit.

“Deal?” she prodded.

“You’re pretty damn sure you’ll win.”

“The Atlanta Braves look strong,” she told him. “The team’s healthy. Their lead off batters have some serious pop. Warren Cabe, their starting pitcher, takes the sting out of a player’s bat. Batters look flat when Cabe’s on the mound. As far as the Florida Marlins go, their defense is on fire. They’re playing like superheroes.”

She flicked her tongue to one corner of her mouth, taunting Romeo with a slow, moist sweep of her bottom lip. Her expression was thoughtful. “Then there’s the Rogues; you’ve more injuries than an emergency room. Left fielder Ryker Black strained his right hamstring and is listed day to day. Pitcher Chris Collier is still seeing double. Rookie Quade Davis collided with Risk Kincaid in the outfield and is suffering from a concussion. Pitcher John Gabriel was optioned to Triple-A Norfolk following a rough start and loss in the Raptor series. The Rogues will hit Turner Field with rookies and backups.”

Romeo wished Emerson didn’t have the inside info on injuries and trades. Despite her belief that the Rogues faced a losing streak, he agreed to her bet. Blue balls and all. “You’re on.”

Her smile came slow and easy.

His arousal swift and hard.

Shifting on his chair, he asked, “Will you be in Atlanta?”

She nodded. “The
Banner
is sending me to Atlanta and Miami.”

“Staying at the Marriott?”

“Same hotel as the Rogues.”

“Maybe you’ll be on my floor.”

“Press is one floor below.”

“I like you beneath me.”

Her green eyes narrowed behind her red glasses. “The elevator may go down, but not your zipper.”

“I’m worth the ride, sweetheart.”

She squirmed ever so slightly on her chair.

He grinned when she crossed her legs and squeezed her thighs tight, the flex of muscle visible beneath her linen slacks.

“Dessert?” Jacy Grayson arrived at their table with a silver tray of confections. “Almond crescents, Mexican melt-aways, or a butterscotch-marshmallow brownie?”

Romeo slid his arm about Jacy’s waist, snugged her close. “No sweets before a shoot.”

Jacy understood. “An Easy Ryder night.”

Romeo caught Emerson’s look of interest. “I’m spokesman for Easy Ryder Condoms,” he told her. “They’re shooting an ad campaign tonight.
Sex Happens. Ryde Easy.”

Interest sharpened Em’s gaze. “Can I attend the shoot?”

“For a price.”

Jacy Grayson patted Romeo’s shoulder. “Play nice, lover boy.”

“I play to win.”

“I’m not a game, Romeo,” Emerson stated as soon as Jacy moved to another table. “You can’t
win
me.”

He rested his elbows on the table, steepled his fingers near his nose, and stared at her. Her expression was guarded, the set of her shoulders stiff and straight.

Emerson was damn puzzling. He’d never met a woman who didn’t want him. Most came on to him with clingy hands and hot lips. Many he had to pry off with a promise of tickets to a game or an autographed picture. A few he took to bed.

Emerson Kent wanted nothing from him.

He couldn’t give away a kiss.

The silence stretched so long, it made his palms itch. He finished his coffee and requested a refill before he concluded, “My price is your cell phone number.”

Surprise flickered across her face. “You can reach me at the
Banner.
We always set up our meetings before I leave the paper.”

“I might want to call you after five.”

“I wouldn’t be available.”

She drew a wide line between writing her newspaper articles and meeting him for pleasure. She wasn’t listed in the phone book. He’d already looked. If he’d located her address, he would have driven by her place, once or twice, to see if she was home. A bit juvenile, but he was curious
as to where she lived. He’d chased a dozen red Beemers through traffic, hoping to catch her with the top down and the wind in her hair, the sun on her face.

Pained by her lack of interest, he shrugged. “Guess I’m no more than a sports story to you.”

“You make good copy.”

Apparently Emerson saw him as a feature article, nothing more. She didn’t take him seriously. She believed him to be a man who loved women. Lots of women. A man who could never settle for just one.

He could do one woman. Given the right female and half a chance. He blew out a breath. “You’re not into me?”

“Sorry, no.”

No hesitation whatsoever. Her honesty kicked him in the groin. He looked around, wondering where he’d lost his charm.

Emerson Kent caught his lost look. She hadn’t meant to hurt his feelings; had only meant to save herself. She’d nearly come undone at his proximity. His unmistakable interest, unrelenting attention, warm breath on her cheek, his need to touch her, had taxed every nerve in her body.

His body heat and male scent had made her squirm. She’d found it difficult to think straight.

The man was a turn-on.

Emerson had turned him down.

She wanted more in a relationship than a man with a
Legendary
tattoo, who scored as much off the field as he did on game day.

She slowly closed her laptop. Sighed. Romeo
Bellisaro was about to promote safe sex. Given his experience with women, he’d make the ideal spokesman. No one would doubt his sincerity when he advised slipping on a condom before getting it on.

The shoot would have made a good article.

She pushed back her chair and stood. “Thanks for the latte. See you in Atlanta.”

“Not before?”

“We have no reason to meet.”

“We can always find a reason, Em.”

“It would need to be work related.”

“Don’t you ever play?”

“You play enough for two, Romeo.”

“I’d like to play with you.”

“Not going to happen.” Glancing around the coffee shop, she caught a dozen women checking him out. Pretty, perky-breasted, oh-so-interested women. The man would never hurt for company.

One last look in his direction made her pause. His brow was drawn, the corners of his superhot mouth creased. “You don’t like me much, do you?” he asked. “Should I win our end-of-the-season bet, it’s going to kill you to sleep with me, isn’t it, Emerson?”

Kill her, most certainly. She refused to think of rug burn as a great way to die. She didn’t indulge in casual sex. She liked order and logic in her life. Business kept her on the right track where Romeo was concerned. Yet when she’d agreed to their wager she’d thrown caution to the wind. She’d felt daring, sexy, and a little light-headed when
she’d agreed to their bet. Fortunately for her, all the statistics pointed to the Rogues dying a slow and painful death on the road. The team’s losses would keep her out of his bed.

“It’s not the end of the season,” she calmly pointed out. “If I won our wager and we never slept together, I’d still live a long and happy life. Can you survive not making the play-offs?”

Her words wiped the frown from his face. His cockiness flashed. “We’ll take the pennant. When we do…” He let his words trail off, leaving her to imagine what he’d left unsaid.

He rose then, tucking a finger beneath her chin and forcing her to meet his gaze. “Six blocks west, then turn right at the Richmond Museum. Steps are between the brick buildings. My shoot is on the second floor.”

“This will cost me?”

“Objectivity,” he said. “You’ve already likened me to a pickle. With your next article, I’d prefer no references to being ribbed and lubricated.”

Romeo’s photo shoot was an eye-opening experience. Taking a seat in a darkened corner of the room, Em found herself unable to type. She could only stare.

Stare at a blue-jeaned, open-shirted Romeo. The man was magnificent, all broad shoulders, lean torso and hips. A smattering of sandy hair fanned his chest and tracked low.

Romeo Bellisaro embodied sex.

Easy Ryder was his condom of choice.

He stood alone before a light blue canvas, no props needed. No bed, no motorcycle, no woman draped over his shoulder. He opted for a casual stance, his weight balanced on one leg, the other slightly bent. His thumbs hooked into the front belt loops of his jeans. Tucked into his waistband, a silver-foiled roll of condoms unfolded over his jutting hip, running the length of his zipper. The man conjured up long, hot nights of sweaty sheets and amazing, yet safe sex.

“Picture this.” Carmel, the tall, willowy female photographer talked to Romeo through the shoot. “You’ve won the World Series. You’re charged with superhero urges. The Rogues are at an after-hours bar, partying. Sexy women rub and press against you. From the corner of your eye, you catch a new arrival. She’s the hottest woman you’ve ever seen. Lock eyes with her, Romeo, tell her you want her.
Really, really
want her. Let her know you’re good, so good your memory will last a lifetime.”

The curve of Romeo’s sexy mouth seduced every woman in the room. Even though Emerson knew he couldn’t see her sitting there in the darkness, he seemed to seek her out. His gaze promised a good time. His slightly flared nostrils seemed to take in her scent. Her mating scent. With the slightest tilt of his head, he promised kisses to curl her toes. The flex of his hands suggested touching. Knowledgeable touching. A man familiar with a woman’s body.