Holm, Stef Ann (13 page)

Every
ball he threw had been over the plate. Any lackey could hit one. And the
Somersets had. Cy had homered off him five times. Christ. Alex hadn't struck
out a single player. Boston had crucified them 14-1.

The
one run had come off of Bones Davis. A fluke. He'd been hopping up and down,
his rabbit's feet having slipped into the groin area of his pants. When the
pitch came at him, just that slight hop lifted him up enough so the bat—not the
man—whacked the ball out of the park. He'd been so stunned, he'd stood at the
plate a few seconds before taking off in a run. In his excitement, he missed
second base and had to be called back by Cub, who ran out of the dugout to
yell, "Touch the bag! The bag, rabbit ass!"

The
nonzero score in the home team's column had been a victory in itself A small
victory that Alex had watched bring smiles to the players. If that's all it
took, damn—if the Keystones ever busted out of their slump, they'd split a gut.

Analyzing
the errors and plays wasn't for Alex, but he couldn't help sizing up fielding,
base running, and coordination, or rather, the lack of it. Defensively, there
had been tough hops for Deacon, and Duke dropped every last ball he managed to
catch. Cupid mishandled a bouncer off to his right. Offensively, hard swings
and pop-ups were weakly sent to foul ground by third. A peg-down was off-line,
allowing a base runner for Boston to move into scoring position.

Beyond
that, nobody was in good enough shape. Himself included. His body was stiff,
his right elbow joint ached. He wasn't used to throwing.

He
wasn't used to caring about baseball.

But
he stood firm on his vow of indifference. The reasons behind that vow raged
inside him. Each time he began to feel the vitality of the game pulse through
him, guilt pulled him back. If that weren't enough, he'd been that close to
bumming an Old Judge off of Charlie. But one cigarette and he might as well buy
a pack. The other day, he'd bought a couple bottles of beer and drank them on
the walk home. Some habits died hard, and he found himself sliding into them
like fingers into a comfortable leather mitt.

As
Alex leaned into the hitching post, he saw Camille coming toward him. She
looked like a snowflake. Cool and lacy and white. The bottom of her dress
lightly skimmed over the tops of her pearl kid shoes; her hips were outlined by
some kind of fancy lace material. She held an open parasol, its sheerness
nothing but a thin veil against the sun.

"Thank
you for being here on time," she said, reaching his side. "Is the
buggy ready?"

The
light blue of her eyes were limned by a darker hue of blue. They tilted
slightly upward at the corners, making her gaze sensual. Her eyes distracted
him. As did her lips.

"Max
said it was ready to go whenever we were."

A
moment later, Alex tossed the bag containing his uniform and gear into the bed
of the rig, then sat beside Camille. He guided the rented horse out of town.
The buggy springs weren't in the best repair and each rut and pit in the road
had them bumping shoulders. While she held herself stiffly, he propped one foot
onto the driver's box.

She'd
poised herself on the lumpy seat, arm raised with the parasol in her hand. The
buggy had no hood, so she'd had to resort to shading herself with the umbrella.
Sun didn't bother Alex. When the weather was warm, he worked outside with his shirt
off. He wondered what Camille would do if he took his shirt off right now.

He
glanced at her profile, finding the hat netting that came over her forehead
provocative. Lots of ladies wore hats similar in style, yet to him, this one
was irresistible. What he didn't like were the reasons why. They had little to
do with the hat and everything to do with the woman wearing it.

The
country rolled by. Sunlight stippled through the branches of leafy maple trees
overhead. They hadn't said anything to each other since leaving Harmony. Alex
wasn't one for small talk. But now a few words would cut the monotony of the
harness tack as it jingled and creaked.

She
addressed him properly. "Mr. Cordova, we have a problem."

He
didn't much like the sound of her tone. Maybe the monotony would have been
preferable. "We would if we were going over to the next town to do
something private." Because she didn't give a gasp of surprise, he
couldn't resist teasing her further. "There really isn't a photographer in
Waverly, is there, honey?"

She
flushed. "There most certainly is."

"Then
I'm disappointed." He held onto a laugh over her shock. "I was
sitting here thinking about what we were going to be doing in that hotel
room."

"There's
no hotel room," she quickly replied. Clearly nonplussed, she knit her
fingers. "That is to say, there is a hotel in Waverly, but we aren't going
there." She licked her lips in slight confusion. The gesture drew his
attention—more so when her teeth caught on her plump lower Hp. She had the nicest
mouth he'd ever seen on a woman. "To the hotel, that is."

"I
know exactly where I'm going," he said, his eyes staring into hers.

"Well,
then, if you know so much," she replied, once again brisk and
businesslike, "you'll know I'm going to talk about your attitude, Mr.
Cordova. You aren't showing the Keystones a fraction of what you can do. You
aren't even trying. Why not?"

He
looked at the outline of her face. Noticed the way the brim of her hat tilted
forward, its feathers and bows moving on the breeze. A golden curl touched her
brow; sunlight played over the shades of blond. As he imagined how her silky
hair would feel in his hands, his jaw went rigid.

He
couldn't explain to her that the Alex Cordova she was asking to see was no
more. He'd once been glorified in stadium programs and articles, the paper
having long ago yellowed. She wanted the legend.

The
legend was gone.

"It's
been a while. I'm out of shape," he suggested.

Her
gaze slowly lowered to the expanse of his chest, then briefly to his hips
before rising. He felt himself reacting. Tightening, growing heavy and thick.
When she looked at him like that, all he could think about was pressing her
body against his own. About cupping the curve of her buttocks.

She
drew a deep breath. "You don't look out of shape to me."

He
studied her expression. Wild and sweet. She made him think crazy things when he
was around her. After he'd quit the Orioles, he'd tried to lose himself in a
string of meaningless sexual encounters. But over the years, no woman had been
able to make him forget.

Camille
came damn close. When he was with her, he could forget his obligations to Cap.
Forget the reasons he should resent her. She gave him the means to solve his
money problems, but it was a solution he didn't want.

"That's
right," he replied in a lazy drawl he'd heard many a ballplayer use.
"You took a long, hard look at my
shape
when I was in the
clubhouse."

As
she stared at him in that innocent way—wide-eyed and lips parted—a rush of
desire went through his veins. He was halfway to running his fingertips along
her jaw and bringing his mouth over hers when the buggy wheels bounced off a
groove and jerked his thoughts away.

The
reins nearly slid from his fingers, and he tightened his hands on the leather.
He had to force his attention on the road.

"You
act as if I know you." When she nursed her chagrin, her accent was more
pronounced.

"You
know more about me than I do you." He let the horse walk at its own pace.
"I don't wear red underwear. Do you?"

Her
hand rose to her throat. "I'm not going to answer that."

"Then
answer this," he replied, loosely resting his elbows on his knees.
"Where'd you get that accent? You don't talk like you're from around
here."

"Neither
do you."

"That's
because I was born in Pinar del Río, Cuba."

Turning
her head, she looked at him. "I wondered."

"Did
you?" He hadn't expected that to interest her.

"Yes."
She crossed her ankles and kept the parasol steady. "Have you lived in
America long?"

"Sixteen
years. Took my oath of citizenship on July the Fourth when I was nineteen."

"What
made you leave Cuba?"

Alex
tried to shake off childhood memories, but he heard his grandfather's voice,
telling him that he'd be better off in America, where he could live his life
without hatred. To look back now, he knew his grandfather had been right. If
he'd stayed in Cuba, he'd have tried to bring down the government that had
killed his father and brother—and had killed his mother, by the sheer grief of
losing them. Avenging their deaths would've only brought on his own.

"Too
many reasons," he eventually said. "So how come you have that
sugar
in your voice?" He tried to say it the way she did. But he didn't even
come close.

"I'm
from Shreveport, Louisiana."

He'd
never been there. Heard of it, though. "Riverboats."

"Among
other things."

"You
live there most of your life?"

"Until
I was nine. Most all of my relatives are still there. I've got a lot of aunts
and uncles. Cousins. Almost all boys. Actually, they're grown men now."
Her reflective mood emphasized the drawn-out way she spoke her vowels. She
seemed to be comfortable, so he let her talk.

But
he barely heard the words; he was mesmerized by her mouth, by its fine shape
and color. Like soft pink rose petals. He listened to the story about her
father's not being handed down the family hardware store by Granddaddy
Kennison, who gave it to her Uncle Calvert instead—who hadn't wanted it anyway.
That's why they'd moved from Louisiana to Montana so her father could start his
own store. But she missed Shreveport at times.

She
reflected about smelling the orange blossoms from her Uncle Bridge and Aunt
Royaleen's groves before the riverboat even rounded the bend. He could see the
rocking horse mounts she described in front of every house on her street.

Her
life had been so different from the one he'd known when he'd been nine.

The
canopy of trees gave way, revealing a clear azure sky. Alex turned his face to
the sun, enjoying the pleasant warmth. If Camille thought that little nothing
of a parasol could keep a tan away, she was mistaken.

"Is
Captain your only relative?"

Her
question bumped up his pulse. Without thought, he nodded. Then he motioned to
her parasol with a slight lift of his chin. "Close that."

"Don't
you find women with milky white skin appealing?" She looked entirely too
surprised by her comment, as if she'd spoken before she thought. But there was
no taking back the picture she'd presented him.

He
felt his voice go low. "It depends on the woman and the parts of her body
that are milky white." He smiled as color lit her cheeks. "I'm sure your
milky white parts are lovely."

Staring
straight ahead, she let him envision what he wanted.

He
gazed at the tiny hollow of her throat. Then lower to the contour of her
breasts. Naked in his hands, they'd be as pale as alabaster. With dusky pink
nipples that would turn into tight buds beneath his fingers. She'd taste just
like warm lavender next to his tongue. Her slender waist gave way to a nubile
suggestion of hips. Her legs would be nicely shaped, nudged apart by his knee
for him to stroke the tender skin on her inner thighs. And the golden curls
between them.

The
blood converged to a single place in his body. Its roar echoed in his head,
making his thoughts reckless.

"How
come you're not married?" he asked, his voice thick and uneven. He
shouldn't have cared one way or the other about her lack of a husband.

"I
prefer not to be."

"You
sure as hell have enough men interested." He switched the reins to one
hand and touched a finger to the underbrim of his Stetson. " 'Good
afternoon, Miss Kennison,'" he mimicked.

She
smiled. But said nothing.

He
had to smile in return. She'd gotten him to say it again.

Keeping
the leather ribbons together, he settled his arm over the seat—a thumb's width
away from caressing the slope of her back.

The
depth of his curiosity about her unnerved him. "Who was the first man who
asked you to marry him?"

She
gauged the heat, glancing lightly at the sky. Then with efficiency, closed her
parasol and laid the frothy thing on her lap. "Henry Griffon, but he was
ten years old, so he doesn't fall into the 'man' category."

"Who
was the last?"

The
buggy wheels hit a chuckhole and they jostled a little on the seat. The
sunshine-warm fabric of her dress met his palm, and his thumb traced a small
pattern over her spine. Slow and feather light. A controlled circle.

She
didn't flinch. She sat beautifully tall.

"Archie
Douglass, a National Corset salesman."