Holm, Stef Ann (30 page)

Sighing,
she shook her head. She didn't know why she'd done such a silly thing as to buy
lip rouge. She should wipe the cosmetic right off. And yet... she looked at her
reflection once more.

She
looked somewhat provocative.

The
room was hot, its air unmoving. She dragged the vanity chair to the open
window, sat, and turned on the electric fan that rested on the sill. She
unbuttoned her shoes and removed her hose.

Outside,
the night was dark and colored a deep blue-black. Lamplight from various
buildings, the street corners below, and the skylight rooftops in the distance
twinkled like candle flames.

It
had been a long day. She was tired. But she couldn't help thinking about Alex,
where he was, who he was with. The name Miss Rose Delish floated in her head.
Maybe she was a floozy after all... floozies spent their evenings showing
baseball players the town—showing them other things if the ballplayers were
interested.

The
fact that Alex had taken the woman up on her offer should have come as no
surprise to Camille. She shouldn't have been bothered.

She
wouldn't think about it.

Instead,
she looked out the window for a long while. She wondered if Alex was in one of
the buildings she could see, with the lights... oft It was none of her
business. And yet, she thought about the times he'd kissed
her.
Her
determination to remain solely professional was slowly being shattered. All it
took was one look, one touch by Alex and she was ready to give way too much of
herself to him.

She
was wound up, but her eyelids grew heavy. Perhaps she'd wait up and listen for
him to return to his room. It was only several doors down from hers. The
players had come up a half hour ago. Since then, it had been quiet in the hall.

Quiet
as a rundown clock.

Her
lids closed. She fought sleep. But it had been a long day...

The
next thing she knew, she was startled awake by a door closing in the hallway.

Unfolding
her arms from the windowsill, she sat upright and smoothed the hair from her
eyes. She momentarily forgot where she was, the interior of the room semidark.
Furnishings came into focus, and the fan stirred the air in its whirling
blades. Camille remained still a moment, then stood. She fumbled for her watch
to view the hour. Bringing the timepiece next to the light, she read its face.
Almost midnight.

Indecision
had her thoughts drifting in a variety of directions—mostly conflicting. At
length, she took her wrapper from the wardrobe and put her arms through the
sleeves. She made sure the silk lapel edges came across each other securely to
fully cover her underblouse, then she cinched the tie with a firm bow.

Leaving
her room, she closed the door behind her and walked down the hallway. The cool,
waxed wood grain of the floor under her bare feet caused her to pause and look
down. She'd neglected to put on her slippers.

Once
at Alex's door, she knocked.

The
door opened. The physical dominance of Alex Cordova standing in the frame
displaced her motives for seeing him. She fought against the invisible pull of
his powerful magnetism. Her foothold on the floor actually faltered, and she
took an unthinking step that was more of a backward trip. It hadn't been his
gaze that rocked her senses into a plunging spiral. It was his state of dress.
Rather, undress.

He
wore pair of denim pants. The fabric was worn thin at the slashes of pockets,
at the knees, and at the button fly as if he'd leaned up against one too many counters.
The rich navy color had grown pale, almost the shade of snow with winter sun
reflecting off it.

The
way he filled out the cloth was indecent. She shouldn't have let her gaze
linger over the sinful way the material molded his thighs. Or the way the
waistband fit around his trim waist, the belt loops empty. His rock-hard
physique held the fabric snugly against him.

And
yet, it wasn't just the fit of his pants that caused her breath to catch.

He
was shirtless, the flame from glass globes in the hall lighting every contour,
every taut ripple and dimension of his chest. She'd never seen his bare chest
before, although she had wondered what he'd look like.

But
not even in her most uninhibited thoughts had she imagined the true extent of
his beautifully proportioned body. His biceps strained with a pronounced
strength. Flat and corrugated with muscles, his belly looked as if it could
stop a fist without even flinching. Nipples the color of warm earth nestled in
a covering of dark hair that tapered in a soft line to his navel. A small gold
medal hung from a chain around his neck. The dim light caught on the shining
metal when he folded his arms over his chest and crossed one foot over the
other to lean into the jamb. She couldn't quite make out the image on the tiny
round piece; it almost looked like a robe-wearing man with a staff. She'd never
seen anything like it.

Alex
stood somewhat sideways to her, giving her a shadowed view of his right side,
his back to the opened panel of the door. She lifted her eyes to his and found
his gaze fixed on her. Most aptly, her lips. She'd forgotten about the lip
color. His study of her descended, slowly, to her breasts and waist, then to
her hips, and finally, to her bare feet. What must he think of her? His eyes
lifted and he waited for her to say something. His black hair had been swept
from his forehead, the ends damp and appearing as if he'd just run a wet comb
through them.

Camille
fought to put a coherent sentence together in her head, and when she spoke, she
sounded ridiculously breathless. "I was awake going over tomorrow's lineup
and I heard you come in. What I mean is... I assumed it was you coming in
because you missed dinner." Never before had she been so flustered in a man's
company. She was rambling like a silly young girl, yet she couldn't seem to
pull her thoughts together. "I wanted to let you know that the front desk
can send a fan up to your room if you're hot."

One
dark brow arched upward; his mouth curved. "I wasn't a minute ago, but now
I am."

"Oh,
well... yes. It's hot in the hallway, too." She was utterly confused. Her
gaze lowered once more to his chest, to the medal, to the muscles that worked
over his arms as he straightened. Uncontrollably, the muscles in her lower
belly tightened. "I just wanted to let you know about the fan..."

"I
appreciate the thought, Miss Kennison."

Miss
Kennison.

They
were back to that again. Miss Rose Delish was probably Rose, or whatever her
real name was. Camille couldn't explain to herself why she felt disappointed
with the formal address.

She
absently twisted the sash of her robe in her fingers. "I'd better let you
get some sleep... we want to win tomorrow's game."

Is
that perfume I smell?

Then
a thought jolted her. What if he wasn't alone? What if there was a woman in his
room? Right now. How stupid could she be to stand out here and go on about fans
when he could have company?

"I'm
sorry I disturbed you.... I have to go now.... I mean, you're busy and I just
wanted to mention the fan because it's hot and I—"

Unexpectedly,
he gripped her wrist, gently pulled her inside the room, then quietly shut the
door behind her. She was so startled, she could hardly breathe, much less move.

She
sputtered in confusion, "Mr. Cordova, what's this all about?"

"I
couldn't leave you out there reciting all that crap about the fan. Somebody
might hear you, open their door, see you out there in your unmentionables, see
me in here without mine and come to conclusions."

In
a rush, she denied, "But I'm not in my unmentionables."

His
warm fingers touched the edge of her wrapper and slipped beneath the fabric at
her throat, causing her to gasp with surprise. "Close enough."

Roughened
from playing ball, his knuckles skimmed over her bare skin where the taffeta
underwaist did little to cover the tops of her breasts. Then the back of his
hand slid lower, toward her waist, slowly loosening the silk.

With
a will of their own, her eyelids lowered and her lips parted. She felt herself
swaying toward him. What was she thinking? That was the problem. She
wasn't
thinking.
"I didn't mean it to look like I was inviting myself into your room. I
honestly wanted to tell you about the fan and..."

...
And maybe I was curious about you and Miss Delish.

She
gazed about the interior, which was bathed by two keyed gaslights, one in the
ceiling, one on the wall beside the bed. The only people in the room were her
and Alex. No other woman. No sign of a woman. Men's clothing was scattered over
the chair's arms and back, as was Alex's uniform and his shirt. A suitcase with
the lid open rested on the floor.

And
a fan had been set on top of the bureau. The blades purred.

"Oh..."
she whispered, "you already have a fan."

"Yeah."
His mouth mesmerized her when he spoke. "But it isn't cooling me
off."

She
rose a hand to her throat and swallowed.

The
air in the room felt thick and sultry. Her wrapper seemed to cling to her.
Although she was fully covered she felt naked in front of him.

As
if he could read her mind, huskiness lowered the volume of his next words.
"You look like you're going to melt from wearing too much."

She
didn't speak, unable to think of a decent reply. She couldn't very well deny
she was without her blouse. It was true. And it was also true that she had no
business being in his room. At this hour, or any other. If she wanted to
maintain propriety, she should turn around and leave right now.

"You
need a long, cool soak in a bathtub," he suggested, the sight of his bare
chest making it hard for her to follow what he said next. "One August in
New York when we were playing the Giants, I had the hotel bring up an
old-fashioned bathtub to my room and fill it with cold water. I put the fan on
the windowsill and soaked while the air breezed over me. Stayed in there for
the afternoon reading
Good Housekeeping,
smoking cigarettes, and
drinking beer."

In
a tub naked. Reading a magazine.
Good Housekeeping?
Drinking beer.
Smoking cigarettes.
The vision of Alex that filled her mind was virile and
unabashedly at ease, with heat-quenching droplets running over bronzed, bare
skin. She really should leave...

Alex
went to the bureau, toward the fan. When he turned away from her, she saw the
scars and instantly grew unsettled by the fierce tattoo on his shoulder. She
could feel the blood drain from her face. All of her past bewilderment and
confusion welded together. He was a complex man, not easy to know because he
let so little of himself show. But with the turn of his back, she now knew
where one piece of the puzzle fit.

She
knew why he was called "the Grizz."

Alex
turned up the speed on the Emerson fan. Thick air churned behind him and
sluggishly crept through the room. Facing her, he asked, "Can you feel
it?"

When
she didn't answer, his eyes followed hers to his shoulder. He didn't initially
say anything. The image itself said everything, as did the scars. They were
claw marks. The tattoo was that of a grizzly bear's head and upper body. What
made the drawing so vivid was the fact that the grizzly's arm had been penned
midswipe, making it appear ferociously real with the fluid move of Alex's body.

"It
was no big deal," Alex said, his jaw suddenly tight.

"It
is a big deal. It's who you are. Alex 'the Grizz' Cordova." She moved
toward him, her gaze never wavering. "What happened?"

He
inhaled, ran his hands through his hair. "It was a long time ago and it
was a stupid thing to do. I wish I could say I was drunk when I got it. But I
was stone-cold sober."

"I
wasn't talking about the tattoo." She'd drawn up to his side. "What
happened to
you?"
Tentatively, she reached out and touched the
curve of his shoulder. The hot skin jumped beneath her fingertips, but she
didn't stop her exploration. She skimmed the smooth, marble-hard flesh of his
shoulder and back; then traced the five subtle ridges.

Their
noses nearly brushed as he looked down and she looked up, their breath fused
together. "I had a run-in with a bear who seemed to want me dead," he
said, the tone of his voice belying his light words. "When I didn't die, I
thought the spirit of the grizz was in me—was with me and made me a better
player when I went back to Baltimore after the attack."

"Where
did it happen?"

"Up
near Alder."

Her
chin lifted a fraction, their noses met. "Really? In Montana." That
he'd been there before and she hadn't known it made her feel queer. Like they'd
been meant to know each other, but it hadn't been the right time until now.

"Yes."
His arms encircled her waist and he brought her flush against him. As if he
needed her.

Her
arms remained at her sides, but she made no protest. The flat of his belly
pressed the knot of her robe's tie. Through the thin fabric, she felt the hard
contours and definitions of his body as he settled next to her. She felt
herself dissolving, but she did her best to tamp the feeling down. "Why
were you in Montana?"