Holm, Stef Ann (33 page)

"You
don't like parades?"

"Not
today, I don't. I just want to cool off, slip between the clean sheets of a
real bed, and call it a day."

"And
miss the Fourth of July?"

"I
don't need to watch a parade to celebrate," she muttered. "I'll wave
a hand flag in my room before I retire."

Grinning
at her lack of enthusiasm, he looked at her over his shoulder. "But what
about the festivities? The footraces? The tug-of-war? All that stuff that's
required to celebrate a holiday like the glorious Fourth?"

"I'm
not the athletic type."

Alex
measured her with a quick, appraising gaze.
No, you don't look the athletic
type.
She looked the "kiss me" type to him. Lush lips, soft eyes,
alabaster skin, high rounded breasts, slender waist, and hips that flared just
right to fit in a man's palms. She was more suited to fine dresses and big
hats, to parlors and socials—indoor things that brought out all that fancy
deportment she wore on her sleeves.

She
might not be an outdoors woman, but he was thinking Miss Honey ought to have a
little outdoor fun.

Even
if she didn't think so.

* * * * *

An
hour later, Camille found herself on a field of grass, right leg tied to Alex's
left, hopping toward a chalk finish line.

"I
don't know why I'm doing this," she said in a rush, holding her skirt up
with one hand while trying to stay in sync with Alex's long leaps. Their
shoulders bumped, elbows tangled, and thighs rubbed. Each contact of his hard
body with hers shot through her like a charged wire.

Without
sounding winded in the slightest, he replied, "Because I dared you."

"Yes,
that's right." The crimped hairpins securing her curls in place slipped
lose. "I should have let the dare go unchallenged."

"But
you didn't."

No,
she hadn't. So here she was, her legs kicking up her blue muslin skirt as she
ran. The lace edge of her snowy petticoat was exposed in plain view, but she
was having a hard time feeling improper.

Alex
slipped his arm around her waist to keep her from putting space in between
them. Being this close to Alex in front of people... she wondered what they
would think of her—of them.

She
supposed her discomfort had more to do with her guilty conscience than anything
else. She'd had to put on a bold front to face him the morning after she'd been
in his room. In the stark light of day and with a mind that was perfectly
clear, she was embarrassed by her behavior. It was hard to think about herself
as the woman lying on Alex Cordova's bed, Rose Delish on her lips. She couldn't
bring herself to think about her blouse and skirt, rumpled and disheveled, or
his hands on her body.

Because
then she'd have to face up to the fact that she'd encouraged him... just as she
felt like encouraging him now while tied to his leg in a foolish footrace.

She
should have said no when he'd asked her. Giving in to him made her face the
undeniable and dreadful facts: She was far too attracted to Alex. And not only
in a physical sense. She liked being with him, talking with him, touching him,
watching him laugh, listening to his voice—having his hands on her.

She
didn't know how to deal with her teetering emotions. Before, she would have
liked the attention. Now she felt vulnerable, naked, a target for his
speculation about what had possessed her to knock on his door wearing a robe.

At
that last thought, Camille stumbled into Alex and leaned heavily on his
shoulder. She would have fallen if he hadn't tightly gripped her waist. Her
face heated and she mumbled an apology. He merely gave her a smile that rocked
her to her soul.

Another
pair crossed the finish line by a long margin. Nobody was even close to the
winner's speed. Camille concluded the couple must have been practicing since
last Fourth of July. She and Alex were horrible at it because she went out of
her way to avoid body contact—an impossibility with their knees bound and
pressed together.

Cupid
came running over, along with Jimmy and Duke. "You didn't even come
close," the first baseman complained.

Her
breasts rising and falling from the effort, Camille shrugged and made a futile
attempt at shoving her hairpins back in place without her hat sliding down her
forehead. "We tried."

She
stood still as Alex lowered himself to one knee and lifted her petticoat up.
The starched linen had a dry rustle to it. He untied the rope that she'd felt
snag her stockings at the calf His knuckles skimmed over her in a way that
could be seen as accidental. But she knew better—she knew his touch.

Searing
heat clung to her damp skin, and she did her best to bide her disquiet. His
fingers traveled down her calf to where the kid lace stay of her shoe began. He
checked the lace, as if to see if it was se- cure. Of course it was. She'd
double tied it before the race, fearing she'd fall flat on her face if one of
the laces came undone. His thumb made a quick circle around the top of her ankle
where the shoe leather started, then he released his hold. The scratchy rope
removed, she stepped away from him and smoothed down her skirt with a little
too much vigor. Cupid gave her a puzzled look.

She
merely arched her brow at him; he said nothing.

"Tug-of-war
is next," Noodles said, drawing up to them. "Who's in?"

Camille
spoke up quickly. "Not me."

Cub
grunted. "It's not for ladies. Only men."

"Oh.
Well, good." She adjusted her sleeve cuffs. "I'll watch from the
shade of that tree."

And
so she did, glad to be on the sidelines. Alex took part in the rope pull, his
muscles straining as he held on. He smiled, his white teeth contrasting with
his tan face. He actually joked around with Cub when their team won against the
opposing side. This was something that would not have happened at the start of
the season. She noted that Alex had been welcomed into the club somewhere along
the miles of train travel and was no longer considered an outsider, an
intruder.

With
that thought, she wondered about her role with the Keystones. A disciplined
manager was never supposed to form an emotional attachment to the players. At
least that's what her father always went on about. Camille feared it was too
late for that advice. Fondness made her smile as she watched Specs wiping his
spectacle lenses on the tail of his shirt before putting them back on—only to
squint. Cupid and his bald head with the sun sinning up the top after he
removed his hat. Doc casually perusing the field grass for clovers. Duke and
Bones limbering up for the tug-of-war by touching their toes. Yank, Jimmy, and
Noodles laughing at a joke. Charlie and Deacon drinking lemonade. Yes, it was
too late to heed her father's advice. She was unable to prevent herself from
keeping her distance. She'd already invested her heart into this team.

At
first, she'd wanted to take them to the pennant to show her father she could do
the job. But she now wanted the players to see just how good they could be, how
deserving they were to play for the coveted prize. They could do it. Boston
proved that. What happened in Chicago... that was disappointing.

As
she pondered how to get the spirit of Boston back into the team, her gaze fell
on Alex. It would seem he held the key to their success. When he wanted to be,
he was a brilliant player. And so much more.

"Folks,
next is the bicycle races," Mayor VanHorne announced through a megaphone.
"Five people to a race, on account of we only have five bicycles in the
whole town—compliments of Mr. E. Whippy... who has said that after the race
he'll be renting them out for fifty cents an hour." The mayor's
stars-and-stripes suit flashed beneath the sun as he waved his arm. "So
come on over and sign up."

Camille
waved to Specs, who secured one of the bicycles and was giving it a test run—right
into a picnic table.

Several
of the town ladies stood by a soda fountain stand and Camille wandered over to
get a cool drink. She watched the bicycle races play out in groups. Jimmy was
rather good at it—good enough to win. Alex rode one as well, the wind billowing
his shirt as he pressed for the finish. He lost by a small margin, got off, and
waved Yank in, who wobbled and finally tumbled before coming close.

The
bicycle races wound down, and were followed by performances by a band on a
decorated stand. For the past few minutes, they'd been playing their renditions
of "Stars And Stripes Forever" and "Battle Hymn of the
Republic." Then the mayor introduced a young woman by the name of Miss
Idella Appleby who wore a flowing white toga, a grape wreath in her high-piled
hair. She sang "My Country 'Tis of Thee" with such flourish, she'd
stunned the crowd into silence. As soon as she quit, an encore was quickly
called for—and received. She sang the song once more. When she came to
"let freedom ring," she raised her arm high and her voice shot up an
octave.

Most
of the Keystones practically tripped over one another to get a better look at
the woman whose bare arm resembled pure alabaster. Camille opted to bow out on
the fourth encore. She wouldn't be missed.

She
began to walk toward the hotel, the music fading behind her. She had barely
reached the boardwalk when an elongated shadow crossed from behind her. She
turned to find Alex grinning at her from a bicycle. The spoke wheels gleamed in
the late-afternoon sunlight, as did the buckles on a leather basket that had
been attached to the back fender. Alex's thumb rang the bell on the handlebars.

"Get
on, honey, and we'll go for a spin."

She
gazed at him askance. Actually, she gazed at the bicycle. She'd never ridden
one in her life, but she knew that there was only one seat. And it was
occupied.

"Yes,
certainly," she quipped. "I'll sit on your shoulders."

She
had no intentions of sitting anywhere on that thing.

"Interesting
idea. But not what I had in mind." He circled her tightly, keeping her
trapped in place. Each pass he made, he jingled the ringer like a child. The
picture he made on that bicycle—long legs pumping the pedals, Stetson hat
sitting high on his forehead, sleeves rolled up to his elbows—had her smiling.
"Get on the handlebars."

Her
eyes flew to the narrow bar of metal. "What?"

He
stopped pedaling and put his right foot on the ground to hold the contraption
steady. Extending his hand, he waited for her to take it. "You can do it.
Just climb on."

"I'll
fall off."

Her
protest fell on deaf ears. "No you won't. I won't let you get hurt."

Her
heartbeat slowed and her gaze drifted to his lips.

"You'll
enjoy it," he said, his voice like gravel.

Her
eyes shot up, her heart racing. She couldn't possibly enjoy the ride. She'd be
scared to death. There was no place to hold on. "I can't."

"Can't
or won't?"

"You're
not going to dare me into anything again."

"I
think so." She grew keenly aware of his eyes seeking hers. A slow and
thorough assessment of her was clear in his expression. Her heart took another
perilous leap; she couldn't let him affect her this way. "That night in my
room you trusted me. Why can't you now?"

Biting
her lip, she looked past him to the hotel. "I don't want to talk about
what happened in your room." Then she said, "It shouldn't have
happened. I..." She could say no more.

Alex
reached out and took her hand. His fingers closed over hers. "I'm glad it
happened. And I'm glad you felt the way you did. Not every woman does."

It
took her an awkward moment to comprehend what he meant. When she did, she was
shocked by his words. Not only were they blatant but they were alarming. What
was wrong with her? Why did she feel such passion in her and not all women did?
She'd assumed her feelings were normal... but such a topic was just never
discussed. She'd never asked another woman in her life about the details of
lovemaking. Not even her mother, with whom she shared a close relationship.

Heavens,
he was saying she was overly passionate! Suddenly she didn't know which was
worse—the fact that she'd encouraged him to touch her or the fact that she had
found release in his touch.

"Honey."
His voice lowered and he brought his face close to hers. "Don't tell
yourself you shouldn't have."

Camille
drew in her breath. Why was it he could read her thoughts so perfectly at
times?

"Now
get on." His arm bent, pulling her to the bicycle, and she scooted closer.
"I've got good balance on this thing. You won't fall off."

She
looked at the handlebars, then at Alex. "I wouldn't even know how to get
up there."

"Hike
your skirt a little and hop up. I'll keep the bike steady."

"I'm
suspicious. This is the second activity today where I've had to hike up my
skirt."

"And
it may not be the last," he said with an easy grin.

She'd
walked right into that one.