The Practice Proposal (19 page)

She blinked back tears and shifted her gaze toward the sprawling farmland.

Cole cleared his throat. This kind of talk was so far beyond his comfort zone. “And
you like baseball nearly as much as I do.”

She nodded. “That’s true.”

“Before you, baseball was the love of my life. But you mean more to me than baseball
ever could.” He clenched his jaw. “So I gave it up.”

Liza narrowed her eyes. “What?”

Cole reached into the back pocket of his jeans and pulled out a rolled-up page from
that day’s sports section of the
Washington Post
. He handed it to Liza and pointed out the headline: “Nationals’ Collins Opts Out.”

She shook her head and read aloud, “After his selection as World Series MVP, All-Star
first baseman Cole Collins shocked the Nationals with the news that he is not interested
in renewing his contract with the franchise, or any other major league team.”

She stared at Cole, dumbfounded.

He took the newspaper from her, set it on a nearby rocking chair, and took her hands
in his. No doubt he was setting a new record for sustained adrenaline surges. He was
more nervous now than he’d been during his proposal at the World Series in front of
all those people. But this time it was just him and Liza. And even more than last
time, everything was on the line.

He got down on one knee and gazed up into her eyes. “I want you to marry me, and never
doubt it was
you
I wanted and nothing else.” He reached into his shirt pocket, pulled out the sparkling
engagement ring, and nestled it in the palm of his hand. “This represents my heart.”
He fumbled in his pocket again, came out with a larger ring, and set it next to the
other one. “This one, my life. I want to give both of them to you. Please say you’ll
marry me.”

…

Reeling with emotion, Liza stared at the big ring Cole held next to the diamond—a
man’s brushed-platinum signet ring with a polished curly W on it.

“What’s this?” she asked, nerves twisting her insides and making her shaky.

“The Nats organization gave us those after we won the Series. They said it could hold
the place on our fingers until we get the official rings in the spring.” He smiled
sadly.

Liza thought she might lose it right then. Struggling to keep herself together, she
tugged his free hand until he got the message and stood up. The stunned look on his
face nearly broke her heart. She took his other hand and closed his fingers around
the rings. “I’m sorry, Cole.”

He grimaced but still managed to look handsome. She thought she might’ve seen tears
in his eyes but he managed to blink them back quickly. It took all of her self-control
not to wrap her arms around him, but she had to make things right first.

“I believe you, but I can’t be the reason you quit the game you love.” She cupped
his scruffy face in her hand. “Will you tell the Nats you want a new contract, and
then marry me?”

His slow and easy grin told her what she wanted to know before he even said it. He
kissed her tenderly and whispered, “Yes.”

Her heart soared as he slid her engagement ring onto her finger, and she put the Nats
ring on his. This was good practice for exchanging wedding rings, which couldn’t happen
soon enough for her.

The moment the rings were on their fingers the front door opened. Liza turned as her
mom rushed out onto the porch followed by her dad, Mack and Brenda, Frank, and Paige.

She looked at them wide-eyed, her mouth agape. “Y’all set me up,” she teased. It was
touching that they’d all come together to reunite her and Cole. She couldn’t think
of a time she’d ever felt more loved.

“We all need a little nudging now and then,” her mom said.

“And no one told me this was Cole’s farm.” Liza fixed Frank with a playfully sharp
look, then shifted her gaze to Mack and Brenda.

“We had our orders,” Mack said sheepishly.

“Mack and Brenda live here, too,” Cole said. He pointed toward the woods in the opposite
direction of the barn and the pond. “Down that way about a half mile. They take care
of the place for me.” He put his arm around Liza and pulled her close. “For us. Been
doing it for a couple of years now.”

For us…

“I couldn’t have picked better neighbors,” Liza said.

“Glad to see you kids got everything straight.” Frank rocked back and forth on his
feet.

Cole raised his eyebrows. “Not everything.” With just two words, he had everyone’s
attention. “Liza won’t marry me unless I tell the Nats I want a new contract.”

Liza saw the relief on Frank’s face—and everyone else’s, too.

“Well I’m glad
someone
could talk some sense into you,” Frank said to Cole.

Her dad gave Cole a congratulatory pat on the back. “If that Nats thing doesn’t work
out for you, there’s this team up the beltway…” He smiled.

Cole nodded, looking humble. “I’d be honored.”

“There’s one more thing.” Liza grabbed her purse, took out Frank’s check, and handed
it to him. “No deal.” She rested her head against Cole’s shoulder.

Frank glanced at the check and handed it back to her. “Keep the money. It’s for a
good cause.”

“For real?” she asked, astonished.

Frank nodded.

“Thank you.” Her mom hugged him, beaming.

“Yes,” Liza said, “thank you all for everything.” She stood on tiptoes and kissed
Cole. “We couldn’t have done this without you.”

“This is fun and all,” Paige said. “But we’ve got a picnic lunch waiting down by the
pond.” She winked at Liza. “And I made you a new cake without holes in it.”

“Mmm. Sounds delicious.” Liza gazed at Cole, still amazed by all that had happened.
“So this is going to be our place now?”

He nodded, his eye practically dancing.

“Our barn…our pond…our Adirondack chairs?”

He grinned crookedly. “Yes.”

“Then we’re definitely going to have to do something about those cushions.”

Acknowledgments

I had so much fun writing
The Practice Proposal
because it takes place in a world I love—the world of Major League Baseball and the
Washington Nationals. I hope I have brought it to life for you the way they bring
it alive for me. My days are always a little brighter during baseball season.

Special thanks to my amazing editors Stacy Abrams and Alycia Tornetta, for taking
a chance with this one and having the patience to see it through. I stay (somewhat)
sane in this crazy writer’s life thanks to the unwavering support and good humor of
my author friends Kelsey Browning, Tracey Devlyn, Adrienne Giordano, and Nancy Naigle.
You girls are the best!

My mom deserves a special mention for all the times I rushed her off the phone when
I was on deadline, and for her love and moral support. And there are no words to properly
thank my husband, Mike, for his patience, his wacky perspective, his willingness to
eat sandwiches for dinner (a lot), and his happily-ever-after kind of love.

About the Author

Award-winning author Tracy March writes romantic thrillers influenced by her career
in the pharmaceutical field and her interest in science and politics. She also writes
lighthearted romances inspired by her real-life happily ever after.

Always up for travel and adventure, Tracy has flown in a stunt plane, snowmobiled
on the Continental Divide, zip-lined in the Swiss Alps, and been chased by a bull
in the mountains of St. Lucia. She loves Nationals baseball, Saturday date nights,
and Dairy Queen Blizzards—and rarely goes a day without Diet Coke and Cheez-Its.

Tracy lives in Yorktown, Virginia, with her superhero husband who works for NASA.
They recently spent two years living in Washington, DC, and enjoy visiting often—especially
when the Nats are in town.

Visit Tracy online at
www.TracyMarch.com

Enjoyed
The Practice Proposal
? Don’t miss Tracy March’s romantic and thrilling suspense novel
Girl Three
—in stores and online in April!

Bioethicist Jessica Croft, estranged daughter of a federal judge, has avoided the
players, power, and passions of Washington, DC. But when her sister Sam’s suspicious
death is classified as natural, Jessie resolves to expose Sam’s murderer. Pursuing
elite suspects on both sides of the stem-cell-research debate leads her to security
consultant Michael Gillette, who seems to know more about Sam than he’s letting on. 

Michael has a vested interest in Jessie’s plight. Her sister died on his watch—while
he wasn’t watching. His plan to find her murderer becomes complicated, though, when
Jessie’s father hires him to protect Jessie, and his interest in her becomes much
more than professional.

Together, Jessie and Michael must unravel a mystery rife with political agendas and
deceit. When confidential papers reveal a fertility scandal surrounding the enigmatic
Girl Three, the two realize the danger of exposing the truth. Who is Girl Three? And
will the murderer kill again to keep a secret?

Read on for a sneak preview…

Chapter One

Three words and three numbers. Enough to make Dr. Jessica Croft’s heart hitch. She
reread the note the CEO had left on her desk:
My office—8:45. Franz.
It was already eight thirty.

What did I do?

Jessie had never been summoned to the executive suite of The Oliver Institute. Not
when she’d kindled a media firestorm with her provocative articles on designer babies.
Not when the series had sparked enough controversy to incite a congressional hearing.
Not even when she’d been briefed before she went to Washington to testify.

She unbuttoned her coat and sank into her chair.

Lois, her early-bird, motherly secretary, came in carrying a mug of hot tea for Jessie
and set it on the desk. “Chinese Flower.”

During the last couple of years, they’d tasted their way through the entire Harney
& Sons tea catalog and settled on their favorites. Chinese Flower was Jessie’s.

“Thank you.” Jessie glanced at her, then looked away quickly, too embarrassed to meet
her eyes. “You must have seen the note.”

“I did.” Lois kept her tone positive. But everyone knew about the curse of the CEO’s
office, and they nervously joked about it at the Institute. Franz’s office was the
last place you go before the last time you leave.

Jessie had once seen a dismissed coworker escorted out of the Institute by a security
guard. The poor woman had carried a cardboard box full of empty hopes, her dignity
left on the desk. Jessie shrugged. “Somehow, I’ve earned the walk of shame.”

“Or a Pulitzer Prize.” Lois gave her an encouraging smile and set a copy of Jessie’s
schedule for the day on the desk. Despite new technology, Lois relied on the tangibility
of paper and ink. Jessie understood. Words printed on a page implied a commitment
that words typed on a screen could not. Evidently Franz felt the same, since he’d
left his message on a Post-it note.

Jessie swallowed hard, conflicted over the possibilities. “I guess it could go either
way.”
But not as far as a Pulitzer Prize. And hopefully not as far as getting fired from
the Institute.
She’d carved a niche for herself here and, thanks in large part to Lois, finally
felt like she belonged somewhere.

“Good thing Franz wants to see you first thing,” Lois said. “I’m not sure much else
will get done today.” She gestured toward the window, the creases in her pleasant
face deepened by her frown. Outside, the sky hung low and gray. Pine branches glistened,
frozen from the dreary beginning of an ice storm. “I’ll reschedule things for you,
if need be.”

Jessie couldn’t help but hear a double entendre. Lois was referring to the worsening
weather and not the question of Jessie getting fired.

Wasn’t she?

…

By 8:43, Jessie sat before the esteemed Dr. Franz Oliver, her insides all ripply and
tense. She pulled her cardigan tightly around herself and took a deep breath of the
chilly air in the fabled executive suite.

Burl wood furniture, museum-quality art.

Career-altering meetings.

This one included a starchy White House envoy who had introduced himself as Mr. Bishop.

“Miss Croft,” he said, “the president has questions about your work.”

Jessie’s gaze darted to Franz—
the president, as in president of the United States?
—then back to Bishop, whose words wore a could-be-good, could-be-bad disguise. She
sat straighter in her seat and wondered why Bishop had called her
Miss
instead of
Doctor
. Not that the title really mattered to her. Usually when someone referred to “Dr.
Croft,” she thought of her grandfather, who had been an MD, not a PhD like Jessie.

Bishop had settled in the chair next to hers. He riffled through a stack of papers
in his lap,
Confidential
slashed across the pages in red. His balding head shifted as he scanned each sheet.

Seated at his desk, Franz loomed in front of them, built like the Tower of London
minus the turrets. He dragged his hand over his gray mustache and clutched a fistful
of goatee. His gaze settled on Bishop, flickering with the foresight of damage control.

In the corner of the room, an antique floor clock ticked. Jessie counted the seconds—backward
from twenty.

Nineteen, eighteen, seventeen.

Franz cleared his throat. “What specific area of Dr. Croft’s work concerns the president?”

Bishop cocked his head, appraising Franz. “It’s her body of work more than her position
on a particular issue.” He licked his index finger and leafed through his papers.
“But the president has commented on her recent articles about assisted reproductive
technologies and…” He stopped on a page, skimmed his fingers over it, and halted mid-paragraph.
“Genetic screening of embryos.”

Jessie might as well have been a cardboard cutout, since the two men talked about
her as if she wasn’t in the room. Since the president objected to her work, was her
next stop the recycling bin? She practiced her science like a religion, reconciling
issues as current as human cloning with principles as rock-solid as Stonehenge. But
bioethics was hardly an exact science. No matter how well she justified her reasoning,
someone disagreed. Now, that someone just happened to be the leader of the free world.

Franz leaned forward, planted his elbows on the desk, and steepled his thick fingers.
“Her contributions to
The Oliver Report
may not parallel the president’s views, but they foster critical debate.”

Bishop turned his attention to Jessie, and she willed herself not to react.

“Furthermore,” Franz said in his intellectual voice, “Dr. Croft is the most thought-provoking
bioethicist at my Institute.”

Jessie’s jaw went slack, but she reined in her surprise. For five years, she had finessed
her way up the ranks at the think tank without praise from Franz. He had an unspoken
philosophy: If you work at my Institute, you’re the best. You don’t need a reminder.

“The president agrees with your assessment,” Bishop said.

Franz leaned back in his chair, eyebrows raised. “He does?”

Wide-eyed, Jessie looked from Franz to Bishop.

“Yes,” Bishop said. “He’s selected Miss Croft to fill the vacancy on his Commission
for the Study of Bioethical Issues. We’ve already started the vetting process. He
wants to know if she’ll accept his appointment.”

Franz flashed her a victorious smile, but Jessie’s defenses flared despite her excitement
and relief.

Nothing came out of Washington without premeditation, and this appointment was no
different. She’d bring a fresh frame of reference to the Commission, but other candidates
offered name recognition, distinguished achievements, and longtime careers. Something
more had prompted the president to choose her. Something more politically charged,
complex, and knotty.

Jessie pinched her pencil between her fingers and wrote on her notepad,
Arranged by my father?
She stabbed the dot beneath the question mark.

“As a courtesy,” Bishop said to Franz, “I’m alerting you that my team is contacting
Miss Croft’s coworkers and superiors, former professors, friends. We’ve started with
her family.”

“That won’t be necessary.” Nerves sharpened Jessie’s words, the first ones she’d said
since hello.

Franz’s smile flattened.

“You’re not interested?” The first hint of emotion tinged Bishop’s voice.

Of course I’m interested.

The weight of Franz’s expectations smothered Jessie, and her doubts piled on. At only
thirty, the fulfillment of a lifelong goal was dangling in front of her. Because of
her hard work, because of her sacrifice, or because she had her father’s DNA?

Bishop’s BlackBerry buzzed. He snatched it from his belt and scanned the screen. “Sorry.”
He set the phone atop the papers in his lap and gave Jessie a questioning look.

“Is this selection a strategy to favor my father?” She hesitated to suggest such impropriety,
yet she needed to know upfront.

Bishop crooked a prickly eyebrow, his expression guarded. “You misunderstand the president.”

“Perhaps,” she said. “I don’t know the president. But I know politics. That’s why
I’m here in Charlottesville—peaceful, beautiful, middle-of-nowhere Virginia—and not
in DC.”

“You can serve on the Commission from here,” Bishop said. “Stay with The Oliver Institute.
The other members are highly respected physicians, lawyers, and academics who live—”

“I understand.” Jessie gathered some false confidence and faced him. “But you evaded
my question about my father. Should I take that as an answer?”

Bishop blinked erratically.

Franz shot Jessie a watch-yourself look.

“If the president is interested in my perspective,” she said, “then I’m honored. If
he’s trying to create a false family image for my father ahead of his likely nomination
to the Supreme Court, I can’t accept.” She leveled a determined gaze at Bishop. “I’ve
worked too hard to be used as a trophy daughter.”

Bishop’s thin lips twitched. “I assure you, that is not the president’s intent.” His
BlackBerry shimmied on the papers in his lap, red light flashing. He squinted at its
screen and grimaced. “As I mentioned, we’ve started the vetting process. We’re questioning
your family today.”

Jessie regretted that they had to involve her family. Couldn’t her superiors and professional
associations vet her? She shook her head. “They don’t know me.”

“What?”

“My father, my sister—they don’t know me. Haven’t for a while.” Awkwardly, she twisted
the monogrammed silver ring on her finger, the familiar edges of her mother’s initials
pressed beneath her fingertips. “So interviewing them won’t be necessary.”

Bishop’s BlackBerry shuddered again.

“Excuse me,” he said, sounding frustrated. “This must be urgent.” He held it to his
ear. “Bishop.” He stood, stepped out of the office, and shut the door.

Jessie risked a glance at Franz.

“You deserve this appointment,” he said. “No matter who or what motivated it. Don’t
let pride or speculation cause you to make a reckless decision.”

Lightning pain shot behind Jessie’s temples. The closed door muffled Bishop’s voice,
but she could still hear his end of the conversation. “I’m in a meeting,” he said.
“Make it quick.” Then, in hushed words that she struggled to make out, “Our Samantha
Croft, the lobbyist? Judge Croft’s daughter?”

The tone in his voice put Jessie on full alert, but Franz kept talking. “I’m confident
that—”

Bishop opened the door, no longer on the phone, his face sallow. His stunned demeanor
stopped Franz mid-sentence. He walked to his chair and sat.

“What is it?” Jessie asked. “I heard you mention my sister.”

Bishop opened his mouth but hesitated before he spoke. “That was my assistant, the
one assigned to meet with Samantha in Washington.”

Jessie heard an odd tick in his voice. “Is something wrong?” Apprehension tingled
across her scalp.

No change in Bishop’s expression. No answer.

Jessie shifted in her seat. “Mr. Bishop?”

He stared out the picture window behind Franz. Sleet pelted against the glass, drizzling
down in melted rivulets, distorting the view of the Blue Ridge Mountains into a surreal,
Dali-esque landscape.

Bishop faced Jessie but avoided her eyes. “Have you been in touch with her?”

Jessie stiffened. “Maybe I should clarify what I said a moment ago. My sister lobbies
for some of the same issues I deal with, but we don’t associate with each other.”
Even though we still have a bond, and I miss her, and I hope she knows she’s always
in my heart.

Jessie’s throat tightened. She hated to talk about Sam and her father, and she hated
to think of their separate lives. “What did your assistant say about Sam?”

“It’s a highly unusual situation,” Bishop said. “Inappropriate for me to discuss.”

“Sam’s my sister. Your assistant is interviewing her in a vetting process for me,
for what little he might learn from her. What about that is highly unusual and inappropriate
to discuss?”

“I’m not the right person—” Bishop’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed hard.

“What is it, Mr. Bishop?” Jessie forced calm into her voice. “I’ve leveled with you.
Please, let’s be honest in this process.”

Bishop nodded once. “There’s no easy way to say this.” He turned to Jessie, looked
her in the eyes, then sucked in a breath as if it had to last him a lifetime.

“Your sister is dead.”