Various States of Undress (7 page)

“Booker, you're throwing like a girl,” Monty called from the dugout. “Pitch a few more, and then we'd better let a lady show you how it's done.” There was a collective groan from the players and Brett glanced over. Monty stood on the edge of the field, his arms folded over his large gut. Georgia rose and walked out of the dugout. She stopped next to Monty, shaking her head, though she was smiling.

“Yeah. I'll show you, Booker,” she chimed in, though her posture was stiff and she clutched the press credentials hanging around her neck. The breeze sent her dress fluttering around her knees, and she lowered a hand to still the fabric. Brett forced himself to focus and gave Booker a hand signal. Nodding, Booker spat on the pitcher's mound and threw a sharp, hard curveball. It landed with a thunk in Brett's mitt. The next pitch was even harder, and Brett knew that Booker was showing off.

“Save it for the game, Hooker,” he called.

Nodding again, Booker squinted and fired one off. It went wild, and Brett sprang up, threw off his mask and ran after it. He stretched out his glove and caught the ball just before it bounced into the dugout, but not before he kicked up a lot of dust—all over Georgia's shoes.

“Damn, Knox,” Juan said from the dugout. “You wearing a blindfold today or something?”

Brett glared at him. “You want to come check?”

“Nope.” Juan folded his arms and leaned back on the bench.

“I'll check,” Georgia volunteered. She peered into his eyes, a little smile lifting the corners of her lips. “None visible.”

As Brett took in her teasing smile, his body relaxed a bit. His anger went from full boil to a simmer. When she grinned, that simmer morphed into something else altogether. His heart, which had been pounding already, sped up even more. “Sorry about dusting up your shoes.”

She shrugged a shoulder. “Oops.”

“Oops,” he echoed, a smile tugging at his lips.

After a moment, she sucked in a breath and looked away. Holding onto the railing, she kicked off her high heels. “I wasn't going to pitch with them on, anyway.”

Brett stared down at her toes—ringed in dust and painted a soft pink. Little sparkly accents on the polish winked back in the strong sunlight. He had a sudden urge to take her feet in his hands and gently wipe away the dirt. Swallowing, he gripped the edge of the rail with his free hand. “Let's see what you've got. All right, Monty?”

“Yep,” Monty answered.

This was the moment, then—the part of today's practice when Brett showed Georgia how to pitch. It should have been Booker, but Ship had insisted it be Brett, to make up for being rude enough to turn down her interview request. She wasn't supposed to know that, though. According to Ship, Brett was just supposed to welcome her to the Redbirds with open arms. He forced a grin at Monty.

Monty grinned too, first at Brett and then at Georgia. “Give yourself a minute to relax,” he told her, “and don't worry about learning everything at once, okay?”

“Okay.” She pulled the ball from Brett's mitt, and when she met his gaze, her lips parted slightly. “I might screw this all up,” she whispered.

“Don't worry. I'll keep an eye on your form,” he whispered back.

Her mouth opened farther. “You'll—oh.” She closed her eyes. “Right. You do that.” As she walked away, he saw her trace her lower lip with her tongue. Oh God, he was in trouble.

He trained his eyes on his teammates, who were sitting rapt with attention, staring right back at him. “Don't fuck me over,” he said to them in a low voice.

Several of the guys shrugged. Juan gave him an innocent look, and Drew shook his head just as Booker trotted toward the rail. “Any of you idiots have your asses kicked up to your nose yet?” Booker asked loudly. Brett jerked around and gave him a death stare.

“Easy, Knox,” Monty said in a calm voice. “Focus.”

Brett let out a whoosh of air and retrieved his mask. “I know, Coach.” He turned around and walked to the plate, forcing himself not to watch as Georgia jogged out to the pitcher's mound because he knew his teammates would be watching him watch her. Brett's performance at today's practice was probably the best entertainment they'd had in a long time, but it was all he could do to maintain his cool.

When he squatted behind home plate, that cool nearly vanished, because Georgia stood on the mound, her feet slightly apart, her arms raised as she twisted her soft-looking hair on top of her head. Her breasts pushed against the thin fabric of her dress, and, when she lowered her arms, her hair tumbled back down around her shoulders. Holy shit, she was killing him.

“Somebody get her a cap!” yelled Monty. Brett glanced back toward the dugout, where the guys now all stood in a motionless line, leaning on the rail, staring at Georgia.

Inexplicable jealousy surged through Brett, tightening his throat. He swallowed it down as Drew sprang into action and loped toward the mound, an extra cap in hand. Georgia settled it onto her head and pulled her hair through the opening in the back. After a moment's hesitation, she reached for her press credentials and slipped them down the front of her dress before picking up the ball. “Here we go,” she called out and promptly executed an awkward, slow windup, stumbling to the side as she threw the ball. It landed on the dirt in front of her and then rolled a few feet. “Or not,” she said.

The guys laughed and yelled encouragement. Juan ran out on the field, grabbed the ball, and handed it to her. Brett, idiot that he was, didn't do anything except pound his fist in his mitt and adjust his squat.

Georgia wound up again, and, this time, just as she let go of the ball, her dress flew up over her raised thigh. She shrieked and grabbed at the fabric, looking toward the dugout, where, wisely, the guys had no comment—except Booker. “Aim for Knox's big head,” he yelled through cupped hands.

With a smile, Georgia retrieved the ball from where it had landed nearby and held it in both hands. She stared at Brett. He stared back. There was no windup this time, just a loud grunt from her cute lips as she threw the ball—over the back of her head.

Brett stood up and jogged out to her. He tipped back his mask. “Need some help?”

She sighed, her breasts rising and falling. He trained his eyes on her face.

“Want some pointers?”

She adjusted her cap and glanced away, her gaze trailing over his chest. And lower. “You asked the same question twice, but you do realize that want and need are two different things, right?” she muttered, circling her bare toe in the dirt.

“Not in this case.” While her head was bent, he gazed at her greedily—at the sprinkling of freckles over her nose, the wisps of hair floating around her delicate cheekbones. He looked at her mouth, parted with exertion and then glanced at the round, full curve of her breasts. When she glanced up, she met his eyes and went still.

Her expression had shifted from frustration to something else entirely—something that made his heart stop. There was pure lust in her eyes. It was only for a second and was quickly replaced by a brief, friendly smile, but it was unmistakable. He'd seen that look on women's faces plenty of times before, and he knew what it meant. With very little effort, he could charm them right into his bed. But she wasn't just some chick at a bar—she was Georgia Fulton. And she wanted him. His heart raced.

She blew hair out of her eyes. “Well, no matter whether I need it or want it, you'd better go ahead and show me.”

“Show you?”

“How to throw the ball well enough that it crosses home plate. I'm determined not to embarrass myself Friday night.”

“Not a problem,” Brett said. He cleared his throat and stepped around her, searching the grass for the ball. It was five feet away, and, mechanically, he picked it up and walked back to her. “Okay, watch. Plant your feet and use the momentum of your body to follow through.” He went into an easy windup and mimicked throwing the ball.

“That's what I was doing,” she protested. “Didn't I look just like that?”

No, she'd looked like a drunk flamingo, but Brett didn't have the heart to correct her. “You know, it's okay to throw it underhanded,” he said. “Lots of ceremonial pitches are done that way.”

“Screw that! Let me try again.”

Chuckling, Brett handed her the ball. “All one motion. See the ball crossing the plate before you even wind up.” He stepped back—way back—and watched her hungrily from behind as she positioned her feet. The sun shone right through her thin dress, and he allowed himself to ogle the shadowy curves of her thighs and hips.

“You watching?” she called.

“No!” Brett paused. “I mean, yeah. Go ahead.”

With a nod, Georgia raised one leg, lunged forward and threw. This time the ball went straight but didn't quite make it to the plate before falling into the grass. The guys in the dugout cheered, but Georgia blew out a disgusted breath and went to retrieve the ball. It occurred to Brett that he probably ought to get the ball for her, or at least get back behind home plate, but he couldn't seem to make his feet move in that direction. Instead, he walked back to the mound.

“Your form looked pretty good that time,” he commented.

“Really?” She smiled at him, her gaze trailing over his chest before she looked away. “Thanks.”

“Try it again. Except this time . . .” Brett adjusted the ball in her hand and turned her sideways. “Twist forward as you let the ball go.”

Her shoulders shifted under his hands, and her hip pressed against his as she planted her feet wide. “Like this?” she asked, looking over her shoulder.

“Uh . . . kind of.” Brett nodded. It was all he could do not to trail a hand over that hip.

“‘Kind of' isn't good enough,” she said, her voice breathy. “Show me how it's done.”

There was a hell of a lot he'd like to show her but not with his entire team—and her Secret Service agents—watching. He squeezed her shoulders gently and stepped back. “Feet a bit closer together. You'll get more torque.” He smiled. “Go ahead.”

She blinked at him, her lips parted again, and Brett took another step back. “I . . . I'll catch this time,” he muttered and shoved his mask back down. As he jogged toward the plate, Booker yelled from the dugout. “You suck as a pitching coach, Knox!”

“Bite me.” Brett went into his stance and held out his mitt. He watched as Georgia followed his instructions and wound up—a little bit too tightly—but then again, who was he to talk? He was wound up tighter than a guitar string right now and very thankful that his squat hid the bulge in his crotch. When Georgia threw the ball, her breasts bounced, and he couldn't help it: he groaned out loud, nearly missing the catch as the ball sailed over home plate.

This time, when the guys cheered, Georgia grinned at them and took a bow. “Think I'm ready?” she called out.

“Yeah, but nobody's more ready than Knox the Fox!” Booker yelled back.

That did it. Friend or not—Brett was going to put his foot squarely up Booker's ass. He sprang up and started for the dugout. Booker took off running, straight into the tunnel that led to the clubhouse. Shaking his head, Brett turned back toward Georgia, who walked to home plate, her hands clasped in front of her. When she took off the cap, her hair tumbled around her shoulders.

“I won five bucks,” she announced.

“Yeah?” He tried not to stare at the sheen of sweat on her collarbones. “How'd you do that?”

“I bet my Secret Service agents that I could get the ball across the plate within five tries.”

Brett grinned. “I'd say those guys are suckers.”

“Hey, Stan! Ernie!” Georgia shaded her eyes and looked into the seats, where the two agents stood with their arms folded. “Did you hear that? Brett said you're both suckers.”

As Brett watched, his eyes widening, the two men exchanged glances and then started forward, their expressions grim. “Why'd you tell them that? They'll sic the FBI on me or something.”

“No, they won't.” Georgia shoved his shoulder. “If they found it necessary, the Secret Service would do their own siccing.” She paused. “Is that a word—siccing?”

“Dunno. I'm pretty sure your guys have done a background check on me at least, right?” He waited for her answer, not breathing. There was a good chance Georgia already knew everything about him there was to know. Which would suck.

“Of course you've had a background check. You obviously don't have anything to worry about since you're standing right next to me.”

Brett pressed on, half afraid of her next answer. “So if there's a file on me, why do you need to do an interview?”

“What do you mean?” She turned to him with a frown. “I don't have clearance to look at people's files, Brett. I'm just a protectee.”

“Oh.” Before he could say anything else, Stan and Ernie walked onto the field, each of them with a five-dollar bill in hand. Georgia clapped her hands. “Pay up, suckers,” she crowed.

Stan shook his head. “You don't have to be so smug about it.”

“Yeah,” Ernie added, handing her the money. “Should've remembered how you get.”

“I believe the word you're looking for is indomitable,” Georgia suggested.

Ernie glanced at Stan, who was trying not to smile. “Stubborn,” Stan said.

“There's nothing wrong with stubborn.” Georgia turned to Brett. “Right?”

“Sure.”

As long as he wasn't sent over the edge by her stubbornness. Or her smart mouth. Or her sexy body, or the way she looked at him, her large brown eyes full of unintentional desire. Or—

“Knox!” Monty yelled. “Hit the clubhouse.”

Brett thrust the ball out. “Here ya go, sugar. I'll practice with you some more tomorrow. You're gonna need it.” He turned and jogged toward the tunnel and a very welcome cold shower.