Double Play (34 page)

At that, she bit her full lower lip, a naughty light coming into her eyes. “We’ve accomplished quite a bit in a minute before.”

He was already hard, he’d been in that condition since . . . since he’d first seen her in that dress, the one that was now slipping off one shoulder. And those black heels with the ankle strap . . . “You have no idea how much I want that minute,” he said reverently.

She pressed her breasts into his chest. “Tick tock . . .”

“No.” He gulped in air and put his hands on her waist, holding her away from him. “We’re not rushing again.”

“Again?”

“We were in a hurry last time. Good things come to those who wait, Holly.” And he planned on getting good things. Very good things.

She arched a brow, amused. “You sound like a fortune cookie.”

“Yeah. And your fortune says the wait will be worth it.”

“I’m not much of a waiter.”

“I’ve noticed.” He dropped his forehead to hers. From his vantage point, he could see down her dress, and he didn’t think she was wearing a bra. “Got to go.” He was talking to himself, reminding himself. “And in three hours, I fly to Arizona to watch us get our asses kicked by the Dia mondbacks. But when I get back, we’re both going to . . .”

“Get good things?”

“Yeah. Really good.”

Her breath caught.

“You onboard with that?” he asked.

She could only nod, and he smiled grimly. It was going to be a long road trip.

Baseball’s designed to break your heart. The game begins in spring, when everything else begins again, and it blossoms in the summer, filling the afternoons and evenings, and then as soon as the chill rains come, it stops and leaves you to face the fall alone.

—A. Bartlett Giamatti

 

 

Holly
woke up the next morning to find a note on the bedroom door.

She peeked out the window. There was her car. Pace had promised to be there for her, and he’d come through. It was a first for her with a guy, and it did something to her heart, something she wanted to attribute to lust but had to admit, was more.

The Heat broke even in the Arizona series. Better than losing, but still, not a record to be proud of. Not for them.

The Bad News Bears, the news reports mocked. Holly read them all, and by the time the team came home, they had to win their next game or be knocked out of the wild card position for the run at the National League pennant.

She couldn’t imagine the pressure.

But she had her own pressure. Pressure to make a living. While trying to find her next series, she went over the pictures she’d taken all summer, and as she played with the shots, she realized her own next series was right here in front of her—a slice of American life.

While she played with that, Tommy called. “Doll, I’ve got an idea. How about you extend the baseball series, figure out what’s going on with all that bad press the Heat is getting?”

“The series is over.”

“I don’t think so.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, seeing as you’ve turned this new leaf and gone all conscientious on me, I might have something interesting for you.”

“What?”

“The bad press isn’t generated by your article, or from the Heat’s play record. Sure, they’ve lost some games, but they’re still at a winning record, and in fact, if they win to day’s home game, they’re a cinch for the wild card position to go into the pennant for National League champions. Not too shabby. Plus, there’s one undeniable fact—other teams have far bigger losing streaks going on.”

“I know. Sam’s been going crazy trying to figure it out.”

“It’s an inside job.”

“No. No one would—”

“Would and did.”

“Who?”

“Buzz is that it’s coming from their own PR department.”

“Samantha? That’s ridiculous,” she said firmly.

“Her brother’s the publicist for the Charleston Bucks.”

“Yes, Jeremy. So?”

“So the Bucks have a bigger losing streak than the Heat’s. In fact, they’ve been big losers all season. They have a shallow bullpen and no solid hitters.”

“Are you suggesting that Sam’s creating bad press for the Heat to deflect from the Buck’s losing streak?”

“Among other things, like causing the loss of advertising dollars and game-day revenues, yeah.”

“Tommy, come on. That doesn’t make sense.”

“Actually, it does. We’re talking millions and millions of dollars, and you know the saying: blood is thicker than a paycheck.”

“How do you know this?”

“I know all.”

“Not good enough.”

“I was contacted by someone who wanted to sell me proof.”

“Oh God,” she breathed. “How much is that worth?”

“I don’t know, I didn’t take it. I have
some
scruples.”

Whether or not that was true, Holly’s head was spinning. Tommy was a greedy, sneaky, manipulative bastard, but the bitch of it was, he
was
always right. “You’re sure?”

“Listen, doll, we both know my faults. Sniffing out an untrue story is not one of them.”

“I’ll get back to you.” Holly shut her phone and stood still for a moment as the shock filled her. Sam, the bad guy? She grabbed her keys and headed out into the staggering heat, driving straight to the Heat facilities, where she found the pretty publicist in her office. “Sam? Can we talk?”

Sam barely looked up from her desk, where she had two laptops going and a handheld fan blowing right in her damp face. Her cell phone was ringing, as was her desk phone. “I’m sorry, the AC is out, the soaring temps are killing me, and I’m swamped. I don’t have time to—”

“Are you feeding bad press to your brother so his team looks better than the Heat?”

At that, she had Sam’s full attention. “What?”

“Are you?”

“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. I wouldn’t feed Jeremy anything. He’s a shark.”

Holly sank to a chair. “Okay, here’s the thing. My boss is a complete jerk, but he’s got a way of sniffing out a story. He says your bad press is an inside job.”

“Yes. Many think it’s you.”

“It’s not.”

Mouth grim, eyes worried, Sam stood up. “I know. God, I know. But it’s not me either.”

“So who?”

“I don’t know—No one else has the info I have,” Sam said.

“Then who’s accessing your computers and information, besides you?”

Sam opened her mouth and then slowly shut it again, thoughts clearly racing. “I need a moment alone,” she said tersely, reaching for her phone.

“Sam—”

“Please, Holly.”

“Yeah. Okay.” She was back in the parking lot, sweltering in the morning heat, when her cell phone buzzed with an incoming text from Pace.

 

 

It took her fifteen minutes in the morning traffic, in the damn heat wave with no AC in her car, during which time she went over and over the look on Sam’s face. It wasn’t her. Sam loved her job, loved the guys, loved everything about the Heat. She’d never have jeopardized that.

Holly parked next to Pace’s Mustang in the parking lot and got out of her car and nearly melted. The fence wasn’t locked today, and the For Sale sign had been covered by another that read, Sold.

She saw no one. With butterflies low in her belly over the thought of seeing Pace, she walked to the empty field and turned in a slow circle in the sweltering heat, coming to a stop at the abandoned building. It was a one-story structure, originally used to store equipment, with two high, long-slatted windows that she couldn’t reach to see inside.

The door was opened. Dying for shade, she stepped over the threshold and into a large room that was clear of everything but some drop cloths, a few buckets of paint on a lone table, two ladders, and one sexy-as-hell Pace Martin.

He stood at the top of one of the ladders, roller in hand. He wore loose cargo shorts, low on his hips, the hem past his knees, and a T-shirt, both smeared with baby blue paint. Just looking at him lightened her heart.

He had his baseball hat on backward, his hair curling out from beneath the edges, and an easy smile that pretty much galvanized her.

She’d go to the ends of the earth for that smile.

He backed off the ladder with easy grace, hopping down to the floor from the last few rungs. “Hey.”

“You bought this place,” she said. “You bought it for the kids.”

“Yeah, but for me, too.” He turned to shut and lock the door, then came close, his gaze touching her features. “I missed you, Holly.”

Her heart caught painfully. The poor organ seemed to be getting quite the workout lately. He stood there with that melting smile, the promise there in his eyes, colliding with who he’d become—a man for whom baseball was just a part of his life.

Not the whole, but a part.

“I missed you, too,” she said softly.

He smiled. “Good.” He grabbed a second roller. “Want to help?”

“More than anything.”

He cocked his head, holding the roller back from her now, his shirt stretching taut across his broad chest. “More than anything? That covers a lot of ground.”

She caught the heat in his gaze and her tummy quivered, but she had to tell him what she’d just learned. “Pace . . . I talked to Tommy this morning.”

“About today’s game? Yeah, it’s a big one. Do or die.”

“No.” She drew a big breath. “About what’s happening in the press. He says it’s an inside job.” She told him everything she knew, including how she’d gone to visit Sam. “I don’t believe it’s her.”

“I don’t either.” He looked pensive and quiet for a moment, then met her gaze. “But that’s going to have to wait for a few minutes.”

“Why?”

“Because baseball, and all that goes with it, is going to take a backseat, for once.”

“But don’t you think—”

“What I think,” he said, taking her purse off her shoulder and setting it aside, “is that we’ve got a lot to do before the kids show up to see this place in an hour.” He gave her a once-over. “How married are you to that shirt staying white?”

She looked down at herself. It was her favorite shirt, mostly because it was what she’d been wearing when they’d first kissed in the Atlanta locker room. “Pretty married.” Compromising, she pulled it off, leaving just the red tank top she wore beneath.

His gaze took in the tank, and the fact that her nipples were hard and poking at the material. “Nice.” He put his big hands on her hips and tugged her in. His hot eyes met hers, and then he kissed her until she couldn’t remember her own name. Then, while she was still reeling, he backed away. To strip, she hoped dazedly. They had an hour, he’d said. They could do a whole lot with an hour—

He thrust the paint roller in her hands. “You know how to use that?”

She blinked. “Yes.”

“Great.” He grabbed the other roller, dipped it into the paint and headed to a wall, his game face on.

They were going to paint, not make love. Okay. Equally determined, she forced herself to head to the opposite wall. For the kids, she reminded herself. It was important and was a worthy cause, but damn it was hot in here, what with all the kissing and the added labor of reaching up and down . . .

Within ten minutes, she was a sticky, steamy mess.

“Hot,” he murmured, echoing her thoughts, and pulled his shirt over his head, tossing it aside with no idea that now she couldn’t take her eyes off him.

His surgery scars were prominent but no longer red and angry. His chest was deeply tanned, sinewy, and made her mouth water. Her entire body reacted, and when she looked up, his gaze was steady.

And scorching.

“Very hot,” she agreed, thinking two could play this game. So she pulled off her tank top, tossing it aside as he’d just done.

His eyes darkened, his breathing changed, and he stepped close again, leaning in for another of those mind-bending kisses. Then, when she was panting for more, he simply stepped back and picked up his roller.

Dammit. She wanted to roll him. With her body quivering for his, she dipped her roller back into the paint. When she finished the wall, she turned to Pace.

Chest damp with sweat, he stared deep into her eyes and without a word, kicked off his flip-flops.

Unbuttoned his shorts.

Oh, thank God. She unbuttoned her shorts and let them fall off her hips. By some miracle of laundry and timing, her bra matched her panties today.

Pace let out an exhale of breath that conveyed heat, desire, and a need so strong her legs wobbled.

“Holly.”

Now. He was going to take her right here, right now. “Yes?”