Fielder's Choice (31 page)

Trying not to cringe, he met her gaze.

“I thought not.”

She uncrossed her arms and put her hands to her hips. He knew that when she took that stance, the world could be conquered by the energy emanating from her.

“It’s not like you to give up before even trying. You did
not
get that trait from me.”

He wasn’t in the mood for a lecture. “I need to check in on Sophie.”

Her words stung into him as he climbed the stairs.

She was right. He had given up.

He passed the door to Sophie’s room and headed to his study. He grabbed his guitar and slipped out onto the balcony, strumming and singing a few bars of the first song that came into his head.

“Alana sings that song
way
better than you, Dad.”

Sophie stood in the doorway, dressed for her outing to Muir Woods. He had to smile at her over-the-top get-up. A Hollywood stylist couldn’t have come up with a more caricatured look.

Her hat was tipped just so and her hiking boots matched her backpack. He didn’t have the heart to tell her that the trail through Muir Woods was a redwood-planked boardwalk that sported a snack bar.

“I’m sure she does,” he said as he replaced his guitar on the stand in his study. “You ready for your outing with Grandma?” He wasn’t in the mood for another conversation about Alana.

“Soon as I finish my drawing—want to see?”

He followed her to her desk. As she slipped into her chair, she flipped her hair. He recognized the gesture as the same one Alana made when she was concentrating. He winced as his heart dropped into his gut. When he saw Sophie’s drawing, his heart fell further. It was a drawing of her with Alana. He wasn’t in the picture.

“I’m going to mix my own paint colors and fill it in this afternoon. Alana showed me how to do it.” She tapped her drawing pencil against the desk. “Did you see her paintings?”

“No.”

There were so many things he hadn’t seen.

“She’s really good. She sent us one—Grandma didn’t show you? She wanted me to wait until you got home to open it, but I just
couldn’t
.” Sophie hopped up from the chair and tugged on his hand. “C’mon. It’s in the library.”

Propped against the bookshelf in the library was an exquisite painting of Sophie kneeling at the lip of a pond and surrounded by the butterfly garden. A quaint fairy village spread out at her feet, complete with several fairies so perfectly rendered they looked like they’d fly off the canvas at any moment.

He was pretty sure that what he saw in the painting was different from what Sophie saw. He saw that he’d been stupid—really, really stupid—to blow Alana off. He’d judged her, and she’d been just insecure enough not to kick him in the teeth.

“It’s lovely, isn’t it?” His mother said from the doorway.

She didn’t have to say more.

“What time is it?” Matt asked as he shooed them all back into the kitchen.

“Seven. We have plenty of time,” his mother answered. “The limo arrives at ten.”

But
he
didn’t have plenty of time. It was Wednesday. Alana could be leaving for Paris at any minute. He grabbed his jacket from the hook beside the door.

“Where are you going?” his mother asked.

He pulled her aside.

“To go get her, if she’ll have me. But don’t tell Sophie. I don’t want to get her hopes up.”

He started out the door and then turned and added, “Keep an eye on Sophie and keep her close. I might have to use her as bait.”

His mother’s laugh was music to his already racing heart.

Matt slowed to forty-five as he drove across the Golden Gate Bridge. No use getting a speeding ticket; he didn’t have time for the fuss.

But as he sped up the freeway, he took his chances and hit the fast lane. Time felt compressed and instead of him feeling better as he clicked off the miles, his muscles squeezed tight around his ribs and a dull, leaden feeling sank into him.

Sophie didn’t want to move back East and neither did he. He’d just get a bigger place in San Francisco, one with a separate apartment for a live-in nanny. And he’d accept his parents’ offer to help. It’d assuage their guilt over their absentee parenting of him and his sister. Just that morning his sister had texted that she’d been offered a job teaching at UC Berkeley. She’d been a doting auntie across the miles, but she couldn’t wait to spend more time with Sophie. And he could stay in the Bay Area and play for the team he’d come to love.

As he considered what he could do, the actions he could take, the leaden feeling began to lift.

Giving all
was his own damned motto. And what had he told Alana, that the worst mistake a person could make was being afraid to make one?

He might not have to give up his game, but he had to give over his heart. Hell, his heart wasn’t even his to give anymore. It’d crossed over into her territory weeks ago. He’d just have to suck it up if she shredded it and threw it back at him.

He’d already made the first big mistake by letting his stupid ideas of the perfect mate get in his way, letting his prejudice about what sort of person he should be with block him from seeing the amazing woman right in front of him. He wasn’t going to let her slip away because of... not because of
any
reason. If she wanted him gone, she’d have to boot him out again. Really hard this time.

He checked the clock on the dash. Four minutes after nine. He only hoped he wasn’t too late.

Chapter 28

Matt turned off the freeway and headed toward the ranch. As he crested the hill he saw the windmill standing on the western hill like a majestic herald, its stationary blades frozen against the blue summer sky.

He screeched to a halt in front of her house, not caring that he’d thrown up a cloud of dust. He took the steps two at time and rang the brass doorbell.

A woman about the age of his mother answered the door.

“I’m here to speak with Alana,” he said. Then, realizing he was being rude, he added, “I’m Matt Darrington. I’m a—”

A what? He couldn’t in any honesty call himself a friend.

“I just need to see her.”

The woman shook her head, almost imperceptibly.

He was too late.

He raked a hand through his hair and stepped back.

“Would you like a coffee?” the woman asked in softly accented English.

If he had another cup of coffee, they’d have to haul out the defibrillator. Except you had to have a heart for those things to work. His had just given up the ghost.

“No thank you, ma’am. I’ll just be going.”

“You can wait here if you’d like. She should be down the hill shortly. She just had a few last-minute details to handle.”

“What hill?” His heart raced with hope.

The woman pointed to the knoll where the windmill stood.

Matt sprinted up the hill so fast that his lungs burned more than his racing thoughts.

He saw her before she saw him. She was giving orders to a team of people toting clipboards and computer tablets. Her body language conveyed an easy, competent grace. She looked happy. For a moment he thought about leaving. But just as he stepped back, she looked up. At him.

She shaded her face with one hand and stared as if he were a ghost. Then she excused herself from the group and strolled over to him.

“I thought you’d already left,” he said, not knowing what else to say.

“Left?”

“For Paris. For your party.”

“The party’s right here.” She waved a hand toward the windmill and then looked down at her watch. “In about thirty seconds, in fact.”

She smiled at the puzzled look on his face and didn’t explain. The other members of the group had pulled out cameras and phones. He recognized one of them as the woman who ran the summer camps and another as the man who’d organized and refereed the Capture the Flag game.

Alana led a countdown and at
three, two, one
, everyone joined in. Above their heads the windmill began to turn, white blades cutting through a blue sky. A cheer went up from the group, and Alana clasped him in an enthusiastic hug. Then she caught herself and pushed back, color washing her cheeks.

He wanted to lift her into his arms and carry her straight to her bedroom. He wanted to go down on one knee and ask for a second chance.

But damn if Marcel didn’t saunter up the hill right at that moment. This time Matt really would deck the guy.

“You’ll be late,” Alana said to Marcel with a laugh.

“One thing about having your own plane is that you can leave when you wish,” Marcel said.

“What time are you leaving?” Matt asked Alana, ignoring the self-satisfied grin on Marcel’s face. He needed to know how long he had to make his case. Although with Frenchie standing there, arguing his case seemed rather pointless.

“
I’m
not going anywhere. We have a hundred neighbors and dignitaries coming to celebrate the windmill in”—she checked her watch—“in less than an hour.” She looked over her sunglasses at Marcel. “Sure you don’t want to stay?”

“I’ve seen it. Spinning. Lovely.” He kissed her lightly on the cheek. “Brava, my dear.”

Matt couldn’t believe it when Marcel raised a brow at him, turned and then headed down the hill.

The staffers had stayed a polite distance from this exchange, but Matt saw the curious glances.

He clasped his fingers around Alana’s wrist. “We need to talk. Away from all this. Someplace private.”

Her pulse leaped under his fingertips. His own was pounding in his ears. He’d barely laid a hand on her, and yet all he could think of was holding her, kissing her, making her his.

“I need to eat,” Alana said. “Before the ceremony. I’ll faint if I don’t.”

Though she didn’t return his touch in any way, the light in her eyes gave him hope.

“The kitchen is fine with me,” he said, taking her hand and practically pulling her down the hill.

He pushed open the door of the kitchen, thankful that no one was about. He meant to wait, he really did, but his intentions were useless. He crushed her against the door and took her lips with his. Possibility and promise loomed as she met his hungry kiss. If the future had a taste, it would be the sweetness of Alana’s lips. He sank into the passion firing between them, let the heat and light pour into him. She ran her fingers to the back of his neck and drew him closer. With that one move, she cracked open a withered region of his heart, an empty place, the place where love was supposed to live. He deepened his kiss and slid his hand up under her cardigan, pulling her hard against his chest, craving her skin against his, craving to close the distance between them.

Words formed. He had an apology to make, a bridge of hope and promise to construct. He pulled away enough to look in her eyes. Answering passion fired there and in the pulsing of her body against his hands and where his hips pressed against her waist.

“Alana, I was an ass. I don’t expect—”

She pulled his head to her and kissed him with greater fury than he’d ever felt from a woman. She bit at his lower lip and felt him grow hard against her.

She laughed. God, she laughed.

He lifted her in his arms and carried her into the hall. He was vaguely aware of passing the woman who’d met him at the door, but he didn’t care.

With passion meeting passion, they tore off their clothes as soon as they reached her bedroom. He didn’t wait to get her to the bed; he pulled her down onto the soft carpet and showed her with his body what she meant to him.

After they caught their breaths, a gaping silence raged as she studied his face. What she wanted to see, he wasn’t sure, but he knew what he had to say. He pulled on his briefs and trousers. For the conversation he had in mind, it seemed only right to be dressed.

“I don’t expect that you’ll forgive me right away,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady as he buttoned his shirt. His blood pulsed in surges, not letting him master the calm tone he’d hoped for.

“I’ve been practicing forgiveness. Even you might qualify.”

The sight of her lying naked on the carpet in the rays of the morning sun nearly made him forget what he knew he had to say. He pulled a soft-looking throw from the chair near her bed and draped it over her. She leaned up on her elbows and tugged it around her shoulders. The smile she cast made the words scramble in his head. He swallowed and focused.

“I want to stay in San Francisco and play for the Giants. That is, if you’ll consider giving me another chance.”

A half smile came to her gorgeous, still-swollen lips, but she didn’t answer. She held out her hand, and he helped her up. The throw slipped from her, and he gulped down the impulse to trace every curve of her with his hands, with his mouth, with his body. Without a word, she crossed the room and took her robe from a hook and slipped it on.

He’d talked about the
team
. He couldn’t believe he’d talked about the team. She probably didn’t give a damn about the team.

“My parents are moving here during the season,” he went on in an attempt to drag up the logical phrases he’d practiced as he’d madly driven the country roads to the ranch that morning. “They’ll help with Sophie,” he explained, attempting to improve the case he was making.