Holm, Stef Ann (25 page)

Players'
drawers? "What's that about underwear?"

"Never
mind. I said it. It's over and done with."

Alex
tried to string the words together to make some sense out of them.
Baseball...
Garden Club... president... deportment.
It all seemed disjointed to him.

"What
galls me most is that Mrs. Calhoon doesn't need a second term. She has lots to
occupy her time with." Camille's warm breath kissed his neck as she spoke
into his collar. "She probably implied to the club that those who didn't
vote for her would have their mail misplaced. Even though there's a law against
mail tampering." She grew thoughtful. "All right... maybe she wouldn't
go that far."

She
quieted sniffling a bit. Then nothing.

At
length, she continued. "But if that's true... then she won because people
liked her over me."

He
thought she'd just about cried herself out, but on that last thought, she began
anew with the tears. He held her snugly, his hand around the back of her neck.
The heel of his thumb stroked the side of her throat, then higher to where her
hair began. The strands felt like a smooth network of silk, swept neatly into
the combs. Slowly, lightly, he massaged the pulse point of her skin where the
curve of her neck met her shoulder. She gave an unconscious sigh of pleasure,
then wound her arms around his waist, locking her hands behind his back.

"None
of this would have happened if it wasn't for Ned Butler." A cry eclipsed
her words. "Actually, that's not true. None of this would have happened if
it weren't for my father's temper. I can honestly tell you that I really didn't
have any d-desire to be the manager of the Keystones." She pulled away to
look up at him. "B-but you know what?"

The
fact that she asked him a question threw him off guard. "What?" His
voice sounded thick and heavy to him—much like the lower part of his body.

"Now
that I'm the manager, I'm going to do better than my best just to prove a
point. And to give me something..."—her voice broke—"something to do
because baseball is all I have now."

Alex
braced himself as her eyes flooded once more. His hands slipped up her arms,
bringing her close again. Every inch of him was aware of her. She drugged his
senses with her voice, her touch, her smell.

He
brought his mouth to her forehead and kissed her. The feel of her skin next to
his lips was like the purest silk. Superfine and flawless. He had known
beautiful women in his life, but Camille Kennison was stunning. In his glory
days, he would have wanted her just so he could say he'd had her. In the past
three years, he'd matured. Now, he found himself wanting more—and to his
overwhelming surprise, it wasn't just the physical. He wanted to be inside her,
inside her body, her mind, her heart.

He
kissed her brows, his large hands explored the hollows of her back. He caught
her chin with his finger and brought her face toward his. Her eyes shimmered
blue like a frosted pond, yet there was no coolness in her gaze. Just bare
emotion, layers of vulnerability.

She
breathed lightly between parted lips dusted with rose, as if painted by dewy
petals. Her voice was so soft, he could barely hear her words. "I don't
like living alone. I think I've made a big mistake."

He
knew about mistakes. He clung to the thought of them just about every day. But
memories weren't life preservers. You couldn't keep holding onto them and not
expect to drown. That's what he'd been doing.

"People
can fix mistakes." With his finger, he traced the side of her cheek. He
moved his mouth over hers. "Or die tryin'."

His
lips explored the velvet warmth of her, touching her like a whisper, slow,
drugging. He could feel her inhale and drink him into her lungs. It was a
sensuous thought that got his pulse to thump madly through his body. Her hands
rose, curling around his neck and drawing him tightly to her.

The
kiss changed, no longer light like a summer breeze but electric and devouring.
He opened his mouth wide over hers, coaxing and drawing her tongue to meet his
in sensual swirls that pounded through his blood. She made him feel things he'd
never felt before.

It
was that thought that had him lifting her into his arms, her shapely behind
beneath his hands, as he sat her on the countertop. Her legs slipped apart and
he nestled himself between them, bringing her closer. Tilting his head to one
side, he brought her fully against him. He traced her lips with his tongue,
then slipped inside her. She tasted like sweet frosting and cake as she kissed
him back, matching his hunger.

The
airy fabric of her dress lay beneath his palm as he skimmed her sides and
brought his hands higher. He relaxed his hold on her enough to graze his
fingertips over her breasts while kissing her. A sigh escaped her mouth, and
she arched toward him. The whaling of her corset and the layer of underclothes
that covered her kept him from fully appreciating the satin of her skin.

He
lifted his hands. His fingers were too large, the buttons too small. The
combination slowed the process. The first one worked free. Then the second.
Down one side of the panel. Slowly. All the while kissing her. Her hands were
on his shoulders, keeping the two of them together.

It
was heaven and hell at the same time.

He
unfastened enough of the buttons to part her dress to her waist. He broke his
mouth from hers to push aside the buttery folds of cloth. With his breath
ragged in his chest, he viewed her in her white chemise, its square collar
caught together with a tiny ribbon. The light above them cast her in ivory,
pure and perfect, cleavage in just the right places to create hollows of light
and shadow.

He
reached out and took the combs from her hair, mesmerized as thick curls clouded
around her waist just like spun honey. His heartbeat throbbed in his ears. He
felt his legs tremble.

"Camille."
He breathed her name in awe. With respect.

The
fact that she let him undress her filled his mind with a myriad of thoughts,
mostly dishonorable. But amid all his fantasies and carnal desires came one
decent thought. Even if she said he could have her, he couldn't do it. He had a
conscience, whether anyone else might believe it or not. She had virgin written
all over her and he was a son of a bitch if he ignored that.

"You're
beautiful, Camille. So beautiful, you make me ache," he said in a low
tone, kissing her softly. Against the curve of her lips, his murmur filled her
ears. "But if I don't do this"—he began to slip a button back into
place—"you'll have to fire me. And then I'd miss your telling me I stink
as a ballplayer." Then he slowly put the front of her dress back together
while she sat in stunned silence.

When
she was in order, he kissed her once more. Just a peck that said he was sorry,
or so he hoped she'd take it. Damn but if her eyes didn't begin to moisten.

He
didn't carry a handkerchief, so he grabbed an embroidered white napkin from the
counter. She took it. "I think you're all cried out for tonight, honey.
But for what it's worth, if I were that Lady Prussia woman, I would have voted
for you."

She
dabbed the corners of her eyes with a tea towel, its edge colorfully
embroidered with songbirds. "Lady Prussia is a white cake."

"Yeah,
well." He meant to brush the comment off, but then he paused and said,
"It is?"

"Yes."
Then out of left field, she asked, "Would you like a piece?"

Alex
stood motionless, Camille still sitting on the counter in front of him, her
hair a river of gold about her shoulders. His chest hurt, as if he'd been
slugged in the ribs.
Would he like a piece?

He
reached up and caught her beneath her arms and lowered her gently onto her
feet. "Sure," he caught himself saying, mentally kicking himself in
the ass. He should leave. Go home. And once there, dunk his head in cold water
and forget about what had happened between them. He should have done a lot of
things instead of pulling out a chair at the small table.

But
that's what he found himself doing. Then he watched her as she moved about her
kitchen, getting a cake plate and cutting a slice of lady Prussia for him while
the dripping water plunked into a metal bucket.

"You
want me to take a look at the leak in your pipe?"
Double wrong move.
First he stays for cake, then he says he'll fix her plumbing.

"I
can fix it myself." She set the cake in front of him, along with a fork
and a napkin.

"Okay."
He took up the utensil, self-conscious with her gaze on him. He cut into a bite
and brought it to his mouth. Nodding, he swallowed. "It's good."

"I
know."

She
sighed, back in control. She took out a chair and sat across from him looking
like a fancy woman on a tease postcard with her hair parted down the middle and
spilling over her shoulders. Then she glanced at the hatbox. "That was
thoughtful of you to buy me a hat. It's not that I don't appreciate it. It's
just that... it's on the large side."

The
fork in his hand suddenly felt clumsy. "You don't have to wear it. In
fact, do me a favor and don't wear it." Then unbidden, he asked, "You
get a lot of hats sent to you?"

"Actually,
this is the first."

For
some fool reason, he was glad.

But
the feeling was short-lived when the light caught on her sapphire ring as she
moved her hand.

"I
guess you're used to rings," he said, damning himself for bringing up the
jewelry.

She
looked at the blue stone with its circle of tiny diamonds. "My father gave
this to me on my sixteenth birthday."

She
didn't say anything further. Neither did he.

He
ate his lady Prussia in silence. How in the hell had he gone from making love
on the kitchen counter to eating cake at the kitchen table?

Jesus.
He really had reformed.

Camille
had
no reason to go see Alex Cordova at his wood shop at the end of Elm Street.
Especially on an afternoon that was perfect for sitting in the shade sipping
lemonade; perfect for tilling and weeding gardens, repotting houseplants,
fixing leaky pipes, or a variety of other things. She should have been doing
any number of them rather than paying a visit to Alex.

But
she'd concocted an excuse to see him.

Why,
she didn't care to analyze. She should have been mortified by her behavior last
night and done anything she could to avoid him. Obviously, they'd have to see
one another again, but in a crowd she wouldn't be tempted to do anything aside
from talk to him. Last night, she'd lost her head. And herself in his arms.

Just
thinking about him standing between her legs, kissing her, touching her...
brought a rush of goose-flesh over her skin and a hotness to her cheeks. She
felt her knees grow weak as she walked; her heartbeat seemed to echo her ears.

Even
with all that, she felt that facing him alone would be better than facing him
with the other players watching her every move. At least this way, she could
get it over with.

Get
it over with...

As
far as she was concerned, last night had ended too quickly. She had only one
regret—that fit of crying, which in the light of day seemed so utterly
spineless and embarrassing. Aside from that, and beyond the kissing, she'd
enjoyed having Alex sit at her table, eating lady Prussia cake and listening as
she rambled about her life. The companionship had been like a quenching drink
after a dry thirst. She hadn't even been aware of how much she'd needed to talk
to him. Alex had patiently let her go on about the Garden Club and her new
living arrangements.

Much
to her disappointment, he'd declined a second piece of cake and gone home. Then
she'd been left with four walls and a sinking feeling in the bottom of her
stomach. She was alone.

Suddenly,
a house of her own had lost a bit of its appeal.

She
hadn't foreseen how much that would affect her. At her parents' house, Leda was
always nearby, as was her mother. Her father was around in the mornings and
evenings. Even his tirades at breakfast seemed something to look forward to now
that she ate at an empty table with only a coffeepot to keep her company.

Several
months ago, if somebody had told her she'd own her own house and be managing
the Keystones, she would have laughed and said they were badly mistaken—or even
delusional, because never in a million years would she consider such a thing as
surrounding herself with sportsmen.

Spitting,
cursing, scratching. She cringed.

So
much for rational thought.

It
was irrational kissing on her sink counter that brought her out on a mild
summer day, heading over to see a man who could put her out of sorts with a
mere glance. A man who made her fantasies pale in comparison to the real thing.

The
paved road and neat boardwalk came to an end. In its place was a dirt lane with
elms that grew in no particular pattern. Through the network of oblong leaves,
sunlight dappled the earth. No breeze stirred the air. Flies lazily hovered
over dandelions and meadow grass. Butterflies flitted from bluebells to wild
phlox.