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He'd unbuttoned women's blouses
and hiked enough miniskirts to know the difference between a one-night stand
and someone special. His days of instant gratification were long behind him. At
thirty-four, he wanted to take a woman to bed and draw out the intimacy.

The second Revelle had been
introduced as head of player promotions, he'd known she belonged to him. For
life. She just didn't know it yet.

He admired her strength and
sense of purpose. She brought intelligent conversation, occasional humor, and
simple elegance to the organization. Her presentation to the Rogues had been
straightforward and held his teammates' attention. No man had laughed or made a
snide remark. They'd all listened and lined up for promotions.

Now she sat behind her desk
with shoulders slumped and features pale. The diamond studs in her ears
twinkled with a brilliance that usually characterized her as well. Yet she'd
momentarily lost her sparkle.

He needed to fix whatever
was wrong. “Did Rhodes upset you?” he forced out from the doorway. “You look
beat.”

She cut him a glance as she
cleaned her glasses on a soft cloth. “Ever gone a round with Kason?”

Rhaden nodded. “The man's
intense.”

“A brick wall with eyes.”

“I gather he turned you
down.”

She sighed. “A slam-bam, no
thank you, ma'am.”

“The man's all baseball.”

“I'm all about promotion.”
She took her job seriously. “I'll track down Kason after the home opener.”

“Maybe Guy should be
present.”

She shook her head. “Game's
On is my baby. There's no need to involve my uncle. I want Kason to take the
Platinum Jewelry account willingly, not by ultimatum.”

“You'll wear Rhodes down,”
he assured her.

“Maybe, maybe not. I'll
give it my best shot. Promotions aren't mandatory. They're meant to give
players visibility and pad their paychecks, though many donate the money to
charity.”

She set aside her glasses,
invited him in. “No need to stand with three chairs available. Have a seat,
Rhaden.”

He preferred the door—a
little distance kept him sane. Control of his body went south quickly with this
woman. He had a hard-on barely hidden by the untucked tails on his white
button-down. The slightest shift and she'd catch him stiff.

He jammed his hands deep in
the pockets of his khakis, let his fingertips hold everything in place. His
steps toward her desk were stiff and awkward. Not smooth for an athlete who
could sprint around the bases and stretch like Gumby to catch a wild throw to
first.

“Why'd you want to see me?”
He managed to lower his body into a leather chair without embarrassing himself.

“Two reasons,” she stated. “First,
to thank you for the beautiful bouquet.” Pleasure brought pink to her pale
cheeks, which softened the sharp symmetry of her haircut and the black
stiffness of her business suit. The blooms remained velvety and tight, and were
the exact color of her violet eyes. “Each week is a celebration of color.”

“The team appreciates all
you've done.”

“The flowers came from you.”

He shrugged, forced a
casualness he didn't feel. “I'm grateful you connected me to Cora Dora Pies.”

“That's second on my list,”
she said, moving on. “You've been a great spokesman for the family-owned
company. Cora and Dora want to extend your promotional contract.”

“A unanimous decision?” he
asked.

The seventy-year-old twins
never agreed. The women were apple-cheeked, plump, and highly opinionated. They
argued for the sake of argument.

Once, in their test
kitchen, the ladies had fought over a secret ingredient. Cora had thrown salt,
and Dora let loose with the flour. Rhaden had been the one powdered white.

The sisters were as
crotchety as they were sweet. They kept their fingers on the pulse of their
business. Every decision was monumental and demanded mutual consent.

“Cora and Dora both called,
claiming you as their spokesman.” Her grin curved. “They plan to fatten you up.”

Rhaden massaged his
abdomen. Over the last three months, he'd eaten a whole lot of pie.

Revelle caught his stomach
pat.

And he froze. He didn't
want her attention anywhere near his groin. He still packed a boner. He cleared
his throat, drew her gaze up. “The national campaign before Valentine's went
well,” he said. “We shot television commercials prior to spring training. Then
Cora's great-grandson traveled with the promo team to ten major cities, playing
Cupid. The kid handed out carnation-tipped arrows and candy hearts while we
served slices of chocolate-cherry cream. Everyone fell in love with the pie.”

From coffee shops and
bakeries to delis, major grocery chains, and the occasional street corner,
Rhaden had socialized and shared dessert with total strangers. He'd hand sold
three thousand pies.

“Even with gym access at
the hotels, I gained ten pounds in one month,” he concluded.

“You don't look like you
have a weight problem,” she complimented.

Rhaden disagreed. “An
entire homemade pie each day packs on weight. Cora said I was too lean and
didn't do justice to her desserts.”

The man
was
lean, all sinewy and tight-skinned. Revelle Sullivan took him in, from
his light brown hair and dark green eyes to his broken nose. A nose that gave
him character. She'd witnessed the play the year prior that had caused his
injury.

The injury had changed the
way she looked at him.

It had been the last home
series of the previous season. The Rogues had been playing the Pittsburgh
Pirates. She'd watched the game from the team owner's private box. In the
seventh inning, the second Pirates batter slammed a line drive to the
shortstop. It had been a tough catch for Zen Driscoll, who had backhanded the
ball, then fired it to first.

It had been a wild throw,
in the dirt.

A throw that sent Rhaden to
his knees just as the runner slid into first. Rhaden had taken a batting helmet
to his face.

Revelle remembered the
spray of blood and stadium boos. The fans had gone ballistic, seeing one of
their own take a hit.

His teammates had clustered
quickly. Rhaden had covered his face with his glove. He'd been escorted to the
dugout with the infield coach and team physician, then headed into the tunnel.
The crowd had cheered, and Revelle had choked up. She'd barely known the man,
yet she'd hurt for him. Her pain had been physical.

She'd been a bundle of
nerves as she waited for word on his condition. Her mind had been on Rhaden and
not on the game. She'd missed Kason Rhodes's grand slam and Psycho McMillan's
vertical leap that stole the tying run from Pittsburgh.

Rhaden's diagnosis came
with the Rogues' win. He suffered blurred vision and a fractured nose. In all
her years of watching baseball, she'd never tracked a player's recovery. Yet
she'd downloaded the injury roster daily.

He'd missed three games,
and returned for the playoffs. His face was bruised, his nose heavily taped.

Rhaden Dunn appealed to
her. She'd never been attracted to jocks. She didn't like cocky, nor did she
believe major league players were God's gift to women.

She dated the corporate
elite. Men of prominence and power. Her life appeared to be perfect on paper. A
strong financial background. Solid career. Phenomenal networking. The ability
to choose her own path.

She believed in controlling
her destiny to the last detail, which included her sexuality. She'd made
herself the perfect businesswoman, only to recently realize that somewhere
along the way, the real woman had gotten lost. A part of her felt unfulfilled
and empty.

She couldn't remember the
last time a man had kissed her and her knees had buckled. One look at Rhaden
and her fingertips tingled. So much so, her hands shook.

They trembled now as she
produced a set of contracts for his signature. “It's a deal, then. Cora Dora
will soon feature a St. Patrick's Day pie, pistachio-peanut.”

“The ladies are definitely
inventive.”

Revelle released a soft
breath. With Rhaden re-signed, she had every right to attend his photo shoots
or drop by any locale where he might be promoting a dessert. Time spent with
him related to business.

Her uncle's unwritten rule
banned corporate and player involvement, yet she would walk outside the line
for him.

She passed Rhaden her
Montblanc fountain pen, a gift from Uncle Guy. She watched the first baseman
finger the jeweled and outrageously expensive pen. “Does it ever run out of
ink?” he asked.

“Hasn't yet,” she said. “It
keeps on writing.”

He drew the contracts to
him, smiled. “Can't believe I get paid for eating pie.”

Revelle's telephone rang.
She caught the number of the incoming call and recognized it as Collage, a
oneroom schoolhouse in the historic district preserved as a children's art
gallery. A patron of watercolors, clay statues, and papier mache, she donated
heavily to keep the gallery alive.

Each month the curator
sponsored a new elementary school exhibit. It was time for Revelle to judge the
show.

She'd take the call while
Rhaden reviewed and signed his contracts. “Excuse me,” she said to him. “Revelle
Sullivan,” she announced into the phone.

As expected, the call was
quick and ended with her agreement to review the drawings that very afternoon.
More often than not, she took a guest judge with her for a second opinion.

If the opportunity arose,
she snagged a Rogue. Risk Kincaid and Psycho McMillan had accompanied her in
the past. The kids grew an inch taller when the athletes praised their artwork.
This time she'd been too busy to plan ahead.

Team practice was over for
the day. Players were scarce. She disconnected, and looked directly at Rhaden.
He'd scrawled his name on the bottom line of the last page of the contracts and
pushed to his feet, ready to leave. “Do you like children?” she blurted out.

He blinked, bumped into his
chair, looked uncomfortable. “I'd like to be a father someday,” he returned. “Every
guy wants his own baseball team.”

Nine boys.
Her uterus clutched. “I need a guest judge for an
art show,” she was quick to explain.

More unease. “What kind of
art?”

“Elementary school.”

Relief shone on his face. “I
was afraid it was abstracts, which I've never understood. I can do crayons and
stick figures.”

“I'll owe you one,” she
said, hoping he'd make a move, ask her for a later date.

He nodded, noncommittal.

Rhaden Dunn would give his
left testicle to take Revelle Sullivan to dinner. It was rumored several Rogues
had asked her out, yet she'd declined, and discouraged any second passes.

He refused to be shut down.
Success was all in the timing. He'd ask her out when the moment was right, and
not before.

“Where is it?” he asked. “Should
we take two cars?”

“I rode in with Guy this
morning,” she told him. “I'm supposed to call for a limo when I'm done for the
day.”

“Or you could ride with me.”

“Does your car have a
cappuccino machine and CNN?”

“No, but you can sing along
to the radio if you like.”

“Soft rock?” she asked as
she closed down her computer and grabbed her patent leather shoulder bag, no
doubt designer and costly.

“I'll let you pick the
station.” He was up and behind her in a heartbeat. He stood at the door as she
locked up for the afternoon. He breathed her in. Her fragrance was
sophisticated, light, classic. And all woman.

“Chanel.” She caught him
sniffing her.

“Nice,” was all he could
manage.

At the exact second she turned,
he shifted his stance. They bumped. The back of her wrist brushed his zipper
and his dick jumped to shake her hand.