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“Please excuse me, Ms.
Walker,” she said. “There's coffee in the conference room down the hall on the
left. I'll get back to you shortly.”

Ms. Walker shot Kason a
sensuous grin on her way out.

He had no smile to give
back. He closed the door, leaned against it. He faced Revelle, who was still
positioned behind her desk, palms flat on the dark mahogany top. “Congratulations
on your win,” she said.

“A win handed to us by the
weather.”

“My uncle was pleased,” she
noted. “His ex-wife, not so much.”

“We've a long season ahead.”
So much for small talk.

She eyed him expectantly. “You
barged in and sent my applicant out for coffee. Why the urgency, Kason?”

“You've started interviews.”

“Only the first round. It's
a long process. Why the interest?” she asked. “Are you looking to change jobs?”

“I couldn't work in an
office—too shut in,” he said. “I need to breathe.”

“I've spoken with forty
applicants.” She sounded weary. “And have thirty-five left to see.”

“Cancel the remainder of
the interviews.”

Her lips parted and she
blinked at him. “I need to hire an assistant.” She swept her hand toward stacks
of files on the floor. “I'm weeks behind on filing alone.”

“I have a person in mind
for the job.”

“Has she filled out an
application?”

He shifted his stance. “I
want you to hire her sight unseen.”

Revelle's eyes went wide. “Why
would I do that?”

“Because I'm asking you so
nicely.”

She laughed at him. “You're
a hard man, Kason Rhodes, but you apparently have a soft spot for someone.”

“Not soft, just righting a
wrong.”

“This person is qualified?”
she pressed.

“It's her dream job.”

“Which means no experience?”

Dayne had to know the
alphabet. “I'm sure she can file. She might even have computer skills.” Kason
had no idea what was hidden in Dayne's deep dark past.

“Let me get this straight,”
Revelle said. “You're asking me to hire a woman with unknown skills when I have
a waiting area filled with applicants qualified for the job?”

“Yeah, pretty much so.”

“If
I
hire your friend, what's in it for me?” She wanted to know.

“A good assistant.”

“More, Kason.”

He'd expected a trade-off.
He swallowed, sold his soul. “I'll do the commercial for Platinum.”

Revelle raised a brow,
looked thoughtful. “Why the change of heart? You flat out refused three days
ago. Quite rudely, I might add.”

“I've reconsidered.”

“Major sacrifice?”

Dayne was worth it. “Not so
much.”

She debated longer than he
liked. “Fine. I'll have the contracts drawn up,” she finally agreed. “Stop by
and sign them later this week.”

“Will do.” He turned to go.

“By the way,” she said,
stopping him, “what's my new assistant's name?”

“Dayne.” It was all he
could give her.

She didn't press. “I'll
expect her tomorrow, around nine.”

Kason nodded, hoping he'd
made the right call. Tomboy had a stubborn streak. She might fight him. He had
two additional surprises up his sleeve. One of the three had to bring her
around. Sooner rather than later.

Nine

“Open the door, Dayne, or
I'll huff and puff and blow this tin can over,” Kason Rhodes threatened.

Dayne Sheridan stood at the
corner of the window. Dusk chased away the day. It had only been forty-eight
hours—she wasn't ready to see him. Yet his continued knocks on the door were
wearing her down.

Only moments ago, she'd
watched him drive up. She'd seen him unload a box and a covered basket, then
disappear inside his double-wide.

On the off chance he'd
visit, she'd changed out of her pajamas and into a Bob Dylan T-shirt and black
jeans. She'd clipped her hair back and slipped on sneakers. Then stood at the
window and waited.

Ten minutes later Kason
emerged. He came straight to her. His long strides and determined expression
made her heart pound.

She'd missed him, a sad
fact to admit. She'd never met a tougher, more inflexible, secretive man in her
life. Yet a part of her still liked him. She wasn't certain what that said
about her taste in men.

She was no longer angry.
Only the hurt lingered. The fact that he hadn't trusted her with his true
identity kicked hard. Perhaps he'd had his reasons. She'd tried to see his side
of things.

He belonged to the Rogues
and their fans. Media stalked him; he was always in the public eye. If she'd
followed baseball, she'd have recognized Kason immediately. He was
unforgettable and unmistakably hot.

The Dixons had rallied
behind him. They'd sworn Kason was one of the best ever to play the game. He
was both a Gold Glover and a grand slammer. A shoe-in Hall of Famer.

Dayne, however, had known
Kason only as a man living in the woods with his dog. He liked butterscotch
pudding. He'd been a good neighbor and set up her outdoor shower stall. He'd
appeased her curiosity over his Naughty Monkey matches. She knew better than to
call him Kassie.

Most important, he'd
allowed her to camp on his land. She knew she was a goner when she found his
bald head sexy. His lack of hair sharpened his features. She'd seen his lip
curl, but had never seen him smile. He was solid, introverted, and showed no
emotion.

No emotion until now.
Persistence powered the man outside her door. He growled, knocked even harder,
rattling windows and rocking the camper. Still, she held off from letting him
in.

Fully annoyed, he stopped,
turned on his heel, and jogged back to his trailer. Only to return seconds
later with Cimarron.

Dayne exhaled sharply.
Dragging his dog into their argument was cheating. Kason didn't fight fair. She
adored Cim. When the Dobie pawed the door and whined, she cracked it, tried to
sneak him inside. Kason wasn't far behind.

His broad shoulders blocked
the doorway. His widelegged stance dared her to make a move. She wasn't going
anywhere anytime soon.

“Nice to see you too, Dayne”
were his first words.

He then narrowed his gaze
on the boxes, half-heartedly packed with food, a few pieces of clothing, and an
extra blanket. The boxes were not yet sealed.

His jaw worked. “Going
someplace?”

She crossed her arms over
her chest protectively. “I'm moving. I've overstayed my welcome.”

“Isn't that for me to
decide?” he asked.

“Not if I'm ready to go.”

“Cim won't be happy.” A low
blow.

“Don't bring your dog into
play.” She sighed. “This is about you, me, secrets, and trust.”

He ran one hand over his
bald head. “Damn, Dayne, I can't backtrack and make it better. I did what I
needed to do at the time. You assumed too much, but I never meant to hurt you.”
Same words, different day.

She understood why he'd
kept his identity quiet. He was a good-looking guy, and his star status and
money would make him even more attractive to women. Though she understood, her
feelings were still hurt.

Cimarron dropped to his
haunches, nuzzled her hand. She attentively scratched his ears. Anything to
distract her from Kason.

He cocked his head. “Are we
straight?”

“We're close,” she
admitted, “but not quite there.”

“Would gifts bring you
around?” His gaze was sharp as he studied her closely. His caution touched her.
He was walking on eggshells, not wanting to make a mistake.

Her heart stuttered. She'd
yet to see this side of the man. Gift giving appeared new to him. Receiving
presents was a first for her as well.

Her ex-fiancé, Mick Jakes,
had bought her the occasional meal, but never anything special. Not even on
her
 
birthday. She'd bought her own cake
and ice cream and new pair of shoes.

“You bought me gifts?” All
her worries and concerns of the previous days evaporated in the face of his
kindness. He was trying to set things right.

“Bribery.” He was honest. “Two
gifts from me and one from Cimarron.”

She studied his hands and
pockets—no hidden surprises there.

He noticed her checking him
out. “Presents are at my place.”

“You're still standing here
because...?” she prodded.

“I wasn't sure you'd follow
me back.”

Breathe in; breathe out;
move on,
she told herself. She
massaged the
Tomorrow
tattoo at her wrist and met him halfway. “I take
bribes. I'm on your heels.”

A smile twitched his mouth,
but didn't fully break. “Let's go.”

A companionable silence
accompanied them to his double-wide. Cimarron loped in excited circles. If the
dog could talk, he'd have spilled the surprises.

Kason held the door for
Dayne, and Cim zipped in behind her. The feeling of the trailer was male and
familiar. A place she'd missed.

“Have a seat.” He motioned
toward the sofa.

She dropped down on one
end. A spring nudged through the fabric and stabbed her hip. She edged toward
the middle.

Kason moved to the kitchen,
retrieved a box from the floor. The man dominated left field in baseball, yet at
that moment, he seemed ill at ease. Worry creased his brow, his jawline tight.

“This goes with your
antenna.” He handed her the box. “I'll hook it up tomorrow, should you change
your mind and stay.”

Dayne's hands trembled. The
label on the box read FLAT-SCREEN PLASMA. A small but top-of-the-line color
television. The perfect size for her camper.

Emotion warmed her, and she
melted inside. Tears flooded her eyes and her nose started to run. She sniffed
loudly.

Kason stepped back, his
concern evident. He blew out three short breaths, said, “The TV can be
exchanged for a stereo.”

“The television's perfect,”
she assured him, her voice watery. She set the box on the coffee table and
wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “These are happy tears, not sad.”

He watched her for several
seconds, then took her at her word. “Cim can be quite persuasive too.” He
patted his thigh, and the Dobie crossed to his side. “Give us a minute.”

Dayne sat on the couch and
collected herself. Kason's gift touched her heart. Seconds later, Cimarron's
present stole her soul.

She heard the Dobie's deep
bark, followed by a softer yip. In the hallway off the guest bedroom stood
Kason, Cimarron, and an extremely thin, wobbly puppy. The pup was the mirror
image of Cim, black and rust colored, only tiny. A second yip drew Dayne off
the couch. She dropped to her knees at the corner of the coffee table. The pup
scrambled onto her lap. He weighed no more than air.

“His name is Ruckus, and
he's an eight-week-old miniature pinscher.” Kason stood back and watched as
Dayne and the min-pin got acquainted. “He's a rescue dog, same as Cimarron.
He's small to begin with, and will only weigh between nine and twelve pounds.”

Dayne's throat worked as
she gently stroked the min-pin's head, then trailed her fingers along his
visible ribs. She straightened the red bow about Ruckus's neck, a crooked
ribbon with only one loop, tied by a man with little experience in gift
wrapping.

The miniature pinscher fit
in the palms of her hands, hyped up and wiggly. Ruckus lived up to his name. He
licked her face, nipped at her chin, tugged at the neckline on her T-shirt
until he'd loosened a thread. He playfully growled, then went after her hand.
The puppy had sharp little teeth.