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Revelle called each
player's name, then stood back as he selected his dinner companion. There were
delighted cheers followed by moans of extreme disappointment.

She left Rhaden for last.
Her expression, he noted, was hesitant. Again, he wished he didn't have to go
through a four-course meal with another woman to land cocktails with Revelle.

The schoolhouse meant the world
to her. She wouldn't bend the rules of the fund-raiser.

“Rhaden Dunn, ladies.”
Revelle motioned him forward. The whistles and applause made him smile. The
fact that other women found him desirable kept him hopeful that Revelle might
someday see him as “curry.”

“Who's the lucky lady?”
Revelle asked him.

He eyed the ten women who'd
paid to meet him. He'd felt no attraction or connection with any of them. His
gaze lingered on Kara Jordan, held. The wingwoman draped her arm over Elizabeth
Ellis's shoulders, a gesture of comfort. Alex Boxer's rejection had devastated
her friend.

Rhaden went with his gut. “Kara,
will you join me for dinner?” he asked, half expecting her to decline. “I'd
like Elizabeth to join us as well, if Revelle will bend the rules.”

Kara looked startled; her
friend, ecstatic.

Rhaden noticed that Alex
Boxer took a second look at Elizabeth. Alex no doubt wondered what Rhaden saw
in her, what Alex had missed himself. Curiosity would have Alex calling
Elizabeth. Kara's friend would eventually get her date.

“Double your pleasure,
Rhaden.” Revelle agreed with a smile. “Enjoy your evening.”

A round of applause
followed the couples from the ballroom. Rhaden hung back, needing to speak to
Revelle. He looked at his watch, said, “Valentino's, ten o'clock. I've reserved
a table.”

The revolving cocktail
lounge sat atop the forty-story hotel, with a panoramic view that showcased the
city. Reservations were required, and hard to come by. Rhaden knew the owner, a
huge baseball fan. Anthony Valentino took care of his Rogues.

“I'll see you then,” she
said.

Revelle Sullivan watched
Rhaden and his two dinner companions depart the ballroom. Each lady took one of
his arms. There was laughing and teasing, but there were no sexual vibes. She
was instantly relieved.

Jealousy had pinched during
the fund-raiser, and left a bruise. She'd grown unexpectedly anxious, afraid
that Rhaden would meet someone special.

The attack of nerves had
left her vulnerable.

She fought back emotion,
again took control.

The fund-raiser had been an
immense success. She had Rhaden and the Rogues to thank. The men had charmed
for Collage. The generous donations would keep the schoolhouse open for another
year. Creative minds would thrive.

A smile in place, Revelle
directed the remaining ladies into the hotel dining room. She decided to join
them. A nice meal would wind down the day. Then she'd face Rhaden.

Relaxed and satisfied after
Duck a l'Orange and a caramel soufflé, Revelle wished she'd worn control-top
pantyhose as she went to meet Rhaden. There was a convention in town, and hotel
guests stood six deep at the elevator banks.

At five minutes until ten,
she decided to take the outer glass elevators that raced the sides of the
world-class hotel like sleek cylindrical bullets. She rode to the thirtyninth
floor, then climbed the wide staircase to the fortieth. Thick black carpeting
cushioned her steps. The handrails were polished onyx.

Valentino's opened before
her, upscale and intimate, with soft amber lighting to offset the bright city
lights. Classic and comfortable combined in the revolving cocktail lounge.
Large, plush club chairs circled the floor-to-ceiling windows and booths backed
the crescent bar.

Drinks were mixed in the
finest crystal. A band of twenty-two-karat gold added a gleaming accent to the
barware. Waiters circulated, offering hors d'oeuvres.

The owner of Valentino's
approached her, his smile in place. “Do you have a reservation?” he asked.

“She's with me.” Rhaden
Dunn came up behind her. “Sorry I'm late,” he apologized. “Dinner ran long.
Kara and Elizabeth enjoyed the full dessert tray.”

Revelle turned slightly, took
him in. He was one handsome man with his light brown hair brushed back off his
face, revealing strong, angular features. Amusement darkened his green gaze,
and the upturned corner of his mouth indicated he liked her eyes on him.

His suit, black and tailored
to his broad shoulders, fit him perfectly. His tie was patterned in deep blue
and burgundy. His dress pants were sharply creased. A man in wingtips showed
his style. Rhaden looked amazing.

“This way, Mr. Dunn.”
Anthony Valentino led them to a table banked by gray leather chairs. “Cognac?”
he asked.

Their host knew Rhaden
well. Revelle wondered how many women the first baseman had brought to the
lounge.

Rhaden looked at her. “Courvoisier?”

She nodded, her focus on
the city below. The slow, fifty-minute rotation of the top floor was barely
noticeable. The view on this crystal clear night was spectacular.

Rhaden leaned in close,
pointed east. “James River Stadium.”

“The Monroe Building and
the capitol,” she named two additional landmarks. The lights from surrounding
skyscrapers reflected on the James River, its path glossy and winding.

Their cognac arrived in
cobalt blue balloon snifters. They both passed on the canapés.

Rhaden swirled the
Courvoisier, took a sip, then introduced himself as if they were speed dating. “I'm
Rhaden Dunn. I was born and raised in Phoenix, Arizona, and attended college at
the University of Southern California.”

“Revelle Sullivan.” She
played along, remarkably comfortable with this man. “I grew up in Chicago,
cheered for the White Sox.”

“American League—kill me
now,” Rhaden said with a groan.

“I've since gone Rogue.”

He looked relieved. “Do you
come here often?”

A typical pick-up line. “A
first for me.”

“A Valentino virgin. I like
that.” His voice was deep and sexy, intriguing. His gaze touched her face, as
tangible as fingertips.

“How about you?” She took a
sip of her cognac. “Are your dates impressed by the view?”

“No dates, just me.” His
words surprised her. “This is where I escape life. The night, the lights, all
work for me. Anthony Valentino lets me sit, enjoy a drink and fifty minutes of
downtime. I leave a new man.”

“I understand the need to
put the day behind you,” she said. “I stop off at Double-Dip, south of the
stadium. I sit at the end of the counter and enjoy two scoops of butter pecan
in a waffle cone.”

Rhaden looked thoughtful. “My
hometown had an old-fashioned ice-cream parlor, owned by the widow Baker. I'd
go in, a cocky senior in high school, and ask for samples. She'd pile the
flavors in a Styrofoam cup and never charge me a dime.”

“Sounds like a nice lady.”

He grinned. “She was young
when her husband died, in her late twenties, and I'd just turned eighteen.”

A hotshot high school jock
and an older woman with sexual needs. Revelle knew where the story was headed. “She
turned you into a sundae?”

“Topped with pineapple and
gummies. I had to tweeze the sprinkles from my chest hair.”

“The gummies?”

“Stuck in places best not
discussed.”

Revelle grinned. Rhaden
Dunn had vast sexual experience. She couldn't be jealous of his past. There was
humor in his story.

“Tell me more about your
childhood,” she encouraged, curious about the boy behind the man.

He stretched out his legs,
settled fully into his club chair. “My dad was a mechanic, he ran his own
garage. I lived and breathed engines until I discovered girls.” He winked at
her. “That's when I learned the importance of a big backseat.”

Another sip of Courvoisier
and he said, “I haven't gotten all the grease from under my nails. In my spare
time I restore antique cars.”

“Sports cars, vans, station
wagons?” she asked, interested in his off hours.

“Muscle cars, sweetheart.”
There was pride in his voice. “I'm working on two now. My favorite's a 1957 red
Thunderbird, the first of the restyles with the hardtop and grille dropped down
into the front bumper.”

She nodded, took it all in.

“I also have a 1966 GTO
Sport Coupe,” he told her, “Fontaine blue and kick-ass. Neither car is ready
for the road, but when one is, I might offer you a ride.”

“I might accept,” she said
lightly.

“Tell me something about
you as a child,” he asked. “Something no one else knows. A secret.”

She'd had a private hobby. “I
bought beanbag birds with my allowance,” she said, a little embarrassed about
the nerdy collection. “They were educational toys. You'd squeeze the beanbag
and it made an authentic bird sound.”

Rhaden had difficulty
keeping a straight face. She swore he was fighting back a smile. She thought
about kicking him in the shin, but decided that wasn't ladylike.

“Laugh if you want,” she
said on a sigh.

“I'd rather
caw.”
He chuckled.

She ignored him. “I still
have the snowy owl, toucan, and Canadian goose.”

“I thought this was a kid's
hobby.”

“That doesn't mean I can't
enjoy them as an adult.”

Amusement creased the
corners of his eyes. “Do you have the beanbag birds on display in your home?”

She didn't miss a beat. “The
toucan and owl are displayed in large, gold cages in the living room. The goose
roosts on the edge of an indoor fountain in the entrance hallway.”

No smile now. He'd shifted,
grown uncomfortable.

Revelle poked his arm. “Got
you.”

He threw back his head,
laughed deeply. “Anything else I should know about you?” he asked.

“I like beading.” She held
up her bracelet, a circlet of sterling silver with Swarovski crystals. “I make
jewelry in my spare time.”

“I'm impressed.” He took
her hand, twisted the bracelet and admired her work, then laced their ringers
together.

His hold was loose but with
a hint of possession. He ran his thumb under the circlet, then over her
fingers. The calloused brush tightened her nipples, and pleasure slipped inside
her panties.

Desire made her vulnerable.
A mere stroke of his thumb and she'd gone damp for this man. Heat started low
and crept into her cheeks. She dipped her head, unable to look at him.

Her tension eased when he
admitted, “My mom signed me up for ballroom dance when I was twelve. I was lanky
as a kid, uncoordinated, not great at sports. I wasn't a natural like Kason
Rhodes or the Bat Pack. It took years to grow into my body. My mother wanted to
help me with movement. She also paid for ballet, but I skipped every class. Too
damn girlie.”

“Do you waltz, cha-cha,
samba?”

“I took honors in two-step.
I liked slow dancing.”

“Me too,” slipped out. The
thought of being tucked against Rhaden's body, moving slowly and touching in
all the right places, turned her on. Thank goodness there was no music to dance
to. Sitting and staring at the man was all she could handle for one night.

She ran one finger around
the rim of the balloon snifter, asked, “Were you a good student in school?”

“I got As in kindergarten.
You?”

“I loved to learn, but had
to really study for good grades.”

“My college baseball coach
set me up with a tutor my sophomore year,” he told her. “A cute little blonde
who introduced me to great literature and library sex.”

The man had scored with a
lot of women.

“How's the Cora Dora
campaign going?” she asked.

“I just shot a television
commercial,” he said. “I'm sitting at a kitchen table with three pies: pecan,
cherry, and apple. The close-ups are on the pies, not on me. I make a few hand
gestures, shrug, unable to decide which pie to slice. My one line: 'Dessert, a
three-course meal,' is delivered as I cut into each one.”