Julia London (3 page)

Kelly gasped and turned so quickly that she knocked a binder off the desk.
“
What
did you say?”

Rick chuckled, watching the smile that slowly shaped her lips.
She casually picked up the binder, then leaned across the desk and pinned Rick with a
look. “Seriously—he wants to come on
my
show?” she repeated, certain she’d
misunderstood him.

“He wants to come on your show,” Rick said, smiling now. “He
thinks maybe you don’t get baseball,” he added with a wink.

“
Ohmigod
.
Ohmigod!” she cried and whirled away from Rick as a flurry of possibilities suddenly
filled her head.
Parker Price on her show.
The horse’s mouth and ass, neatly tied
up in one appearance. “This is
fantastic
! Thank you, thank you,
thank
you!
ESPN, here I come!” she sang, did a little dance move, and picked up the day’s lineup.
“How soon can we get him on?”

“How long do you need to prepare?” Rick asked, sipping his
coffee.

“Are you kidding? I am
so
prepared I am about to
bust
. Can you
get him here this morning?”

Rick laughed and shook his head. “Next Thursday. We’re booked
up until then.”

“Next Thursday is
perfect,
” she said and practically skipped out of
the office and to the studio, as happy as a kid at Christmas.

Parker and Frank arrived at the radio station promptly at six
A
.
M
. the
Thursday morning Parker was scheduled to be a guest on Kelly O’Shay’s show. Frank, whose
doughy face appeared a little redder than usual in the fluorescent office light, was
wearing his usual—dark suit, red tie, and his reddish-blond hair slicked back with a
healthy dollop of something greasy.

Parker’s dark hair was combed back and already falling
around his eyes. He wore faded jeans, a white collared shirt, and his favorite black
cowboy boots. He figured this was radio. No need to dress to impress.

Frank frowned
and knocked again on the glass door of the studio. The front office staff didn’t come in
at this ungodly hour, so there was no one to buzz them in, and Frank did not like to be
kept waiting. He was kind of a diva that way.

They stood there, Frank pressing the
button over and over again until Parker figured he had awakened all of lower Manhattan by
now with the incessant buzzing. And just when he thought
the top of
Frank’s head would blow off, a woman appeared in the darkened reception area to buzz them
in.

Frank opened the door and barreled inside. “Parker Price for Kelly O’Shay.
We’re doing the show this morning.”

“Welcome!” she said and flipped on a couple
lights.

Whoa.
She didn’t need the light because she was smiling a
million-watt smile if Parker had ever seen one. And he smiled back, taking in blond hair
pulled back in a sleek tail and long legs encased in nice tight jeans that rose up to just
below her belly button. He knew that because she was also wearing a cropped sweater that
showed off said belly button . . . and a very nice rack. Pretty eyes, pretty mouth . . .
wow. “Hey,” he said, and wondered, like he always did when he met a good-looking woman, if
she recognized him, if he at least had that leg up.

“Hey,” she responded with a funny
little laugh.

Frank snorted. “We’re running a little late, so if you could just round up
your boss,” he said impatiently.

The woman blinked. “Sure. Come with me.”

She and her
near-perfect derriere led them down a darkened corridor and into a dingy office. It was
tiny, but they had somehow managed to shoehorn a gun-metal desk, four faux leather chairs,
and a coat rack inside. The walls and desk were littered with paper and pictures Parker
didn’t really notice—he was too intent on the woman. She was beautiful. Absolutely
beautiful. The sort of beautiful that made opera singers sing and painters
paint.

“What’s this?” Frank asked, clearly not as taken with the woman as
Parker.

“This is where we talk with our guests before they go on the air,” she said,
and something about her voice made Parker start. “Please have a seat. Can I get you
something to drink? Coffee? Water?”

“Coffee, black,” Frank said instantly and fell into a
seat with a grunt. “So when does the great Kelly O’Shay grace us with her
presence?”

“I guess now,” she said and folded her arms across the flat
plane of her belly, challenging Frank with those green eyes to argue.

Holy
shit.
Of all the things Parker had thought of Kelly Shay, gorgeous was never one of
them. He’d imagined . . . hell, he didn’t even know what he’d imagined, but it damn sure
wasn’t
this.
He and Frank exchanged a look of surprise.

She laughed at
their expressions. “Who were you expecting? Someone with a pointy hat, hooked nose, and a
big wart?”

“Something like that,” Parker muttered.

She extended her hand. “Kelly
O’Shay. Pleasure to meet you, Parker Price.”

He eyed her hand, half-expecting a
trick zapper, and reluctantly took it. She squeezed his hand firmly and shook it
vigorously.

“It’s a . . . ah, nice to meet you, too,” he said, still
dumbfounded.

“Don’t lie,” she said with a wink and extended her hand to Frank. “You must
be Frank Campanelli, agent extraordinaire.”

Frank, the dolt, was still staring
at her with his mouth gaping open. “Yeah,” he said, pushing himself out of his seat.
“Frank Campanelli.”

“I’ve heard a lot about you,” Kelly said, shaking his hand just
as ferociously as she’d shaken Parker’s. “You have quite a reputation.”

“Right,” Frank
said, then frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing!” she exclaimed with a
laugh. “It’s a
good
reputation—all good.” She turned a surprisingly warm smile to
Parker. “So how about that coffee?”

“Ah . . . water,” Parker said.

“Coffee. Black,”
Frank repeated, apparently having regained his composure after the initial shock of
learning Kelly O’Shay wasn’t a hag after all.

“You got it,” she said. “I’ll be
back in a moment.” She walked out of the office.

Parker instantly
turned and slapped Frank on the arm. “
Shit
. Shitshit
shit
—
that’s
Kelly
O’Shay?”

“This couldn’t be better,” Frank said, grinning. “All you have to do is turn
on the charm, loverboy, and you’ll have her eating out of your hand.”

Parker snorted
and fit his six-foot-four-inch frame into one of the chairs. “I don’t get the impression
that Miss O’Shay is the type to fall for a line.”

“Trust me on this,” Frank said,
drumming his fingers impatiently on the desk. “I bet we can clear it all up right here.
Just do that Texas drawl thing and smile.”

Sometimes, Parker thought he had the
dumbest agent in the business. “I don’t have a Texas drawl, and really, this isn’t about—”
he started, but Kelly O’Shay walked in carrying a foam cup of coffee and a bottle of
water.

“Here you go,” she said, handing them their drinks. She perched one hip on
the corner of the desk in front of them and smiled at Parker again. “So, Parker, thanks
for coming to the show. The listeners are going to love it.”

“I’m sure they
will,” Frank chuckled.

“My producer is running late this morning, so I am going to do
your preshow interview, if that’s all right?”

“Great,” Parker said. “And about the
show, Kelly . . . may I call you Kelly? Ah . . .” He pushed the water aside and leaned
forward, looking at her earnestly. “Frankly, I wanted to come on your show because I’ve
been in a slump like I haven’t seen in my entire career.”

“Yeah. I know,” she said, wincing
sympathetically. “I’m really sorry.”

“It’s been very difficult,” he said, affecting his best
puppy dog look. “I don’t know why or how it started, but I’m having a little trouble
putting on the skids.”

“It must be really tough for you,” she said, her eyes wide with
concern.

That was just where he wanted her. “You don’t know the half of
it. Anyway, I was hoping that maybe you and I could come to an
understanding.”

“An understanding?” she asked, and slid her hands in between her knees,
leaning forward, piercing him with her green eyes, and filling his nostrils with a very
arousing scent. “What sort of understanding?”

“Well . . .” He cleared his throat
and glanced at Frank. “The thing is, Kelly, I think that maybe . . . I don’t know, but
maybe . . . ah . . .”

Frank nudged him with his shoe. Parker rubbed his chin a
moment. He never thought he’d be whining to a woman about his superstitions, but here he
went. He looked up and smiled a little sheepishly. “I suspect that your show may be having
an effect on my playing.”

“Oh
no
,” she said, frowning with concern. “
My
show? What do you mean?”

“Most people don’t understand. It’s hard to explain, but
ballplayers are notoriously superstitious, and I confess, I’m one of them,” he said,
raising his hand with a lopsided smile.

“Ooh,” Kelly said.

“And it seems
that some of the things said on your show—and I’m not saying
you,
you know. You’re
great
—” he quickly clarified—“but some of your callers, the negative things they
say stick in my head, and then I go to the game, and I’ve got that negative noise going
around in my head,” he said, fluttering his fingers at his head. “You know, like people
saying I suck, and I’m the worst ballplayer they’ve ever seen, that sort of thing—and then
I can’t seem to play. It’s a psychological thing.”

“Oh!”
She blinked wide green
eyes at him. “A
psychological
thing. I’m really sorry to hear that, Parker. I had
no idea you were having psychological problems.”

“No, no,” he said with a laugh just
as Frank blustered a hearty,
“No, no!”

“Not
psychological
problems,” Parker corrected her gently as he put a hand out to stop
Frank from talking. “I just mean that negative feedback affects my head in the game. Do
you see what I am saying?”

“Yes,” she said, and leaned over, put a slender hand on his
shoulder, and smiled so warmly he felt a little warm himself. “I understand. And I’m
really sorry you are struggling.”

“Thanks. Of course, there was no way you could have
known. It’s just a baseball player’s thing. We’re a pretty superstitious
lot.”

“Ah,” she said, removed her hand, and stuffed it back between her
knees.

“So I was thinking maybe we could talk about some of the great games the
Mets have played this year,” he suggested. “We made some great plays against the
Philadelphia Phillies. And we smoked the Florida Marlins early in the
season.”

“Right, and the Atlanta Braves,” she said, nodding.

Well, no,
not
the Atlanta Braves. That was the series that had started his slump. “Yeah,
well . . . I was thinking of some of our better series.”

“Right,” she said. “I understand.
You would rather I focus on the positive.”

But there was something in the
glimmer of her eyes that gave Parker pause. “If you don’t mind,” he said, feeling suddenly
less confident.

“May I ask a few questions?” she asked, and picked up a pad of paper and
pencil from the desk and made a note. “Is there anything about you personally our
listeners would find interesting?”

“Ah . . . I don’t know of anything.”

“He’s an avid
fisherman,” Frank interjected, which was a huge lie.

“No, I’m—”

“And he does a
lot of charity work with underprivileged kids.”

That much was true, but he hated
that Frank made it sound like a gimmick. Not that Kelly O’Shay seemed to notice. She was
jotting down something. “Anything else?”

“He loves to
read,” Frank blathered. “What’s the last book you read, Park?”

Kelly glanced up
to hear his answer.

“Jesus, Frank, I am not a big reader. I read the
History of
Sports in America
, and that took me a year,” he said with a laugh.

Kelly laughed,
too, a melodious, sweet laugh. She glanced at the clock above their heads and said, “Oh
no, look at the time. I’m on the air in ten.” She flashed another winsome smile. “Come on,
I’ll show you where you can wait for your segment and hear the show. Rick, my producer,
will come and get you when it’s time.” She popped up off the desk. “You can bring your
drinks,” she said and walked out of the room.

They quickly picked up their drinks
and followed her.

The first hour of
Sports Day with
Kelly O’Shay,
which Parker listened to in a room nearby, had lots of sound effects and
raucous laughter from Guido. Kelly covered tennis (the latest female teen phenom had been
seen in England making out with her high-dollar trainer), women’s soccer (amazing what
flashing a sports bra could do for a women’s sport), and bowling. No kidding.
Bowling
. Accompanied, of course, by the sound of pins falling.