Fielder's Choice (9 page)

“She’ll be back,” he said as he took Sophie by the hand. “Let’s go join the others.”

But more surprising was the feel of the fist in his stomach as he’d watched her drive off.

He’d thought her a ranch hand, an employee, but she was a Tavonesi. Which meant she was related to his teammate
and
that she was wealthy. And probably a lot more besides.

One thing about playing shortstop—a man learned to read people and situations. From what he’d seen today, Alana Tavonesi was a high flyer and a loose cannon. If his own internal radar wasn’t enough, the reactions of her staff and their body language filled in the details. She could break Sophie’s heart and not even know she’d done it.

Honesty was a principle he lived by, so he had to admit she was sexy and had a charm that had slipped through his vigorous defenses. But he couldn’t see her cleaning up a feverish, snotty child at three in the morning or packing a school lunch, although she’d be far better than he was on back-to-school shopping trips. Yet why he was even thinking about her doing such things confounded him.

Sophie stood close to him while they waited in line at the orientation tent. She wasn’t shy, but as she watched the other kids with their moms, he figured she was considering which among the kids might be an interesting playmate. When it was their turn, the staffer cheerfully handed Matt a set of release forms. He took Sophie by the hand and headed for a picnic table in the shade of an oak. He slid onto the bench and leaned his elbows on the papers, ignoring the legalese, and admired the spreading olive orchards and rolling hills that stretched to the horizon. Someone had foresight and a helluva good eye for working with the contours of the hills and valleys. It’d been a while since he’d spent any time in the country. The scent of a nearby bay tree drifted to him and teased out memories of working in his garden back East, of the pleasure of being connected to the rhythms of the land—a pleasure he hadn’t been aware of missing.

Sophie perched on the table beside him.

“Do I smell good, Dad?”

“You smell just fine, honey.” He skimmed the first page of boilerplate.

“No, I mean do I smell
good
.”

He looked up from the release form. “Why do you ask?”

“Alana told a person on the phone that she could tell if someone’s right for her by how they smell. She told the guy she was talking to that he smelled like heaven.” She tapped her foot against the wooden bench. “Do I smell like heaven?”

“I’ve never been to heaven,” Matt said, stalling to buy time to figure out a safe answer. “How’d you know it was a guy?” He felt ridiculous for asking, but part of him had to know.

“She called him Marcel. That’s a guy’s name, right?”

“Yep.”

Marcel was definitely a man’s name. A French man’s name.

Want anything from Paris
?

His impressions of Alana were beginning to come into clear, crisp focus.

“I think Alana smells like summer. Don’t you?”

He heard the affection in her voice. Of all the women for Sophie to become enamored with, it had to be the one woman who was definitely completely wrong. For her. For him. For them. He knew what a rich gadabout looked like; he’d been one. If it hadn’t been for the game and Sophie, he still might be the social equivalent of a void.

“Sure,” he said flatly. “Like summer.” He gathered up the papers. And maybe Alana herself smelled like heaven, but he wasn’t about to admit it.

As the jet prepared to land at Orly, Alana woke with a start. She’d been dreaming. Again. And Matt Darrington had figured in all of them. Again. And so deliciously. He was hot, really hot, and try as she might, she couldn’t keep her mind off him, not even when she slept.

She’d looked him up on the Internet as she’d waited to board in San Francisco. Maybe that was why he was a big hit in her dreams. The stats and photos told her he was a star shortstop for the Giants, but though she’d considered his alluring qualities long and hard before she fell asleep, she’d decided it was best to keep Mr. Matt Darrington in the fantasy realm where he belonged. He had a kid—albeit a most charming and wonderful kid—
and
he was a ballplayer. Two strikes in the
definitely not
column.

Her cousin Alex played for the Giants, the team Matt played for. She knew enough about the lives of pro athletes to know she didn’t want to be dragged into everything that came with such a life. Women who married players married the game. If they didn’t have something to keep their own focus, the game took over their lives. There were exceptions, of course there were. Alex’s wife Jackie was a world-class marine mammal vet. She’d kept at her work and hadn’t seemed bothered by his crazy schedule and crazier life.

But those arrangements were rare.

More common were the women who supported players, gave their lives stability, tended to houses and kids and schools, and kept everything going. She wasn’t cut out for that.

She snugged her seat belt tight and pulled her seatback up. Just the fact that she was thinking about marriage, even in the abstract, told her she was off her game.

She stared out the window, refusing to think any more about Matt.

When the pilot turned off the fasten seat belt sign, she reached up to grab her carry-on. Maybe Marcel would cement her resolve and get her back on track, help her forget the feelings Matt had stirred. With his sensual élan and great sense of humor, Marcel was an antidote to any trouble.

The Arizona game went thirteen innings. Matt wasn’t sure if it was frustration or the fact that he was late getting home that fueled his long double through the gap. His hit gave Alex enough time to score from first and win the game.

“Hey, no shower?” Scotty said as Matt tugged on his jeans.

“Late for the babysitter.” He couldn’t bring himself to use the word
nanny
. And he shouldn’t have told the woman she could go home by eleven. “Gotta run.”

Alex walked up to his locker, a few feet down from Matt’s.

“My cousin Alana called me from Paris,” Alex said as he stripped out of his game jersey. “Told me your daughter signed up for every camp at her ranch.” He chuckled. “She also reported that you saved her from breaking her neck. “ He wrapped a towel around his waist and shrugged. “She’s not quite in step with country life.”

“I noticed,” Matt said.

“She’s like a
Green Acres
character,” Scotty said as he sat in the chair next to Matt’s locker. “I can just see her tooling around the ranch in spike heels.” He shot Matt a grin. “But don’t let her fool you. She’s mean on the volleyball court, got a wicked left hook. Almost took Chloe out once, back in the good old days when we were single.”

“She’s okay,” Alex said.

Scotty crossed his arms and shot Alex a mock glower. “She’s
okay
? We
are
talking about the same beloved cousin you warned
me
off last year before I met Chloe, aren’t we? Softening in your old age, Alex?”

“Just because you have a ring on your finger doesn’t mean you know much about women, Donovan.” Alex turned to Matt. “She’s just a little flighty and unfocused. Too many years on the social circuit.”

Matt heard the ambivalence in Alex’s voice.

“The place should be great for kids,” Matt said. “And she’s got a good staff.” Why he felt compelled to defend her, he wasn’t sure. But his teammates’ wariness was duly noted and logged.

“Want to come out with us for a beer?” Alex asked. “Requires a shower.”

It was the first time Matt had been invited out with any of the guys. He’d watched from a distance as they’d made plans and joked but until that moment, he’d always felt like an outsider.

“Some other time,” he said as he pulled a T-shirt over his head. “Gotta run.”

Chapter 8

Dazzling Sonoma sunshine woke Alana. The sounds of the ranch staff going about their business drifted up through her bedroom window. She pulled on a blouse and jeans and headed down to the kitchen for a cup of coffee. No matter how many times she made the trip to Paris, her body still revolted and required a few days before she could settle into the time change when she returned to California.

She carried her mug out into the bright morning. A good dose of light first thing in the day was supposed to help the body adjust. And it might help her jet lag, but as she took in the bustle of the ranch staff, a hollow feeling crept into her chest. Nothing had yet made her feel comfortable at the ranch. Though people were kind and polite, their sidelong glances and the way they stopped their conversations midsentence when she approached reminded her that she was an outsider.

For the first few days of her trip, Paris had been a great antidote to her frustrations with the ranch. Marcel had surprised her with a party at his family’s chateau, had hired her favorite jazz quartet to entertain them late into the night. She’d seen friends she hadn’t seen in months. He’d even arranged for Popov to come to the party after his final performance of
La Bohème
. When the Ukrainian tenor stepped up to sing “All of Me” with the jazz musicians, it brought her to tears. Dancing in Marcel’s arms, surrounded by friends and transported by Popov’s rich voice, she should’ve felt she was in heaven. But everything was beginning to feel off-kilter.

And before the week was out, Marcel had again pressured her to move to France. It irritated her that he thought she could just slip into his life, as if she had nothing of her own that anchored her to the States.

Marcel had even teased her about the ranch. He was a city boy. Except for brief visits to his family’s chateau near Reims, he preferred the pace and sophistication of Paris. He might’ve understood if she’d been considering a place near Manhattan, but to live in the remote countryside of California? The closest city was San Francisco. It was beautiful, but to Marcel San Francisco was provincial, and Alana was fairly certain he didn’t consider it a real city.

Late one afternoon as she’d sat drinking espresso at her favorite cafe in Paris, the streets seemed crowded and the chatter didn’t hold its usual allure.

Something had changed.

Paris was likely the same as it had been just weeks before. And Marcel, he was the same charming, carefree and sublimely sexy man she knew him to be. Until she’d met Matt, until he’d stirred feelings that haunted her, she’d thought the easy, no-strings relationship she had with Marcel was enough. And when Marcel had poked fun at her for considering giving life at Tavonesi Ranch a go, she found herself sticking up for the ranch, stumbling over explanations about the people, the programs, the pesky neighbors and even the windmill.

Before she’d left, Marcel had dangled the lure of the big party celebrating the renovation of Versailles. He’d bought tickets for all her friends and rented a villa nearby for the after-party. She couldn’t resist. She’d had a new gown fitted while she was in Paris, a sleek Elie Saab that even she had to admit made her look like a dark-haired angel. Now she’d have to find the right shoes to go with it. They’d have to be purchased online; she certainly wasn’t going to find them in the little town near the ranch.

But for the first time in a very long time, it wasn’t erotic images of Marcel that lit her dreams at night. The hands that caressed her and made her thrash and call for more were Matt Darrington’s. But she’d barely touched the guy and he had a kid, so her feelings made no sense.

Maybe she’d read one too many vampire novels lately. The blistering heat she felt when Matt rocked her in her dreams felt more like possession than imagination, as though she’d walked into an alien land where a spell had been cast over her.

She sipped her coffee and looked out over the hills. Wavering fingers of mist rose from the valley south of the barn, rising toward the warmth of the sun. She tipped her face into the light and closed her eyes. But the sun didn’t dispel the images from her dreams.

Who was she kidding? Matt was just plain hot and sexy, and she was primed for a new lover. And while that was true, the magic-spell idea was easier to swallow.