The engine rumbled in the muscle kart built to Sloan’s specifications. He’d wanted to show off for Eve. She, however, looked alarmed.
“Your go-kart looks like a bully,” she shouted at him. “Don’t run me off the track.”
He had no intention of running her down. He wanted her to have fun. This was their third and final date. He planned to make the most of their time together.
They were the only two on the oval speedway. Sloan hung back, allowing Eve to get the feel of the track. She putt-putted along as if on a Sunday drive. He whipped up beside her and motioned her to go faster. If anything, she slowed down.
His racer begged to cut loose. Sloan gunned it. The kart shot forward, fishtailed around a turn, and left Eve in turbocharged exhaust.
He went eight laps before he slowed. Idling by Eve, he flipped up his visor and shouted, “Want to race?”
She lifted her helmet shield and rolled her eyes. “Race you so you can win?”
“You won at paintball; cut me some slack.”
“How many laps?”
He flashed ten fingers.
“Ready, set, go!” she called.
Sloan had gone six laps flat-out when his engine sputtered. Spark plugs or out of gas?
Son of a bitch.
He pressed the accelerator, only to glide to a stop. One of the workers between the tracks waved a white flag, telling Eve to slow down. She breezed past Sloan with a wiggle of her fingers.
He pushed his kart over to the side, stood beside it, hands on his hips, and shook his head. The tortoise and the hare. Eve would beat him again.
Track Mac came to his rescue. The older man jogged between the tire barriers, gas can in hand. He refilled the kart, and Sloan took off again. He made up a lap, but couldn’t take Eve on the straightaway.
She passed the checkered flag two go-kart lengths ahead of him. She raised her arms, victorious, and nearly ran into the tire wall.
In the winner’s circle, Eve hopped from the kart and removed her helmet, jazzed and glowing. Sloan begrudgingly handed her a trophy in the shape of a go-kart.
“I’m tired of awarding you trophies,” he said.
Eve hugged the trophy, then embraced Sloan. She rose on tiptoe and kissed him full on the lips. He widened his mouth over hers and they touched tongues.
She had a way of sighing against his lips that made him want to strip down for go-kart sex. Unfortunately, the track was populated with racers and visitors, and privacy was at a minimum.
He reluctantly let her go. “We need to celebrate your win,” he concluded, wanting to extend their time together.
She hesitated. “I thought—”
“Go-karts and we were over?” he asked, reading her mind. “I’d like to prolong our date. We could hit New Year’s, an uptown club that celebrates December thirty-first every single night.”
New Year’s in May had appeal. Eve had heard of the club. It was a place to dress and be seen, to sip champagne, and to kiss wildly at midnight.
“I’ve never had a date on New Year’s,” she admitted.
That seemed to bother Sloan. “Never?”
She shook her head. “Taylor tried to set me up, but I’ve never been fond of blind dates.”
“You know who you’re getting tonight. Me.”
Sloan was just fine by Eve.
He took her hand, and they departed KartWorld.
He dropped her off at her studio apartment, located above Thrill Seekers. “I’ll pick you up at nine,” he told her. “Let your hair down, and wear something sexy.”
Eight thirty came and went, and Eve was still debating what to wear. Sloan was due to pick her up shortly, and the most she’d done was brush out her hair. It hung long and straight and almost to her waist.
She’d laid out three possible dresses for the evening, little cocktail numbers that Taylor had insisted she buy over the years, yet she’d never worn. All were low-cut; two were slit to her thigh, and one skimmed her like a second skin.
She stood before her mirror, holding each one up for the sixth time. She was unsure which dress would bring magic to the night. She definitely wanted magic.
“Go with the black.”
Sloan.
She’d recognize his voice in a crowd of one thousand. Eve turned slowly and found him leaning negligently against the door, which she’d left unlocked.
“You’re early,” she managed.
“I wanted to see where you lived.”
“You’re seeing more than my loft.” She looked down at her black bra and short slip.
He came toward her then, devastatingly handsome in a dark gray suit that matched his eyes. A dressed-up Sloan McCaffrey was a shock to her system. He’d gotten a haircut and shaved, and the pine scent of his bath soap lingered on his skin.
He looked tamed, but she sensed his restlessness. The man could be confined in a suit for only so long. She hoped he’d make it to midnight.
“Mind if I look around?” he asked.
“The loft is one big open space. Art studio, kitchen, bedroom, and bath shoved inside four walls.”
“I like it.” He moved to her studio corner, where a painting stood nearly completed. “James River Stadium?” he asked.
“Risk Kincaid asked for the painting,” she replied as she slipped into her little black dress. “The Rogues hold a silent auction each year to raise money for Animal Rescue. The painting of the ballpark is my donation.”
“It’ll draw a lot of bidders.”
“I hope so. Last year I donated a lighthouse. It went to Romeo Bellisaro and his wife, Emerson, on a pity bid.”
“No one will pity—”
The hitch in Sloan’s voice drew Eve’s gaze.
He was staring openly at her.
And Eve looked down at herself. Her slinky black dress cupped her breasts and stroked her hips like a man’s hands. She showed a lot of leg between the flirty hem and the straps on her stilettos. She’d forgone nylons. The heat from his gaze indicated that he liked her legs bare.
He came slowly toward her. “Lady, you look hot.”
Maybe not hot, but good enough to be seen with Sloan. Eve suspected that the man traveled in the company of the sexy and the slender. Calendar and
Sports Illustrated
women. Eve couldn’t claim to be either.
“Let’s celebrate New Year’s.” He ushered her out the door.
He’d rented a limo, black and stretch, with room for a dozen people. There was a bar, a television, and room for a double bed.
“Glen is our designated driver.” Sloan nodded to the man behind the wheel. “We want to welcome the New Year in style.”
In style
meant Sloan got his ass kissed from the moment he entered the club. Always in demand, he got the VIP treatment. Everyone knew his name and that he drank Johnnie Walker Gold. He and Eve were given the best table in the house. The deejay asked for a list of his music requests.
A waiter brought a broad selection of hors d’oeuvres, and female revelers crowded their table as if it were open season on the Rogue reliever.
The women were sleek, their makeup perfect. They smiled as often as they touched Sloan. They walked their fingers up his chest and down his arm. When he suddenly twitched and shifted on his seat, Eve swore they were stroking him under the table.
The partiers donned hats, blew on horns, and threw confetti long before the midnight hour.
“Excuse me.” A dark-haired, almond-eyed woman adorned in emerald sequins squeezed in between Eve and a leggy brunette. Eve had started the evening next to Sloan, but by eleven thirty she was six women down the table from where he sat.
And he hadn’t seemed to notice.
Sloan was caught up in himself. He believed his own press. He seemed fascinated by his own statistics when they were enumerated by glossy and puckered pink lips.
“Another piña colada?” the cocktail waitress asked Eve.
She lifted the one before her. The ice had melted and the paper umbrella had torn. Her drink had been neglected, and so had she. She shook her head. “I’ll pass.”
“How about you, Kendra?” The waitress turned to the new arrival.
“Tangerine mojito,” Kendra requested. “And get Sloan another Johnnie Walker Gold. Be sure to tell him it’s from me.”
Sloan saluted Kendra when the cocktail waitress delivered his drink. His gaze lit on Eve and he smiled—the same smile he shared with the dozen other women at the table.
There was nothing special about their date. The man was playing to a table of thirteen.
Kendra bumped Eve’s thigh as she crossed her legs. “I plan to take Sloan home tonight. Once Brooke goes to the restroom, I’m making my move.”
“Brooke?” Eve looked down the table.
“The bleached blonde in the red dress slit to her crotch. Bet she’s not wearing panties.”
Eve wasn’t taking that bet.
She recognized Brooke. The woman had nearly sat on her lap to get to Sloan. “What if he already has a date?” she asked.
The woman openly laughed at her. “Sloan doesn’t date.” She made air quotes around the word
date
. “He shows up with one woman, but leaves with another. The man has a number three tattooed on his groin. We’re all aware our time’s short-lived.”
Eve was confused. “Then why bother?”
“Same reason you’re sitting here, sweetie,” Kendra said. “McCaffrey’s the best game in town.”
He was definitely a major player. Sloan hadn’t looked her way for a very long time. His tie had lost its knot, and he’d shrugged off his suit coat. Lipstick smudged the corners of his mouth. One of the women had run her fingers through his hair. A dark lock now fell onto his forehead. He looked very roguish.
Kicked back, relaxed, and eating up the attention, he’d forgotten they had a limo waiting.
This was his world.
“Damn, he’s handsome.” Kendra smacked her lips. “Athletes make the best lovers.”
Eve’s stomach tightened. “It’s all about sex, then?”
“What else is there?” Kendra sipped her mojito.
There was paintball, go-karts, and driving senior citizens to the mall. There was getting to know someone beyond three dates. There was putting in time and seeing if it paid off.
She didn’t know the man at the end of the table.
She had no plans to figure him out.
Feeling invisible, Eve excused herself. “I’m calling it a night.”
Kendra raised a brow. “Before midnight?”
“Once you get close to Sloan, tell him Eve said, ‘Happy New Year.’ ”
“Eve is you, I gather?”
“I’m the one he came with. You’re the one taking him home.”
Kendra sent her a pitying look.
Eve made her escape when Brooke got up to powder her nose. The entire table shifted, and the remaining women scrunched closer to Sloan. Kendra rose and made her move. She and her sequins made a beeline for the man of the hour.
Amid the lighting of sparklers and the sound of horns blowing, Eve made it to the door. The doorman hailed her a cab—a cab that smelled strongly of pastrami, perfume, and feet. She returned to her loft in less style than she’d left.
New Year’s clubbing with Sloan had proved the most eye-opening and disappointing night of her life. She’d thought they were friends. There had been a strong possibility that they could have been lovers. But not after tonight.
Third date, and the party was over.
She’d slipped off her dress when a sharp knock turned her toward the door. She clutched her dress to her chest.
“Eve?” Sloan’s voice stole between the cracks.
She stood quietly, unable to move.
“Eve, I’m sorry. Honest-to-God sorry. I got into the celebration and forgot—”
“—you had a date?” She hated the fact that she sounded jealous.
“You moved down the table.”
“Your women squeezed me out.”
“They tend to play musical chairs.”
“The music stopped and you didn’t miss me.” She bit down on her bottom lip. “Go home, Sloan.”
He smacked the door with his hand. “We need to talk.”
“Our talking days are over. Three dates and I’m breaking it off.”
“You can’t do that.”
“I can, Sloan, and I am.” She closed her eyes and sighed. “Go play paintball, ride go-karts, and be the center of attention at any club in town. That’s your life, not mine. I like being an adult.”
There was silence on the other side of her door, long and restrained. Several minutes passed before the dull thud of footsteps retreated down her staircase.
Eve’s heart felt sad as she hummed “Auld Lang Syne.”
Happy New Year, Sloan McCaffrey.
Happy Memorial Day weekend.
It was Monday, and the Rogues reported to James River Stadium, ready to take on the Louisville Colonels.
The game went three scoreless innings until Psycho McMillan powered the ball out of the park with two men on base. The Rogues had a three-run lead in the bottom of the fourth.
Top of the fifth, the Colonels battled back. Louisville scored two runs to keep the fans on the edge of their seats. The Rogues’ second-base man was charged with an error when the ball hung up in his glove.
Brek Stryker was playing his all-time best. His fastballs drew strikes, and the home plate umpire’s calls came quickly, without hesitation—a good sign of a good game.
Top of the sixth, and the Colonels best base stealer managed to make it to third as a result of a high hopper over the shortstop’s head. The player was known as Greyhound. He could make it from third to home in 3.6 seconds. The man would score, even on a bunt.
The crowd collectively hissed as Kason Rhodes moved from the on-deck circle to the batter’s box. Rhodes wasn’t fazed. He was hated in every major-league park except his own. And he played to his reputation. The man was on a tear, going after Barry Bonds’s home-run record.
Take him down a second time.
Brek had thrown Rhodes out on strikes in the third inning. The batter had glared at him all the way to the dugout—one of those next-time looks that forecast a home run.
Brek shook out his arm, then faced the top power hitter in the American League. He knew Rhodes’s hot zone, and threw just outside.
Rhodes laid his shoulder into it. His raw muscle whipped the air for a swing and a miss.
Strike one.
Rhodes was crowding the plate.
Brek dusted him with a breaking ball, forcing Rhodes back a step. Ball one.