“The bird was a bully,” Hilary added sympathetically.
“You”—Tate pointed to Stryke—“came to Charlie Bradley’s rescue. One photograph showed your arm around Rally; another had you brushing off his backside. Very chummy, wouldn’t you say?”
Chummy? Shit.
“Charlie hurt his knee.” Stryke kept the focus on Charlie and not Taylor. “I helped support his weight until the trainer took over.”
“Looked pretty intimate,” Tate persisted, “the pitcher coming to the mascot’s rescue. The reporter called you ‘sympathetic.’ ”
Stryke’s testicles drew tight. A picture was worth a thousand words. He didn’t appreciate Tate’s suggestion that he and Charlie were more than friends. Worse yet, he hated explaining himself to a table of strangers.
He would have let the subject drop had Hilary not gone wide-eyed with surprise. He sucked it up, assured her, “I’ve known Charlie for six seasons. He’s divorced, but still loves his ex-wife. They’re going through couples therapy. There’s reconciliation in their future.”
“If Charlie doesn’t get back with his wife, he always has you.” Tate grinned, a perverse twist to his lips. “A man of . . . comfort.”
Stryke stared at Tate. The man had insinuated that Stryke was a switch-hitter. Everyone at the table now looked at him questioningly. They wondered if he did men. Though he wasn’t homophobic, Stryke was attracted to women, not men. Always had been, always would be. For whatever reason, Tate wanted Stryke to look bad in Hilary’s eyes. Stryke didn’t appreciate Tate’s smear campaign. He wanted to kick Tate’s ass for raising doubt about his sexuality before his fiancée and Richmond’s finest.
For a brief moment, he thought about telling all those seated that it was Taylor Hannah, not Charlie Bradley, who’d performed as Rally Ball that afternoon. He decided not to drag Taylor into the mix. An ex-fiancée’s antics were best kept secret.
Stryke looked at the four remaining men seated at his table: a contractor, a bodybuilder who now owned a chain of gyms, a community leader and owner of several Harley-Davidson franchises, and a retired high school basketball coach. All were men with athletic pasts and more muscle in their necks than Tate had in his entire body.
Game face on, Stryke turned to Tate. “Guess you’ve never played sports, Stu. Otherwise you’d know Rally’s an integral part of the Rogues organization. We consider Charlie one of the team. No matter the circumstance, the players protect their own. Today I defended Rally.”
Color flooded Tate’s cheeks. He shifted uncomfortably on his chair and had nothing further to say.
Vindicated, Stryke moved the conversation away from baseball. He asked Hilary about the next fund-raiser. She went on to discuss her father’s plans to back a homeless shelter in south Richmond.
Her burgeoning excitement drew interest from nearby tables. Grocery magnate Earl Stone promised to supply day-old bakery goods and produce to feed the less fortunate. Contractor Bud Davidson’s offer to set up a job pool for out-of-work men had Hilary so ecstatic she couldn’t eat her dessert. Stryke ate two slices of the sliver-thin pecan pie.
At the end of the night, Hilary was all smiles and gratitude. She initiated their good-night kiss in the parking lot beneath a quarter moon, a kiss so featherlight, Stryke wondered if it had really happened Her reticence kept him at arm’s length. Since they’d met, all his pent-up sexual energy had gone into pitching. He’d started the season strong.
Their lack of sex hadn’t bothered him until Taylor’s return to Richmond. Not every couple came together as he and Taylor once had. They’d experienced once-in-a- lifetime sex. A mere glance or light touch, and their attraction unbuttoned blouses and unzipped jeans. Landing in bed was as natural as breathing.
No matter how hard he fought against it, Taylor pulled his thoughts to puckered nipples and erections. He hated the fact that he now stirred and stiffened, scaring Hilary with his increasing size.
To her credit, Hilary didn’t jump out of her skin, or scream. She merely patted his chest and eased back a step.
“I’m sorry, Brek.” Her voice sounded soft and sad and much more serious than the situation warranted. “I just . . . can’t. Not tonight.”
I want you every night for the rest of my life,
Taylor’s voice came to him again, breathy and hot and sexually needy.
In the stillness of the parking lot, Amber Nude invaded his senses, and the image of them together played through his mind in Technicolor: a blend of tongues, hot kisses, and athletically honed bodies, naked and sweat-slick, frantically twisting until they locked in the raw climb to orgasm.
The scratch of her nails on his back, the sprint of her heartbeat as she closed in on climax—
“
Brek?
”
Hilary called him back to the present where he belonged. She twisted her engagement ring, looking embarrassed and uneasy. “Are you all right? Your nostrils flared and your breath hitched. You . . . shuddered.”
Once again, Taylor had ambushed him when he wasn’t looking. Disgust hit him like a cold shower. “I’m fine,” he assured her. “I want you, Hilary, and when the time is right, we’ll be good together.”
“I-I hope so.” He’d never seen her so nervous. A deep crease split her brow, and her lips pursed.
Stryke wanted her to relax. “How are the wedding plans coming along?” he asked.
“I’ve hired a wedding planner,” she informed him. “We need to set a wedding date.”
“Any day but July third.” Bad memories surrounded the day Taylor had left him at the altar.
“How about a spring wedding?”
“This spring?” It was already mid-April.
It “Next spring.”
“You want to wait a year?” This surprised him.
“I need plenty of time to plan.”
“A big wedding?” His worst nightmare.
“If my father is reelected, his position as mayor will require that he give me away before family, friends, and government officials. Daddy has gubernatorial ambitions.”
Stryke refused to allow their wedding to become a political circus. “We’ll work on the guest list together.”
Hilary didn’t argue. She never did. Acceptance was ingrained in her. She did, however, seem distracted. Stryke chalked it up to tiredness and too many fund-raisers.
They parted shortly thereafter. With a peck to his cheek, she returned to the country club. The moist imprint of her kiss had dried by the time he’d fastened his seat belt.
Setting the SUV in reverse, he glanced in the rearview mirror, making sure Hilary reached the country club safely. He narrowed his eyes as Stuart Tate emerged from the shadows near the front door. The bold little man placed his palm on Hilary’s spine, then rubbed her back before guiding her inside. Their heads dipped close, their noses nearly touching. All pretty intimate, in Stryke’s opinion.
He waited for his jealousy to spike, yet only a flicker of irritation rose over Stu’s familiarity—which Hilary didn’t resist. He’d have to ask Hilary about Tate when they next spoke.
His SUV on automatic pilot, he drove directly to Jacy’s Java. A decaf and a cranberry turkey wrap would satisfy his late-night hunger. He parked his vehicle across the street from the front door, then checked out the customers before he entered.
He was glad he had. Curled up on white vinyl swan chairs near the large picture window, Taylor Hannah and Jacy Kincaid were enjoying late-evening coffee, relaxed in each other’s company.
The dark interior of the Escalade gave him a private moment to observe Taylor without witnesses. Her animation and wild hand gestures had Jacy bent over with laughter.
A toss of her hair, followed by a wide smile, reminded Stryke of the first time he’d seen her. The harder he fought the memory, the more it crowded his mind. He pressed his fingertips against his eyelids, then slid them higher against his scalp, pushing against the start of a headache. The pressure built and broke as he was swept back to a time he’d rather forget. . . .
It was March 10, 1999, Ladies’ Day at James River Stadium. The Rogues were playing the Chicago Cubs. Stryke had stepped off the mound and was headed for the dugout when the first baseman jogged past.
“ ‘Got Balls?’ ” Shaffer Stone had chuckled. “Check out field level, row B. Sweet baby.”
Stryke hated distractions, yet he did a quick scan of row B, and was immediately glad he had. A dozen hot women were sharing bags of peanuts and popcorn, and toasting one another with soda and beer.
Got Balls?
was easy to locate. The words were printed on a peach T-shirt worn by a knockout blonde with a sunburned nose. She’d glanced his way as he was checking her out. Attraction shot hot and electric straight to his soul. She’d held his gaze until he’d ducked into the dugout.
While the Rogues worked through the middle of their rotation, Stryke snagged two new baseballs and a black marker and wrote his private cell phone number on each. His fellow teammates did this often. A sexy fan was frequently issued an invitation to party.
Until that moment, Stryke had never shared his private number with any woman in the stands. The blonde became an exception to his rule. He’d sent a batboy on his behalf.
He’d gone on to pitch three more innings. The blonde brought out the best in him. He’d shown off, striking out nine of nine consecutive batters. The crowd was on its feet, applauding him. Even the blonde stood, looking excited and happy and clapping her ass off.
On his final return to the dugout, he’d caught her juggling the baseballs, a hint of a smile on her lips.
After the game, he’d celebrated with his teammates. They’d headed to Bruno’s, a bar loud with live music and packed with groupies. Stryke had set his cell phone on vibrate, in hopes the blonde would call.
She never did.
The only call that came in was from a twelve-year-old boy named Tony Holmes—a boy who exuberantly thanked Stryke for the two souvenir baseballs that a blond hottie had tossed him as she’d left the park.
The lady had put Stryke down. Hard.
Disappointment shadowed him as he’d departed the head-pounding noise at Bruno’s and strode to the parking lot. There, seated inside his McLaren, he’d talked sports with Tony for a solid hour. He’d promised the kid a signed jersey, to be picked up at the ticket window before their next home game.
Two weeks of road trips sent the team to San Diego, then on to Montreal. Returning home, the Rogues faced the Mets.
A passing look at the crowd as Stryke took the mound revealed the blonde and her friends once again seated behind the dugout. They were a row of stunning women, their interest held as much by the players themselves as by the sport. Several wore jerseys in support of their favorite Rogue.
The blonde had on another of her slogan T-shirts. He squinted to read the message:
Baseball Is All Wrong. A
Man with Four Balls Cannot Walk.
He smiled.
And she smiled back.
At the end of the game, he once again sent the batboy to find the blonde and give her his cell phone number.
Six days passed, and she didn’t call. Neither did she show up at the park for three weeks. When she did, she was alone.
She sat higher in the stands. Yet she stood out in a red T-shirt, her light blond hair pulled into a ponytail beneath a Rogues baseball cap.
The Rogues lost to the Red Sox, four to five.
Stryke had pitched. And he felt like shit. He needed to be alone.
Avoiding the autograph hounds, he’d taken a side exit and crossed the players’ parking lot to his McLaren. The silver Mercedes sports car would make for a fast escape.
His footsteps had slowed when he’d caught the blonde standing in the evening shadows. He’d thought her hot from a distance. Up close, she zapped him like a stun gun.
She was gorgeous.
When she was seated high in the stands, he’d been unable to read the inscription on her latest T-shirt. Closing in on her, he’d been able to make it out:
You’re
the
Baseball Player My Mother Warned Me About.
Baseball Player My Mother Warned Me
“I’m not all bad,” he’d told her.
“I’m not all good,” she’d returned.
He’d liked her on the spot.
“Brek Stryker,” he’d introduced himself.
“Taylor,” she’d replied.
“No last name?”
“Not until I know you better.”
He’d jammed his hands in the pockets of his jeans, cocking his head. “Why tonight?”
“The Rogues lost to the Red Sox.”
“You’re here to cheer me up?”
“You could say that.”
Her cheering came in the form of dinner at a mom-and-pop diner that served homemade meat loaf and chicken casserole. Sensuality shimmered off her tight little body, hitting him with an eroticism that made his dick twitch.
He’d been hard from his second bite of meat loaf. He was so stiff by the time he’d finished a thick slice of apple pie à la mode and two cups of coffee, he’d sworn he couldn’t slide from the booth—the pain was that great.
The night had been one to remember. It brought a vibrant, free-spirited woman into his life. A woman who’d proved a handful, with her spur-of-the-moment decisions and love of adventure.
It had taken two weeks for her to give him her last name—a name he’d recognized. He’d met her parents through sports clubs and athletic affiliations. Liv and Stephan Hannah were adrenaline junkies. Thrill seeking was their ultimate passion.
Taylor followed in their footsteps.
She skydived, snowboarded, and raced the rugged terrain of the Baja 1000. She ran full throttle, requiring little sleep.
She excited him, both in and out of bed.
After just one day apart, they would come together, wild and hungry and orgasmically explosive. Her flexibility amazed him. He found her scars sexy.
Her independence scared the hell out of him.
Taylor liked living on her own. Adjusting to being a couple had been difficult for her. The closer they’d grown, the deeper was his concern for her welfare. His protectiveness had provoked long arguments and the occasional full-blown fight.
Her parents’ untimely deaths had grounded her for all of a month. She’d walked around like a zombie, yet refused to lean on him.