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Out of Bounds
Ellen Hartman
Former basketball star Wes Fallon owes his brother everything. So when Deacon asks him to track down some missing charitable donations, Wes is on it. For the first time, the accident that ended his career looks like a godsend…until Wes encounters Posy Jones.Posy is unlike any woman he's ever met. She's beautiful, intelligent and can hold her own on the court. But she's clearly keeping something from him. As he digs deeper into the missing funds, his gut tells him what she's hiding is tied to it. Will he be forced to choose between the woman he's falling in love with and the brother he would risk anything for? Hopefully not…because his choice might surprise them all.
This isn’t going to be a slam dunk...
Former basketball star Wes Fallon owes his brother everything. So when Deacon asks him to track down some missing charitable donations, Wes is on it. For the first time, the accident that ended his career looks like a godsend...until Wes encounters Posy Jones.
Posy is unlike any woman he’s ever met. She’s beautiful, intelligent and can hold her own on the court. But she’s clearly keeping something from him. As he digs deeper into the missing funds, his gut tells him what she’s hiding is tied to it. Will he be forced to choose between the woman he’s falling in love with and the brother he would risk anything for? Hopefully not...because his choice might surprise them all.
The first time she bumped him, it was an accident
Wes was guarding her tight and Posy wanted to move him off the ball, but her elbow connected with his stomach. Ashamed that she’d let her frustration toward her mom bleed onto her game, she immediately paused to apologize.
He stole the basketball from her and put it in the hoop, obliterating her small lead. He hadn’t even noticed that she hit him, despite the fact that her elbow stung from the contact.
Posy almost called time out. She’d been apologizing for being too big, too rough, too much her whole life. Over and over she’d gotten the message that she was too competitive. People got angry when she didn’t keep herself in check.
Wes pumped his fist and pointed at her. “You done?”
No. No, she was most definitely not done. She was just getting started.
Dear Reader,
Every time I start a book, one scene cracks it open for me, showing me the characters and helping to shape their story. For Wes Fallon and Posy Jones, that scene was their first encounter on the basketball court. Until I wrote their game, I didn’t realize Posy was afraid to be her authentic self or how deep her longing was to find a guy who’d love her just the way she was. From the second Posy gave Wes a shove that was a bit too hard and then immediately felt uncomfortable in her own skin, she became one of my favorite heroines. I wanted her to win. (And not only at basketball.)
Out of Bounds is about characters who aren’t sure they’re lovable. From Posy, the heroine who suspects she’s too intense for a relationship; to Wes, who got shuffled through too many homes as a kid and never understood why; to Angel, the poodle-mix with the heart of an anarchist, these characters struggled to trust. I hope you’ll enjoy reading their story as much as I enjoyed writing it.
Extras including behind-the-scenes info, deleted scenes and details about my other books are on my website: www.ellenhartman.com (http://www.ellenhartman.com). I blog with the Harlequin Superromance authors at www.superauthors.com (http://www.superauthors.com), and I’m on Facebook. Send email to ellen@ellenhartman.com. I’d love to hear from you!
Happy reading!
Ellen Hartman
Out of Bounds
Ellen Hartman
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Ellen graduated from Carnegie Mellon with a degree in creative writing and then spent the next fifteen years writing technical documentation. Eventually, she worked up the courage to try fiction and has since published eight novels with Harlequin Superromance. Currently, Ellen lives in a college town in New York with her husband and sons.
Books by Ellen Hartman
HARLEQUIN SUPERROMANCE
1427—WANTED MAN
1491—HIS SECRET PAST
1563—THE BOYFRIEND’S BACK
1603—PLAN B: BOYFRIEND
1665—CALLING THE SHOTS
1777—THE LONG SHOT
Other titles by this author available in ebook format.
Don’t miss any of our special offers. Write to us at the following address for information on our newest releases.
Harlequin Reader Service
U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave., P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269
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This book is dedicated to my editor, Victoria Curran.
Who better to receive the dedication in a book about a beloved younger brother than the person who came closest to convincing me that Sam was the more worthy Winchester?
I’ve learned so much from Victoria about writing stories that keep people entertained.
Being a writer has a lot of perks, working with her is one of my favorites.
Contents
CHAPTER ONE (#u41e059fc-5e33-5170-8f81-6513749b2445)
CHAPTER TWO (#ua877339d-9563-5499-9468-bba7f73ff8fb)
CHAPTER THREE (#ue05ba3e1-f79e-5750-a897-de0ec145c61d)
CHAPTER FOUR (#u01c8b306-6a51-5afd-86bb-ab5b9625b441)
CHAPTER FIVE (#u81d39aa7-3b83-5e88-b583-1604e5153fc3)
CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIXTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
EXCERPT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ONE
“Y OU SAID THEY WERE bluffing. You said the trade threat was a tactic to get Gary Krota to sign for less money.”
Wes slumped on the concrete steps outside his building, the sandwich he’d been planning to eat before practice forgotten next to him. The midday Madrid traffic snarl in the street barely registered. “I told Fabi to ignore the news,” he added, “that I was definitely not being traded to Serbia.”
A small dog covered in tangled, grayish fur that probably should have been white, nosed into a paper bag lying on the sidewalk. Wes watched it give the bag an investigatory lick.
“That’s what I thought,” Vic said, his tone flat, and not because it was 6:00 a.m. in the New York agent’s office. He’d been negotiating with the owners of the Madrid Pirates, Wes’s basketball team, for a week and it was clear he was out of alternatives. Victor hated to lose almost as much as Wes did. “Your option clause lets them trade you, Wes. I have another call set up for later this afternoon, but it’s not looking good.”
The dog shook the bag.
Wes rubbed a hand across the back of his neck, his fingers glancing against his newly healed shoulder. If he hadn’t torn his rotator cuff would he be having this conversation? His numbers had been a little off, but it was a long season. He’d never been a superstar, but was he actually disposable?
“Look, Victor, nothing against Serbia, but I can still contribute here. My shoulder is one hundred percent. Practice was solid all week. I’m ready to go tomorrow night.” He realized he was veering close to begging. But if the Pirates didn’t want him, fine. “I don’t want the trade.”
“I’m doing everything I can, Wes.”
“I hate being jerked around.”
Victor wasn’t only his agent, he was an old family friend. If anyone understood why he didn’t want to move again, his life uprooted by the whim of someone in authority, it was Victor.
A seagull had spotted the dog and its paper-bag prize and dived down, beak extended. The dog scampered across the sidewalk, dodging around the feet of pedestrians, veering close to the traffic.
“I have to go,” Wes said. He ended the call without waiting for Victor’s response and was off the steps in one smooth motion.
“Hey, dog! Stop! Come!” The bird dived again and the dog darted between a lamppost and a bench. “Sit!”
Two women with shopping bags in their hands stared at him.
He spun, scooped his sandwich off the steps and turned back to the street.
There. The dog sprinted between two cars and slipped past the front wheel of a delivery truck. Just when it appeared to be safely on the opposite sidewalk, it turned to dart back across the street.
The dog was so small.
Wes ripped a hunk off the sandwich and threw it. “Hey, dog, come! Fetch!”
The bird swooped low and the dog skidded past the back wheel of a red car.
He was an idiot. A Spanish dog would know Spanish commands. How the hell do you say “Heel” in Spanish? He pulled another piece off his sandwich and held it out as bait while he skirted a trio of twentysomething backpacking tourists and stepped off the sidewalk.
He couldn’t see the dog anymore, but a truck loaded with full barrels suddenly accelerated into a gap in the traffic.
The truck’s bumper caught him on the hip, his head snapped back into the grille, and then he went flying backward into the outdoor seating at the Savion café. A crack as he landed on one of the café’s stone planters told him his barely healed shoulder was done for good.
Hallelujah, he thought right before he passed out from pain.
* * *
H E WOKE UP, momentarily disoriented in the dark, but quickly realized he was in a hospital bed. Weak light streaming in from the hall reflected off the machines surrounding him, as an electric hum droned too low to disturb the person slumped in a chair next to his bed. He rubbed his face, surprised to find thick stubble, and wondered how long he’d been out. His throat was dry and he coughed.
The figure in the chair started, sitting up straight and staring at him. Deacon. Of course he was here.
“Wes? You’re awake?” His brother stood and bent over the bed. He touched Wes’s hair and then dropped his hand to rest on his arm. “God, it’s good to see you, man.”
“What happened to the dog?” Wes asked.
“Dog?”
“Little white one.” The details were fuzzy, but he remembered the dog. “It was in the street.”
“I don’t know anything about a dog.” Deacon squinted at him. “You were chasing a dog?”
“It didn’t listen. Didn’t speak English,” Wes clarified. “Was going to get hit by a car.”
A deep ache down the left side of his body reminded him that he’d been the one who got hit. There’d been an impact and then that awful crack when he landed. The memory of the cracking sound almost made him pass out again. He moved his arm and felt a throbbing pain under his right shoulder blade. He winced and his older brother’s hand tightened on his arm. Deacon’s dirty-blond hair was limp and his eyes were shot with red behind his glasses.
“You need a shower,” Wes muttered.
Deacon rolled his eyes. “Sorry. I’ve been distracted. My brother got hit by a beer truck.”
Wes shifted again and the pain deepened.
“No more jokes. Laughing hurts.” He closed his eyes for a second. “Everything hurts.”
“This dog...”
Wes made an effort and opened his eyes.
“You were trying to save it?” Deacon hooked the chair behind him with his foot and pulled it closer so he could sit down, all without moving his hand from Wes’s arm. Which was strange. Deacon wasn’t the most demonstrative guy and, while he’d been the only real parent Wes ever had, he’d never been the motherly, hovering type. Growing up, Wes had been clipped on the back of the head way more often than he’d had his hand held.
“I didn’t want it to get hit.”
