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It was Riley Kelleher, aka Riley the Rocket, aka the sexy, studly star pitcher who played for the Louisville Slammers and owned the heart of the city. Not just the women’s hearts, either—all the fans adored him. The man was often called the soul of the team, with everyone taking pride in his prowess and his love of the game.
She’d seen his picture in the paper—especially a few years ago when he was going through a divorce that had shocked even the most jaded sports fan—but he was so much better-looking in person that she simply hadn’t recognized him. But there was no doubt that one of the most sought-after bachelors—and talked-about playboys—in baseball was chatting up her elderly grandma.
“Janie! Here you are,” Mr. Smith said as he spotted her.
Wishing she’d turned around and walked away, Janie trudged closer to the old man who said, “Isn’t this a nice surprise? My grandson’s come to visit. I’ve been wanting you two to meet.”
Grandson. Janie’s breath escaped her lungs in one giant gush. Good grief, no wonder Mr. Smith knew so much about baseball—his grandson was one of the stars of the sport.
Though Janie’s dislike of baseball—and playboy baseball players, no matter how gorgeous—was matched only by her dislike of going to the dentist, she managed a weak smile. “Hi.”
The pitcher, whose reputation as a stud off the field was as well known as his abilities on it, slowly tilted his head back and looked up at her. Janie shifted from foot to foot and clenched her hands together like a starstruck teenager in front of a member of some boy band. Which was so not her, considering she didn’t hold sports figures up as heroes.
But being honest, it wasn’t his status that had twisted her tongue into an incoherent knot in her mouth. It was his looks.
“So you’re little Janie.”
She stiffened. At five foot four, she’d heard her share of petite/little/diminutive comments. “I’m just Janie,” she snapped.
He rose slowly, his muscular body moving with innate grace. When standing, he was only a head taller than she, probably of average height. Not too tall for her. Perfect, in fact.
Forget about it, he’s perfectly out of the question!
He extended his hand. “Gramps has told me a lot about you, Just Janie.”
“Funny, he never mentioned your name at all.”
“Well, Riley likes to keep a low profile,” Mr. Smith said.
The low-profile sex god was still standing there with his hand out, so Janie lifted hers, forgetting the book.
If fate had been kind, the manual wouldn’t have fallen to the ground. If it had been at least decent, Sex For The Ages wouldn’t have landed faceup at Riley Kelleher’s feet. And if it had any heart at all, the man wouldn’t have been able to read.
But fate screwed her again. Because as Riley bent over to pick up the book she’d dropped, he began to chuckle.
Oh, God, just let me die now.
She didn’t know which was worse: him thinking she was the one reading the sex manual, or finding out her grandmother was.
“Uh, yours, I believe?” he said, his voice not disguising his laughter. He held the book out to her. “Interesting reading for a Sunday afternoon at the old folks’ home.”
Oh, great, now he’d done it. Before Janie could warn him of the fire he’d brought down on his head, Grandma Anne was on him. “Who’re you calling old folks?” she asked as she struggled to her feet and grabbed the book. She wobbled on her pale, skinny legs, revealed by a pair of pink shorts that hung to her knobby knees.
“You pushed one of her hot buttons,” Janie murmured, almost feeling sorry for the ballplayer, who suddenly looked sheepish.
“My apologies, ma’am. I mean, the retirement home.”
“Community for the enlightened years,” she snapped.
To give him credit, Riley didn’t laugh at Grandma’s haughty tone. Instead, he replied, “That’s a perfect description.”
Grandma Anne jerked her thumb toward her own frail chest and poked herself with it. “I came up with it myself.” The power of her own thrust almost knocked her off her feet. Fortunately, Mr. Smith had slowly followed her up and was there to support her.
Not that a strong breeze wouldn’t have blown him over, too.
Janie couldn’t help it. She started to giggle, lifting her hand to cover her mouth so Grandma Anne wouldn’t see.
“I think I’ll take Annie to her room now,” Mr. Smith said, frowning at his grandson. “She’s had enough of an upset.”
Saying goodbye to her grandmother and kissing her smooth, delicate cheek, Janie watched as Mr. Superstar suffered under his grandfather’s glare. When the older couple had gone, he said, “Has she got a problem with being old, or what?”
“Or what,” Janie said dryly. “She has no problem being old. She has a problem with anyone telling her she’s old.”
“Like it doesn’t exist if nobody says it aloud?”
“Kind of.”
“Sounds superstitious. Bet she’s a baseball fan.”
“Are they superstitious?”
“Not as much as the players,” he said with a lopsided grin.
His grandfather hadn’t introduced him as a famous baseball player, but Riley obviously expected her to recognize him. She didn’t try to pretend otherwise. “Including you, Mr. Kelleher?”
He nodded. “I’ve been known to wear the same socks for ten games when I’m on a streak.”
Janie wrinkled her nose. “Ew.”
Laughing, he crossed his arms. “I have a washing machine.”
With a challenging lift of her brow, Janie retorted, “Even when you’re on the road?”
“There’s always somebody to wash the uniforms on the road.”
Her smile faded. Though she knew he almost certainly meant the Slammers had staff to care for the uniforms, she couldn’t help thinking of all the other people dying to help the players on the road. Help them into the nearest bed, most likely. That was supposedly what had caused his nasty divorce.
She fell silent, wondering why he was still standing here talking to her when she was so not his type. He said nothing, either, watching her watch him, so Janie took a moment to notice the little things. Like the tiny curls of gold-tipped hair at the nape of his neck. The small lines beside his mouth that said he smiled a lot. And, oh, the way he smelled.
She loved man smell. Not heavy cologne, but that strong, musky scent that seemed to emanate from a hard, masculine body. Especially when it was aroused. Wow, would she like to smell this man when he was aroused.
Keep your nose to yourself, girl. Swallowing hard, Janie took a step back. This guy was completely out of her league. He had groupies, actresses and beauties after him all the time and would most assuredly not appreciate a social worker who was not in the least seductive sniffing him up.
He suddenly chuckled, as if remembering something. “She took it with her…so the spunky old lady was reading the sex book?”
“To your grandfather,” she replied with a smirk.
Some of the color fell out of the handsome face. Janie almost felt sorry for him, knowing what was going on in his head.
“I could have gone my whole life without knowing that.”
“Me, too,” she said, watching the way his lips pursed a little when he winced. Great lips. Incredible mouth. Lord, it had been a long time since she’d kissed a man.
It had apparently been a long time since she’d learned how to hide her thoughts, too. Because suddenly Kelleher was pushing his sunglasses onto the top of his head, looking at her closely as if he’d caught her staring. “So do you volunteer here often?”
Tearing her stupid fan-girl gaze off his mouth, she focused instead on his eyes. And was lost. Spring-green and heavily lashed, Riley’s eyes twinkled with humor and self-confidence. Not to mention knowledge. He knew how he was affecting her.
Her face grew hot. “Not as much as I’d like to.”
“That’s great of you. Not a lot of young people would give up their Sundays to make a bunch of strangers happy. I wasn’t kidding. My grandfather has mentioned you dozens of times.”
So, he didn’t know Janie was also visiting her own grandmother. She didn’t volunteer the information, not certain why she didn’t want him to know. “Your grandfather’s a nice man.”
“He’s a shark,” he said with a laugh, his admiring tone saying he meant it as a compliment. “Old school all the way.”
“Old school?”
“Tough, proud, honorable and honest.”
Qualities Janie liked in a man. Qualities she wondered if Edgar’s grandson shared. The tabloids hadn’t made him sound like he’d lived up to the honorable and honest parts during his marriage. But in recent years he’d supposedly put his wild reputation behind him, and now took his game very seriously. Since he was a Kentucky boy who lived in Louisville year-round—unlike some members of the team—the local papers were always singing the man’s praises.
“Anyway, sweetheart, I appreciate it. You’re an angel.”
Janie was a modern woman and a strange man calling her sweetheart and angel would normally have set her off. But Riley’s soft, lightly Southern accent and nod of genuine appreciation made the words seem like harmless endearments. Which was why she melted inside again, going soft and weak, wanting to giggle like a kid, scuff her toes on the ground and simper.
Who was this man and how was he turning her into a mutant?
Whoever he was, she needed to get away from him. So without another word, she tore her gaze off his handsome face and broad shoulders. Still shaken, Janie swung around and bent down to pick up her blanket. It was only after she’d doubled over that she realized she was practically wagging her butt at the guy. A quick glance over her shoulder revealed he’d noticed. He’d definitely noticed, and was staring. That sparkle was still in his eyes, and he made no effort to hide his amusement. And maybe…just maybe…a hint of appreciation.
She shoved the pleasure that thought gave her into the recesses of her mind. She’d take it out and play with it later, when she was alone. Not now, when Louisville’s favorite son was probably thinking she was some sex-starved groupie like the ones who threw themselves at him every day. She’d probably imagined the appreciation, anyway, because no way should her tiny self in baggy jeans have inspired a reaction from a hunky superstar.
Quickly dropping to her knees, she rolled the blanket into a sloppy, lumpy ball that she clutched to her chest. Yanking her satchel, which contained this week’s newly priced sports items, she rose to her feet and offered him what she hoped was an impersonal smile. “Nice meeting you. I’ve got to go.”
He just stared, saying nothing. A long silence stretched out, during which Janie could have whirled around and marched to her car, confident that she’d just made a fool of herself in front of the sexiest man she’d ever seen.
But her feet wouldn’t move. The longer he stared—so intent, so silent—the heavier her limbs felt. The laughter of the children faded into the distance, until she heard only the buzz of a passing bee…and the sound of her own breath. Finally, unable to stand the tension, she whispered, “What?”
“I’m trying to figure something out,” he murmured, still focused entirely on her face.
“What’s that?”
With an unapologetic shrug he admitted, “Which I want to see more—your pretty brown eyes without those awful glasses? Or your magnificent ass in something other than those hideous jeans.”
Janie’s jaw dropped open and she sputtered something. Her heart pounding in her chest, she tried to fathom it—he was flirting with her. Riley the Rocket flirting with her?
Before she could say anything, the man with the magic hands on the field reached out and tilted her mouth closed. His touch was warm, the scrape of his fingers on her skin electric.
“Don’t worry, darlin’.” His voice sounded thick, less flirtatious, as if he didn’t like what he had to say. “I may have a reputation, but I don’t go after innocent little coeds like you.” With a shrug that looked mournful, he muttered, “Damn, I know I’m gonna regret this. Someone musta shined my halo today.”
And turning on his heel, he walked away, striding toward the building without a single look back.
2 (#ulink_a09b1bbb-02a5-54c8-b661-52c0002baa8a)
Five weeks later, mid-April
RILEY KELLEHER had known from the age of seven that there was nothing he wanted more in the world than to play baseball. Well, in the fall of 1981, he might have wanted the brand new Pac-Man game for his family’s Atari system more, but in terms of what he wanted to be when he grew up, there’d been no other career for him since that day. October 21. Yankee Stadium. Game Two of the World Series, Yankees vs. the Dodgers.
He’d walked in a typical kid who sighed whenever his talkative grandfather started reminiscing about his days in the minor leagues. He’d walked out a complete baseball junkie.
Before the first pitch, going to a World Series game hadn’t seemed as exciting as getting out of school for a couple of days to take an impromptu trip to New York City with Gramps. The man had scored a pair of tickets in some magazine contest, and no one had been more surprised than Riley when he, the youngest grandson, had been the one chosen to fill the second seat.
Now, of course, he understood. Gramps had seen it in him long before Riley had recognized it in himself: he’d been born with the gene. The game was in his blood in a way some people would never understand.
His grandfather had been thrilled. He’d told him so as they’d left the stadium, wide-eyed and full of excitement about the Yankees victory. Gramps had discovered the baseball gene in himself at the age of seven, too, when he’d watched Lou Gehrig oust Babe Ruth as the Yankees’ power hitter by nailing four home runs in one game.
Riley’s relationship with his grandfather had changed right then and there. Even now, twenty-five years later, he could still close his eyes and recapture the sounds, the smells. He could also remember the sudden rush of a surprisingly adult realization about just how much the Second World War—and a Nazi bullet—had cost Edgar Smith. Not simply some of his mobility, but also, most likely, a place in the majors. A spot in history.
Which was one of the many reasons Riley so loved his job. He was living the dream for both of them.
“Now don’t you forget to ice that shoulder down,” his grandfather said as the two of them walked toward the entrance of the retirement home one Sunday in mid-April. Edgar had, as usual, attended that day’s Slammers home game, sitting in the private skybox reserved for players’ families.
“I’m fine. That shoulder stretch during the bottom of the eighth was strictly to psyche out Rodriguez.”
The old man’s eyes gleamed his approval. “We’re on again for Tuesday?”
Riley nodded, already back in his routine for this season, which included his grandfather in the stands during every home game. His parents and brothers had flown in from Texas for Opening Day a couple of weeks ago—and would probably do so a few more times this summer, but Gramps never missed a home game.
Riley didn’t want to think about what would happen if the team moved.
Signing with the Slammers and moving back to Louisville from Houston—where he and his family had moved when Riley was in high school—had been the perfect way to take care of the old man, who’d refused to move with them. Riley had never regretted making that choice, though he missed his parents and brothers. Still, being a successful ballplayer had a few perks…not the least of which was the money to buy a lot of airplane tickets for a lot of loud, boisterous family vacations.
A sharp spasm shot through his shoulder, which did, indeed, desperately need some work. Riley flinched a little, then surreptitiously rotated it, planning to head back to the Slammers complex as soon as he left here. If he’d gone for a rub down immediately after the game, his grandfather would have insisted on taking a cab back home, something Riley would never allow.
Gramps obviously noticed. “‘Psyche out’ or not, you take care of that arm, boy,”
“I’m fine,” Riley insisted
“You’re no twenty-year-old, anymore.” Gramps’s blue eyes twinkled, so Riley knew he was trying to get a rise out of him.
Keeping the laughter out of his voice, he gave it right back. “And you’re no eighty-year-old, anymore.”
His recently-turned-eighty-one-year-old grandfather gave a phlegmy chuckle. “Like they say, there may be snow on the roof, but there’s still a fire in the hearth.”
Riley didn’t point out the obvious: the “roof” was almost completely bald.
“Ah, look who’s here,” Gramps said, sounding pleased.
Riley followed his stare to see an elderly woman standing at the door, a smile of greeting on her face. He recognized her instantly…Gramps’s girlfriend. The one who read him sex books.
