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Triple Score
Regina Kyle
Knowing the score…Prima ballerina Noelle Nelson needs to recover from her injury and return to the stage. She won’t consider failure…or be distracted by baseball's resident bad boy, Jace Monroe. His tattoos, wicked smile and deliciously athletic body might drive her crazy, but a media frenzy is the last thing this good girl needs.Jace is sick with fear that his own injury will never heal, but he's not about to let anyone notice, especially the gorgeous blonde dancer he loves to infuriate. He's pushing himself past his physical capacity, putting his future at risk. Still, when it comes to making a play for Noelle, Jace is in scoring position—and he’s not going to back down!
Knowing the score...
Prima ballerina Noelle Nelson needs to recover from her injury and return to the stage. She won’t consider failure...or be distracted by baseball’s resident bad boy, Jace Monroe. His tattoos, wicked smile and deliciously athletic body might drive her crazy, but a media frenzy is the last thing this good girl needs.
Jace is sick with fear that his own injury will never heal, but he’s not about to let anyone notice, especially the gorgeous blonde dancer he loves to infuriate. He’s pushing himself past his physical capacity, putting his future at risk. Still, when it comes to making a play for Noelle, Jace is in scoring position—and he’s not going to back down!
Who says he has to be Mr. Right? What’s wrong with Mr. Right Now?
The world had narrowed to three things: Jace’s mouth, Noelle’s fingers and the half a cookie clutched between them.
His breath mingled with hers. “Are you ready?”
In a heartbeat, the cookie vanished from her hand and her index finger was drawn into the warm, wet vortex of his mouth. He worked his way down to her pinkie, tormenting each finger in turn with his lips, teeth and tongue until they were sucked clean.
Oh. My. God.
“I’m still hungry.”
She glanced at the tin in her lap. “There’re more cookies.”
“That’s not what I’m hungry for.”
Jace plucked the tin of cookies off her lap and set it down on the bench behind him.
“I think you know what I want...”
Dear Reader (#u2846af61-50b3-5b05-8c40-34a9bd169afd),
Finally! You met the baby of the Nelson family, ballerina Noelle, in Triple Threat. Now, three books later, she gets her own story in Triple Score.
Things aren’t all rosy for poor Noelle. She’s torn her ACL, a possible career-ending injury for a ballet dancer. So she’s holed up at an exclusive rehab center focused on one thing and one thing only—following her treatment plan and getting back onstage ASAP.
Enter bad-boy baseball player Jace Monroe. He’s ruptured the ligament in his elbow—again—and he needs to get better fast so he can rejoin his team, the Sacramento Storm, as shortstop. But unlike Noelle, Jace isn’t a by-the-books kind of guy. He’s willing to break the rules of rehab to get what he wants. And what he wants is to play baseball—and tear down the walls the elusive, alluring ballerina keeps putting up between them.
I’ve loved my time with the Nelson family, and I hope you have, too. Sadly, Triple Score is the last in The Art of Seduction series. But you’ll get the chance to catch up with all of the Nelson siblings in the epilogue. And you might get to see at least one Nelson pairing in one of my upcoming books for Harlequin Blaze. Remember Malcolm and Marisa from Triple Threat? Well, it looks as if they’ll be getting their own story, a Christmas book tentatively titled Six Pack Santa.
But first you’ll get to see more of Jace’s pals Cooper and Reid. So play ball!
Until next time,
Regina
Triple Score
Regina Kyle
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
REGINA KYLE was destined to be an author when she won a story contest at age eight with a touching tale about a squirrel and a nut pie. By day, she composes dry legal briefs. At night, she writes steamy romance with heart and humor. A lover of all things theatrical, Regina lives with her husband, teenage daughter and two melodramatic cats. When she’s not writing, she’s usually singing, reading, cooking or watching bad reality television.
For Diane. My only sister, my first friend. I hope you read this under the covers with a flashlight and no one catches you and tells you to go to sleep. And that you like it as much as you did Flat Stanley. W2T, 143.
Contents
Cover (#u3fdc7994-d14a-5599-a715-e880fc65f0be)
Back Cover Text (#u6c45b001-e75e-507f-8251-5dfcd8c384cf)
Introduction (#u190ac87a-9169-55ab-99a2-167a71325a50)
Dear Reader
Title Page (#u16ede7c8-a77b-51d4-ab82-dcd3480435bc)
About the Author (#u852605e9-2644-571c-942c-5bcd884a0212)
Dedication (#ue7331a09-0ac8-59c2-a507-c7d45604a915)
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Epilogue
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
1 (#u2846af61-50b3-5b05-8c40-34a9bd169afd)
“THAT’S IT, JACE.” A female voice, thick and smoky, drifted through the closed door. “Perfect.”
A low, male moan followed. “Feels good.”
“Not too hard. Just a little more.”
“Oh, yeah.”
Noelle Nelson froze, one hand on the grip of her crutch and the other inches from the door marked “Physical Therapy.” The room was usually empty this time of night. But the couple in there clearly had a different kind of therapy session in mind.
Ewww.
She lowered her hand. Her nightly stretches would have to wait. She might not be able to do much with a torn knee ligament, but she’d be damned if she was going to let herself go. When her leg healed and she got the green light to dance again, she’d be ready. More than ready.
Noelle tightened her fists around the rubber crutch grips, fully intending to swing herself around and hobble back to her room. That was the right thing to do. Not lean in and press her ear to the door. But morbid curiosity wouldn’t let her leave without at least trying to figure out who the heck was in there. Maybe she could pick up a few pointers. It’d been a while since she’d gotten any action. Not that anyone at the rehab center had sparked her interest. No one had visions of mixing it up on the massage table dancing in her head.
“That’s far enough.” The woman’s voice pitched higher.
“Come on,” the man cajoled.
“Stop, Jace. I mean it.”
“Just a little further. I promise.”
“I said no.”
WTF? Noelle pressed closer to the door, straining to hear better. No more protests. No sounds of a struggle. Just clanking metal, like someone was using the free weights.
What in God’s green earth was going on in there?
She reached for the doorknob again. A little peek. That was all she needed to make sure the woman, whoever she was, was okay. Then she could walk—or limp—away with a clear conscience.
Noelle inched the knob to the right and pushed the door open a hair, then a bit more. Damn. Still not enough to see anything. She risked discovery and cracked the door open farther, leaning forward on her crutches to see far enough into the room to spot the mysterious Jace and his gal pal.
Finally, she caught a glimpse—two heads bent next to each other, one fair, one dark. She leaned in, holding her breath. One of her crutches wobbled. She grabbed at it, her pulse accelerating, but it slipped out from under her and clattered to the floor.
“Shit.” Teetering, she reached for the closest thing to her—the door—to steady herself. Instead, it swung open and she tumbled through the opening. Trying to muster as much dancer’s grace as she could, she threw down her other crutch and thrust out her hands. They met the scratchy indoor-outdoor carpet of the physical therapy room with a jolt, blessedly taking the brunt of the impact. She collapsed in a heap, her injured leg, in a brace from mid-thigh to just below her knee, extended out behind her.
“Shit,” she repeated, slowly raising her head and absorbing the scene in front of her. No strewn clothing. No naked bodies. No show of force. Nothing even remotely sexual or threatening. Just Sara, one of the therapists on staff, hovering over a man sitting on one of the exercise benches, all his energy focused on what looked to be a five-pound weight clutched in his fist.
And what a man.
Even with a brace from the middle of his upper arm to his wrist, Noelle could sense the power in his tattooed bicep. She’d spent her life being lifted and thrown by dancers toned and strong from intense, daily workouts. But they were more on the lean side. This guy was built like a linebacker, muscle on muscle on muscle. His tank top clung to his broad chest with well-defined pecs and his gym shorts hugged thighs he’d clearly spent hours bulking up with squats and lunges. Sweat beaded at the back of his bent head, dampening the thick, dark curls at the base of his neck, and he radiated a not-so-quiet determination.
“Ohmigod!” Sara’s shout broke Noelle out of her lust-induced stupor. The therapist rushed over to her, moving immediately to kneel beside her. With practiced hands, she manipulated Noelle’s injured leg, feeling up and down the brace. “Are you okay?”
“I think so.” Noelle struggled to sit up. “Nothing hurt except my pride.”
“Everything seems in place.” Sara nodded reassuringly. “You’re lucky.”
Right. She’d just fallen flat on her face in front of the only guy to get her hormones to wake up and do the cha-cha since Yannick had dumped her in front of the entire company six months ago. Six lonely, sex-starved months. Real lucky.
“Don’t move. Let me get an ice pack in case it starts to swell.”
“I’m fine, really,” Noelle insisted. “I don’t want to interrupt your session.”
“We’re through here.” Sara stood and shot Jace a warning look before crossing to the door. “Right?”
He shrugged and looked up, giving Noelle her first glimpse of eyes the color of fine, aged whiskey, tinged with what looked like concern. “If you say so.”
“I do. I only agreed to stay late so you could get acclimated to the facilities here, not work yourself to death on your first day.” Sara ducked into the hallway and Jace appeared in her place at Noelle’s side, all six-foot-something of him occupying the air above her in a way the tiny therapist never could.
“Lose something?” He held Noelle’s crutches out in front of him. Any concern she’d seen in those whiskey eyes had morphed into amusement.
“You could say that.”
“I just did.” He handed her crutches.
“Thanks.” She grabbed them and tried—unsuccessfully—to get to her feet. Normally, she wouldn’t disobey a direct order from her PT. And you didn’t get more direct than, “Don’t move.” But she had to get out of there and away from Mr. Tall, Dark and Dangerous. Fast. Well, as fast as she could in her present condition.
“Hang on.” The man in question reached down with his good arm and took hold of her elbow. Arousal zinged down her forearm to her fingertips. “Here. Lean on me.”
She shook him off, needing the tingles to stop. Six months celibate or not, she hadn’t flown across the country for a casual hookup, no matter how hot she found the hook-ee. She was there for one reason and one reason only—to get back on stage as soon as humanly possible. “I’m perfectly capable of managing by myself.”
“I’m sure you are.” His fingers curled around her elbow again and damned if the tingles didn’t start anew. “But why should you have to when you’ve got a strong, almost completely healthy male to help?”
Indeed.
“Fine.” She swallowed, moistening lips suddenly drier than Arizona in August. “But watch out for the leg.”
“Your wish is my command.” He gave a mock bow, wrapped his good arm around her waist and lifted her gently, pulling her flush against all those warm, hard, beautiful muscles as she inched upward. He smelled like sweat and soap and strong, healthy male, and she fought the nervous shudder building up inside her.
This was a bad idea. No, not bad. Monumentally stupid. Like trapeze-without-a-net stupid.
