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“I’m going to count to three.” His breath mingled with hers. “Are you ready?”
She nodded.
“One.”
She swallowed hard.
“Two.”
She closed her eyes.
“Three.”
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.
“There.” With one last lick, Jace released her hand, and it flopped into her lap like a newborn kitten. “All gone.”
Zip-a-dee-doo-dah.
Noelle wasn’t promiscuous, but she wasn’t a sexual novice, either. How had she gone so long without experiencing...that? She shivered, picked up the tin of cookies and snapped the lid back on.
“Wait. You’ve got a few crumbs. Right—” he pointed to the corner of her mouth “—there.”
She lifted her hand to her lips, but he caught it, stopping her.
“What are you doing?” Every last one of her nerve endings hummed with anticipation.
“I’m still hungry.” He brought her hand down but didn’t relinquish it, instead stroking slow circles on the inside of her wrist with his thumb.
She glanced at the tin in her lap. “There are more cookies.”
“That’s not what I’m hungry for.” He plucked the tin off her lap and set it down on the bench behind him. “I think you know what I want.”
Yeah, she did. And she wanted it, too. Trouble was she knew exactly what path it was going to lead her down—and what would be waiting for her at the end.
Heartache.
Loneliness.
And, if she was really lucky, a big, steaming serving of humiliation.
Exactly what she’d been left with when Yannick called it quits. Unless she could somehow manage to engage her body without engaging her heart, something other women seemed to have mastered but she could never figure out how to accomplish.
Live a little, Holly’s voice echoed again. What’s wrong with Mr. Right Now?
“I repeat.” He raised his good hand and tangled his fingers in her hair. “If you don’t want this, stop me now.”
She couldn’t if she tried.
So she didn’t.
He pulled her in and he crushed his lips against hers. Not shy or tentative, this kiss was like the man himself—hot and hard, forcing the air from her lungs. It demanded a response that she gave willingly, opening her mouth so he could slide his tongue inside.
He tasted good. Like coconut and almond from the macaroons but somehow better, as if their sweetness was mixed with the spice of wild, hungry sex. Sex the likes of which she’d never experienced, that would leave her breathless and panting and begging for more.
Her tongue met his and she melted into him, wanting—needing—more. Her fingers clutched at the soft cotton of his shirt and she moaned into his mouth. She couldn’t recall ever feeling so wanton, so desperate. Whether it was due to the man or her six months of celibacy, she didn’t know.
Beneath her hand, the muscles of his chest tightened, making her breath hitch. Who was she kidding? She knew damn well. It was the man.
He broke off the kiss, leaving her momentarily bereft until he worked his lips over her chin, down her neck, to the hollow of her throat, leaving a warm, wet trail in his wake. She tilted her head, encouraging him to explore further, just in time to catch of glimpse of something moving in the trees past his shoulder.
“Wait.” She stiffened, listening, her eyes straining to see in the fading sunlight.
“Don’t tell me you’re having second thoughts now,” he groaned against her skin, his mouth pushing past the neckline of her peasant blouse to skim the top of her breast. “Just when it was getting good.”
She thought it was already pretty damn good, but there wasn’t time to argue. “There’s something—or someone—out there.”
“Probably an animal.” He moved to the other breast without missing a beat.
“You don’t understand.” The flutters in her stomach traveled lower even as she pushed him away. “What if it’s one of the nurses? Or another patient?”
He raised his head to pin her with a heavy-lidded stare. “Embarrassed to be seen with me, Duchess?”
“Ohmigod, what if it’s the paparazzi?” she asked in a whisper, ignoring his question. They’d had a field day with her and Yannick’s messy split, half of them painting her as a naive girl caught under the spell of her older, more experienced choreographer and the other half making it look like she was an opportunistic fame-seeker willing to screw anyone who could help her on her way up the ballet pyramid. And Yannick was a D-lister compared to Jace. If the press got wind of this...
A squirrel darted out from the trees, cocked its fuzzy little head at them and scampered off in the opposite direction from where Jace and Noelle had come.
“There’s your paparazzi.” Jace smirked. “Looks like your reputation is safe.”
“For now. That was too close for comfort.” She rose unsteadily and adjusted her blouse, struggling to tamp down the desire still thrumming through her veins. “We have to get out of here.”
“What’s the matter?” He joined her standing. “Never made out al fresco before?”
“Not usually, no.”
He made a show of bowing to her, bending low with a flourish of his good wrist. “Then I’m flattered to be the man who persuaded you to change that.”
“One kiss does not a habit break.” She pulled a hair tie out of the pocket of her jean shorts and tamed her lust-mussed locks into a ponytail. “It was a...”
“Don’t you dare say ‘mistake.’” His gaze slipped down to the obvious bulge under the zipper of his Lucky’s. “Whatever the hell that was, it was definitely not a mistake.”
“Fine.” She looked away from his erection, heat creeping up her cheeks, and ambled as fast as her bad leg would take her up the path to the relative safety and privacy of her room. Jace caught up to her after a few steps. “I won’t say it.”
But that didn’t mean it wasn’t true. The man was like her own personal Kryptonite. Powerful, dangerous, hypnotic. She’d have to try all the harder to stay away from him or be rendered completely and utterly helpless to resist his hard-bodied, tatted-up, bad-boy spell.
4 (#ulink_79a53be8-51c9-574b-bda1-22a82b46cd35)
“GREAT JOB TODAY.” Sara took the barbell from Jace’s hand and replaced it with a towel. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Same bat time, same bat channel.”
He wiped his forehead and slung the towel around his neck. “What the hell. It’s not like I’ve got anything better to do.”
Wasn’t that the truth. He’d thought things were looking up after his cookie swap with Noelle. Sure, the lady protested. But her body hadn’t thought their kiss was a mistake.
Instead, he’d barely seen Noelle since the infamous macaroon incident. No pouty lips. No perky breasts. No...
“Earth to Jace.” Sara snapped her fingers in front of his face. “Scram. My next appointment’s due any minute. You can do a half hour of cardio on the treadmill or the elliptical if you want, but no more than that and not too fast. The idea’s to get your heart rate into the target zone, not keep going until you drop.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He stood and wiped down the utility bench he’d been using with the clean end of his towel. “Who’s up next?”
If the week’s pattern held, it wouldn’t be Noelle. He didn’t have any proof, but he had a strong suspicion she’d been scheduling her training sessions to avoid running into him.
“New kid. High school pitching sensation. Lost his arm to a downed power line.”
“That sucks.” Inadequate, Jace knew, but accurate.
Sara eyed him. “On second thought, maybe you should stick around. He could use a little cheering up. A bona fide sports hero might be just the thing.”
Jace scrunched the towel up in his hand. He’d never been comfortable with the whole hero-worship-role-model thing. Who the hell would want to emulate him? He wasn’t fit to be anyone’s hero. He drank too much, partied too hard. He was just a kid from a broken home on the wrong side of the tracks who’d been lucky enough to make it in the majors. End of story. “Some other time. I’ve got to hit the shower and make some phone calls.”
“I’m holding you to that,” Sara called after his retreating back.
“You do that.” With a wave of his good arm, he pushed through the door and surveyed the hallway. Empty. On the plus side, that meant no sign of Sara’s pitching phenom. On the negative, it meant no sign of Noelle, either.
Oh, well, he thought as he veered left toward his room. You had to take the good with the bad. Such was life.
The second his door latched behind him, he reached for the hem of his shirt. He had it half way up his torso when a flashing light on the nightstand caught his eye.
A message. On the room phone. The only people who even knew he was there were team management, his agent, his dad, Cooper and Reid, not necessarily in that order. Why hadn’t they tried his cell?
Shit. He’d turned it off before his therapy session. Sara’s number one rule. No phones. No interruptions.
He reached into the pocket of his gym shorts.
Nothing.
Double shit.
It must have slipped out during his workout. Hopefully someone had picked it up. He’d have to go back and get it, but not until he found out what was so important someone had tracked him down and left a message on his room phone.
He let his shirt fall and caught a whiff of sweat, reminding him that he’d better shower, too, before rejoining civilization.
But first the phone.
Jace sat down on his bed and hit the flashing button.
“Hey, pal,” his father’s voice greeted him over the speaker. “I tried your cell but it went straight to voice mail.”
Duh.
“Anyway,” his dad continued. “I, uh, need to talk to you. Nothing urgent, really. Just, uh, when you get a chance. Hope the arm’s feeling better. Don’t forget to ice it, and wear your brace even when you’re sleeping.”
The message ended, and Jace hit Delete. He loved his dad. How could he not? The guy had raised him solo when his mom ran off with a better prospect, one sure to make it to the show, not like his journeyman infielder father. But that didn’t mean his dad wasn’t downright annoying sometimes. Especially when it came to his favorite subject: baseball.
He stared at the phone a minute before picking up the handset and dialing his father’s number, bracing himself for the questions to come, questions he didn’t have any definitive answers to.
“Hi, Dad,” Jace said when his father finally answered on the fourth ring. “Sorry I missed your call. I had my cell off during PT.”
“How’s it going?” His dad sounded out of breath, and not for the first time Jace wondered if he shouldn’t be the one getting medical treatment.
“Good. My therapist says I’m ahead of schedule.” Jace crossed the fingers of his good hand behind his back. “How about you? You sound tired.”
“I’m fine. I ran in from the garage when I heard the phone.”
“Working on something special?” Jace leaned back against his pillow, stretched his legs out on the bed and smiled, imagining his father tinkering with an old Crosley radio or vintage Pioneer television. It had been a hobby when his dad played ball, but when his career on the field had ended in Double-A he’d turned it into a viable business, repairing all kinds of small electronics, new and old. If it had wires, Patrick Monroe could fix it.
“A jukebox.” His father’s voice radiated excitement for his new project, even over the phone. “Wurlitzer, mid-1940s.”
“That’s gotta be rare.” To Jace’s knowledge, his father hadn’t worked on one that old before. They’d restored a 1970s Seeburg together when Jace was in high school. “I can’t wait to see it.”
“Well, you’ll have to. I don’t want you rushing home on my account. Listen to your doctors and take your rehab one day at a time. Baseball’s not going anywhere. It’ll still be there when you’re ready to play. And the team needs you at full strength.”
Oh, goodie. Lecture time.
“I know, Dad. I’ll be a model patient and follow doctor’s orders to the letter. Promise.” Good thing his fingers were still crossed. “Now what was it you needed to talk to me about? You said in your message it wasn’t urgent, but it must be pretty important if it couldn’t wait until our Sunday call.”
It was a ritual, the Sunday call, one they’d never missed in the ten years since Jace was drafted into the minors straight out of high school. 6:00 p.m. on the button unless Jace was on the field or in the air, and then he’d call as soon as the game was over or he touched down.
“It’s nothing, really.”
“C’mon, Dad. Whatever it is, it’s not nothing or you wouldn’t have called.” Jace sat up and swung his feet over the side of the bed. “Are you hurt? Sick? Do you need me to come home?”
“No, no and no,” his father insisted. “I told you, I don’t want you cutting your rehab short for me. I’m just a little low on cash is all.”
Again? Jace wanted to scream. But this was his father, the man who’d made sure he was fed and clothed and got to school on time, who’d scrimped and saved so his son could attend baseball camp every summer. And Jace had more than enough disposable income. Who was he to deny his own flesh and blood?
“How low?” he asked.
“Well, the basement’s leaking and the refrigerator is on its last legs...”
Already? He’d bought a practically brand-new house for his dad eight years ago when he was called up to the majors.
“How low?” Jace repeated.
There was a long pause before his father answered, and when he did his voice was barely a whisper. “Ten grand.”
“For a leak and a fridge?” Jace spat out before he could stop himself.
“The leak’s pretty bad. The whole basement’s underwater when it rains. They want to install a drainage system and a sump pump.”
