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The wait to find out how the Rainiers felt didn’t take long, or at least it seemed that way. The week flew by and before she knew it, she had delivered her pitch to Andrew Elliott and the rest of the Rainier managers and coaches.
“A skookum presentation! I like it.” Elliott pounded his cigar into the ashtray on his desk. He was about sixty years old with the energy of a teenager. His short, round frame and rosy cheeks held all the good humor of Santa Claus. Except when he was crossed. Then he could outdo both Scrooge and the Grinch. The cherubic exterior hid a core of pure steel.
“Thank you, Mr. Elliott. If you’re satisfied, we’ll get the first commercial ready to shoot in about a week.”
“It’s wonderful, Ms. James. The campaign’s shaping up to be a real corker. Just what this team needs.”
Samantha chuckled at his quaint colloquialism. “I’ll let your staff know where and when we begin shooting as soon as I make the final arrangements with the director and the camera people.” She shook Elliott’s soft, chubby hand. As gentle as his grasp felt, Samantha knew it cloaked the proverbial iron fist with which Elliott ruled his organization.
Before she won the contract with the Rainiers, Samantha had wondered why Elliott had let the organization run so far into the dirt. Fearlessly, she asked him that exact question early in their negotiations. She had a lot at stake by taking on a project this size. If the owner wasn’t committed to bringing the team up to par with the rest of the league, there was no reason to stick her company’s neck out. After all, the advertising contract only covered one season. If the team did well—that is, if the stands were full—it would be extended to the next season. The gamble was acceptable to Samantha only if Andrew Elliott had the wherewithal and desire to pull the team from the bottom of the standings. Otherwise, what was the point?
Her direct and candid question was one of the ways she had impressed Andrew Elliott. He admitted his mistake: turning too much power over to the wrong man. His confidence had been misplaced, and he had found out only after disaster struck. Consequently, ninety-nine percent of management had been fired—canned was his word. Now Elliott was making the decisions, and the team would change. Which was not saying it was a sure thing. If they didn’t improve, Elliott planned to put the whole kit and caboodle on the auction block and sell to the highest bidder. Samantha liked his honesty, and despite the high stakes, she had signed the contract.
“I’ll talk to you Monday morning. The team photos are scheduled for Tuesday. I left a copy of the details with your secretary.”
Once out of the office, Samantha did a little dance of elation. The campaign was going exactly as she had hoped. Impulsively, she decided to walk over to the ballpark. Where better to revel in this small success? Besides, inspiration had hit her there before. Maybe another bolt of ideas would come with a new visit. She still had to catch up to Boomer, too.
Management offices for the Rainiers were in a four-story structure just north of the stadium. As she strode toward the main entrance, she was struck by how little Sicks Stadium looked like a ballpark. With its brick-and-wood facade, the old structure looked more like a large factory. Inside, a pitched roof covered the horseshoe-shaped stands. Like other stadiums built in the early part of the last century, the playing field was open to the elements.
She showed her badge to the security guard and wound through the maze of tunnels to the field, following a path she had memorized on her first visit. She didn’t see anyone until she climbed out of the dugout onto the field: a few players and coaches stood near the bullpen. Samantha ignored them and slowly turned in a circle, taking in the entire spectacle.
Anticipation filled the air, as if the old building was waiting for the season to begin. After so many summers of baseball, so many games won and lost, maybe the fanciful sensation was true. Maybe this place, like the fans that would fill the seats, waited impatiently for winter to end and another long summer to begin. She laughed at herself: she had definitely been spending too much time thinking about baseball.
JARRETT PICKED UP A new ball, gripped it loosely and slowly pulled his arm back to throw. He went through a pantomime of a pitch in slow motion, not actually letting the ball leave his hand. He repeated the movement over and over, loosening his arm and shoulder muscles. As they warmed, he could feel them easing, a fluidness coming in where rigidity had previously lay. He exaggerated the motions of pitching to work his entire arm, up into his back, down to his legs and toes, preparing his body for the real thing, the whole business of muscle and bones working together in perfect harmony.
Or not.
Jarrett had once taken the gift of painless motion for granted. Not so long ago, those muscles worked perfectly, giving him the control to pitch a baseball however he chose, as fast as he chose. He could fine-tune each pitch to place it low or high, inside or out, with any sort of spin the catcher signaled. And speed? His fastball was a thing of glory. These days, he struggled to reach that perfect grace. When it did return, it was often accompanied by grinding pain.
Nor had he always been so aware of the muscles in his arm. He had known the names of the major muscle groups, but that was it. Now he knew, down to the tiniest connective tendon, the name and function of each part of his shoulder: deltoid, trapezius, teres minor, teres major, scapula. He swore he could feel each one during his slow warm-ups. Learning how his body worked had been one of the ways he had kept his sanity during the long recovery. He had thought that if he understood the anatomy, he could somehow heal faster. It had helped him focus during therapy. With every pinch of discomfort or stab of outright pain, Jarrett would name the muscle and think beyond the agony. He supposed his method had worked, since he was pitching a baseball again, but at a price. His shoulder never completely stopped hurting him and control was elusive.
“All right, Corliss,” the pitching coach yelled from the other end of the bullpen. “Let’s see some heat.”
Jarrett stepped up to the mound and took his stance. He tried not to think about anything at all. Just throw the ball. The first pitch was wild, and Jarrett winced. The second wobbled a bit, but made the strike zone. With each throw, he tried to place the ball where he wanted it to go. Speed would come later in the session.
The coach stood, arms folded across his chest, hat pulled low over his eyes. Jarrett couldn’t read his expression and hoped his own was as blank. Training was always this way, from bad to better with each pitch. He just wished he didn’t start at square one each day.
“Try dropping your shoulder a bit on the follow-through,” the coach said, coming toward Jarrett. He picked up a ball and mimed his request. “I think you’re too high when the ball is here. See?”
Jarrett continued his practice, but control came hard. A few balls would be on the money, but the next would fly wildly astray. He felt frustration rise, which did nothing to help his game. He knew the coach was unhappy, too. As they discussed another tactic, Jarrett caught a flash of red out of the corner of his eye. When he looked, he was surprised to see Samantha James climb the steps out of the dugout and walk onto the field. The coach spoke again and Jarrett wrenched his attention back to his job, but his concentration was abruptly shattered. What was she doing here? And how could he get away from practice long enough to talk with her?
He had spent considerable time thinking about the lovely advertising executive. He hadn’t had a chance to pursue his attraction to her, but here was his opportunity. If he could just get away for a moment. The coach tossed him a ball. Jarrett wound up and threw. Perfectly. He blinked.
“Hey! Whatever you did, do it again,” the coach demanded.
Jarrett followed orders, and the pitch sailed over the plate. Without a word, the coach threw him more balls, and Jarrett pitched them. Each one flew as good as the first. Control was suddenly back in his hands.
The coach walked up to Jarrett. “What’s the deal, Corliss? You been holding back all this time?”
“Not on purpose.” Jarrett was as amazed as the coach. Where had this control come from? He looked over to be sure Samantha hadn’t left yet and an idea occurred to him. “Maybe I’ve been using the wrong lucky charm,” he said slowly.
The coach followed his gaze and saw Samantha. “Nice. And better looking than that mangy rabbit’s foot Seibert wears around his neck. Is she yours?”
“No,” Jarrett admitted, sharing a grin with the other man. “But if you give me a break, I’ll make that a yes.”
The coach chuckled. “Sure, Corliss. Go for it.”
Jarrett pulled off his glove and opened the gate on the bullpen. As he jogged over to her, he remembered how hot her gaze had been, stroking along his skin. This time there would be no interruptions. There was no telling what progress he could make today. He was back in control.
THE SUN MAGICALLY APPEARED for a moment to brighten the wet grass of the infield. Samantha took a deep breath of air and smelled her past: early mornings spent at the ballpark with her father and brother before school started, the air cool and damp, the grass wet with dew. Here she was again, wondering why the game had fascinated so many for so long. And how could she make one team recapture that allure and fill all these seats? Was she the right person for the job? Too late for second thoughts, she reminded herself.
“If you’re looking for someone,” a voice announced, “he’s right behind you.”
Samantha spun to face the man she had consistently banished from her thoughts over the past week. “Jarrett!” she said. “I mean, Mr. Corliss.”
“The first name suits me best.” A slow, warm smile creased his face. “It’s right nice of you to come all the way over here to check on me.”
That smile, coupled with the gleam in his eyes, sent her heart fluttering. The visceral attraction she had felt in the locker room was back in full force. Samantha was breathless. She struggled once more to pull a cloak of professionalism over her jangled nerves. “I’m checking up on the whole team. Not just you.”
“Check up on me as much as you want, darlin’,” he drawled, a twinkle in his eyes. “You’re great for my game. As soon as I saw you standing over here, my pitches started smokin’.”
“Oh, stop,” Samantha said. “All this flattery makes my heart go pitty-pat.”
Jarrett laughed. “Can’t be flattery if it’s true.”
Samantha rolled her eyes at that. “I just stopped by to check on a couple of items for the ad campaign,” she said lightly. “We’ll be shooting the commercials soon.”
“On Tuesday?”
“No, that’s a photo shoot for new close-ups and team shots, things like that.” Samantha gave Jarrett a cool smile. “Well, it was nice to see you again, Mr. Corliss, but I have to get back to my office.”
She turned away, looking for the nearest exit, anxious to put distance between her and this too compelling man. He stepped close and stopped her, encircling her wrist lightly with calloused fingers.
“Not so fast, we’re just getting warmed up here.”
“The inning is over, Mr. Corliss. It’s time for you to go back to your dugout.”
“Come on, Sammy, I haven’t even had a chance to throw one yet. Have dinner with me tonight.”
The question surprised her. The impulse to say yes surprised her even more. “Strike one, Mr. Corliss.”
“Didn’t I just put one right over the plate?”
“Sorry, no. That one was wild.”
“Tomorrow night then.”
“No. Thank you, Mr. Corliss, but no.”
“Why not?”
She tugged away from him, but he only let her get half free. Her wrist slipped through his fingers until they were holding hands, then he tightened his grip. She eyed him warily. “What difference does it make? No is no. Let go of me, please.”
Jarrett ignored her request and stepped closer to her. He ran a finger down her cheek and over her chin. The touch was so electric that Samantha’s hand tightened around his, and the desire she could see so plainly in his eyes mesmerized her. She felt as warm as she had in the locker room, when he had been wearing only a damp towel. All her good intentions vanished. When he spoke, his voice was low, a thread of amusement running through the words.
“Well, sometimes ‘no’ is just ‘maybe’ wearin’ a different dress. Come on, Sammy,” he coaxed, threading his fingers through hers. “Have dinner with me tonight.”
Samantha was struck by the look of complete and utter assurance on Jarrett’s face. He was certain she would say yes, just because he wanted her to do so. He was just as cocky and arrogant as all the others. She tugged her hand back sharply, breaking the connection and stepping away.
“Well, in case you hadn’t noticed, I’m wearing a business suit. When I say ‘no,’ I really do mean no.”
“Give me a chance, Sammy. If we’re going to be working closely together—”
“I assure you, we’re not going to be spending that much time together, Mr. Corliss.”
“Jarrett. Please.” His eyes were an innocent blue, but the dimple in his cheek gave his teasing away. Samantha felt a smile tug at her lips. Really, he was too charming for his own good—or hers.
“Jarrett,” she said reluctantly. “No matter what we call each other, my answer is still no. Besides, I don’t date people I work with.”
He frowned at that, all teasing gone from his face. “We aren’t working together. I pitch baseballs, you pitch the team.”
“That is working together,” she insisted calmly. “At least we both work for the same man. And Andrew Elliott has definite ideas about how he wants the team run this year. One of them is that no one from my company gets personally involved with the team.”
“I can’t believe Elliott cares diddly about us having dinner.”
“Trust me, he does. He wants business to stay business.”
“It’ll be our secret then.”
“This conversation is ridiculous. It doesn’t matter what Andrew Elliott thinks—even though I happen to agree with him. I said no, thank you. That’s all I have to say.” Exasperated by his stubborn arrogance, she turned and walked toward the stands.
Jarrett followed every step of the way. “Then what about you and Boomer?”
“Boomer?” She looked over at him, thrown off by the mention of her brother. “What does he have to do with this?”
“If you agree with Elliott, then what are you doing cozying up to Boomer? You two were pretty chummy in the locker room the other day.”
Samantha tilted her head, looking up at him, confused by the direction the conversation had taken. What was he talking about? Then, in a flash, she realized. He thought she had a thing going with Boomer. The very idea made her want to laugh. “Boomer’s different.”
“I’ll say. So what’s Elliott think about you and him?” Jarrett said with a scowl. “If he gave his blessing to your seeing some second-rate left fielder, I don’t see why he’d object to you having dinner with a starting pitcher.”
“Boomer is not second-rate.”
Jarrett snorted. “Okay, I’ll take that back. He gets the job done. I just wouldn’t trust guys like him.”
“What do you mean, ‘guys like him’?”
“Guys who think the rules are made for everyone else but them.”
“That’s who you think Boomer is?”
“I do.”
Samantha folded her arms. “Why do you think that?”
He was silent.
“Come on, Jarrett,” she prompted. “Out with it. What rules are we talking about? What rules has he broken?”
“Rules like corking your bat, gambling on the team, you name it, he’d do it.”
“Has he actually done those things?”
“Not that I know about,” Jarrett admitted. “Maybe he’s done something worse that no one knows about. I wouldn’t put it past him. Boomer’s the kind of guy who’s going to get caught someday doing something illegal and probably stupid. He’s too arrogant.”
Samantha would have laughed if she hadn’t been so angry. Talk about the pot calling the kettle black. She shook her head. “I don’t think you know him at all, Jarrett. I don’t know how you could, you’ve only been on the team—”
“I don’t need any time at all to know what Boomer is like. It’s plain for anyone with half a brain to see.” Jarrett threw his hands up in the air and stalked a short distance away before turning to face her again. “Come on, Samantha, he’d steal from his grandmother if it suited him, and he’d sleep like a baby at night afterward.”
“He would not.”
“Yeah, he would. He’s got the least conscience of anyone I’ve ever met. You think you’re special to him?” he asked with a sneer. “Don’t bet on it. He’s juggling more women than any man I’ve ever known.”
“It’s not like that—”
“No? So, it doesn’t bother you to hear you’re just one of the harem?”
“No. Even if it were true,” Samantha said in a cold, furious voice. “Because if you had half a brain, you’d know that Boomer James is my brother.”
With a contemptuous look, she turned her back on Jarrett and stalked away. Too angry to think, she stomped up the steps, through the tunnel, to the nearest exit. Just as she pushed the door open, Jarrett caught up to her and grabbed her by the arm.
“I’m sorry. I am an idiot. I didn’t even know the guy had a last name.”
“Most people do, Mr. Corliss.” Samantha glared at him, then at the hand that restrained her. He dropped her arm.
“I’m sorry for what I said about Boomer. I thought—”
“Forget it.”
“Please let me make it up to you, Samantha,” Jarrett pleaded. “I’d really like to take you to dinner.”
She laughed incredulously. “No thanks. I think we’ve spent enough time chatting.”
“Please, Samantha.”
She reined in her anger. “Look, Jarrett, you’re entitled to your opinion about my brother. I think—I know—you’re wrong, but I’m not going to argue about it. I accept your apology. Let’s just leave it at that.”
Their eyes warred for a moment. She could tell he wanted to keep arguing, but he held his tongue. Not too bright, but he was learning. He had dug himself a hole from which there was no easy way out. She pushed the door open and walked away without another word. This time, he didn’t follow.
