by Mindy Klasky
“Trey?” He looked surprised, glancing at the velvet curtains as if he expected the boy to be summoned by the speaking of his name.
She nodded. “He’d be a great candidate for Musicall. We’re setting up an after-school program for elementary and middle school. Kids participate all school year, and then we’ll have two-week camps during the summer. With his beautiful voice, he’d be perfect!”
“How do you know that?”
“I heard him today. During the seventh-inning stretch.”
He laughed. “Sure, he can sing with a crowd. But when he grows up, he’ll be on the field, not in the stands.”
“What if he doesn’t want to play baseball? What if he’d rather sing?”
DJ shook his head, as if she’d suggested Daniel walk on the moon instead of running a hundred-yard dash. “Any son of mine is going to play ball.”
The words were flat. Not open for debate. She stared in shock, wondering how this hard-bitten automaton could have instantaneously replaced the funny, sexy man she’d been talking to only a moment before.
But DJ’s refusal to yield shouldn’t be a surprise. She’d seen the man correct Daniel’s use of his right hand. He’d told her, right up front, that his own father had forced a similar change onto him.
Still, she couldn’t leave well enough alone. “He could do both,” she insisted. “Play baseball and sing.”
“He’s got Little League practice four times a week,” DJ said flatly. “Not to mention his chores at the ballpark.”
But what does Daniel want to do? Sam started to ask. She’d heard the boy sing. She’d seen the smile on his face.
Everything she’d learned in her tenure as Summer Queen told her she had to be diplomatic in her protest. She had to respect DJ’s opposition, accept that he knew best for his own son, even as she offered up a possible alternative. She should use her smile, her easy grace, to connect with him again, to make him understand that Musicall could be every bit as enriching, every bit as important—
He was completely shut off from her. More distant than he’d been at any other point during the evening.
“Dad!” Daniel shouted, pushing his way through the velvet curtains. Sam had never been more thrilled to hear a child’s voice. “Aunt Mary let me help her make a strawberry pie! The first of the season! And we get to take the whole thing home with us!”
* * *
Great, DJ thought. A pieful of sugar. Just what the kid needs.
He reached out to high five his son, though. The boy couldn’t have chosen a better moment to bull his way back into the room. Even now, the kid’s chatter was dispersing the distinct chill that had taken over the room.
What was DJ supposed to say to Sam, though? There was no possible way Trey was going to attend her fancy music camp. The kid had to learn some discipline. When DJ was his age, he’d already been throwing from a mound. He’d even started working on his curve ball, despite his father’s admonitions to protect his arm.
DJ might have disappointed his own father, but he wouldn’t let that happen to his son. Trey was going to have a Hall of Fame career that would make the legendary Dan Thomas sit up and pay attention—if that was the last thing DJ did.
Samantha—Sam—wasn’t a fool. She followed his lead and let the tension drift away, focusing instead on Trey’s excitement. She declined her own slice of pie, but DJ felt a proprietary pride when she helped herself to a few bites from his plate. She sipped her chamomile tea like it was some sort of fancy after-dinner drink.
Trey kept things light and easy as they finished their meal. DJ was reluctant as he paid the bill—but only because he didn’t want the evening to end. He’d had more fun sitting here than he had in months of spring training.
And it wasn’t just the superior food. He’d seen the interest kindle in Sam’s eyes when he’d told her she was in charge. He’d registered her initial surprise, but he’d be damned if she hadn’t started to think about a few ways to use the power he had willingly placed in her hands.
Or maybe that was just his wishful thinking.
Wishful thinking was more than a little distracting as he drove Sam home. She offered directions tentatively, her voice soft enough that he had to lean toward her more than once. He suspected she wasn’t used to bringing strangers to her doorstep.
Pulling into her driveway, DJ automatically surveyed the neighborhood. This was a quiet part of town; the small homes were neat and tidy, with their clapboard siding and well-maintained lawns. Alleys must cut behind the houses; the only car on the street was a black SUV, a couple of doors down.
DJ shoved the gearshift into Park and said over his shoulder to Trey, “You wait here, buddy.” He had crossed around the car to Sam’s door before she could protest that he didn’t need to bother.
He stayed close to her as they walked along the narrow flagstone path to her front door. The porch light was off; she hadn’t planned on getting home after dark. Under the moonlight, her copper hair gleamed like a slow-flowing river. He folded his fingers into an easy fist, reluctantly resisting the urge to gather up the strands, to cup his palm against the back of her neck.
“Hey,” she said, when they stood at the top of the three neatly-laid brick steps.
He waited.
“I didn’t mean to upset you back in the restaurant. You know more about what’s right for Daniel than I ever could.”
“Don’t worry about it,” he said automatically. She hadn’t meant any harm. She just didn’t know the whole story, didn’t know how many years DJ had spent trying to make his own father proud.
“Um, thanks for dinner.”
Dammit! He recognized that tone in her voice. She was nervous. Uncertain. And the worst thing was, he didn’t know how he could make things right between them.
If she’d been any other woman, he would have made his feelings perfectly clear. He would have tangled his hands in her hair, slanted his lips over hers, given her the type of kiss he’d wanted to give her since the first minute Ormond tossed that newspaper onto the bench in the locker room.
But he’d already told her the ball was in her court. If he even shook her hand, he’d be breaking the contract he’d put between them.
But then, impossibly, she was moving closer to him. One hand brushed against his jaw, the long fingers tracing another eloquent, unnecessary apology. When he caught his breath, swallowing the honey and cinnamon scent of her, she closed the distance between them. She tilted her head up, sweetly, chastely, and he pressed his lips against hers, as cool and respectful as he’d managed to be before the game, in front of all those cameras.
Despite his most honorable intentions now, his dick leaped up, refusing to accept the possibility of a world where it wouldn’t be summoned to immediate service. Sam wasn’t a fool. She had to feel his immediate response. She laughed deep in her throat and—impossibly—wriggled closer to him.
His fingers closed around her hips, warning her, holding her steady. She pulled back just enough to look into his eyes. There were questions in her gaze, a hint of indecision.
But she was the one who stepped closer to the unmistakable tent in his jeans. She was the one who slipped her hand behind his neck. She was the one who tightened her fingers in his hair, pulling him back into a kiss that was a thousand degrees hotter than before.
She teased his lips with hers, urging him to hold her closer. Her tongue was quicksilver fast, darting out as if she’d discovered a new toy. He growled at the invitation and shifted his lips to the sensitive hollow beneath her ear. She moaned—a sound that he’d only heard before in a bedroom—and her head lolled back, giving him better access, exposing the long line of her throat.
Flash!
The light was so bright, he was blinded. He slammed his eyes closed, even as Sam stiffened in his hands. She cried out, and she tried to pull away, but his instinct was to wrap his arms around her, to protect her with his body.
Flash!
Another brilliant stroke of light, an
d his hormone-staggered brain finally recognized the flash of a camera. He heard the click then, braced for the next explosion just a second before it came.
“Goddammit!” he shouted, even as a shadow detached itself from the darker shapes of the shrubs beside the front porch. “Come back here!” He could have thrown himself down the steps, but that would have meant shoving Sam aside, tossing her away.
A car door slammed, and the SUV came to life with a roar. The headlights were nowhere near as bright as the camera flash had been. Tires screeched as the driver took the corner at breakneck speed. DJ could do nothing but stare as the vehicle disappeared into the cool April night.
CHAPTER 4
Getting to First! shouted the headline.
The News & Observer featured a thumbnail picture on the front page, sending readers over to the Life section. There, a huge photo occupied most of the space above the fold—Sam’s face turned up to DJ’s as their lips locked. Her eyes were closed, and his left hand was splayed across the back of her head. They looked like a classic couple on the cover of a trashy romance novel.
The newspaper’s wittiest writers had summarized a dozen scandals for past beauty queens, ranging from multiple drunk driving busts to shoplifting convictions to becoming pregnant in the middle of a reign. The paper concluded that Sam being caught kissing a sexy, unmarried baseball player was hardly the worst thing that could have happened.
But Sam knew the truth. In the world of the Summer Fair, a picture spoke infinitely more than a thousand words. Judith Burroughs wasn’t going to care that Sam hadn’t been intoxicated, that she hadn’t stolen property, that there was no possible way she could be pregnant.
Sam’s worst fears were confirmed by a phone call at seven o’clock sharp. That made two mornings in the past week that she’d been responsible for getting Judith out of bed before noon. Somehow, she was pretty sure the consequences would be worse for a second violation.
Sam wasn’t disappointed. Walking through the hallways of the Summer Fair offices, she tried to hold her head high, but she couldn’t overlook the clusters of gossiping staff members. Two people here. Three over there. As Sam drew near, the whispers trailed off. One enterprising woman managed to change the tone of her speech dramatically, pretending to deliver the punchline to a joke.
But Sam knew she was the only real punchline that morning.
Judith was waiting in her office.
As the director of the Summer Fair stood, the reek of cigarette smoke wafted off her suit. Sam would have been grateful to see an ashtray in the vicinity—a few good draughts of nicotine might take the bleeding edge off Judith’s fury. But no cigarettes were visible. No Bloody Marys, either. Instead, a half-filled coffee cup glared from Judith’s desk, the woman’s blood-red lipstick contrasting wildly with the black logo of the Fair.
“Would you like to explain yourself?” With that single question, the temperature of the room plummeted twenty degrees.
Sam resisted the urge to cross her arms over her chest, because that gesture would only make her look ill-at-ease. Even if she was ill-at-ease. Even if she wanted to turn tail and run out of the office, forfeiting the rest of her reign and any good she might even imagine doing as the Summer Queen.
“We were ambushed,” she said. “The photographer was lying in wait in the bushes at my house.”
Judith’s eyes narrowed. “That man had no purpose being at your house.”
“DJ Thomas was driving me home after dinner.”
“After an unchaperoned dinner.”
“We had someone with us!” Sam protested. “DJ’s son was there the entire time!” All right. Not the entire time. But close enough. Who was Sam trying to kid? Nothing would be close enough. Not for Judith. Not for the Summer Fair.
“Are you trying to tell me that Mr. Thomas’ minor son witnessed that type of misbehavior!”
Sam blushed. Judith made it sound like she’d performed a striptease on her front porch, complete with tassels and thigh-high boots. “Daniel was in the car when the picture was taken. The three of us went to a public restaurant after the game, Judith. I was home before eight o’clock.”
I stayed awake until midnight, wondering what might have happened if the photographer hadn’t been there. If Daniel had been old enough to find his own way home.
Some thoughts were better left unspoken.
“I won’t lie to you, Samantha. I’ve already heard from four board members this morning. Three of them want you to resign by the end of the day.”
“I didn’t do anything wrong!”
Judith stabbed a manicured finger toward the newspaper centered on her desk. Sam stared down at her own face, at her closed eyes, and she remembered the heat that had radiated from DJ’s hands. Judith spat, “It’s bad enough that your picture is displayed there, for every child in the state of North Carolina to see. But the article links you with criminals. With women of loose morals!”
Loose morals. What was this? The 1950s? Sam was smart enough to keep her retort to herself.
Judith extracted a sheaf of paper from beneath the newsprint. “Do I need to remind you of the contract you signed, the day you submitted your application to become the Summer Queen?” Breathing through her nose, Judith turned to the appropriate page and enunciated: “If at any time, in the Fair’s sole opinion, Contestant becomes the subject of public disrepute, contempt, or scandal that affects Contestant’s image or goodwill, the Fair may immediately terminate Contestant’s Reign.”
Sam’s throat went dry. She knew the language of course. She’d read the document before she’d signed it. But hearing the words out loud, in the bright light of day…
“Ms. Burroughs, please…” Sam sounded like she was about to cry. She forced herself to stop speaking. She cleared her throat and took a deep breath before she began again. “I made a mistake. And you have every right to be upset with me. But my work here is more important than any single article in a newspaper. I’m so close to seeing results, after all these months of planning. I think Musicall might finally get funded, any day now.”
Judith pursed her carefully painted lips. “I said that three board members were demanding your resignation.”
Sam froze, afraid to ladle hope into the silence between them.
“But the fourth board member is Armistead Broadbush.”
Sam dared to take a breath. Mr. Broadbush was the patriarch of one of the oldest families in Raleigh. He lived in a mansion in the historic Oakwood district, and he was known for his lavish fundraisers that benefited the arts. The arts. Including the Raleigh Philharmonic.
Judith’s eyes sparked daggers beneath the weight of her mascara. “Mr. Broadbush called to say that he is willing to underwrite Musicall. For one month. In one school.”
Sam’s legs seemed to have forgotten how to support her body. “I—I don’t know what to say.”
One month. One school. She had such big dreams. She wanted to share music with every child in Wake County, from the littlest kindergartener to the oldest high-school senior.
But big dreams started small. And working with a single school on the project of her dreams was a far cry from being thrown out of the Summer Fair altogether.
Judith was scowling, as if she would have preferred pursuing disciplinary action instead of bringing Samantha the news she’d longed to hear for nearly a year. “Mr. Broadbush was very specific. He named the exact school he wants you to work with. James K. Polk Elementary.”
“Of course,” Sam said. “I’d love to work with Polk.” She’d pored over lists of schools for so long, she immediately knew everything about the institution. It was situated in the city of Raleigh proper, not in wider Wake County. It had a diverse student body. It had been used to try out multiple new programs in the last five years—testing initiatives, new curricula. If Sam had drawn up a list of her dream schools, Polk Elementary would have been at the top.
Judith shook her head. “I asked Mr. Broadbush to reach out to his fellow board members, to
soothe ruffled feathers. He agreed, because he somehow thinks your program has a chance of succeeding. But you’ve only got a very narrow space to work in. One more misstep, and the Fair will have no choice but to invoke your morals clause. You’ll be asked to resign, without a single hesitation.”
Sam knew she should be worried. She should be disappointed that she was being given such a short leash, that she was being forced to work on such a stripped down vision of her dream. She should be terrified that she had no remaining room for error—one more false step, and she was doomed forever.
But she couldn’t keep from grinning as widely as if she’d just donned her Summer Queen tiara for the first time in her life.
* * *
Three days later, Sam was standing in front of a classroom, making her pitch for Musicall. She’d practiced her words for hours, rehearsing in front of the full-length mirror in her bedroom. She’d even recorded her voice on her phone, playing it back to listen for ums and ers, for any little distractions that might let attention stray.
And all of that preparation had served her well. She’d started off her morning meeting with Reginald Holcomb, the principal of James K. Polk elementary. The man had actually given her half an hour out of his busy day, looking at the charts she presented, studying her statistics about how music classes helped children with their academics, increasing self-esteem and problem-solving ability.
Apparently, that presentation had constituted jumping through a hoop she hadn’t known existed. Holcomb’s eventual smile spread across his face like sunshine on a field of spring-green shoots. The principal invited her to repeat her presentation three times during the day, to teachers taking their lunch breaks in the faculty lounge.
Speaking to the educators, Sam was doubly, triply, quadruply glad she had rehearsed her words so thoroughly. If she had been any less prepared, she would have been distracted by cans clanking free from the soft-drink machine, by whispers from teachers’ side conversations, by the scents of dozens of lunches, mingling in often unsavory ways. It didn’t help that someone burned a bag of popcorn in the microwave.
