by Nancy Gideon
The first hit was a short pop-up. Max timed it out and went back to get under it, readying for an easy catch when, out of the corner of his eye, he caught movement. Junior Hammond rushed in from covering second base and rammed him like a linebacker. As Max staggered, Hammond gave him a hard elbow to the face under the pretext of reaching for the ball. The ball dropped to the grass between them and the runner held at first.
“Pay attention,” Hammond growled. “If you don’t know how the game’s played, get off the field.”
Max wiped the blood from the corner of his mouth and smiled wolfishly. “I’m getting a pretty good idea of how to play. I think I’ll like this game.”
The next hit took a high bounce just beyond the reach of the pitcher’s glove. Max leapt high to bring it down, then ran it to second just for the sheer joy of shoving Hammond out of the way as he stepped on the bag, then fired the ball to first for a double play. Then Max put down his hand to help Junior off his butt. He wasn’t terribly surprised when the man spat in his palm. Max wiped his hand on the back of Hammond’s shirt under the guise of a no-hard-feelings pat.
A bouncing ball to the pitcher, a quick throw, and the top of the inning was over. As they changed positions, every member of the vice team went out of his way to slam into Max in passing. By the time he rejoined Cee Cee on the bench, she was fuming.
As excited as a first-time Little Leaguer, Max was too pumped to notice her fury. “Did you see my throw? I got two outs.”
“Those bastards.”
“All we need are two runs and we win. Think I’ll be able to hit the ball?” Then his expression went flat. “What? Did I do something wrong?”
We. She choked on the word. There was no we. There was them versus Max, her guys included.
She squeezed the hand he slipped over hers. “You did just fine. Very hot. I want you now.”
He grinned wide. “Do I have to ice down more than just your ankle?”
She didn’t think there were enough cubes in the beer tub to cool down her temper. She was watching Stan “Showboat” Schoenbaum stir up an ugly mood. Stan, who never got over being steamed when she wouldn’t give him a tumble, despite the fact that he was married. Time for him to get fricking over it. But not at Max’s expense.
Max was studying the first batter, measuring his stance, the angle of his shoulders, the arc of his swing as if his ability to mimic what he saw was the most important thing he’d ever do.
Cee Cee watched the pitcher deliberately throw outside the strike zone, walking the first batter, then the second, followed by two quick outs. Then she understood: They wanted Max to take the final pitch of the game. They were setting him up for a fall, and she didn’t like it.
“Max.” She put her hand on his arm, needing to put an end to things before there was trouble. So far it was just an exchange of male aggression, physical but not dangerous. Max’s adrenaline seemed safely channeled by the rough-and-tumble competition, but the way he was lately, that could end in an instant.
“Savoie, you’re up.”
When her grip tightened, he glanced at her impatiently. “How far do I have to hit the ball to get both runners in?”
Shit.
“Drop it in over by the teeter-totters. That should do it.”
“When I win the game, I’m going to expect you to plant a big, wet one right here.” He tapped his mouth with two fingers.
She didn’t smile. “Be careful.”
His brow furrowed. “This is softball, not roller derby.”
“Today it is. Watch yourself. Knock it a mile, then let them bring it in. You don’t have to run the bases.”
He stared at her. “But this is the only chance I’ll ever get to do it.”
Her anxious heart melted. “Then bring it home, baby. I’ll be waiting right here with that kiss.”
“Be back in a minute.”
He loped over to home plate, squaring up the way he’d seen the other players do.
“Where do you want it, Savoie?” the pitcher called with the pleasant malice of an executioner asking head or heart.
Max took a practice swing. “Right about here. Be gentle with me. I’m a virgin.”
“That’s more than some of us can say,” Schoenbaum hollared from centerfield.
When Max straightened in offense, the ball went whizzing by.
“Strike.”
Feeling foolish for letting them pull him off, Max concentrated, measuring the distance to the teeter-totters. The runners were taking cautious leads from their bases. He was conscious of Cee Cee’s attention, and he wanted to claim that kiss just a little bit more than he wanted to cram the bat down Schoenbaum’s throat.
The ball came in like a bullet, almost taking out a kidney as he took a fast hop forward to avoid being hit.
“Come on, Streeter,” Cee Cee shouted from the bench. “Don’t make me limp out there and beat the crap out of you.”
Max calmly changed sides at the plate, taking a checked swing as a southpaw. “Is this better for you?” he called to the clearly startled pitcher. He measured the distance to the playground one more time, almost tasting that kiss.
He saw the perfect pitch coming. He waited for it…swung…and connected with an explosion of sound. As the runners tore madly around the bases, he simply watched the ball sail unerringly to hit the high end of the teeter-totter, dropping that side to the ground. Then, with a satisfied smirk, he started around bases at an unhurried trot, the sound of loud whistles and cheers at his back. Not for him, of course, but for the runners rounding third and heading home. And that was okay.
The outfielder finally came up with the ball, and threw with all his might for a relay that would never be in time. The tying run crossed the plate as Max started away from second. Schoenbaum whipped around and rifled the ball right at the back of Max’s head.
He heard it coming and turned into it, his hand going up to catch the ball inches from his face. He gave it a slight toss to the dirt and glanced at Schoenbaum with a icy disdain. “Not very sportsmanlike.”
“And how sporting was the way you took out Freddie Peyton? Where did you dump his body after you tore out his heart, Savoie? I’m going to put yours right next to it.”
Ten
MAX WAITED FOR his charge, and caught Schoenbaum’s fist the same way he’d stopped the ball. He squeezed hard, until pain flickered behind the rage in the other’s face. Then Max put his face up close and personal.
“You got a problem with me, you come to me. You don’t blindside Detective Caissie like a sneaky little coward.”
“That’s your doing, Savoie. No one trusts her. No one’s going to cover her back.”
Max’s hand went to Schoenbaum’s jaw, lifting him up onto his toes. He could feel his blood heating, beginning that fierce, savage rhythm, and should have just let it go. But he couldn’t. “If anything happens to her out there on the streets where you’re supposed to protect her, they’ll be wondering where you’re buried.”
“Are you threatening me?”
“No.”
Because he’d promised Charlotte he wouldn’t hurt anyone, he shoved hard, sending Schoenbaum reeling backward as he turned away.
“Who’s the coward?” Schoenbaum taunted. “Me, for doing my job, or you for hiding behind that tough guy wannabe in a skirt who traded her respect to spread her legs for the likes of you?”
Max came around fast, ducking his punch, driving in low to smack his elbow into the other man’s ribs. When Schoenbaum doubled over, he brought his knee up into his face, then danced lightly back on the balls of his feet in fierce amusement.
“Are you sure you want me to embarrass you like this in front of all your friends? I thought a stun gun and someone half your size was more your style.”
He’d recognized Schoenbaum by scent, the minute he’d gotten up close to him. He’d been a year or two younger than Oscar Babineau when Schoenbaum, then just a beat cop, and two of his pals grabbed him up as he was leaving St. Louis N
o. 1 cemetary, where he’d been sitting with his mama while Jimmy attended the burial of a business associate. It was a rare occasion for him to be caught alone.
They smelled of liquor and violence. Jimmy had always told him never to fight back against the police or give them any reason for trouble. He hadn’t been afraid; he hadn’t been doing anything. But apparently they didn’t need a reason to zap him with enough volts to have him jerking, drooling, and compliant. They’d tossed him into the back of their squad car, drove him way the hell out in the middle of nowhere, and took turns beating him as a substitute for the hated Jimmy Legere. They’d laughed as he crawled away, throwing their empty beer and liquor bottles at him. Considering how drunk they were, they’d been surprisingly accurate with their aim. And then they’d driven off.
The Taser had scrambled his nervous system; he hadn’t been able to shift or heal himself. So he’d hidden in the darkness and slowly made his way home, managing to creep up onto the porch at daybreak. In shock, disoriented, he wouldn’t let anyone come near him. He’d wedged himself under the porch glider until Jimmy came racing back from the city, where he’d been frantically combing the streets in search of him. He’d been coaxed from hiding to wind himself about Jimmy’s feet.
Jimmy never said a word, carrying him inside, cleaning him up, keeping him quiet until he finally managed to throw off the brutal damage done. When Max had asked why they had done such awful things, Jimmy responded, because they could. And they would, if they thought they could get away with it. It had been Max’s introduction to the police.
Max had thought Jimmy had forgotten about the incident, until he’d taken the scent of the undercover Freddie Peyton and told Jimmy that he was not who he pretended to be. Jimmy had used the broken end of a whiskey bottle to carve up the officer like a Thanksgiving turkey. Not because he’d infiltrated Jimmy’s organization, but because he’d made a broken and bleeding child cower under a glider, waiting for him to come home.
And now it was time for Max to take care of his own business.
The rest of the vice team gathered in a loose circle around them. On his belly in the grass, Schoenbaum nodded to his unit.
Cee Cee came off the bench as the bat cracked against the back of Max’s head, then between his shoulders. A cry tore from her as he went down hard. She stepped forward, and nearly swooned as her weight came down on her ankle.
“Dammit, don’t let this happen,” she told Babineau as the vice team took advantage of that first stunning blow to land as many more as possible. “Do something. Do something!”
Babineau’s expression was hard; so was his tone. “He murdered one of theirs, Ceece. We’d like to think you’d do the same if it were one of us.”
Glaring at her friends who hung back, she saw their grim satisfaction as they watched. She glanced toward the bleachers. Tina was scrambling down them, but the other women’s expressions were even more bloodthirsty than their men’s. She understood their rage and grief, and shared it enough to have hesitated when, for the first time, she wondered in agony if her colleagues, her friends, might have died by Max’s hand at Jimmy’s direction. She had felt the unexpected shock of anger when he’d answered, “I don’t know.”
But that didn’t matter. Because it wasn’t who Max Savoie was anymore.
Finally shaking off that first cowardly blow, Max rolled up to his feet and took a semicrouched position. The fools crowded in, not knowing what they provoked.
“Max!”
Bloodied, but not even breathing heavily, he met Cee Cee’s glittery stare and heard her cautioning whisper.
“Don’t bruise them up too badly, baby.”
Her slow, fierce smile of support settled the rage tumbling wildly inside him.
Max straightened, his posture relaxed and ready. He grinned at his assailants, a quick, bold gleam of white. “All right, I’m done being obliging. If you want to continue this, I suggest you call in backup.”
Apparently they needed convincing.
In less than two minutes, eight of them were on the ground moaning, and Max had Schoenbaum by the throat.
Schoenbaum squirmed until the fingers compressing his windpipe loosened. He whispered hoarsely, “So Caissie holds your chain now instead of Legere. If she said kill me, you’d tear out my throat, wouldn’t you?” Though he’d swear later that it must have been the lack of oxygen, he thought he saw Savoie’s eyes go blood red, and his ruthless smile become sharp.
A growl vibrated from his deadly foe. “Without blinking an eye. So you’d be smart not to piss her off. She holds a grudge a lot longer than I do.”
With a brusque shove from Max, Schoenbaum stumbled free.
Nodding to those still on the grass, Max called, “Thanks for the game. I enjoyed it.”
He walked the baseline across third, then home plate, before striding toward the bench, aware of how the others scattered. They’d only heard whispers of how powerful he was, and now they’d seen for themselves.
They were impressed. And more than a little afraid.
Cee Cee met his steady gaze as he gestured around the bases.
“My kiss, detective.”
“Right here, Savoie.”
Her uplifted arms went about his neck as his mouth came down on hers for a brief, hard press that was more possessive than passionate.
“Time to go,” he announced, slipping an arm beneath her knees to hoist her up to his chest. She didn’t protest, which surprised him. “Is there anything we need to take with us?”
“I have everything I need,” was her soft reply. She smiled. “Leave the beer. They’ll need it to soothe their injured pride. Let’s go home, Savoie.”
As he carried her easily off the field, Cee Cee regarded the other spouses and significant others, seeing the awe and just a hint of envy in their expressions. And she tightened her arms about her man.
Dovion hoisted a bottle to them. “Well played, Max.”
“Your support was what sustained me,” he replied cynically.
“It wasn’t my support you needed, Savoie. Good to see you again. I’m looking forward to that talk.”
Max moved on without breaking his stride.
Tina and Oscar Babineau fell in beside him, with Alain trailing at a cautious distance. “Don’t think too badly of us, Max,” Tina said.
“Why would I?” Max seemed genuinely surprised. “I had a great time.”
“Right up until vice decided to use you as a piñata,” came Cee Cee’s surly remark.
Max shrugged. “What did you expect? I’m a serpent in the middle of their family fun. I think I got off lightly.” He grinned. “And so did they.”
When they reached the curb, Max regarded Cee Cee’s car with a frown. Catching his uncertainty, she said, “I can manage the clutch as far as my place.”
“I can drive you over,” Babineau offered.
“No,” Max snapped. “We’ll be fine.”
Oscar said, “See you later, detective, Max.”
Cee Cee smiled down at him, a bit bemused. The kid had never said more than a mumbled hello to her before. “Bye, Ozzy.”
He and Max exchanged slight smiles as Max projected a gentle mental nudge.
Tina Babineau looked between them with a jolt of quickly hidden alarm. Then she simply stared at Max as her arms wrapped tightly about her son’s shoulders.
BY THE TIME MAX settled Cee Cee on the sofa, pain was ripping up from her ankle in hot, angry bites. Obediently, she swallowed the four pain-reliever tablets he brought her, then leaned back against the cushions, eyes closed, listening to him move about her apartment with an easy familiarity. She wasn’t sure why that bothered her, except that she hurt and felt quarrelsome. By the time he’d finished pounding a tray of ice cubes into slivers to fill her cold pack, her head was pounding, too.
He approached cautiously because of her frown and sat at the far end of the sofa. With a pillow plumped over his lap, he settled her foot on it and carefully packed her in ice. He was so gent
le, so solicitous, she wanted to kick him just from illogical bad temper. So she closed her eyes and tried to shut out her strange moodiness.
Finally, he broke the silence. “I’m sorry I ruined your party.”
“It wasn’t my party.”
“I made you regret bringing me. Why did you say I could come, if you knew what was going to happen?”
“Because I didn’t think you’d actually go. I was stupid to think—” A heavy sigh, then a wicked chuckle. “I did like watching you knock Stan Schoenbaum on his butt. Arrogant bastard. That got your female audience all worked up.”
“And you?”
“If I could have stood up, I’d have taken you right there on third base.” Her heel nudged his crotch. “You’re hot stuff, Savoie.”
“Did you think Alain Babineau was hot stuff while you were having an affair with him?”
He asked so casually, she almost missed the enormity of his question. “What? What did you say?”
“Are you having an affair with—”
“I heard you! Why would you ask me such a thing? Why would you think such a thing?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?” Her temper blew up. “I suppose that neurotic little twit told you I was banging her husband. And you believed her?” Silence. “And when would I have time for this torrid affair, when I spend my every free second tending to you?”
“Forgive me for being so needy. If you want to bang other men, just let me know and I’ll make sure you have the time available. How inconsiderate of me to monopolize your dating calendar.”
She kicked him, and the jolt of agony that shot through her ankle was worth it. “Stupid man. Why would I even think to look at someone else when I have you?”
“Add that to the many things I just don’t know,” he replied as he slid carefully out from under her injured foot.
Now he was angry, too. Standing at the balcony doors with his back to her, his posture was straight and still.
“Max, I’m not sleeping with my partner. One, because I’d never do that to you, and two, he’s a married man. Do you believe me?”
