by MJ Compton
His quip about cold showers wasn’t that far off mark. Her little crush was growing like a loaf of soda bread gone wild.
“What else did you learn with your spying?” She needed to keep him at a distance, and the best way was to pick a fight.
“You have a balloon payment due in three days. Which is why you want the Gems at home to win the Series. You get paid pretty well to feed the team. Do you think the bank will negotiate a new date with you?”
“I’m working on it. All I need are two days. It’s not as if anyone else wants the building. I mean, yeah, it’s worth more now than when I acquired it because I’ve done a lot of work on it, but it’s still a rundown building in a rundown part of town.”
Rundown was a nice way to describe the neighborhood.
And why was she spilling her guts to Tag?
She clamped her mouth shut and headed for the foyer, where her purse hung in the coat closet.
CONFLICT TORE AT Tag’s gut. “Red. Wait.” Everything about her situation bothered him. Maybe because Dixon was involved.
She kept walking away.
He pounded on the arms of his recliner. “Damn it, Red!” he shouted as she disappeared from view. “Get back here, and clean up after my meal. It’s not Franz’s job.”
He cursed himself for using such a lame excuse.
She was short-circuiting his brain. That and being stuck in the damned recliner until Franz or Hans moved him to his wheelchair. If he wanted to report to spring training in February, he had to stay in the chair instead of attempting to go after her.
“Where is your professional pride?” he called after her. The sound of the closet doors sliding open, the metallic clang of coat hangers knocking together, the doors closing with a bang. But the front door of his apartment didn’t open. She hadn’t left the premises yet.
“Or have you figured out pride won’t save you?”
Red reappeared in the door. It might have been the lousy light in his living room, but she seemed pale. “Says the man who messed up his leg getting his team to the World Series and is now pouting because he’s not there playing.”
“That’s not pride. That’s pissed off.”
Her pocketbook was draped across her body. She came closer to him. Her movements were jerky and hesitant. She was usually so much more graceful, especially in the kitchen.
“The bank doesn’t own your mortgage.” Why was he telling her this? “I tried to buy it myself.”
She flinched as if he’d punched her.
“They’re in the process of selling to someone else. They don’t have to tell you until it’s a done deal.”
“To whom? Why?”
“I don’t know. And I’ll bet they’re not being very cooperative with you.”
“They’re not. But I’m calling them every day. I’ll have all the money by the third of the month. If I bug them enough, maybe they’ll agree to a few days just to make me stop.”
“If the Gems play two more games at home.”
She nodded. “And there’s Drake Dixon’s party, and a political event on the eighth. All of them are going to pay really well.”
Dixon’s gig had to have been scaled back after he’d moved it from Saturday to Monday.
He honestly didn’t know where his next words came from. “You want a fifteen-day loan?” Why was he sticking his nose in her business? He didn’t lend money to people.
She opened her mouth, and he noticed, not for the first time, how full and plump her lips were. Lips that had been so incredibly soft beneath his own.
“I can’t take your money.”
Her refusal surprised him.
“It’s a loan. For fifteen days.”
She shook her head. “It’s not that I don’t appreciate your offer, but Skye’s the Limit is my business. I have to do this on my own.”
“All I’m offering is another loan. And you can keep your clothes on.”
Her smile was crooked. “Thank you, but I won’t be beholden to anyone. Not even the hometown hero.”
If she’d looked for a more sensitive spot to thrust her refusal, she couldn’t have found one. “If I’d bought your loan, you wouldn’t know it until thirty days after the fact. But the bank is retaining the servicing rights. Someone is going to a lot of trouble to hide the transaction from you.”
She swallowed hard, muscles in the pale column of her throat working. “What do you mean?”
“You’ll still be dealing with the bank that handled your first mortgage. And the public records will still indicate the bank holds the loan and is the contact. Have you received any notices from the bank or anyone else?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Well, I don’t like it.”
“It’s not your business.”
“It became my business when you moved in here with your cake pans and carving knives.” Besides, he was the only one who could take advantage of Red. “I’m having someone dig a little deeper.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t trust people who want to conduct business in secret, and that’s what seems to be what is happening with your mortgage. Maybe your stove was sabotaged too.”
“Oh, if only.” Her eyelids drooped. “Then I could collect insurance. But that’s not the case. I think the stove is older than the building. It just…gave up the ghost.”
“What are you planning to do about that?”
“Not that it’s any of your concern, but once I pay off the mortgage, I plan to take out another loan and buy the stove of my dreams.”
Tag snorted. “You dream about stoves?”
“And kitchens. I’ve dreamed of my own kitchen my whole life.”
Tag could understand the power of a dream. Wasn’t he stuck in his recliner because of his determination to see the fulfillment of his own dream?
And there was something definitely wrong with the way the bank was handling her mortgage.
Red yawned again.
“That does it. You’re not driving home tonight.” He didn’t understand why he felt so protective of Red. He admired her. She didn’t whine. She simply did her job. Another woman might have hit him up for money—outright, not merely a loan. Instead, Red simply moved into his kitchen, which he wasn’t using, and carried on.
He picked up his cell phone and punched in Franz’s number. “I’m ready to go to bed.” It was a bit embarrassing for him to have to depend on Franz, especially in front of a woman, but it couldn’t be helped. “And I need you to show Red to the guest room across the hall from your room.”
“I’m not spending the night with you, not even in a separate room with multiple locks on the door.”
Tag’s self-control was the only reason he didn’t roll his eyes.
“Confiscate her keys,” he told Franz. “She’s too tired to drive.”
October 30
World Series Game 5
Skye woke up with a crick in her neck. She cracked open one eye, feeling muzzy and disoriented. It took a moment before she realized she’d fallen asleep on one of Tag Gentry’s burgundy leather sofas. Again.
The last thing she remembered about the previous evening was clearing away Tag’s dinner dishes and arguing with him about her gas bill and whether or not she was spending the night. Oh, and Franz stealing her car keys. Looked like Tag had won.
She was still in the same jeans and three-quarter-sleeved T-shirt she’d worn the previous day. Ick. She yawned and stretched. Judging by the pinkish light coming through the terrace doors, it was just after dawn. She had time to run home and grab a shower before she hit the market for fresh produce. No point showering unless she had clean underwear. Which she didn’t.
Franz had left her keys on the kitchen counter.
It was a good thing she hadn’t showered, because Drake Dixon was waiting in the alley outside Skye’s the Limit. She nearly wet herself when she saw him.
“Skye. I’ve been worried. I tried stopping by yesterday, but you weren’t around. The building lo
oks deserted.”
“I’ve been around,” she said. She wondered if she should be nervous after the things Tag had hinted at. She’d never had a client so in her face before. “Getting things ready for your party tomorrow night. I think you’re going to be really pleased. How did you find my building?”
“I’m sure I will be more than pleased.” He seemed to ignore her question. “Do you have your costume yet?”
Costume? “I didn’t realize you expected me to dress up. I mean, I’ll be in the kitchen, keeping the food coming. My part-time server will be in her tux. We’re not guests, Mr. Dixon, and don’t expect to be treated as such.”
“Oh, come on, Skye. You’re part of the Gems family.” He brushed the top of her shoulder as she unlocked the door.
She suppressed a shudder at his touch. “Congrats on last night’s win. Is there something in particular you need?” That you couldn’t call me about?
“No, just doing a follow-up before tomorrow night.” His tone was unctuous. Or had Tag influenced her reaction?
And Dixon still hadn’t answered her question about how he knew where her business was located.
“Everything is under control. I do need to head out to the market in a few minutes for my produce.”
He smiled. “And here I am, keeping you from your work.”
Another light caress, this one on her arm. Was she supposed to deny that he was in the way? She returned his smile. “I’ll see you tomorrow night.”
Dixon hesitated and then seemed to take the hint. He climbed into his luxury SUV.
Skye locked the door behind her, leaned against it, and inhaled deeply. What in the world had that been about?
Three hours later, she stood in the lobby of Tag’s building with two rolling coolers and her overnight bag, waiting for the leisurely elevator. When the elevator doors slid open, Franz stepped out.
“There you are.” He looked tired. “The boss is in a tizzy. You vanished on him.”
“I went home. Then to the market.” Not that she owed anyone—especially not Tag—an explanation. She glanced at her watch. She was arriving at the same time she’d shown up the previous morning.
Franz yawned. Hugely. “See you tonight.”
The apartment was silent when she opened the door. She dropped her overnight bag in the foyer closet. Spending the night in Tag’s apartment made sense. She needed to watch game five with him to pay rent on the kitchen. And his TV was bigger than hers, making it easier to study the players. They were tired. The change in time zone was messing with their metabolisms and adding to their stress. Plus she’d get a jumpstart on the last-minute preparations for Dixon.
She began layering thawed shrimp in a clear glass bowl while she roasted a red bell pepper in the center of one of the burners. The kitchen started taking on the aroma of charred pepper skin.
Tag wheeled in when she was cutting the pepper into long, thin strips.
“Where were you?” he asked.
She didn’t like his tone. “I went home to change my clothes. Then to the market. I’ve got a busy day ahead of me.” She tucked a strip of pepper around several of the shrimp. She’d already decided not to tell him about Dixon’s visit. Either of them.
“I thought you were staying here last night.” He sounded as petulant as a child.
“I didn’t have a choice after Franz confiscated my keys. At your command.” Skye did her best to remain serene. She’d never built a brain from shrimp before and wanted to concentrate on the process. Everything for the Dixon party had to be perfect. “And I’ll stay tonight too. I even brought a change of clothes for tomorrow. Now you have to leave me alone. I need to finish this brain. Then work on the green fingers, bloody eyeballs, gutsy hummus, and a bunch of other things.” People didn’t understand how long it took to make everything look just right. Presentation was just as important as flavor.
“For Dixon.” Now Tag was growling.
“For Mr. Dixon. He’s paying the bills.” Skye put the gelatin and chicken broth mixture on the stove and turned on the burner. Her spoon clanged against the side of the pan. Maybe too vigorously. Dixon’s visit had shaken her, but she couldn’t let Tag know.
“I’ll lend you the money you’ll make from his party, plus whatever else you need to make your mortgage payment.”
“We’ve already had this conversation.”
“Damn it. I don’t want you working for him.”
“I already work for him.” Hadn’t he just reminded her? “Every home game, I feed the team, I cater to the luxury suites, and I’m cooking for you while you’re healing.”
Tag didn’t say anything as she whisked the rest of the ingredients into the broth-gelatin base. Lemon, tomato paste, honey, garlic, and ginger. Oh, this was going to be fabulous.
“Don’t worry. I won’t forget to feed you before the party.”
“I have every faith in you. It’s Dixon I don’t trust.”
“If I’d known you’d carry on like this, I never would have mentioned whose party I was catering.” She poured the mixture over the shrimp and red pepper strips. The already-pink shrimp took on an even rosier hue.
“What is that supposed to be?” Tag stared at the masterpiece.
“A brain. I’ll carve another one out of watermelon tomorrow.”
“I wish you’d use the one in your skull. Dixon doesn’t deserve all the work you’re putting into this party.”
“He’s paying for it.” Why did she have to keep reminding Tag that catering was how she earned her living?
Tag snorted his opinion and wheeled out of her way.
Good. She wanted to perch on the stool and start prepping the radishes for the eyeball tray. She’d been looking forward to assembling the eyeball tray since she’d booked the event.
As long as she kept busy, she couldn’t dwell on Dixon.
HOW COULD ONE woman be so stubborn? Tag wheeled himself to his office and slammed the door. He had an e-mail from the private investigator Marty had hired to look into Red’s mortgage situation. The company purchasing her loan was privately held, but Marty’s investigator was good. Tag read through the web of false fronts.
Drake Dixon was buying the mortgage on Celeste Schuyler’s property.
Vivid purple lights exploded in Tag’s brain.
“Hans!” he bellowed.
When the day nurse opened the door, Tag narrowed his eyes. “We have things to do.”
* * * *
The eyeball tray was a masterpiece. The radish and pimento-stuffed green olive rendition ringed the edge of the platter. The center was filled with a Caprese version, complete with fragrant basil leaves and moist, fresh mozzarella. She’d already made another plate with deviled eggs, but they weren’t nearly as spectacular as the veggie-based eyeballs.
If Skye wasn’t so pleased with the outcome, she might have been more sensitive to Tag’s cranky mood. He picked at his lunch and wasn’t much better with his dinner, even though she’d once again caved to his love of steak.
She experimented with organic beef hotdogs wrapped in whole-grain pastry to mimic mummies for his game-time snack. She thought he might be in a better mood by the time nine o’clock rolled around, but he wasn’t. He communicated in growls and snarls but insisted she stay in the room while the game was on. He didn’t even ask her for a kiss.
When the cameras showed the owner of the Seattle team in his luxury box, Skye wondered why Dixon hadn’t followed the Gems to the West Coast. He was the majority shareholder, and this was the World Series. But then, what did she understand about the day-to-day life of big businessmen? She was barely keeping herself afloat.
When the Gems lost and her sigh of relief filled the emptiness between them, he glared at her.
“I suppose you’re happy.”
“I haven’t made any secret about wanting the Gems at home and why.”
“Are you spending the night here?”
“Unless you want me to leave.” She hoped he didn’t. She was worn out.
Her struggling to stay awake for the game should have counted as several hours of exercise. But she wasn’t going to stay where she wasn’t wanted.
And she wasn’t sure she wanted to go to her apartment over the restaurant. Not with Dixon popping by. She didn’t need to believe Tag to listen to her own instincts.
She got up to clear away Tag’s dirty plates. He caught her wrist, wrapping his warm fingers tightly around the slender bones.
“What?” she asked.
His arm hooked around her waist. He tugged her into his lap again. Odd how she didn’t mind it much when Tag manhandled her, but a casual touch from Drake Dixon twisted her stomach. Tag’s huge hands rested on her ribs, outside her shirt but just under her bra band.
“What?” she asked again.
“I’ve grown fond of you,” Tag said. The heat from his palms penetrated the cotton of her T-shirt.
She bit her lip to keep from saying anything. Her crush wasn’t so little anymore, even if Tag was a moody jerk half of the time.
“I would hate like hell to see you get hurt by Dixon.”
“I’m a big girl. I can take care of myself.” What could Dixon do with penthouse full of guests? Besides, she planned to be in the kitchen all night.
Tag was becoming aroused. She shouldn’t be sitting on his lap. “Do you want me to get up?”
His gray gaze seeped into her very pores, like smoke infiltrating every crevice. “What do you think?”
“You must be uncomfortable.”
He ran a thumb down the side of her breast. Her nipple perked up as if to say, Hey! Over here!
“I’ve been more comfortable,” he admitted. His thumb made a return trip. “You know, being in this wheelchair kind of limits my activities.” He shifted his thighs, which increased the pressure of his erection against her bottom.
She needed to get off his lap. Needed to remind herself that he was bored, and she was convenient. Instead, she tilted her head to look Tag in the eye.
He must have thought the gesture was an invitation to kiss her.
This time, he started out slow, his lips barely brushing hers. The contact was like cold butter in a hot skillet, melting straight down to where Tag was letting her know he was aroused. Her little crush expanded and spread like a puddle. He ran his thumb up her throat, scarcely making contact with her sensitive skin. The bottom of her chin had never felt so fragile or so vulnerable.
