Thrown by Love

by Pamela Aares

  She made a note to visit George. She’d spoken with him at the memorial, and he’d sent a card when he found out her dad had left her the team. He’d said she could call any time. Talking with him was at the top of her to-do list. Maybe he could throw some light on Fisher and his attitude.

  As she scanned the financial reports, she began to understand why her dad had kept his illness a secret, at least why he’d kept it from the outside world. The Sabers were doing well. Attendance was up, most games were sold out. Broadcast and ancillary revenues were solid. He hadn’t wanted to rock a good thing with such news. And certainly not with the stadium vote looming. Her father was a keen businessman. He knew that having the city buy into the project would assure long-term success.

  She scanned down her to-do list and laughed. Each jotted line was probably a week’s work. And there were two tasks omitted from the list, the two that’d be the hardest to carry out.

  She’d have to find someone to take over her classes for the fall semester. There was an outside chance that the visiting professor from Oxford might be willing to take them on. Since she’d already written all the lesson plans, maybe he would.

  And she wanted to talk to Scotty.

  The look on his face when she’d told him she owned the team continued to haunt her. So did the visits he made to her dreams. She wasn’t so sure she’d do anything to alter the dreams, but she wanted Scotty to know that she hadn’t known about her dad’s plans, or the trade, or him passing the team on to her.

  Her cellphone rang, and a rush of nerves skittered through her. She glanced at caller ID and picked up the receiver—Brigitte Dubois, her best friend from Laughton Hall days.

  “Yo.” Brigitte’s slight French accent made the homeboy phrase sound like something out of the Count of Monte Cristo. “Five calls, Chloe. You haven’t returned five calls. I’m about to send in the legion.”

  “No excuse.” She had plenty, and Brigitte knew all of them. “Where are you?”

  “My baby brother’s engaged. I’m in town for the party this afternoon. Then I’m driving down tonight to see you whether you like it or not.”

  Brigitte was from Paris; San Francisco would always be a town to her.

  “There’s a game,” Chloe said. Brigitte hated sports.

  “It’s time I learned to like baseball. What kind of a friend would I be if I didn’t check out your scene?”

  “I’ll leave tickets at the will-call. I have to go over early and meet with the front office.”

  “Business lady already.”

  A short pause had Chloe wondering what she would say next.

  “What exactly does one wear to a baseball game?”

  Chloe laughed. Fashion was more than a passion for Brigitte, it was her life. Her designs had taken off, and her show in Paris this season had been standing room only.

  “Leave the feather boa at home. And bring something warm. Even in the owner’s box it can be chilly.”

  “I bet—it’s probably most chilly there. That’s why I’m coming. You need support.”

  Brigitte insisted on going out to a bar after the game, and Chloe prepared to answer even more questions. She’d been distracted during the game, her attention split between her friend’s curiosity and what was happening on the field.

  “That one looks fab,” Brigitte said as they approached a bar a few blocks from the stadium.

  “There’ll likely be players in there.” Chloe hadn’t been out to a bar in San Jose since college, but she knew from those days that The Blue Rose was a favorite haunt of players and their groupies.

  “Excellent,” Brigitte said with a flip of her salon-perfect golden hair. “The better to know your world, my dear.”

  Brigitte led her to a table not quite in the corner, but it had a perfect view of the bar, the pool tables and the dance floor. A couple of the Sabers’ bench players bounded through the door. Chloe hadn’t seen them play, but from their stats and the way they moved at practices, she figured Charley would get them into the lineup by midseason. The veteran right fielder, Miguel Ribio, sauntered in after them. Ribio was another story; he was solid and one of the team’s leaders. Ribio glanced over to where she sat with Brigitte. If a woman didn’t want attention, Brigitte was not the person to hang with.

  Chloe ordered a glass of wine and Brigitte ordered a cosmopolitan.

  “Spill,” Brigitte said, with a lively flash. “What’s it like to own twenty-five hunky guys? That’s a lot of cake.”

  Chloe wrinkled her nose. Brigitte never handled slang well, but she loved to use it.

  “That cake is off limits.”

  “Maybe for you, but not for me.” Brigitte's eyes were glittering on the highest setting. But they clouded as she scanned Chloe’s face. She tilted her head. “I remember now—the guy at the gala. That guy who rocked you. You said he was a player.”

  “He got traded to the Sabers two weeks ago, just before Dad died.”

  Brigitte took a delicate sip of her cosmopolitan. “I’m so sorry, Chloe. I can only imagine how you must miss him. My whole family loved your dad.”

  Chloe envied Brigitte her large, rollicking family. Sure, she had spats with her sisters and worried over her brothers, but she had them to love and depend on.

  Brigitte glanced over Chloe’s shoulder, and the glittering returned.

  Chloe turned toward the door. Scotty and six other players were making their way to the bar. Not good.

  “If he got traded to the Sabers”—Brigitte took a sip of her drink —“does that mean . . . ”

  “It means I own him.”

  “Is he in that group over there?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh, my. Do you want to leave? I’m happy to go. We can go to your place. There’s so much to catch up on.”

  Her friend’s offer was sincere, but there was no way Chloe was leaving. Scotty had slipped onto a bar seat next to a petite brunette, and the other guys clustered around, ordering drinks. She saw Ribio point in her direction. Scotty turned and saw her. He froze. Just for a millisecond, but Chloe saw it. His reaction was enough to make her pulse jump.

  “We might as well stay,” Chloe answered. “This is just one of a thousand challenges I have to master.” She took a big gulp of her chardonnay and eyed Brigitte’s cosmo.

  “I hear sex is wonderful for getting through grief.” Brigitte grinned. Sex was Brigitte’s cure for everything. “We should’ve brought my sister,” Brigitte said, wrinkling her nose. “She’s so much better than me at the buttoned-up thing.”

  “I’ve done the buttoned-up thing for so long in academia, I can master it in the baseball world. Having you here helps.”

  “Have you looked in a mirror lately, Chloe?” Brigitte crossed her arms and leaned her elbows on the table. “You can’t hide, my dear—it hasn’t worked before and it won’t work now. I suggest a more direct approach.”

  “I take it back. Maybe having you here won’t help.” She reached across the table to snag Brigitte’s cosmo and took a sip.

  The band kicked into a version of “Call Me Maybe,” and a few couples headed out onto the dance floor. Chloe watched the petite brunette lean close to Scotty. He took the woman’s hand and led her toward the stage. Chloe shouldn’t be surprised; the guy loved to dance. She’d seen it. Hell, she’d felt it. A sting of jealousy burned in her chest. She shouldn’t be feeling jealous—Scotty wasn’t hers.

  Brigitte tapped her arm. “Are there any guys you’re sure are not players in here?”

  Chloe gave a half smile. “The guys in the suits.”

  “Then, my dear, we are going to ask them to dance.” She flipped her hair and clasped Chloe's arm.

  “I’m not sure making a spectacle of myself the first week is a good idea,” Chloe said as she pulled her hand away.

  “You’ve a right to your life. It’s just a dance. Clears the air. Allez.”

  The man Chloe ended up with was one of those late-twenties professional types who looked as though he’
d never had a rub with misfortune. And he danced like a god. But Chloe couldn’t keep her eyes off Scotty. When the first song ended, her dance partner, he’d said his name was William, asked for another. Scotty started to walk off the dance floor, but the brunette reached out and tugged him back with a sweet, laughing smile. That smile really pissed Chloe off. Brigitte caught her glaring. Chloe knew from the glint in her friend’s eyes that Brigitte had figured out which man was Scotty.

  The next song was slower. Chloe didn’t like the feel of William’s hand on the small of her back, though he wasn’t being pushy. It just didn’t feel right. Brigitte spun by with her partner. Then, to Chloe’s surprise, she stopped midfloor, excused herself from her partner and sashayed over to cut in on Scotty and his partner. She shot Chloe an impish grin, danced for a minute or so, maneuvered over to Chloe and tapped her on the shoulder.

  “Must share, my dear.” Brigitte slipped away from Scotty and into William’s arms. French women had a way of landing exactly where they wanted, a skill Chloe hadn’t mastered, but as she looked up into Scotty’s eyes, she realized greater forces were at work.

  He stood waiting for a sign from her. She raised her hand to his shoulder.

  His arm circled her waist, and she took in a breath as he closed her free hand in his. A sense of yes, of rightness, flooded her, a sense of home and place. She felt surrounded, but not smothered. Held and grounded and supported. In the past weeks of grief she’d felt scattered and lost, even when she was focused. But his touch brought every cell of her body, of her being, together in the moment.

  She glanced up. He wasn’t smiling. But the storm of emotion in his eyes surely matched her own. “This is a very bad idea,” she whispered. “I was going to call you this week. To explain. To clear the air. About the team, about you, about—”

  He touched his finger to her lips. “This is more than an idea,” he whispered back. He pressed his palm against her waist and pulled her close. As if speaking a language of their own, their bodies melded. She closed her eyes and breathed in the scent of him. It melted through her like honey on a warm summer day but as she drew in another breath, she sensed the power laced through it—dark, intoxicating, primal.

  A ripple of commotion near the door drew their attention. Dick Fisher had entered with a tanned woman on his arm. She didn’t look like a wife, but she’d heard he was getting divorced. Maybe the woman was the reason. He looked directly at her dancing with Scotty. Even at a distance she saw the curve of a smile come into Fisher’s face, a wicked smile that told Chloe he played a game ruled by forces she wished she didn’t have to face.

  She stiffened and pulled out of Scotty’s arms.

  “I have to go. I’ll call you.” She walked away and didn’t look back. Dodging dancing couples, she crossed the dance floor and tapped Brigitte on the shoulder.

  “Bedtime, Cinderella.” To her relief, Brigitte left her dance partner, gathered her things and followed Chloe out of the bar.

  Chapter Nine

  Chloe shouldn’t have felt nervous sitting in the owner’s box, waiting for her guests to arrive, yet she couldn’t relax. Although she’d met and liked Jackie Brandon, this would be the first time she’d meet Jackie’s husband, Alex Tavonesi, the All-Star first baseman for the Giants. When Jackie had called and asked to come to a game, Chloe had been pleased and a little surprised. When she’d asked to bring Alex, Chloe couldn’t refuse.

  “I thought seals were a lot to wrangle,” Jackie said as she entered the box and shook Chloe’s extended hand with a firm grip. “I can’t imagine wrangling all this.” She flashed an ice-breaking smile. “I can tell you I’m still getting used to this world.”

  Chloe had enjoyed talking with her the night of the gala for the Center for Living Oceans. Jackie had a far-ranging mind and knew what it meant to be devoted to a passion. They’d exchanged numbers over dinner, and Chloe had hoped they might become friends.

  Jackie leaned forward to peer at the field. “Alex is down there watching his buddy, Scotty Donovan.”

  Then again, maybe they wouldn’t be able to be friends. Chloe hadn’t realized Scotty and Alex were close. It was unusual for hitters to be friends with pitchers, especially across such an age gap. Alex was easily seven years older than Scotty.

  Now that she’d decided to keep the team, she’d have to keep her distance from Scotty. And that would mean staying out of the circles he frequented. Inviting Jackie might well have been a mistake.

  Chloe glanced down to the field and saw Scotty make a move, one she’d seen on the dance floor. It was sexy, sort of a swivel and a jump. It brought the memories of being in his arms flooding back. She’d best stay out of bars that he danced in too.

  “Good God!” A gorgeous, raven-haired woman dressed to the nines and wearing six-inch stilettos breezed into the skybox. “Getting up here is harder than getting backstage at a U2 concert.” She waved her hand at Jackie. “I lost my ticket—you’d have thought I was trying to talk my way into Buckingham Palace.”

  Jackie laughed. Chloe smiled politely.

  “Alana, this is Chloe McNalley.” She turned to Chloe. “Alana is Alex’s cousin.”

  Chloe should’ve read Jackie’s email with the guest names more closely; she’d thought it said Alan. She’d lost track of more than a few details over the past couple of weeks, and at first she’d written it off to stress, but it was more like overwhelm.

  “I bet you can tell some stories,” Alana said. She flicked her sapphire-blue eyes over Chloe. In that brief second Chloe felt analyzed, categorized and shelved. And not for the reasons she’d faced recently. Alana was scrutinizing her as a woman, not a baseball owner.

  “I took over just a while ago.” Chloe said.

  “A lot can happen in a while,” Alana said. “I know. I have brothers.” She sauntered to the rail and leaned her arms on it, staring down at the field. “Men can be so fascinating, don’t you think?”

  “Especially cousins,” Alex Tavonesi said as he entered the skybox. Chloe recognized Alex; she’d seen him play a few times. He seemed taller than she remembered as he bent down and brushed a kiss to Jackie’s cheek.

  Jackie crossed her arms and smirked at her husband. “Can you believe he has a few hours off and he wants to come to a game?”

  “Gotta run some PR for my buddy,” he said as he turned to Chloe. Introductions obviously weren’t necessary; her photo had been plastered all over the news. “Thanks for having us up,” he said as he shook her hand. “Hope you don’t mind, but I’ll probably head back down near the field when the game starts.”

  She didn’t. Sometimes she felt too removed way up there too. A couple of times she’d donned a nondescript cap and roamed the stadium, watching from behind both dugouts. One of the perks of being an owner—she could flash her pass and go where she liked.

  “Where’s Scotty?” Alana asked from her perch.

  Was it Chloe’s imagination or did the woman practically coo? The little hairs at the back of Chloe’s neck rose up, those hairs that presaged a fight.

  “On the field,” Alex said with a laugh. “Did you think he’d be up here drinking cocktails with us?” He pointed to the bullpen. “Hate to disappoint you.”

  Alana picked up binoculars from a side table and peered down at the field.

  “Ooooh, I do love watching him,” she said, letting out a breath.

  “The Sabers made a great deal, getting Scotty,” Alex said, turning to Chloe. “But I bet you know that.” His grin had acceptance and kindness plastered all over it.

  She knew he wasn’t rubbing it in. It was a simple fact, if you knew anything about the game. Scotty had numbers that could put the Sabers back in World Series territory. But if Alex and Scotty were buddies, he must miss him. She felt bad about that.

  “He’s got those fab shoulders,” Alana said as she fiddled with the focusing mechanism on the binoculars. “I love pitchers’ shoulders. I won’t say what else looks good; Alex would blush.”

  Alex di
dn’t pay any attention to Alana’s blatant remarks, but they sent ire zapping through Chloe.

  “He has a brain, you know,” Chloe said before she thought.

  Alana kept her eyes glued into the binoculars. “My dear, with a body like that, he surely doesn’t need one.”

  “Ignore her.” Alex chuckled. “She likes to razz my friends.”

  Alana might be yanking Alex’s chain, but Chloe felt the sneaky, snaking fingers of jealousy thread into her chest. She hadn’t felt jealousy like that since tenth grade.

  She turned and poured a glass of water from the bar, knowing she was being ridiculous. Her father’s legacy, the team, the business—that’s what she needed her energy for. Jealousy wasn’t useful at all.

  “We’re still invited to the friends and family picnic next week, aren’t we, Alex?” Alana put the binoculars back on the table. “I’d like to see that brainy friend of yours again, even if I do have to play volleyball.” She smiled at Chloe. “It’s a ridiculous sport, you know, batting a ball over the net with your hands. That’s what racquets are for.”

  Chloe heard no guile in the woman’s tone, just straightforward chasing of a man who’d caught her eye. She couldn’t know of Chloe’s feelings about Scotty. No one did except Brigitte.

  “I think Scotty should rethink inviting any of us,” Alex said. He shot a sideways grin at Chloe. “We’re mighty on the volleyball court, but trouble most everywhere else.”

  “I’m told management needs a couple of ringers if we’re to have any chance of beating the players,” Chloe said, making an effort for an even tone. She had no idea how the teams were chosen, but she knew it’d be more fun to have Jackie and Alex at the picnic. She wasn’t so sure about Alana, but she couldn’t disinvite her. She looked at Jackie. “I hope you’ll come.”

  “Of course they’ll come.” Dick Fisher’s voice made Chloe jump—she hadn’t seen him enter the box. “It’ll be good for Donovan to have his old gang around him. Might help pick up his game.” He shot Chloe a speaking glance. “Don’t you agree, Miss McNalley?”