Thrown by Love

by Pamela Aares

  Now he had to look up. She was biting at her lower her lip. He’d kissed those lips and if he wasn’t careful, he’d do things he shouldn’t just to kiss them again.

  “Sorry. Just a few more twists.”

  Her lips relaxed. Not quite a smile, but she nodded.

  He dragged his attention back to her foot. As he rolled the bandage around her instep and ankle, he felt he’d fallen into a mythic undertaking and was crossing one of those mystical bridges, the kind that changed you forever. Once you crossed, you could never go back because when you turned around, the bridge was gone and the land you left was no longer there. Though he might’ve liked to ignore it, his inner voice, the voice that he trusted even when it irritated him—the one that told him when to change up on a hitter or to turn off a road, to take a detour he’d only later discover had kept him from a rock slide or an accident—told him that he’d stepped into this journey when he’d dragged Chloe into the alcove and stolen his first kiss. Women like Chloe should come with caution signs. Now he understood why ogres or dragons guarded the caves of mythic women—a guy needed some warning or at least a moment to pause and think.

  He secured the bandage and stood.

  She reached a hand to his arm. Her touch sent a charge through him. Damn, it was way too late for thinking.

  “Thank you. Again.” Her lips trembled and emotion roiled in her eyes. Maybe pain. Maybe the shock of it all. But maybe something else.

  “Ice,” he said. He didn’t say you’re welcome—she was more than welcome. “I’ll get it.”

  Chloe sat on the picnic table, waiting for Scotty to return with the ice bag. She was vaguely aware of the boisterous laughter of families gathered around the other tables.

  But she was very aware of the unsettling feelings that had crept into her as Scotty had bandaged her foot. She’d never known that a man’s touch—just a simple, simple touch—could fire such an edgy wanting. That wanting felt dangerous, as if she had little control. But control was something she was very, very good at. Control was her safety net. And that net had just failed her.

  “Volleyball’s a dangerous sport.” Charley Kemp chuckled as he sauntered up beside her. “That’s why I stuck to baseball.”

  When she was seven, Chloe had seen Charley take a pitch straight to the head in a game against the Yankees. It’d glanced off him, but when he’d slumped in the batter’s box, it had scared the hell out of her. When she’d asked her dad if people died playing baseball, he’d told her not to worry, that Charley would be fine.

  Charley took her foot in his hand and turned it this way and that. His fingers tightened, she felt a pop and immediately her ankle hurt less.

  “You’ll be sore, but you’ll live,” he said as he straightened. “I’ll get some ice.”

  “Scotty’s gone for it already.” She heard the way she said Scotty’s name. She hadn’t been thinking.

  Charley stepped back and thrust his hands to his hips. He made a little click with his tongue, a click she’d heard him make many times when a batter had been struck out by a wily pitch or a fielder had lost the ball in the sun.

  “Be careful, Chloe. I’ve seen a lot in my years around this game. Some actions cast a bigger shadow than others.”

  He might as well have wagged a finger and said, “Don’t go there.”

  Chloe was the daughter Charley never had. When she’d fought being sent to Laughton Hall, Charley had been her only ally. Charley’s sons, Evan and Ryan, were like brothers to her. Between raising his sons and managing hundreds of players, Charley knew more about men than anyone she knew, except for Brigitte. And she respected his opinion. Thinking of Brigitte going up against Charley made her smile, but even Brigitte might balk in the face of the emotions Scotty had stirred.

  Royce strode up to the table with an exaggerated swagger. “We won.” He swept a showy bow. “Your sacrifice encouraged us play laudably to the finish.”

  “Royce, this is Charley.” Charley gave a relieved smile as he shook Royce’s outstretched hand. “Royce is taking on my classes at Stanford while I roust about with the Sabers,” she said in a teasing tone.

  A little humor could hide much. Her heart did a little dip when the lines of worry dropped from Charley’s face as he evaluated Royce. Royce was Charley’s idea of perfectly safe territory—educated, well-spoken and not a baseball player. Royce had all the right qualities to appeal to a woman. Too bad the guy didn’t light her up in the least; he’d be a perfect match, a match that Charley, and maybe even her father, could’ve approved.

  Scotty returned with a plastic bag filled with ice. He nodded to Charley and shot a tight-jawed smile at Royce. “I see you’re in better hands than mine.” He handed the ice bag to Charley and wiped his hands down the sides of his jeans. The three men stood unmoving as an awkward silence stretched between them. Scotty raked a hand through his hair. “I should go check on Smokey.”

  When Scotty turned away, Chloe smiled at Royce. For Charley’s sake. And to keep from watching Scotty walk across the park.

  What was it that made seemingly sane people crave what was forbidden, what was tantalizingly just out of reach?

  Chapter Ten

  Scotty usually liked New York, though plenty of players didn’t get a charge out of the crowds in the Mets’ stadium. They hated the booing and the hard edge of the fans. But he could tune into the fans’ passion for their home team, could turn it inside him and make it his. They loved baseball and that was what mattered. Competition and team rivalries gave the game its edge, its magic, and Mets fans’ energy added to the heady mix.

  The weather was perfect, not hot like it could be for so many games played back East in the summer. He’d pitched six decent innings, except for the run he’d given up in the third. The Mets’ best slugger always seemed to know when Scotty’s slider was going to break. He made a note to ask Alex about him. One good thing about having a hitter for a friend—no, not just a hitter, a master slugger—was that he shared his insights. He knew how an experienced hitter studied a pitcher. Alex’s advice and keen observations were gold to Scotty; the guy was a wizard of the plate and Scotty soaked up his wisdom. Next time he faced the Mets’ big guy, he’d have his number.

  But six decent innings wasn’t good enough. His velocity wasn’t there, not how he wanted it. He was paid to be good, but anything less than really good wasn’t good enough. Not in his mind.

  In the bottom of the seventh he went for the other side of the plate. His heat was there, but not the finish. Kemp pulled him when the Mets brought up their left-handed slugger. He liked Charley and respected the man’s decisions; Charley was a manager whose respect he wanted to earn. But being yanked always stung.

  As Scotty walked off the mound, his gaze roved the stadium, scanning faces. He soaked up the vortex of energy funneling down onto the field—a guy could get addicted to the power, the allure, of it. But he’d be a fool if he didn’t remember that baseball was only part of life. Someday he’d walk out of the stadium and it’d be over, just as it had been for hundreds of guys before him. No one knew when that day would come. Could be ten years. If he got beaned or injured, it could be tomorrow. The guys who did best either stayed in the game or had something else that called to them, another dream they could latch onto, pour their heart into, after the show was over.

  He walked to the far end of the dugout and grabbed his warm-up jacket. He pulled the sleeve over his pitching arm and stared out at the field. He needed to focus; he needed to get his center back.

  Chloe McNalley had rocked him, knocked him sideways and upside down, and as a consequence, everything was off.

  He’d thought that time away from her would dissolve the web that kept her constantly in his mind. But it hadn’t. And they’d never had that talk she’d promised when they’d danced that night in the bar—to clear the air, she’d said. Maybe if they did, thoughts of her would stop rattling around in his head. He snorted out a breath, knowing he was only kidding himself. He wanted to do
a hell of a lot more than talk. But talking would have to do.

  After the game, Scotty skipped the invitation to party with the guys at a bar near their hotel. When he got back to his room, he punched in Chloe’s cell number.

  “Hello?” she answered in a friendly, familiar tone. His number was blocked; she hadn’t known it was him.

  “It’s Scotty.”

  “Oh.”

  He didn’t care that her tone changed, couldn’t read it anyway. Sometimes he hated telephones. But unlike his buddies, he sucked at email and was worse at texting. The phone would have to do.

  “I think we should have that talk you promised.” He cleared his throat. “Probably best someplace less public than the stadium.” Like his place. He knew she wouldn’t go for that, and it really was a bad idea, no matter how much he’d fantasized about having her under him in his king-sized bed.

  The pause grew long, one of those pauses a guy wished would never happen. Had he put her on the spot?

  “How about we take in a show at the planetarium?” he said, breaking the uncomfortable silence. “I need to brush up on my constellations.” It wasn’t the best of venues, but they could talk afterward.

  “I’d like that,” she said.

  And she sounded like she really meant it.

  Scotty waited in the arched foyer of the building housing the planetarium. Chloe was late. Maybe he’d told her the wrong time, but he was pretty sure he had it right. He scanned the names of donors carved into the marble wall. The McNalley Family Foundation loomed at the top of the list in big letters.

  “I should’ve told you not to buy a ticket,” Chloe said as she came up behind him. “I have a lifetime pass. If I come every day for several lifetimes, it will eventually pay off.”

  He flashed the tickets he’d bought as he’d waited. “Consider this my contribution to the cause.”

  She laughed. The little curve of her lips called to him to explore her mouth, but this wasn’t the time or place. Still he stepped toward her and couldn’t resist brushing a kiss to her cheek.

  “The show’s starting,” he said as he straightened. The warmth of her, the scent of her had him thinking that there might be a much better way to spend the morning than in a crowded auditorium. “Want to skip out and walk instead?”

  “Royce is narrating this show. I’ve been hoping to see him in action.”

  Royce. Not Scotty’s idea of a perfect first date. But when he saw the excitement in Chloe’s eyes, he bit back the stab of jealousy and offered her his arm.

  “Better hurry or you might have to pull rank and boot an old lady out of her seat,” he said as she laid her fingers in the crook of his arm. “They told me this show’s sold out.”

  The usher guided them with her flashlight to the last seats in the back row.

  Royce’s smooth English accent was a perfect complement to the spectacular show. But more marvelous were the hushed insights that Chloe whispered in Scotty’s ear. She added poetry to fact and brought the story alive. Her passion for the intricacies of the universe almost eclipsed his pulsing awareness of her every move and his nearly uncontrollable urge to steal a kiss in the darkness. He wrapped an arm around her and pulled her close. She stiffened at first, perhaps surprised. But when she softened against him and leaned her head against his shoulder, he could think of nothing but getting her alone someplace where they could do more than cuddle in the dark, a thought he’d best put out of his mind. Though he loved being near her, he knew he needed to keep it casual, go slow. Of course, he was doing a damn poor job of that so far.

  He lost himself in thoughts of her, in images of them together, so that when the lights blazed on, he was shocked. He’d been so distracted by his imagination that he’d lost all awareness of the program. The chattering crowd began to filter out, and he rose from his seat as Chloe stood.

  She looked at her watch. “I wanted to stay and talk with Royce, but I have to get back.”

  “No time for a coffee?” Scotty tried to sound casual, but the urge pounding in him made that impossible. “What about our talk? You were going to explain something to me.”

  She raised her hand to her collarbone and tilted her head, apparently considering his proposal. Then she stroked her fingertips from his elbow to his wrist.

  “Would you like to come out to Woodlands on Thursday?”

  Thursday was a rare day off, but she’d know that.

  “Woodlands?” He wasn’t big on restaurants—conversations were stilted and the places were never private.

  “I have to deal with some things on my dad’s estate. It’ll be quiet there. We can talk.”

  He wasn’t big on estates either. The flip in his gut told him to stay out of territory so far out of his class. But though his mind said absolutely not, he pulled out his phone and tapped in the address as his voice said yes.

  Chapter Eleven

  On Thursday Scotty turned off the freeway and navigated the country roads and rolling hills that led toward the Santa Cruz Mountains. He passed a couple of gated estates that looked like settings out of a movie. He hadn’t known there were so many estates in the hills, but what he could see impressed him. When his GPS barked at him to turn left, he nosed his car up a tree-lined lane.

  He stopped at a forged-iron gate flanked by two huge lions. Why was it that fancy estates always had lions guarding their high-tech gates? He looked closer. And then he chuckled. The guardians weren’t lions, they were saber-toothed tigers, expertly sculpted. Old Man McNalley had a sense of humor. Scotty wished he’d known the guy.

  He pushed the button on the gate security box. Chloe answered and told him to park in the front drive. He’d imagined a housekeeper answering, not Chloe. And he hadn’t anticipated the waver in her voice. But it matched the rip of nerves in his chest. They were both nervous, and that agitated him even more. She obviously recognized a connection between them, just as he did.

  He relaxed his hold on the steering wheel, telling himself they were only going to talk.

  Sunlight speared through the towering cottonwoods arching over the drive. The setup reminded him of Alex’s place up in Sonoma, but the countryside was different here. The chatter of birds pierced the quiet as he rounded a bend. He was prepared to see a big house, but he wasn’t prepared for the massive mansion and outbuildings of Woodlands.

  The main house loomed three stories high, with a center structure flanked by enormous wings. Along the roof, multiple chimneys rose high and at the front of the main house, marble columns curved around the center portico. He was vaguely aware of lush gardens and landscaping, of the vista that rolled on and on beyond the house to the hills along the horizon. His family’s farm at Sunridge was big—the house at the heart of it was the grandest place in southeast Nebraska—but this place was over the top.

  If he hadn’t been driving a sports car, he might’ve imagined he’d been whisked back in time. It was like one of those places featured in the BBC shows his sister loved to watch, where servants lived downstairs and the family of the house lived above them.

  He knew there was a gap between his life and Chloe’s, but he’d never fathomed just how yawning that gap actually was. Class and status were rarely talked about in Nebraska and never discussed in the sports world. In sports, performance dictated your life. Your future was your own to carve with discipline and determination.

  He pulled up in front of the house. Chloe stood on the steps, framed by stone columns and an arched doorway. She raised her hand to shade her eyes from the sun. A light breeze lifted the hem of her dress, curving it to her legs. Was there some damn store that made dresses do that on purpose, dresses that set off a woman’s every curve so a man saw more than if there’d been no cloth there in the first place? He knew he was being irrational and childish, blaming his desire on a dress, but his attempt to maintain control made him cranky. It wasn’t a mood he liked.

  “Traffic?” she asked as he closed his car door.

  “Not really.” He leaned against
the car. “Not too bad,” he amended, trying to lighten up.

  He decided to ignore her dress and focused on her face. The gentle smile that crinkled the corners of her eyes was even more distracting. He felt his body tighten and wasn’t sure if suppressing his emotions was the right choice for the circumstances.

  She didn’t move toward him. “It can be awful. It’s why we have the place in San Jose near the ballpark. For game days.”

  She looked uncomfortable, and Scotty noticed she still said we. He couldn’t imagine how long it would take to get used to losing a parent. Especially if it was the last family you had. He’d read Peter McNalley’s obituary; Chloe was alone.

  “Want to stretch your legs?” She motioned toward the side of the house. “The back gardens have some lovely summer blooms.”

  Summer blooms were not front and center in his mind, but he joined her near the bottom of the steps. She lifted her head and met his gaze. He moved one hand to her arm, stroked up and then down. He hadn’t planned to do it, to touch her. This was to be a talk.

  Her skin was warm and soft beneath his fingertips. She lowered her hand from her eyes and tilted her head, studying him. She bit her lower lip, and her pulse throbbed in her throat, just below her jawline. He was a pitcher; he read bodies for a living. Hers was screaming at him. It lit a fire he had no interest in extinguishing. He slid his hand up the back of her neck. When she didn’t move away, he burrowed his fingers into her hair, as if sliding them into the softest and most well-worn glove, and lowered his lips to hers. She gasped against his mouth, and he thought she was going to protest. He steeled himself to pull away, but she opened her lips and all thought about gaps and class and baseball, all the carefully rehearsed lines he’d prepared, vanished, and he let himself dive into the raw passion that her kiss seared through him. Though he’d imagined being tender, being gentle, he pulled her against him and plundered her lips with a passion that was nearly beyond his control. He knew what a pounding pulse felt like, but this pounding struck him as a force that came from the center of the earth—powerful and unrelenting and raw. The kiss went on and on, until they were both breathing hard and their hands began exploring. His body throbbed as he swept her into his arms. With her cradled against his chest, he could see the curve of her breast rising above the open neck of her dress. He couldn’t curse the dressmakers now.