Thrown by Love

by Pamela Aares

  But she’d stood her ground. Admiration cracked his heart open just when he’d thought he could shut it down. It was bad enough that he couldn’t get her out of his mind, but he also couldn’t return any of the calls from women he’d normally have invited into his bed. He wanted her in it—but they’d agreed to cool it.

  He’d agreed.

  For a few days he’d even thought it was a good idea. But no longer.

  As he’d tossed in his bed last night, he knew he had to see her, even if they had to sneak around as they had at Sunridge.

  His anger began to melt as he replayed their night under the stars. That’d been a night he’d never forget. And that was his problem. He couldn’t forget.

  The barista handed him his coffee.

  “I’ll take one of those croissants,” he said, pointing. “And two of the cookies.”

  “Oatmeal or the chocolate chip?” she asked, her hand hovering in the case.

  He glanced back to where Chloe sat waiting. “One of each.”

  He juggled the pastries and coffee and plunked them down on the table. Chloe watched him with a wariness he wished he’d never seen. Wished he hadn’t caused. Given their respective roles in the game, he’d expected rough spots, but not this sort and not this soon. But he had a plan to win her and he was ready to put it into motion.

  “I’d like you to meet someone very important to me,” he said, handing her a cookie and wishing it wasn’t a bribe. “Next week. In San Francisco. I’ll send the invitation to your office.”

  “So mysterious,” she said as she nibbled at the cookie.

  “You’ll like it. I promise.”

  “And this?” She pointed first at him and then herself.

  He sipped his coffee to give himself time to think, not wanting to answer too heatedly. Not wanting to scare her off.

  “Let’s shelve further discussion for the moment.”

  The look she gave him, desire tempered by resolve, provoked him. He’d have her, baseball and corporations be damned.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chloe wished she hadn’t told Scotty that she’d attend the Big Brothers fundraiser in San Francisco, but he’d argued away all of her protests. Other players were going. He’d make sure they’d be sitting at separate tables. He wanted her to meet the kid he’d been mentoring. When he told her the boy’s story and she saw how proud Scotty was of his accomplishments, her resolve had evaporated.

  The Big Brothers event wasn’t a typical fundraiser. It was a breakfast, and the decorations were sparse. She suspected the boys in the program had made them. Those boys, spit-polished for the occasion, met their guests at the door. The dignity with which they ushered their guests to their seats was palpable. This was their gig and they were proud.

  Chloe sat at a table near the front, with Miguel Ribio next to her. One of the boys he’d mentored was receiving an achievement award. Ribio might have given birth to the boy, the way he went on about him.

  When the video highlighting the year’s activities was shown, she saw why he was so proud. These boys, with the help of their mentors, had overcome odds that would’ve daunted anyone. Two boys had parents in prison and had been in the foster care system since they were toddlers. Max, the older boy Scotty mentored, was graduating from the program. He’d gone from a grade school dropout wandering the streets to a leader in the program, a go-getter headed to Cal Berkeley on a scholarship.

  When the table captains handed out envelopes for donations, she imagined they’d more than meet the morning’s goal. She wrote a check that would ensure they did. The boys served a breakfast of cereals and pastries and took special care when they served the two tables sponsored by the Sabers’ players.

  After breakfast, a group of boys approached Scotty’s table. Max held a long box out to Scotty. Chloe turned her seat so she could watch. Scotty lifted his gaze to hers, and damn if her heart didn’t start pounding away. If there hadn’t been such a racket in the room, she was sure anyone at her table could’ve heard it.

  Scotty took the box from Max. Four other boys crowded around. Unlike the boys serving her table, they were young, maybe only six or seven. From the looks on their faces, she could see that they held both Max and Scotty in high regard.

  “Max got it for you,” one of the smaller boys piped up.

  “Hey,” the boy next to him said with a shushing motion. “We all pitched in.”

  Scotty tore through the wrapper and lifted the lid. He pulled a bat out of the box and the boys cheered.

  “We signed it, see?” the younger boy said. “It has all of our names.”

  Scotty’s eyes widened with emotion. She knew that look.

  “You can hit with it,” the small boy said, his voice excited and high. “I mean when you have to hit. Or you can hang it on your wall.” He shouldered in closer and fished a bracket from the box. “See?”

  One of the other boys jabbed an elbow into his ribs. Even they knew Scotty wasn’t known for his hitting. Chloe hid her grin behind one hand.

  Cameras and phones flashed, and each of the boys took his turn having a photo taken with Scotty. Then they lined up for a group photo and called to Ribio to join them. They took no notice of Chloe. It was a relief to be somewhere where no one focused on her. Instead of being tense, she sat back and basked in the adulation being showered on her players.

  “We want you back on the Giants,” the vocal younger boy said as he inched in close for his photo.

  A chorus of yeahs followed.

  Ribio put his hands on his hips. “Yo, dudes. This is my teammate you’re trying to snag away from me. No-go.”

  The boys grinned. All except the littlest fellow.

  Chloe had been careful to keep her distance from Scotty since she’d stepped into the building. And she’d done a pretty good job of it. But as she watched him, surrounded by the kids and talking with Max, her heart swelled. Instead of making their forced separation easier, being close yet out of range made it harder.

  She excused herself and eased through the crowd, briefly greeting a few other donors who flagged her down. When she entered a hallway, searching for the ladies room, a hand shot out of a velvet-curtained vestibule and hauled her inside.

  “Miss McNalley”—Scotty’s voice rumbled against her ear—”it’s time for my just desserts.” He pressed her against the cool wall and followed with his warm body. When his lips met hers, a sizzle of yes, yes, yes swirled in her. She opened her lips, inviting him within, and immediately lost herself in the taste and texture of his mouth, the desire and strength of the body pressing against hers.

  A flash of light passed before her closed eyes. She opened them. Then she realized there really had been a flash. Cameras.

  Scotty’s eyes narrowed, taking on a look she’d never seen.

  “Stay here,” he said as he parted the curtains and stepped into the hallway.

  Just as she was getting her wits about her and moving into the hall, he returned.

  “No one there,” he said. “Probably one of the kids.”

  She backed up a step when he moved toward her, arms wide with invitation.

  “You take a mighty chance, Donovan.” She put her hand to his chest and pressed him back. “I’m going now.”

  “Not so fast.” His hand circled her wrist.

  “Yes, so fast,” she said, twisting her hand free. “This isn’t my idea of a timeout.”

  She walked down the hall and kept going, not daring to look back. Once she reached the clatter and hustle of Kearny Street, she stopped and took in a shaky breath. She leaned her hand against a parking meter and steadied herself.

  How would she resist what every cell of her body screamed for?

  Her brain told her resistance was possible. But when her pulse showed no signs of settling down, she knew there’d be trouble ahead.

  Chloe frowned at the calendar hanging on the wall of her San Jose apartment. She’d begun marking off the days—with big and thick black Xs—until she could fire Fi
sher. The ritual made her feel better, if only marginally.

  Ten more days and she’d be rid of him. He hadn’t taken her freezing of the corporate assets well; she hadn’t expected him to. But when she’d told him she’d frozen the ancillary deals, she was sure it was all he could do to turn and storm out of her office without threatening her.

  After downing coffee and toast, she checked her online calendar. Fisher had scheduled a meeting with her for that afternoon. She put on her well-tailored navy pantsuit and dragged her black, spike-heeled boots from the back of her closet. Before leaving the house, she donned the simple gold earrings her father had given her when she’d earned her Ph.D. They were her totem to remind her of his wisdom and her power. If Fisher wanted a battle, she’d be dressed for it.

  “Madge, hold my calls,” Chloe said as she strode toward her office. “And when Mr. Fisher arrives, show him in.”

  “A delivery came for you this morning. DHL.”

  Chloe took the envelope and settled in behind her desk. They didn’t use DHL for company business. She slit it open and pulled out a single sheet of blank paper. Turned it over. Staring up at her was an eight by ten of her and Scotty in a passionate kiss—the kiss he’d orchestrated at the Big Brothers breakfast.

  Nausea swept through her. Not because of the photo, the photo was fine. It was the delivery method that had her fear triggers firing. Fisher walked in, and she turned the photo face down on her desk.

  “Have I come at a bad time?” He dropped into one of the chairs in front of her desk.

  Evidently she hadn’t rearranged her features into any semblance of calm or composure.

  “You called this meeting, Mr. Fisher. You must have a reason.” She managed to keep her voice steady and her tone cool.

  He glanced at the DHL envelope. It was a subtle movement of his eyes, but a deliberate one; she was sure he meant for her to see it. And she was suddenly very much in tune with his body language and expressions, something she’d have preferred not to be aware of.

  He leaned back in the chair and steepled his fingers, tapping the tips of them together.

  “This seems like a good time to negotiate my contract for next year. I’ve decided we might be seeing more eye to eye these days.”

  And I’ve decided you’re slime in a suit.

  “You know we’re not negotiating right now, Mr. Fisher. Not even players.”

  He stood. For a moment she felt as if he was going to launch himself at her. Instead he took a step toward the desk and tapped his finger near the downturned photo.

  “Yes, well, how about we sleep on it?”

  He smiled. She hated his smile. A person like him should not be allowed to smile like that; it was a travesty against the whole act of smiling.

  “Think it over. Circumstances might look much more promising in the next day or so.”

  Fury spun into her. But fury would do her no strategic good, not right now.

  “They might.” She kept her voice calm, though blood hammered in her ears. Anything to get rid of him. Anything to buy more time. She needed to think. She lifted a stack of papers from her desk and began to flip through them. “I have business to attend to, Mr. Fisher.”

  “I imagine you do, with the stadium vote coming up in less than two weeks.” He shot a look to the envelope. “DHL’s a reliable delivery service, don’t you think?” He stepped closer to her desk. “They can ship the most delicate articles. Things like, I don’t know, photos and such, and without damaging them.” He slapped his hands together. “Speaking of photos, one of my pilot buddies has some great shots of a hangar in Nebraska. Of course, not just the hangar. Of what value are photos without people? Especially photogenic and famous people.” His smile returned, smearing false affability across his face. “I’ve always wondered what Nebraska was like in June.”

  He drummed out a rhythm on her desk. “Perhaps Scotty Donovan could share his knowledge? He knows Nebraska quite well.”

  She wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction of seeing her tremble, but her insides, and her hands, were quivering. She put the papers down and pulled her hands under her desk and tapped her knees to calm herself.

  “Most places are lovely in June,” she said. “I’ll speak with you next week.” She pulled out one hand and gestured to the door.

  He glared at her, his eyes narrowing into dark slits in his overly tanned face, and then he turned and strode out, leaving the door open behind him.

  She let out the breath she’d been holding, stood and crossed her office, slamming the door so hard it shook the wall. She felt like she’d been cast in a bad B movie. If only she could call central casting and call in a hero or two. But this was her game. There wasn’t anyone to call.

  She walked slowly back to her dad’s desk—her desk—but didn’t sit. Instead she studied the room, then stared out the window and onto the field where the groundskeepers were working.

  She replayed all the events that had happened since her dad’s death, all her thoughts about baseball and the team. And by the time she got to the scene so recently played out with Dick Fisher, she’d made her decision. She knew what she was going to do, what she needed to do, and the knowledge shattered her. Since she wasn’t giving up the team and needed the stadium vote to go through smoothly, she’d have to trade Scotty and trade him soon, before Fisher blew the whole mess into a sordid scandal. An owner sleeping with a player was just the sort of diversion the press would feed on. She didn’t want to be gossiped about or the team becoming fodder for rumors. The players had done nothing to deserve being ridiculed—the mess was solely the result of her poor decisions. She was an MLB owner—time to act like one.

  There was no alternative.

  If she’d figured out one truth since her fantasy day with Scotty in Nebraska, it was that she couldn’t promise that she’d never see him again. She had to be honest—in her heart it was only a matter of when. But still there was a team, an organization to consider.

  Hell, there was baseball to consider.

  She’d make arrangements to trade Scotty back to the Giants—she knew they still wanted him.

  Then she’d tell Scotty what she’d done. She just had to figure where and how. She knew from the rumor mill that he missed his old team. But she suspected that fact wasn’t going to make telling him any easier.

  She turned back to the large desk. Picked up the silver-framed photo and blew off a spot of dust. It was one of the few shots of her with both her mother and her dad. Her hair hung in pigtails, with bright plaid bows dangling from each. Her parents were smiling at each other above her head. She was grinning wildly and happily, as only little girls could.

  She stared at her Dad’s smile and then sat the photo back onto the desk and shook her head. “I hope you knew what you were doing, McNalley.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Scotty loved playing the Red Sox. His mother’s brothers and sister lived in Boston and had season tickets. His Uncle Julian had a swanky place in the Back Bay, where their cook fixed up meals for him that could’ve won any iron chef competition. There was never any tension with the Powells. They could’ve put on airs—they’d been fixtures in Boston since before Revere’s famous ride. And they were more than an old family; they were successful business leaders and internationally-known philanthropists. But they were down to earth, just like his mom. He’d wondered more than once how his mom really felt leaving the East Coast swirl behind, leaving her familiar world to marry his dad and move to a farm in rural Nebraska.

  It was that same gap between worlds—between his world and Chloe’s—that had made him try harder to stay away from her. Someday she might wake up and realize he was just what he told her he was: a pitcher from Nebraska, a guy from a farm who could throw a baseball and who just happened to know something about the stars.

  But he’d given in on their deal to stay away from each other at the Big Brothers event. And she’d held her ground. He liked that about her, knew she needed that kind of backbone.
He just wasn’t sure he wanted that backbone in play around him.

  Stepping out onto the field at Fenway Park lifted him out of his black mood. He’d been to games there as a boy, had dreamed about pitching from that mound. He didn’t care if the fans were raucous or the wind was sometimes biting. It was Fenway, home of Williams and Yastrzemski. One positive about being traded to the Sabers: he didn’t have to wait for a playoff or interleague game to pitch in Fenway.

  He shut down the Red Sox hitters for the first four innings. In the bottom of the fifth, Carleton, the Red Sox power hitter, connected to a hanging slider that stayed too close to the middle of the plate. It didn’t help that Menudo, the Sabers’ center fielder, dropped the damn ball. Carleton made it to third. It made no sense to Scotty that they’d put Menudo in the starting lineup. But Kemp couldn’t keep the guy benched all season, and he hadn’t made any noises about sending him down.

  Scotty looked Carleton back to third; he’d take any opportunity to score, even if it meant stealing home. The Sox were only four games behind the Yankees, a fact Scotty’s uncle had mentioned more than once when he’d gone to their place for dinner the night before. Scotty hadn’t expected any of the family to switch allegiances. He’d only been with the Sabers for a few months, and Sox fans were fans for life.

  Scotty threw out of the stretch to the next hitter. He’d memorized the guy’s swing when he’d watched video over the weekend. He had Umbrio’s number. The umpire grunted out the strike call, and Umbrio went ballistic. The Sox manager had to shout the guy down from the dugout. Embarrassing. It was Umbrio’s third year. He should know better. But that was the thing about anger. Sometimes you were wound so tight, anything could spring you.