by Honey
Or half dead.
"While these items might be of some value to you, gentlemen, they clutter the bench. Perhaps we could put it all in one big crate. You know, mix it up so everyone would receive the benefits." She thought her suggestion quite practical. But it was received with twelve angry scowls. "All right. Hold onto it if you must. Just don't sit on anything and hurt your behinds."
Their laughter caught her by surprise. She gave them a hesitant smile—unfortunately, one they didn't hesitantly return. They reverted back to scowling at her.
Of course she dared not hope the begonia had just formed a tiny bud.
* * * * *
She'd said to meet him at the livery.
Alex could think of a better place to meet a woman. Camille had made an appointment to have his photograph taken in Waverly. Fan cards. There had been a time when posing for them would have been a real yahoo. The only good side he could see to having them now was that Camille was coming along for the ride.
But if she started to talk baseball, he'd have to balk at the subject. He had done what she'd wanted yesterday. He'd gone to the mound and thrown. Put himself in a frame of mind that overrode the fears of that first game. By going back out there, he'd allowed the fans to say Alex Cordova had done his job. Even if he reeked.
Every ball he threw had been over the plate. Any lackey could hit one. And the Somersets had. Cy had homered off him five times. Christ. Alex hadn't struck out a single player. Boston had crucified them 14-1.
The one run had come off of Bones Davis. A fluke. He'd been hopping up and down, his rabbit's feet having slipped into the groin area of his pants. When the pitch came at him, just that slight hop lifted him up enough so the bat—not the man—whacked the ball out of the park. He'd been so stunned, he'd stood at the plate a few seconds before taking off in a run. In his excitement, he missed second base and had to be called back by Cub, who ran out of the dugout to yell, "Touch the bag! The bag, rabbit ass!"
The nonzero score in the home team's column had been a victory in itself A small victory that Alex had watched bring smiles to the players. If that's all it took, damn—if the Keystones ever busted out of their slump, they'd split a gut.
Analyzing the errors and plays wasn't for Alex, but he couldn't help sizing up fielding, base running, and coordination, or rather, the lack of it. Defensively, there had been tough hops for Deacon, and Duke dropped every last ball he managed to catch. Cupid mishandled a bouncer off to his right. Offensively, hard swings and pop-ups were weakly sent to foul ground by third. A peg-down was off-line, allowing a base runner for Boston to move into scoring position.
Beyond that, nobody was in good enough shape. Himself included. His body was stiff, his right elbow joint ached. He wasn't used to throwing.
He wasn't used to caring about baseball.
But he stood firm on his vow of indifference. The reasons behind that vow raged inside him. Each time he began to feel the vitality of the game pulse through him, guilt pulled him back. If that weren't enough, he'd been that close to bumming an Old Judge off of Charlie. But one cigarette and he might as well buy a pack. The other day, he'd bought a couple bottles of beer and drank them on the walk home. Some habits died hard, and he found himself sliding into them like fingers into a comfortable leather mitt.
As Alex leaned into the hitching post, he saw Camille coming toward him. She looked like a snowflake. Cool and lacy and white. The bottom of her dress lightly skimmed over the tops of her pearl kid shoes; her hips were outlined by some kind of fancy lace material. She held an open parasol, its sheerness nothing but a thin veil against the sun.
"Thank you for being here on time," she said, reaching his side. "Is the buggy ready?"
The light blue of her eyes were limned by a darker hue of blue. They tilted slightly upward at the corners, making her gaze sensual. Her eyes distracted him. As did her lips.
"Max said it was ready to go whenever we were."
A moment later, Alex tossed the bag containing his uniform and gear into the bed of the rig, then sat beside Camille. He guided the rented horse out of town. The buggy springs weren't in the best repair and each rut and pit in the road had them bumping shoulders. While she held herself stiffly, he propped one foot onto the driver's box.
She'd poised herself on the lumpy seat, arm raised with the parasol in her hand. The buggy had no hood, so she'd had to resort to shading herself with the umbrella. Sun didn't bother Alex. When the weather was warm, he worked outside with his shirt off. He wondered what Camille would do if he took his shirt off right now.
He glanced at her profile, finding the hat netting that came over her forehead provocative. Lots of ladies wore hats similar in style, yet to him, this one was irresistible. What he didn't like were the reasons why. They had little to do with the hat and everything to do with the woman wearing it.
The country rolled by. Sunlight stippled through the branches of leafy maple trees overhead. They hadn't said anything to each other since leaving Harmony. Alex wasn't one for small talk. But now a few words would cut the monotony of the harness tack as it jingled and creaked.
She addressed him properly. "Mr. Cordova, we have a problem."
He didn't much like the sound of her tone. Maybe the monotony would have been preferable. "We would if we were going over to the next town to do something private." Because she didn't give a gasp of surprise, he couldn't resist teasing her further. "There really isn't a photographer in Waverly, is there, honey?"
She flushed. "There most certainly is."
"Then I'm disappointed." He held onto a laugh over her shock. "I was sitting here thinking about what we were going to be doing in that hotel room."
"There's no hotel room," she quickly replied. Clearly nonplussed, she knit her fingers. "That is to say, there is a hotel in Waverly, but we aren't going there." She licked her lips in slight confusion. The gesture drew his attention—more so when her teeth caught on her plump lower Hp. She had the nicest mouth he'd ever seen on a woman. "To the hotel, that is."
"I know exactly where I'm going," he said, his eyes staring into hers.
"Well, then, if you know so much," she replied, once again brisk and businesslike, "you'll know I'm going to talk about your attitude, Mr. Cordova. You aren't showing the Keystones a fraction of what you can do. You aren't even trying. Why not?"
He looked at the outline of her face. Noticed the way the brim of her hat tilted forward, its feathers and bows moving on the breeze. A golden curl touched her brow; sunlight played over the shades of blond. As he imagined how her silky hair would feel in his hands, his jaw went rigid.
He couldn't explain to her that the Alex Cordova she was asking to see was no more. He'd once been glorified in stadium programs and articles, the paper having long ago yellowed. She wanted the legend.
The legend was gone.
"It's been a while. I'm out of shape," he suggested.
Her gaze slowly lowered to the expanse of his chest, then briefly to his hips before rising. He felt himself reacting. Tightening, growing heavy and thick. When she looked at him like that, all he could think about was pressing her body against his own. About cupping the curve of her buttocks.
She drew a deep breath. "You don't look out of shape to me."
He studied her expression. Wild and sweet. She made him think crazy things when he was around her. After he'd quit the Orioles, he'd tried to lose himself in a string of meaningless sexual encounters. But over the years, no woman had been able to make him forget.
Camille came damn close. When he was with her, he could forget his obligations to Cap. Forget the reasons he should resent her. She gave him the means to solve his money problems, but it was a solution he didn't want.
"That's right," he replied in a lazy drawl he'd heard many a ballplayer use. "You took a long, hard look at my shape when I was in the clubhouse."
As she stared at him in that innocent way—wide-eyed and lips parted—a rush of desire went through his veins. He was hal
fway to running his fingertips along her jaw and bringing his mouth over hers when the buggy wheels bounced off a groove and jerked his thoughts away.
The reins nearly slid from his fingers, and he tightened his hands on the leather. He had to force his attention on the road.
"You act as if I know you." When she nursed her chagrin, her accent was more pronounced.
"You know more about me than I do you." He let the horse walk at its own pace. "I don't wear red underwear. Do you?"
Her hand rose to her throat. "I'm not going to answer that."
"Then answer this," he replied, loosely resting his elbows on his knees. "Where'd you get that accent? You don't talk like you're from around here."
"Neither do you."
"That's because I was born in Pinar del Río, Cuba."
Turning her head, she looked at him. "I wondered."
"Did you?" He hadn't expected that to interest her.
"Yes." She crossed her ankles and kept the parasol steady. "Have you lived in America long?"
"Sixteen years. Took my oath of citizenship on July the Fourth when I was nineteen."
"What made you leave Cuba?"
Alex tried to shake off childhood memories, but he heard his grandfather's voice, telling him that he'd be better off in America, where he could live his life without hatred. To look back now, he knew his grandfather had been right. If he'd stayed in Cuba, he'd have tried to bring down the government that had killed his father and brother—and had killed his mother, by the sheer grief of losing them. Avenging their deaths would've only brought on his own.
"Too many reasons," he eventually said. "So how come you have that sugar in your voice?" He tried to say it the way she did. But he didn't even come close.
"I'm from Shreveport, Louisiana."
He'd never been there. Heard of it, though. "Riverboats."
"Among other things."
"You live there most of your life?"
"Until I was nine. Most all of my relatives are still there. I've got a lot of aunts and uncles. Cousins. Almost all boys. Actually, they're grown men now." Her reflective mood emphasized the drawn-out way she spoke her vowels. She seemed to be comfortable, so he let her talk.
But he barely heard the words; he was mesmerized by her mouth, by its fine shape and color. Like soft pink rose petals. He listened to the story about her father's not being handed down the family hardware store by Granddaddy Kennison, who gave it to her Uncle Calvert instead—who hadn't wanted it anyway. That's why they'd moved from Louisiana to Montana so her father could start his own store. But she missed Shreveport at times.
She reflected about smelling the orange blossoms from her Uncle Bridge and Aunt Royaleen's groves before the riverboat even rounded the bend. He could see the rocking horse mounts she described in front of every house on her street.
Her life had been so different from the one he'd known when he'd been nine.
The canopy of trees gave way, revealing a clear azure sky. Alex turned his face to the sun, enjoying the pleasant warmth. If Camille thought that little nothing of a parasol could keep a tan away, she was mistaken.
"Is Captain your only relative?"
Her question bumped up his pulse. Without thought, he nodded. Then he motioned to her parasol with a slight lift of his chin. "Close that."
"Don't you find women with milky white skin appealing?" She looked entirely too surprised by her comment, as if she'd spoken before she thought. But there was no taking back the picture she'd presented him.
He felt his voice go low. "It depends on the woman and the parts of her body that are milky white." He smiled as color lit her cheeks. "I'm sure your milky white parts are lovely."
Staring straight ahead, she let him envision what he wanted.
He gazed at the tiny hollow of her throat. Then lower to the contour of her breasts. Naked in his hands, they'd be as pale as alabaster. With dusky pink nipples that would turn into tight buds beneath his fingers. She'd taste just like warm lavender next to his tongue. Her slender waist gave way to a nubile suggestion of hips. Her legs would be nicely shaped, nudged apart by his knee for him to stroke the tender skin on her inner thighs. And the golden curls between them.
The blood converged to a single place in his body. Its roar echoed in his head, making his thoughts reckless.
"How come you're not married?" he asked, his voice thick and uneven. He shouldn't have cared one way or the other about her lack of a husband.
"I prefer not to be."
"You sure as hell have enough men interested." He switched the reins to one hand and touched a finger to the underbrim of his Stetson. " 'Good afternoon, Miss Kennison,'" he mimicked.
She smiled. But said nothing.
He had to smile in return. She'd gotten him to say it again.
Keeping the leather ribbons together, he settled his arm over the seat—a thumb's width away from caressing the slope of her back.
The depth of his curiosity about her unnerved him. "Who was the first man who asked you to marry him?"
She gauged the heat, glancing lightly at the sky. Then with efficiency, closed her parasol and laid the frothy thing on her lap. "Henry Griffon, but he was ten years old, so he doesn't fall into the 'man' category."
"Who was the last?"
The buggy wheels hit a chuckhole and they jostled a little on the seat. The sunshine-warm fabric of her dress met his palm, and his thumb traced a small pattern over her spine. Slow and feather light. A controlled circle.
She didn't flinch. She sat beautifully tall.
"Archie Douglass, a National Corset salesman."
"I'll bet his samples went beyond plain white." This time he repressed his smile. "Did he kiss you?"
She nibbled on her bottom hp; there was a brief display of pearly teeth. If she didn't quit doing that—
"Why do you want to know?"
"Did he?"
"Yes."
Her brazen answer had him swallowing hard. "When was that?"
"A year ago." She frowned, a pout to her lush bottom lip. It was too damned much for him to resist. "I don't see why any of this—"
Without warning, he stopped the buggy. "Then you're long overdue to be kissed again, honey."
He slid his hand around the back of her neck and crushed her mouth to his. Her lips were soft and pliant. She tasted faintly of candy. Strawberry taffy.
She braced her palms on his chest as he moved to pull her tightly against him. She made a soft moaning sound that sent a shot of heat below his belly. The fullness of her breasts branded him. She felt tantalizingly slim. Smelled good. Tasted good. Every sense he had was heightened. She burned through him.
Kissing her was like drowning in honeydew.
He murmured against her mouth, "You never answered me. Do you wear a red corset?"
She returned his kiss, her lips light over his. Still touching, tingling. "I'm tired of you asking all the questions. Why are you called 'the Grizz'?"
The Grizz. The ghost of the big brown bear suddenly loomed over him, large, and with fierce, teeth and claws. He felt the instant pain in old scars, scars that made him remember and sucked him back to the reality. Back to baseball and his manager—not just any woman.
He drew back and looked at her. "Maybe I'll tell you some day."
"And maybe some day I'll tell you what color my corset is." Her blue eyes were half lidded, passion kindled in them. "Until then, we'll just both have to wonder."
Chapter 7
Camille walked to Plunkett's mercantile under a sky with dumpling clouds, happy in the fact that she'd proved her father wrong. Not only had she stayed on as manager of the Keystones beyond his projected one day, she'd lasted seven—refuting even Alex's prophecy.
Alex... the thought of his name disturbed her more than it should.
Too many things about Alex disturbed her. Most notably, her reaction to his kiss. He hadn't even had to invest any effort in it before she'd surrendered. His mouth over hers had wiped out every kiss s
he'd ever had. In the past, the brushing of lips over hers had been nothing to make her toes curl, make her heartbeat feel as if it were going to catch in her ribs.
So much for her doubting fiction. She'd assumed that kisses with heat and fire and passion enough to make a woman's breath hitch were ones invented by creative imaginations. All her kisses from men up until now had to have been of the nonfiction variety—because the real thing was infinitely better.
Obviously, she'd been kissing the wrong men....
In regard to the matter at hand, she might have had staying power, but so did the Keystones' losing streak. There had been no letup in sight, in spite of her enthusiasm for changing the outcome of games.
To be fair, she could understand the players' being down in the dumps. But the injustice was that they didn't look to themselves for the answers. They blamed her. As if she should have had a magic tonic to sprinkle on them and all would be well.
If she'd had some kind of miracle cure, she would have used it by now. At home, her father constantly complained. Although his daily outbursts weren't directly aimed at her, she knew he was miserable. And in turn, he was making her miserable. He was still angry about Mr. Nops and the bonus.
As soon as Alex's fan cards were ready, she'd have him autograph the photographs. Once they were in circulation, that should smooth over some of her father's upset.
Until then, Daddy's ranting was something she had to deal with. But she could do something about having to hear his voice over the breakfast and dinner table. Earlier in the day, she'd paid a call on Otto Healy of Home and Farm Realty and inquired about houses for rent or purchase. She had a manager's salary coming to her. Money was no longer an issue. And she wanted a place of her own.
A tiny bell sounded above her head as she let herself inside the mercantile. Mr. Plunkett helped a customer in the grocery department while Hildegarde stood behind the counter arranging lace collars on a velvet display board. Her mother tidied items in the case.
