Holm, Stef Ann

by Honey

  Her reaction to him shocked her. She should have had better sense. A chaotic dizziness grabbed her, and in turn, she grabbed onto Alex. He slid his hard fingers around the nape of her neck and pulled her closer. His tongue slid over the seam of her mouth, tracing her lower hp, then deepening the kiss in a way she had never experienced.

  His tongue slipped inside her mouth. Something turned over inside her that was a mixture of surprise and anticipation that this was only part of how he could make her feel. Only part of what he could do to her to make her melt beside him. Already, she felt the heat of him through her clothes. Almost searing. For a startling moment, she wondered what it would be like to kiss him this way with no clothes between them. Just skin next to skin, warm and hard, every contour of his body exposed to her where she could see its definition, feel every curve and supple muscle.

  She thought she might swoon.

  Never in her life had she fainted, and she wasn't about to start now.

  But his kiss snatched her breath. It was a delicious fusing of his lips over hers. His tongue swept through her mouth, teasing her tongue to meet his. She dared to, slowly, hesitantly. As she relaxed, his hand cupped her buttocks, bringing her sinfully close to him. But she didn't stop him.

  This was madness.

  "Miss Kennison... we can't find the screws to the handle."

  The words barely registered. The train reeled and careened over the tracks, much like her heart was beating. Insanity. If the door opened right now, she could forget about everything. Her job. Her reputation.

  Alex's hands drifted to the sides of her neck, then higher. "I want to take off your hat."

  Breathlessly, she answered next to his mouth. "You can't."

  "I will one day."

  The way he said it, so certain and with a sense of inevitability, made the knot in her stomach tighten even more. She fought to come to her senses and break away—not that there was anyplace to go—but enough to say something she should have said moments ago.

  "Hurry up!" she cried.

  "Doc just found one screw, Miss Kennison," Specs called.

  "And I got the other one," came a reply a few seconds later—Charlie must have come up to the door.

  Camille forced her breathing to resume its normal state, averting her gaze from Alex's. She felt him looking at her, drinking her in with his eyes. He had no right to make her weak just by a mere glance, a mere caress with those warm brown eyes of his.

  In what seemed to take an eternity, the door handle was reassembled and the door opened. Camille practically tumbled out of the room. Freedom. Why, then, did she feel so imprisoned by her own emotions? She didn't dare look back at Alex. She couldn't risk his knowing that she was feeling something for him.

  "Thank you for getting us out," she said in a rush. "The door swung closed on me and I was trapped. The only reason I was knocking on it in the first place was to make sure that nobody else stops this train." She gazed at the players in turn; then, because she was so overwrought with the aftereffects of Alex's kiss, she grew angry. "The next man who dares to use that water closet and stop this train by inappropriate actions will be fined—not the fifty dollars I previously stated, but one hundred dollars." She lifted her hand to her hat, feeling it slipping sideways from her ordeal. Righting the stiff crown, she added, "And don't think I don't mean it. I do."

  Then she resumed her seat and tried to still the frantic beating of her heart. She never once looked back.

  * * * * *

  By midnight, the passengers in the train car slept. All of them except for Alex. He looked at the woman who had changed seats so that she could occupy the last one in the train. To keep a close eye on them, he assumed—although with her eyes closed, that would be hard. But nobody crossed her. Not even in a small way. Maybe she had gained some ground.

  Rising to his feet, he walked to the end of the car and gazed at the sleeping woman before making his way to the vestibule for another smoke. Her ankles weren't crossed in that delicate way. Actually, one tan Oxford shoe had come untied. And where her hands rested on her lap, a jelly stain marred the pristine white of her right glove. A half-eaten sandwich lay on an embroidered handkerchief that had been spread over her skirt.

  He smiled. Miss Honey had come a little undone. The sight took his heart someplace he didn't want to go.

  He slipped out of the car to smoke his cigarette and contemplate why this woman did the things she did to him.

  And that also was someplace he didn't want to go just yet.

  But he would. Because he'd really meant it about taking her hat oft It was only a matter of time.

  Chapter 10

  The Keystones were trampled in their first two games against the Philadelphia Athletics. Camille had written off Monday's loss to fatigue. Their train arrived at the station an hour before the start of the game. There'd been no time to go to their hotel first. They'd ridden directly to the ballpark in a four horse-drawn tallyho. Once at Columbia Park, the players barely had a chance to change in a small office, then take the field without the benefit of batting practice.

  On the coach ride, Camille had taken in the scenery, wishing she'd had a moment to really enjoy it. She liked to travel. She'd taken trains before to Shreveport with her parents to see family. But the big-city sights were so different from the town she'd grown up in and from the streets of Harmony. Here, buildings soared skyward to the clouds. She'd wondered where the Museum of Art was located, if it was close to their hotel. She'd never been to Philadelphia before. If she'd had the chance, she would have liked to tour it. See Independence Hall. The Liberty Bell.

  The grandstands in Columbia Park seemed mammoth compared to Municipal Field. Just opened this year, the entire park smelled new, of fresh paint on the fences and fresh varnish on the oak seats. The fan area was almost ten times larger than at home. And the people filled the stadium in a way they didn't in Harmony. The dirt connecting the infield was red clay; the field was covered with tightly clipped grass. A pole with two flags flew above the seats behind home plate. A riser high over the grandstand must have been reserved for the press. Looking at it all, she'd felt intimidated. Then to lose two in a row.

  For today's game, their last third, the park had been sold out.

  At practice, Camille had had Alex throw soft, underhanded pitches so that the players could get the feel of hitting the ball. And they did. They connected with each pitch, one right after the other. Her reasoning for doing such a thing was more emotional than physical. She wanted them to want to hit the ball, to want to bit home runs. If pitching easy to them would make them excited to chase after hard ones, then her plan would prove successful. At times, though, she wondered why she'd bothered trying to get them motivated.

  The men had been testing her patience to its limits. When they finally had checked into the Euclid Avenue Hotel late Monday, they'd stopped the lift between floors, rung for maid service then said they hadn't, and had a false telegram sent to her from a "Mr. Cupcake." Their behavior had been so unruly, they'd been banned from eating in the dining room— not that they'd been welcomed in the first place. Ballplayers were usually frowned on in eating establishments. Meals—as far as she knew, breakfast, lunch, and dinner—were bought at the frankfurter stand outside the hotel's front doors. At least that's where the players ate. Camille had food brought up to her from the hotel kitchen and ate alone in her room.

  She hated to admit it, but they were getting to her. She hadn't slept decently since leaving Harmony. She felt on the verge of crying at the slightest thing, but she vowed never to let one of them see her in such an emotional state. What hurt the most was that she really tried to do right by them, by building them into a successful baseball club. She'd rearranged her goals for the Garden Club to help the team. The fact that they were now going out of their way to make her miserable added insult to injury. She resented it and had half a mind to tell them they could just manage themselves from now on. But if she did, she'd have to tell her father she quit.
And she just couldn't bear to see that look of "I told you so" in his eyes. Worse yet, Mr. Nops would demand his money back, money that had been partially spent on fan cards.

  "Dummy Leitner is pitching today," Camille told the players as they huddled in the dugout. The day was gray and foggy, exceptionally cool for this time of year. Camille had bundled herself into a wool jacket and thick kid gloves. "He's good. But we can be better."

  Duke chewed an uncommonly large wad of tobacco and spit from the side of his mouth. The brown juice dribbled down his chin and he wiped it with the back of his shirtsleeve. It was all Camille could do to stand quietly and not reprimand him. She had to chose her battles, and right now, tobacco wasn't one of them. But she did make a mental note to write down the infraction in her notebook and come up with an alternative to spitting.

  The players took the field, and the game started amid cheers. A home run by Philadelphia late in the first inning brought three runs in. Alex held back every time he pitched, and she was at her wit's end about it. When the Keystones came up to bat, she concentrated on the efforts being put forth by Dummy Leitner, trying to figure out a way for Alex to emulate him.

  Leitner never gave off a hint of nervousness, even though he could neither hear or speak. Watching the catcher, Morgan Murphy, give Dummy the deaf-and-dumb signs for pitches, Camille followed along through the booklet she had on hand gestures. She'd been studying the many finger and thumb positions, trying to make sense out of the signals.

  In the sixth inning, two walks killed Alex and she took him out of the game. By the seventh, however, her spirits were renewed. Bones hit a triple and brought in two runs to even the score. As he rounded the bases, she saw that he ran like he had flat feet. Camille made a notation in her notebook.

  "Hey, Alex," came Captain's voice from above the dugout where the first row of seats began. "Why aren't you playing anymore?"

  She arched her brow at Alex. She'd grown tired of having to pull him from his starting position. But with a pitching staff of two, it left her little choice. "Why don't you tell him it's because you can't throw the ball?"

  His dark brown eyes appeared sarcastic. "I can throw it."

  "Not in the strike zone," she shot back. "I used to think that it was because you weren't trying. Now I think you're trying too hard and that's why you're ineffective."

  His jaw stiffened.

  "I've been watching you, and you go through the windup just fine. But when you have to release the ball, you stop halfway. Like you hit a glass wall. And then your body goes tense. I can almost see the muscles in your neck popping."

  He swore. And it wasn't a "damn."

  She'd struck a nerve. She wasn't all that happy she'd figured him out—or at least figured out as much as she could. She went back and forth in her mind over whether she should tell her father to just fire him, to some way get Mr. Nops's money back and call the whole thing off. But whenever she thought about letting Alex go, she visualized the power he did have. That point in his pitch where he stopped. What preceded that moment was greatness. She wished he'd see that, get past it.

  She tried to focus on the players. She knew she was being snappish with Alex, but she didn't care. His kissing her on the train still upset her. Not upset in a way that she felt taken advantage of, but upset in a way that turned her upside down. She still thought about his lips on hers. Still thought about his hard body next to hers. Still thought about what it would be like to touch his bare skin. She had no business thinking like this, and that upset her, too—in a different way.

  Alex stood and looked over the dugout's rooftop. "I'm just taking a rest, Cap."

  "When are we going back to Harmony, Alex? I have to go to work."

  "In a couple of days." Alex's calm tone sounded forced.

  "I want to go back now."

  "In a couple of days." This time the words were tightly spoken.

  The exchange had been going on between the two of them the entire game. Every few minutes, Captain would ask the same question and Alex would give the same answer. In the beginning, he'd been pleasant with his reply. Now Camille detected a rigidness to it, as if his patience had gone beyond being tested but he was doing everything he could not to give way to anger.

  Leitner threw a medium fastball, letter-high, where K-E-Y-S-T-O-N-E-S was emblazoned on Deacon's chest. The crowd booed and hissed when Deacon hit it clear over the right field fence.

  The rest of the inning played out with fervor, the Keystones gaining five runs. The bottom of the ninth could bring the second win of the season to them. But first, they had to get three outs against the Athletics. Camille worried the inside of her hp, hardly aware she was doing it. She stood, paced, and even recited a quiet prayer. The outfielder, Bob Lindemann, had come up to bat; bases were loaded.

  Inhaling and resting her hand on the post of the dugout, she closed her eyes a moment. She almost couldn't watch the pitch. Behind her, the players on the bench, Cub LaRoque, Cupid Burns, and Mox Synder, jousted with one another, counting their chickens before they were hatched. But she knew that things could change in the blink of an eye. That's why she didn't want to open hers.

  "When are we going back to Harmony, Alex?"

  "Cap, I told you. Now quit asking me."

  "But I have to go to work!"

  "Goddammit, Cap—you don't have to be at work today."

  The noise of the fans rose to excited heights, Camille tried to blot it all out. Then a voice spoke close to her ear.

  "Lindemann grits his teeth when he's going to bunt."

  Her eyes shot open, and she turned her head to Alex. "How do you know that?"

  "I've played against him before. Tell Yank to move in."

  Dismayed, Camille said in a rush, "But I can't go out there while the ball's in play."

  "Then get his attention. Whistle."

  "I don't know how." Frustration made her voice lift in volume.

  Alex brought his forefinger and thumb to his lips and loudly whistled. Once. Watching the gesture seared her skin like a hot whisper—just like when his mouth had consumed hers.

  He whistled a second time. The third one caught Yank's attention, and Yank faced their direction.

  "Give him the signal." Alex left the rest to her.

  She pinpointed her concentration on getting the signals right. With slow hand movements, she spelled out the letters: "Move in. Bunt."

  Yank reluctantly took the message. Nodding, he resumed his stance. As soon as the Philly pitcher released the ball, Yank sprang up to catch it as it dribbled up the grassy field. Gulping the ball with his glove, he took one step and threw it to first and got Lindemann out.

  Shooting his gaze at Camille, Yank was almost as surprised as she was. The tactic had worked. They'd gotten the out.

  The fog had lifted. Literally. The Keystones won the game.

  "Take me home, Mama," Cub cried, "and put me to bed!"

  Camille eased the stress from her shoulders and was astonished at the sense of fulfillment she felt. But it had less to do with her and more to do with Alex. He'd given her sound advice, aided her. He'd made her look like she knew what she was doing. She found him in the crowd. He stood alone. As usual. Cub, Cupid, and Mox ran out to congratulate the other players with hoots and slaps on the behind.

  "Hey, Cap, come on down. Let's get some dinner." Alex rounded the dugout's edge and looked into the seats. Camille watched him do a quick scan of the area. Tension stretched over his features. He put his hands on the railing, and in one hop, jumped into the seats.

  "Where's that man who was sitting here?" he shouted to a spectator.

  The spectator's eyes widened beneath his bowler. "That crazy fellow with the beard?"

  His arm lifted so fast, Camille hadn't been prepared for the aggression. Alex grabbed a fistful of expensive suit fabric and knotted the man's lapel in his fist. "He's not crazy."

  "H-he left."

  "When?" The word was sharp and urgent.

  "I don't know exactly when
. He said he was going back to some place happy."

  "Happy?"

  "Uh—called Harmony."

  "Oh, God." Alex stumbled back as if he'd been struck. He jumped to the ground and, without another word, began to sprint toward the exit gate.

  Camille faced the players who'd returned to the dugout. "Gentlemen, you'll have to see yourselves back to the hotel. Make sure you gather the bats and balls. No visiting saloons this evening."

  "We didn't visit a saloon last night," Yank complained.

  "That's right. And you won't tonight, either," she went on. "We have to be on a train for Washington, D.C. at ten o'clock in the morning. Tomorrow," she emphasized.

  Then she looped her pocketbook in the crook of her arm and snatched her notebook. Picking up the front of her crepe voile skirt, she began to run, in a way in which she'd never done before. She searched the crowd for Alex. She quickened her pace when she caught a glimpse of white-and-gold ball cap.

  Alex had helped her win the game.

  She'd help him find Captain.

  * * * * *

  Blinding fear gripped Alex's heart. The logical place to look for Cap was the train station. Having lived in this city, he knew how to get there from here. But how would Captain know? Alex had nothing else to go on aside from a hunch and maybe a witness who'd seen which direction Cap had gone in.

  Alex was stopping a constable at a vendor's stand outside of the park to ask when Camille came toward him in a rush.

  "Two people can look faster than one," she said, her breath corning in quick pants. Her cheeks were pink, her eyes soft with sympathy.

  He should have told her to get lost. But his first priority was Captain. And she was right. With both of them looking, one might catch something the other missed.