Holm, Stef Ann

by Honey

  When Noodles came in, cheeks ruddy and jaw working on all that chewing gum, he doffed his cap to Camille and said, "You were right, Miss Kennison. Those Chiclets are the ticket."

  She laughed, unable to keep the smile from her lips as Cupid went up to bat in the hopes of adding to the 1-0 score.

  Alex resumed his position beside her, leaning against the dugout wall, one ankle lifted over his knee. The sound of gum popping as he snapped it between his teeth made her turn toward him. His smile was as intimate as any kiss.

  "You're responsible for the gum, I'd bet."

  He shrugged. "I might have brought it to their attention." He twirled a finger through the ivory flower petals on her hat, then trailed it lower down to the piece of lace that it brushed her jaw. "But it was your idea."

  Her heart skittering, she brought her attention back to the game, heat and pleasure dusting her cheeks.

  The game progressed with startling effort on the Keystones' part. Camille could only hope it would keep up. In the top of the third, Charlie swooped low after a brilliant going-away grab. Into the fifth, Duke shot the ball out to the mound after an inning-ending strikeout. The Somersets' first baseman made a hand-pop over to second after his line drive into the right field corner. And after each play, the Keystones did a round-the-horn toss of the ball. In two-step ragtime.

  Jimmy Shugart, who along with Cub and Yank, were the only players not in today's game, grinned at the unexpected plays. His prominent teeth gleamed and glistened. "We're showing them, Miss Kennison."

  Yes, they were.

  Midday heat made Camille's chemise stick to her skin; perspiration rolled between her breasts. She felt sticky and in need of a cool bath. She took out her handkerchief to dab her forehead. Then she did the unthinkable: She removed her gloves, pulling on each damp finger and setting the gloves on top of her pocketbook. It was just too hot to stand on ceremony.

  She chanced looking at the players as she lightly patted her face. They stared at her, but quickly looked away when she caught them.

  The bottom of the seventh began, and not five minutes into it, Alex pitched a breaking ball that the Somersets' batter got a piece of. He ran to first as the ball shot to Bones. He gulped it, throwing so hard to Cupid, he'd scooped up pebbles that sailed with the leather to first base. The runner slid and a substantial amount of dust and confusion arose at the first base bag as the Somerset runner's left foot crashed into Cupid's ankles and threw him off kilter. He fell, but the ball was in his glove.

  Mr. Carpio didn't immediately make the call. Camille didn't take anything for granted. It was obvious to her the Somersets' player was out. But from the look in Boomer Hurley's heavily lidded eyes as he stormed the field, he thought otherwise.

  Camille dashed out to meet him at first base.

  "He's out," she stated, not giving Boomer the opportunity to speak first.

  "He's not out," Boomer countered.

  Thus ensued an argument that had Camille gathering every single detail she knew about the game—and then some. In the end, Mr. Carpio ruled that the Somerset player was indeed out. That the umpire had found in her favor gave her bottomless satisfaction.

  But her excitement evaporated when Boomer blared, "You've been a pain in the ass since the day you set foot in a ballpark. You aren't manager material and you never will be. Skirts or no skirts."

  She'd always been taught to treat her elders kindly. To respect their views, even when disagreeing—but her mother had also taught her never to let a fool make a fool of her. "Going by the criteria you set for yourself," she said in an even tone that masked the tremor in her voice, "then you're right. I'm not manager material."

  The nostrils of his overly large nose flared. He stammered and flapped his gums, but no words came out. Then he blathered, "Just look at those players of yours. They look like a hive of honeybees in those uniforms, and you're the queen bee herself, honey. You aren't the Harmony Keystones. You're the Harmony Honeybees!"

  The barb shouldn't have stung, but it did. The uniforms were a sore subject. "A uniform doesn't make the player. The player makes himself. And if he's good, the fans will know it. We're going to beat the pants off you today, Mr. Hurley."

  Boomer's face seethed in anger. "Carpio doesn't allow cursing on his field. But if he did, I'd like to really give you a piece of my mind."

  "Oh," she said, frowning in feigned sympathy, "I couldn't possibly take the last piece."

  Then she turned and sat back down—to the supportive laughter of the Keystones, who'd heard every word. It was a long time before her heart quit its racing, but she was proud she'd stood up to Hurley.

  The ball went back into play and a late-inning rally by the Somersets threatened the ninth. The bases were loaded with two outs. The game was Alex's to hold or lose. Cy Young came up to bat.

  Camille held her breath. Alex raised both hands until they were level with his left eye. Striking a pose with attitude, he gazed at the ball for a long moment. He stood like a tower of iron. Like a man who could make the baseball in his hand do whatever he wanted it to.

  He turned the baseball around once or twice to get the best grip, his biceps hard and tight. After a scowl at Specs and a glance at home plate, he nodded. Then he delivered the ball with the precision and rapid fire of a cannon. It was a pitch Cy clearly hadn't been expecting. All he could offer was a feeble, off-balance slash at the ball and bloop it. It rolled to Cupid for the last out.

  The game was over: 7-6, Keystones. They'd won.

  The players whooped and hollered, racing to the mound and jumping on Alex, knocking him over. The display was juvenile and silly, but Camille couldn't help wanting to jump right in, too. She stayed in the dugout, an immense feeling of satisfaction putting a smile on her lips.

  Alex had had terrific fire and unbelievable drive today. He'd brought them out of the dungeon and into the light. And each player had been a part of it. This win wasn't a fluke. It had come to them because they'd played hard and worked together.

  The players came into the dugout, animated and full of laughter. She tried to keep her professional composure, but it was difficult not to get caught up in all the merrymaking. Cradling her notebook in her arms, she told them in turn what a great job they'd done.

  "And to show your appreciation," Charlie said with a wide grin on his face, "you can let us indulge in a round of beers tonight!"

  She gave him a small smile. "If we win the next three games against the Somersets, then you can buy yourselves beer on our last night in Boston. How's that for incentive?"

  Good-natured grumbles came her way.

  Duke threw a towel around his neck. "Since we can't celebrate with suds, how about we buy you a steak for dinner, Miss Kennison?"

  "Yeah. Show those St. James dining room folks we've got class," Doc added.

  Camille glanced at Alex, who'd removed his cap, wiped the sweat off his forehead, and replaced the yellow hat to sit backward over his hair. "That would be nice. I'll wait for you while you change and then—"

  "Egads, girls! Here they are!" The sudden excited screams of women filled the field as the other Boston fans were released from the ropes that kept them in the grandstands.

  The group of glamorous ladies came straight to the

  Keystones dugout, much to the delight of the players, who suddenly stood straighter, groomed their hair back with their hands, and shoved their chewing gum in their cheeks.

  Female fans.

  The Keystones hadn't been accosted thus far during their away games, as they hadn't done a whole lot to impress the crowd. Camille knew that there were women who followed baseball—more specifically, who followed the baseball players... and wanted more from them than just their autographs.

  "Could you sign my hankie?" one woman asked Alex while shoving a lace-edged handkerchief and a fountain pen at him. "I thought you were so wahn-da-ful out there, Mr. Cordova."

  Camille disregarded the niggling little tingle of jealousy she felt.

&nbs
p; Alex obliged the lady. Impeccably dressed in a gray day suit, the titian-haired woman wore cosmetics, but it was apparent she wasn't a floozy—just a very modern dresser. Camille looked at her lips that were soft and colored quite artfully. Rose Delish. She'd seen the lip rouge this morning when she'd walked into Jordan, Marsh & Co. to gaze at the department store's lavish displays.

  No doubt Alex liked the attention. He smiled, his teeth flashing white. He talked with the women, as did the other players. The ladies went on complimenting and flirting, some giggling and tittering behind their hands and some staring boldly at the players.

  Camille stood back, her notebook in her arms. Miss Rose Delish was quite interested in Alex. She wouldn't let him get away—not that he was showing any signs of wanting to get away. He let her go on about how wahn-da-ful he was. How he was so strong and such a great pitcher and it was a crying shame that he didn't wear a Somersets uniform. Camille heard her go so far as to offer to show him Boston. With the other ladies trying to talk over each other to vie for his attention, Camille couldn't make out his reply. Not that it was any business of hers.

  How could women not naturally flock to Alex? How could he not like it? He was a man who appreciated a pretty woman. Just because he'd taken a few seasons off didn't mean he'd changed his opinion of the women who congregated on the field after the game.

  She found it hard to stand and watch as the women showered Alex with accolades in their coquettish voices. She didn't care to explain why the scene bothered her. It just did.

  So instead, she thought about what she would wear to dinner.

  Not that she'd be trying to impress Alex...

  Chapter 15

  Alex didn't show up for dinner.

  Dressed in her finest mauve batiste, Camille ate, pretending the three tiers of flounces on her embroidered skirt were nothing special. That the blouse with its puff sleeves and tight wrists was just everyday attire. As was the crushed-velvet belt and the tease of underblouse that showed through the deep yoke of her waist.

  She dabbed her mouth, and the thought of the lady with rose-colored lips popped into her head. She could just imagine what Alex was doing to those lips.

  She made small talk with the players and tried her best to cover her disappointment. Every so often, she'd discreetly glance at the dining room doorway to see if Alex had arrived.

  But he never appeared.

  True to their word, the players had generously followed through and bought her a thick T-bone steak. The trouble was, she hadn't felt like eating it. She tried to enjoy her meal but was grateful when the waiter cleared her plate. This time, they hadn't had the trouble they'd had the night before in the dining room. The waiters gave them excellent service.

  She declined dessert, thanked the players for her meal, then excused herself, but she didn't want to return to her room. Just as the sun began to slip behind the tall buildings, she left the hotel to run an errand. It didn't take long, and she soon returned with a tissue-wrapped parcel, small enough to fit inside her pocketbook.

  Once in her room, she stood in front of the low dresser and its silver-backed mirror and withdrew the pins from her hair. Her blond tresses fell in loose spirals to her hips. Absently, she unbuttoned her cuffs.

  She hadn't turned the wall sconce light up all the way, so the corners of her room were gray. With nimble fingers, she unfastened the belt from behind and draped it over her chair, then slid her arms out of her sleeves and hung the blouse in the wardrobe.

  Wearing her skirt and the thin-strapped taffeta chemisette, she opened her pocketbook and took out her package. She unwrapped the pretty colored paper. Inside lay the small oval of cosmetic lip rouge she'd bought at Jordan, Marsh & Co. The color: Rose Delish.

  Using a fine brush, she carefully applied the lip rouge. Leaning back, she viewed herself with a critical gaze. She didn't look overdone, did she? She did look different. Her lips seemed fuller, the bottom one broader. She moved this way and that to get a better look. She had never before realized she had a cupid's bow at the top of her lip. Now she did. Not overly exaggerated, but defined.

  Sighing, she shook her head. She didn't know why she'd done such a silly thing as to buy lip rouge. She should wipe the cosmetic right off. And yet... she looked at her reflection once more.

  She looked somewhat provocative.

  The room was hot, its air unmoving. She dragged the vanity chair to the open window, sat, and turned on the electric fan that rested on the sill. She unbuttoned her shoes and removed her hose.

  Outside, the night was dark and colored a deep blue-black. Lamplight from various buildings, the street corners below, and the skylight rooftops in the distance twinkled like candle flames.

  It had been a long day. She was tired. But she couldn't help thinking about Alex, where he was, who he was with. The name Miss Rose Delish floated in her head. Maybe she was a floozy after all... floozies spent their evenings showing baseball players the town—showing them other things if the ballplayers were interested.

  The fact that Alex had taken the woman up on her offer should have come as no surprise to Camille. She shouldn't have been bothered.

  She wouldn't think about it.

  Instead, she looked out the window for a long while. She wondered if Alex was in one of the buildings she could see, with the lights... oft It was none of her business. And yet, she thought about the times he'd kissed her. Her determination to remain solely professional was slowly being shattered. All it took was one look, one touch by Alex and she was ready to give way too much of herself to him.

  She was wound up, but her eyelids grew heavy. Perhaps she'd wait up and listen for him to return to his room. It was only several doors down from hers. The players had come up a half hour ago. Since then, it had been quiet in the hall.

  Quiet as a rundown clock.

  Her lids closed. She fought sleep. But it had been a long day...

  The next thing she knew, she was startled awake by a door closing in the hallway.

  Unfolding her arms from the windowsill, she sat upright and smoothed the hair from her eyes. She momentarily forgot where she was, the interior of the room semidark. Furnishings came into focus, and the fan stirred the air in its whirling blades. Camille remained still a moment, then stood. She fumbled for her watch to view the hour. Bringing the timepiece next to the light, she read its face. Almost midnight.

  Indecision had her thoughts drifting in a variety of directions—mostly conflicting. At length, she took her wrapper from the wardrobe and put her arms through the sleeves. She made sure the silk lapel edges came across each other securely to fully cover her underblouse, then she cinched the tie with a firm bow.

  Leaving her room, she closed the door behind her and walked down the hallway. The cool, waxed wood grain of the floor under her bare feet caused her to pause and look down. She'd neglected to put on her slippers.

  Once at Alex's door, she knocked.

  The door opened. The physical dominance of Alex Cordova standing in the frame displaced her motives for seeing him. She fought against the invisible pull of his powerful magnetism. Her foothold on the floor actually faltered, and she took an unthinking step that was more of a backward trip. It hadn't been his gaze that rocked her senses into a plunging spiral. It was his state of dress. Rather, undress.

  He wore pair of denim pants. The fabric was worn thin at the slashes of pockets, at the knees, and at the button fly as if he'd leaned up against one too many counters. The rich navy color had grown pale, almost the shade of snow with winter sun reflecting off it.

  The way he filled out the cloth was indecent. She shouldn't have let her gaze linger over the sinful way the material molded his thighs. Or the way the waistband fit around his trim waist, the belt loops empty. His rock-hard physique held the fabric snugly against him.

  And yet, it wasn't just the fit of his pants that caused her breath to catch.

  He was shirtless, the flame from glass globes in the hall lighting every contour, every
taut ripple and dimension of his chest. She'd never seen his bare chest before, although she had wondered what he'd look like.

  But not even in her most uninhibited thoughts had she imagined the true extent of his beautifully proportioned body. His biceps strained with a pronounced strength. Flat and corrugated with muscles, his belly looked as if it could stop a fist without even flinching. Nipples the color of warm earth nestled in a covering of dark hair that tapered in a soft line to his navel. A small gold medal hung from a chain around his neck. The dim light caught on the shining metal when he folded his arms over his chest and crossed one foot over the other to lean into the jamb. She couldn't quite make out the image on the tiny round piece; it almost looked like a robe-wearing man with a staff. She'd never seen anything like it.

  Alex stood somewhat sideways to her, giving her a shadowed view of his right side, his back to the opened panel of the door. She lifted her eyes to his and found his gaze fixed on her. Most aptly, her lips. She'd forgotten about the lip color. His study of her descended, slowly, to her breasts and waist, then to her hips, and finally, to her bare feet. What must he think of her? His eyes lifted and he waited for her to say something. His black hair had been swept from his forehead, the ends damp and appearing as if he'd just run a wet comb through them.

  Camille fought to put a coherent sentence together in her head, and when she spoke, she sounded ridiculously breathless. "I was awake going over tomorrow's lineup and I heard you come in. What I mean is... I assumed it was you coming in because you missed dinner." Never before had she been so flustered in a man's company. She was rambling like a silly young girl, yet she couldn't seem to pull her thoughts together. "I wanted to let you know that the front desk can send a fan up to your room if you're hot."

  One dark brow arched upward; his mouth curved. "I wasn't a minute ago, but now I am."

  "Oh, well... yes. It's hot in the hallway, too." She was utterly confused. Her gaze lowered once more to his chest, to the medal, to the muscles that worked over his arms as he straightened. Uncontrollably, the muscles in her lower belly tightened. "I just wanted to let you know about the fan..."