Diamond in the Rough

by Marie Ferrarella

  When they’d finally made it to her bedroom, tumbling onto her queen-size bed, she’d only had on the tiniest scrap of underwear. But even that was too much. He’d eased it off her thighs, then down her legs, as he continued caressing, possessing, letting his hands make love to every inch of her torso the way the rest of him wanted to so desperately.

  This was special. She was special. He didn’t need to be told. He understood that what was happening here in this small, two-bedroom, ground-floor apartment was a first for him.

  The fire didn’t abate, but raged higher, taking larger bites out of him. Unable to hold back any longer, urged on by the almost wild look in her eyes as he swiftly brought her up to a climax, Mike slid into her, joining with Miranda in every conceivable meaning of the term.

  He was going to remember the wide-eyed expression on her face until the day he died, even if that was half a century from now. It made him feel humble and grateful. And ten-feet tall.

  Not to mention hungry.

  When he began to move his hips, Miranda mimicked the rhythm perfectly, as if they heard the same music, were dancing the same dance. He heard her gasp, either for air or out of excitement, as the tempo increased, taking him with it and thus her, as well.

  And then, when the final sensation caught him up in its grip, he clutched Miranda to him so hard, he was afraid he would bruise her. And she, him, because her fingers dug into his shoulders even as her hips rose off the bed, sealing to his.

  It took effort not to collapse on top of her. His last bit of strength went into propping himself on his elbows so that she would have some space in order to draw a breath. If she was up to it. Heaven knew he wasn’t. He felt as if he would never be able to breathe normally again.

  “It didn’t come.” She whispered the words against his ear but she seemed to be talking to herself.

  “What didn’t?” he asked, raising his head so that he could look at her. Was she talking about an orgasm? He could have sworn she’d experienced one. His pleasure came from sharing pleasure, from making it happen for his partner, as well, not in gratifying himself. Had he failed her after all?

  “Disappointment,” she answered when she had enough breath to form the word.

  Relieved, Mike laughed softly. Shifting his weight so that he lay next to her, he tightened his arms around her, sharing the aftermath with her. And the afterglow he was experiencing. “Well, it was the only thing that didn’t come.”

  Dazed, amused, Miranda stared at him. Her body hummed like a freshly struck tuning fork and tingling sensations raced all up and down her skin. The breath she released sang of contentment. “Is this what it’s like?” she asked. “Making love?”

  “This isn’t your first time.” It wasn’t exactly a question. He was no expert, but he felt fairly confident that he could tell the difference between a virgin and a woman who’d made love before. There hadn’t been the slightest hesitation, the slightest hint of pain, when he’d entered her.

  She sighed against his skin and he felt her mouth curve against the skin on his arm. “It might as well have been. I always thought that lovemaking was highly overrated.” Another contented sigh followed her words. “God, was I wrong.” And then she laughed at herself, locking her arms before her. “I guess I shouldn’t be admitting that to you.”

  In one smooth, swift movement, he shifted his body back until he was over her again. Gazing into her face, Mike lightly brushed her hair away from her cheek.

  “Don’t worry, this is all off the record. And for the record,” he added in a moment of truth that startled him, “you rocked my world, too.”

  She didn’t see how that was possible. He was, after all, an experienced lover. The very fact that he could do this to her meant he had to apprentice somewhere to learn this kind of technique. And his teacher must have really set him on his ear.

  Just as he had done to her.

  She tried to muster a decent smile. A smile that would veil her thoughts. “You don’t have to say that.”

  A woman who didn’t want a compliment. Now, there was a rarity, he thought.

  “I know I don’t ‘have to,’” he acknowledged. “But it is true.”

  Moved, enthralled and still in the euphoric grip of her very first—and second—orgasm, Miranda wrapped her arms around his neck, raised her head up from her pillow and kissed him. Passionately.

  “That’s for lying so magnificently,” she murmured, just before she kissed him again.

  And they began the whole experience all over again.

  Chapter Eleven

  Another Saturday, another game. So far, they had racked up a month of Saturday and Wednesday games, all with Mike in attendance and still no article had appeared in his column. She’d begun to lower her guard until it was all but gone.

  The game was over for today. The Cubs one-run victory had been a triumph for her father’s team.

  Over by the fence, Mike was talking to one of the other fathers, Tom Anderson. She recalled he’d been the one who had declared himself such an SOS fan during that first meeting. Mike was probably gathering data for the eventual article. Which left her to pick up the equipment that her father consistently brought to each game, a squadron of bats bought with his own money.

  “You seeing this guy?”

  Startled by the question that had come out of nowhere, riding on a surfboard over a sea of silence, she stopped dead and looked at her father.

  “Seeing who?” she asked a tad too innocently, her mind scrambling for an excuse. Twenty-four years old and she was still hesitant to incur his displeasure. It didn’t make her happy, but so it goes.

  “The guy with all the questions.” Steven nodded toward where Mike was standing. “The one with the thousand-watt grin. He doesn’t seem to have a kid with him, so I thought he was here because of you.”

  If only.

  The wistful thought caught her off guard. She recovered quickly and played dumb. “He could be here because he’s such a big fan.”

  But Steven shook his head. “Hasn’t asked me for an autograph.”

  She tucked another bat into the over-size duffel bag. Metal thudded dully against wood. Her father, who’d always favored wood, brought an equal number of both kinds of bats for the players to choose from. “Maybe he’s a little slow,” she suggested.

  Her father eyed her for a long moment. She couldn’t tell if he was amused or serious. “That how you find him? Slow?”

  Miranda caught her lower lip between her teeth. She had a choice. She could revert back to the sedate young woman she’d been and disavow any knowledge of the man previous to this Little League season—which would make her father suspicious about why Mike kept showing up. Or she could bite the bullet and give Mike a working cover by answering her father’s question in the affirmative and “admitting” they were seeing one another.

  The latter wasn’t much of a stretch, really—and technically, not even a lie. They were seeing each other—on the field and he had come over a couple of times since the night of his family’s barbecue.

  And each time, they’d wound up in her bed. Her mouth curved almost involuntarily. He had systematically and officially shot down her previously held belief that sex was unrewarding. It was extremely rewarding—with the right partner, she’d discovered and Mike was very, very right.

  Miranda didn’t fool herself. She wouldn’t allow herself to think their connection would eventually lead to picking out china patterns together. It was a magical summer romance inexplicably taking place in February—and if she was very lucky, extending into March. But someday it would be over. She was actually surprised it had lasted this long. At times, it almost made her afraid to breathe, afraid that she’d do something to hasten its demise. However, by the same token, she knew it was inevitable.

  But she didn’t have to like it.

  “No,” she finally answered, trying to sound detached. “That’s not how I find him.” She tried to recall the last time her father had asked her an actual p
ersonal question and couldn’t. As far back as she could remember, her father had never taken an interest in who she saw…or didn’t see, which was more likely. She was his daughter, but he never seemed to see her as a complete person. “But he probably doesn’t want to ask you for an autograph because he knows that the great SOS doesn’t like to be worshipped up close and personal and I think he’s enjoying being around a living legend.”

  Miranda glanced over her shoulder at her father and saw his face darken like a sky with storm clouds moving along the horizon.

  “Don’t call me that,” he snapped.

  “Okay,” she said gamely, “a baseball great.”

  “Or that,” he ordered. His voice reverted back to his customary monotone. “I’m just somebody coaching some kids.”

  She wasn’t going to stand by and have her father deny what he’d been. It didn’t matter to her that a bunch of pretentious, stodgy men had banned him from baseball. To her he would always be baseball.

  “But you were one of the best pitchers in the game, past or present,” Miranda insisted.

  Steven’s expression let no one in, not even her. “All behind me now,” he told her flatly.

  “It’s still part of who you were—who you are,” she said doggedly.

  The shrug was careless, the expression utterly unfathomable. “Doesn’t mean much in the scheme of things.”

  His expression might have been bland, but there was a hopelessness in her father’s voice. And it broke her heart. Again.

  But she knew that arguing with him wasn’t the way to resolve anything.

  “Why don’t I come over later tonight, make you dinner?” she suggested. “You can give Walter the night off and I’ll stay over.”

  Steven looked at her with what might have passed as mild surprise. “On a Saturday night, Randy? A young healthy girl shouldn’t have to spend a Saturday night with her old man. She should be out enjoying herself.”

  It almost made her feel like family again. I could really love you, Dad, if you only let me in.

  She smiled at him. “Maybe I enjoy spending it with my ‘old man.’ And who says you’re old, anyway?” she challenged.

  He didn’t smile, didn’t rise to the bait the way she hoped he might. “The clock,” her father replied, and then he pivoted on the back wheels, turning the wheelchair away from her. “Put those things in the van,” he instructed matter-of-factly. “I’ve got to get my clipboard.”

  About to volunteer to get it for him, she stopped herself. She knew better. Her father took any offer of help as an insult to his independence unless he specifically asked for it.

  So instead she did as her father had requested. Opening the back of his van, she braced herself to pick up the bag of bats in order to haul them inside. She’d only wrapped her fingers around the duffel bag when Mike materialized out of nowhere and took it from her.

  “That’s too heavy for you,” he said, hefting the bag and tossing it into the rear of the van.

  Miranda was momentarily amused. By now Mike should have realized that she was a great deal stronger than she appeared. He was just being a stereotypical male. And she had to admit a part of her liked being treated as if she was dainty.

  “Is this the part where I go ‘oooh, can I touch your muscles?’” she asked in a sugary, singsong voice.

  Mike grinned. “That’s later, when I get you alone.” He winked at her as he shut the doors. “And—” he lowered his voice until it was an unnerving, sexy whisper “—you can touch any group of muscles you want.”

  He thought he was coming over tonight, Miranda realized. For a split second, she wrestled with her conscience. It pitted visiting her father against being with Mike.

  Her conscience won. “About that—”

  “Touching a group of muscles?” He grinned.

  “No,” she said quickly. She might be sleeping with him and having the absolute best time of her life, but he could still make her blush. “I’m afraid I’m going to be busy tonight. I told my father I’d make him dinner at his place.”

  “Any chance I can wangle an invitation to that?” When she didn’t say anything, he figured he had his answer. “I take it this is some family tradition I’d be interrupting?”

  “No, not a family tradition.” Sometimes, being the good daughter was costly. She was tempted to postpone the dinner. Her father didn’t even seem to want her around. It was an instinct to remain steadfast in her decision. “He just seems more down than I’ve seen him lately.” Until today, her father looked as if he was enjoying being a Little League coach.

  Mike nodded. “Well, that stands to reason, don’t you think?”

  She had no idea what he was talking about. “Why?”

  “You mean, you haven’t heard?”

  Her nerves were at attention. “Heard what?”

  He supposed he was more tuned in to this, seeing as how he handled all things connected to the sports world. But it had made the eleven o’clock news last night. “Wes Miller died in a boating accident in Miami yesterday.”

  Her mouth dropped opened. “Uncle Wes is dead?” Shock echoed in her voice.

  He wasn’t really her uncle, but Wes Miller and her father went way back to the early days of a childhood spent in the poorer sections of Los Angeles. They’d grown up together, shared dreams together and had both played professional ball together. Wes had been catcher to her father’s pitcher.

  When the gambling scandal broke, Wes had been her father’s staunchest defender, but then they had slowly grown apart. She hadn’t seen Wes at her father’s house in years. She’d had a feeling that her father had pushed Wes away in his desire to distance himself from the game. And to keep the man’s reputation unsullied.

  Right now, she was having trouble processing what Mike had told her. Wes Miller, dead. The man seemed too full of life to be absent from it. He’d always been her father’s complete opposite, outgoing and gregarious. He’d often referred to her father as his “wingman” when they went out. But that had been before Wes and his wife had reconciled, she recalled.

  “What happened?” she asked softly.

  “Freak accident. He fell overboard and the propeller killed him.” The report he’d seen had been far more gruesome than that, going into details he saw no point in sharing with her unless she pressed. She looked far too upset about the man’s death as it was.

  “Oh, God, no wonder he seemed so lost today.” She’d thought something was off with her father. The last few sessions, he seemed to be enjoying himself and then today, she’d noted a regression. Now she understood why. “He probably feels bad because they grew apart after the scandal.” She looked at Mike hopefully. “Rain check?”

  “Rain check,” he agreed without hesitation. “I’ll get these things loaded up for you and get out of your way.”

  Miranda stepped back. As if he could be in her way, she thought.

  “What’s all this?” she asked later that day as she let herself into her father’s modest house. The place could have easily fit into a corner of the house she and her sister had grown up in. But those had been the flush days, before tragedy and scandal had all but sucked her father—and his monetary resources—dry.

  She was referring to the three stuffed black plastic bags, lined up on one side of the foyer, just to the right of the front door. The bags leaned against one another like tired commuters in a standing-room-only subway car.

  Her father was a minimalist. He disliked clutter and appreciated keeping possessions down to bare essentials. She didn’t think he had enough things to actually fill up three bags, certainly not enough things to throw out.

  Her father was in the living room. The TV was on in the background, a sports channel featuring a tribute to the high points of Wes Miller’s career. “Doing some house cleaning,” her father replied, glancing over toward her.

  Curious, Miranda reached for the first bag, about to look inside.

  Steven lost no time in leaving the living room and wheeling him
self into the foyer. “As I recall, you promised me dinner.” The reminder stopped her cold. He obviously didn’t want her snooping into the bags. Miranda drew away from them. “Don’t you think you should keep your word? I’m starving.”

  No, not like her father at all. She stepped away from the mysterious black plastic bags and picked up the one filled with groceries that she’d brought and momentarily set down.

  “Just about to do that,” she replied cheerfully, her manner masking her curiosity.

  Her father’s assistant, Walter, entered. The man was on his way out, whether out of consideration for their privacy or to take advantage of some time off. As he approached her, she nodded a greeting. “Hello, Walter.”

  “Evening, Miss Shaw,” the tall former linebacker said politely. He indicated the bag she was holding. “Need me to carry that in for you?”

  “I’m fine,” she assured him with a smile.

  “But you can throw those out for me before you leave,” her father told his assistant, indicating the three black bags.

  Miranda noted a small, disapproving frown on the man’s face as he glanced down at the bags. But in deference to peace and his position, he kept his thoughts to himself and merely nodded. “Sure thing, Steve.”

  She watched him pick up all three bags and heard the faint clinking of items as they shifted.

  What was her father throwing out and why didn’t he want her looking at them?

  She forced the thought from her head as she made her way to the kitchen. Dinner with her father was never something she took for granted.

  Miranda found it difficult keeping her mind on the conversation, even though she was the one who had to initiate it. Her father took refuge in silence more than usual, answering in sentences that a three-year-old could have managed.

  It was obvious that he was preoccupied. As always, he kept his thoughts, his feelings, inside. Trapped. She gave him a dozen openings in which to say something about Wes’s death and he sidestepped them all.