by Lori Wilde
“I didn’t. I bought a stash of baseball cards for the kids I’m coaching.”
“You coach Little League?”
“I sponsor a three-day baseball clinic at a summer camp for underprivileged kids. I wish I could coach Little League, but I’m too well-known.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I just did. It’s not something I usually share because I don’t want people to think I’m using what I do for the kids as a pedestal to hoist myself up on.”
“That’s fine, but I’m your ghostwriter, you can’t keep secrets from me. You have to tell me everything.”
“Are you sure you want to know? There are a lot of skeletons in this closet.”
“I can handle it.”
“You say that now . . .”
Breeanne tapped the face of Joe Renner’s card. “This card honestly doesn’t mean anything to you?”
“Nothing.”
“Do you mind if I have it?”
“It’s all yours.” Rowdy cocked his head. “But why do you want it?”
“To take out my anger on your behalf.” She held the card in both hands and ripped Joe Renner’s smiling face right off his body. Then she ripped the pieces in two. And then ripped those up, until nothing was left of Joe Renner except for tiny bits of glossy paper.
Rowdy’s pupils widened, and amusement pleated his lips. “Remind me never to get on your bad side.”
Consumed by the sexual tension that had plagued them all day, and Rowdy’s heartfelt confession about Laila and Joe Renner, Breeanne barely slept that night.
Thoughts of the day turned into a review of everything that had happened from the moment she’d gotten beaned with his baseball. The events of the past month circled in her head, as she reviewed them again and again. One memory would land, she’d examine it, and then it would fly away and another memory would swoop in. She’d worry over the one for a time, doze, and then another memory would nudge her awake. That went on until dawn, an endless merry-go-round of mental photos, both remembered and embellished.
In her mind’s eye she could see Rowdy, a boy of eight or nine, sitting on the saggy porch of the run-down old house, tossing a baseball into the air, playing catch with himself while listening to the Texas Rangers on the radio.
She could smell the pungent creosote. Could taste the tar in the air. Could hear the sound of the mournful train whistle, and the endless clacking of the railroad cars upon the tracks.
Then they were in the forest of pines, dark and spooky and cavelike in its thickness, and crossing that woodsy threshold into the clearing and the beautiful oasis waiting for them there. Because she’d dared to step outside her comfort zone, she’d found a sparkling gem. The special place that Rowdy had never taken another woman.
How glorious it had been, naked in nature. The sun kissing every inch of her bare body, and filling her with life-giving energy. Rowdy with his arms in the air, turning his back to her while the sound of his teasing laughter bounced off the trees. The mysterious water, where unknown things lurked, lapping at her breasts.
She poked the scary moment when she believed a snake had brushed against her leg. She cringed at how she’d panicked, slipped and fallen. But her spirits soared remembering what it had felt like as Rowdy’s arms went around her, his deep voice promising that as long as he had her, she was safe.
She couldn’t forget the look in his eyes when he saw her scars for the first time. How he’d been concerned and caring, but not repulsed. She savored again the flavor of his mouth when he’d kissed her in her parents’ kitchen. How he’d fired her and then immediately rehired her when she called him on the carpet.
Each thought, each memory, each feeling brought her to the same place. She wanted him.
Yes, he was a charmer.
Yes, she was stepping off an emotional cliff.
Yes, she was not going to end up with him. Not for the long haul.
None of that mattered. She wanted him. More than that, she wanted to live a little. She wanted to get on the dance floor of life, and shake her booty. She wanted experiences. Hungered for them. Craved them. Yearned for them.
She wanted to have sex, and she wanted to have it with Rowdy Blanton. It should be an easy enough goal to obtain. He’d been with scores of women. He was the one she wanted to give her virginity to. If she was going to lose it, she wanted to lose it big. She wanted someone who could not only show her the ropes, but give her the ride of a lifetime.
And she had a plan.
Question was, was she brave enough to go through it?
While the sun peeked over the horizon that second day of June, she got dressed, gathered up her purse, her car keys, and her courage, and went to ask her younger sister how to seduce a man.
After talking to Suki, Breeanne came away with a plan to seduce Rowdy and tame the sexual tension that was making working together so difficult, but she had no idea how or where she was going to pull it off. She couldn’t just fling herself into his arms and holler, Do me, although it was tempting.
“You wore the scarf,” Rowdy said when he opened the door to her that morning, and her knees almost buckled when he reached out to stroke the scarf at her neck.
“My good luck charm. I thought it might help me focus on the work today. We’re so far behind.”
“Our good luck charm,” he corrected. “If it hadn’t been for the scarf I would never have hired you.”
“Oh?” she said.
“Yeah. Once you told me that only we could feel the softness of it, I knew we were on the same wavelength.”
Her heart fluttered hopefully at the same time doubt clutched her. She wanted sex with him, she’d convinced herself she could have sex with him and be okay with nothing more than a physical relationship, but when he said romantic things like that she wanted to run away. If she seduced him, ultimately she was in for a world of hurt. Was the momentary pleasure worth the pain?
He led the way into his den, and while he wasn’t looking, she whipped off the scarf and tucked it into her purse.
Inside the den, the TV was turned to a sports talk show on ESPN and they were talking about how well the Gunslingers were doing. As Breeanne sank into the plush leather armchair, Rowdy leaned his blue-jeaned butt against the majestic mahogany desk. The mother-of-pearl snaps at the cuff of his Western-style shirt caught the light from the deer-antler chandelier hogging the ceiling.
She settled the notebook computer on her lap and powered it up.
On the ESPN talk show the commentators were speculating about Zach.
“You know,” said one commentator. “You have to wonder why the Gunslingers called Zach Blanton up. He’s got promise, but is he really big league material?”
The camera flashed to a second commentator who said, “It makes me wonder if Potts picked up the younger Blanton just to get a dig in at his older brother.”
Breeanne shifted her gaze from the TV to Rowdy. A shadow of beard dusted his tightly clenched jaw. He folded his arms over his chest, and scowled.
“Seems like a bad decision to me,” said a third commentator. “Letting a personal vendetta get in the way of a strong pitching roster.”
“Makes you wonder what really happened between Dugan Potts and Rowdy Blanton,” the first commentator added.
Rowdy picked up the remote control from the desk, flicked off the TV, and strode across the hand-scraped oak hardwood flooring in custom-made cowboy boots. With each step he took, Breeanne’s heart beat faster. He dropped onto the black and white cowhide couch next to her chair, slouched against the cushions, propped his feet on the rustic coffee table, and cradled the back of his head in his interlaced palms. In spite of his relaxed posture, his muscles were tensed.
“Have you heard from Zach since your run-in?” Breeanne asked.
Rowdy lifted a hand to his lip that was almost healed. “He won’t take my calls or answer my texts.”
“You wounded his pride.”
“I know.” Rowdy rubbed h
is temple, winced.
“Tension headache?”
He grunted. “Yeah.”
Was he knotted up over conflict with his brother? She got to her feet. “Would you like some aspirin?”
“Sit. I already took aspirin. It didn’t cut it. Those weeks I spent on painkillers after my attack raised my tolerance.”
She eased back into the chair. Rowdy was usually so laid back. She hadn’t ever seen him this tense. “Is there anything I can do?”
“I’ll be fine. Let’s get to work.”
“You know, because I had so much pain after my surgeries, the doctor recommended alternative therapies in conjunction with medication. I find acupressure and reflexology techniques can be helpful for pain management.”
He squinted at her, grimaced.
“Light sensitive?”
He barely nodded.
She got up, switched off the chandelier, and pulled the blinds. “Better?”
“Thanks.” His face was the color of chalk.
“You look miserable. Do you get headaches a lot?”
“Not since I was a kid worried about how I was going to take care of Mom, my sisters, and Zach.”
She imagined him as a child burdened with headaches from growing up in that rough neighborhood with an ailing father, and her heart wrenched. “Would you like for me to massage the acupressure point for you?”
“Hell, I’m ready to try anything. The damn headache started in the middle of the night and it feels like Santa’s elves are building a workshop inside my skull.”
“I think I can make it better.”
“What do I need to do?”
She set her computer on the coffee table and got up. “Take off your boots, and lie down on the couch.”
He moved to the couch she’d just vacated, and leaned over to take off his boots, but he winced and slumped back against the cushion. “Give me a minute. Bending over makes the pounding worse.”
She went over to him. “Stretch out.”
Closing his eyes, he rested his head on the armrest, his long body taking up the remainder of the couch. The man was always in motion. This was the first time since she’d known him that he’d been so still.
She took off his boots and socks and settled them on the floor, surprised at how intimate doing so seemed. As if they were a couple. Her pulse sped up the way it always did when she was close to him. Would this feeling ever go away?
Stop thinking this way. You’re not a couple.
She lifted up his legs, sat down on the couch beside him, his legs across her lap, and began rubbing the big toe of his right foot.
“This is supposed to help my headache?”
“I know it’s hard for a smooth talker like you, but be quiet for a minute.” She looked everywhere except at his sexy feet. There was something far too intimate about this.
He was quiet for all of ten seconds. “That feels good. You could do this for a living.”
“Shh.” She moved to the other foot, and kneaded that big toe.
He didn’t last ten seconds that time. “Gosh, Breezy, no one’s taken care of me like this since . . . Well, I don’t believe anyone has ever taken care of me like this.”
“I don’t believe that for a minute.”
“It’s true. My mom was so busy taking care of my dad and holding down a job and raising four kids, essentially on her own, that I sort of slipped through the cracks. Not that I’m whining. Mom did her best.”
“None of your girlfriends ever took care of you?”
“I don’t date the kind of women who are into nurturing, if you know what I mean.”
She did. He preferred party girls who weren’t looking for anything more than a good time. “What about when you were recovering from your injuries? Who took care of you then?”
“Okay, Warwick does look after me, but he’s not as pretty as you are.” He raised his head, winked.
“Your headache is better?”
“It’s completely gone. You’re a miracle worker.”
“Not a miracle worker.” She smiled, praying it did not give away how much touching him unraveled her. “Just forced to find various ways to deal with pain.”
“Hey,” Rowdy said, sitting up and reaching for his boots. “Bet you never guessed that the suffering you went through would end up bringing pleasure to others.”
He was right about that. All those times she lay in a hospital bed, battling to keep from dying, it never once entered her head that she’d be rubbing away pain for a major league baseball star.
“You know,” he said. “I think I’m going to Dallas this weekend. The Gunslingers are home, and maybe if I show up in person Zach will talk to me.”
“It couldn’t hurt,” she said, a self-serving thought popping into her head. If Rowdy went out of town for a day, it would be the perfect time to go through with the seduction Suki had helped her plan. “When would you be back?”
“I’d go over on Friday evening, see if I could make contact with Zach. Maybe see some old friends. I’d be home by Saturday evening. Warwick is going to be out of town this weekend and I couldn’t leave Nolan Ryan alone for longer than that.
“Hey,” she said, marveling at the opportunity he’d just dropped into her lap. “If you want, I can feed and walk Nolan Ryan while you’re gone.”
CHAPTER 18
Being with a woman all night never hurt no
professional baseball player. It’s staying up all night looking for a woman that does him in.
—CASEY STENGEL
The scene was set.
A bottle of sparkling wine chilled in a silver bucket on the bedside table. Two wine glasses, a tray of chocolate-covered strawberries, and a box of condoms sat beside it. And she had a seductive playlist loaded in the mp3 player, LL Cool J currently crooned “Doin’ It.” Two scented candles—one vanilla, one cinnamon—flickered and danced on the dresser on the other side of the oversized, totally masculine bedroom. A black and gray comforter topped the king-sized bed and on the wooden spindles of the headboard, she’d tied the cheetah scarf.
She took off her glasses and studied herself in the full-length mirror mounted on the closet door, both shocked and pleased by the vixen she spied there decked out in Victoria’s Secret. Suki had done her makeup for her and while her sister had been heavy-handed with the eyeliner and mascara, Breeanne couldn’t believe the transformation, with the paint and spackle she could actually pass for pretty. Suki had been after her for years to use more makeup and she wished she’d listened.
What would Rowdy think when he saw her?
Chill bumps raced up her arms and she couldn’t stop imagining the slow grin that would slide across his face. Soon she would be one hundred percent a woman. But she was ready to go and there was no one to do it with.
Her gaze shifted to the clock. Seven-fifteen.
That was the only fly in the ointment of her grand seduction. Rowdy had said he’d be home on Saturday evening, but he hadn’t been specific as to the exact time. She’d finished arranging everything at six-thirty and now she felt at loose ends.
She paced the bedroom, hummed along to Sade singing “By Your Side.” Was the song too romantic? She didn’t want Rowdy getting the wrong idea and thinking that she expected anything more from him than just sex, because she didn’t. Well, that was a lie. She did. But she knew better than to wish for that. She’d take what she could get. Sex was plenty. It would be enough.
Oh God, was she making a huge mistake? Should she bag up all this stuff and get out of here while she could?
Snap out of it.
Running away wasn’t going to get her anywhere. She craved excitement, adventure, and a life like every other single woman her age.
Should she text him? Ask when he was coming home, but then he might ask why she wanted to know. She needed something to calm her down. Walk Nolan Ryan again? Get dressed and get sweaty? The wrong kind of sweaty. Then she would have to shower and risk ruining her makeup and what if Rowdy came h
ome when she was in the middle of it?
What she really needed was something to chill her out.
Her gaze fell on the wine bucket. Surely, he wouldn’t mind if she opened it without him. She was probably supposed to be letting it breathe anyway, but she didn’t know the first thing about wine. Truthfully, she hardly drank. She had a sip or two of champagne for New Year’s and celebrations, but her old heart medications hadn’t mixed with alcohol and she hadn’t had a chance to experiment since going off them.
A couple of sips of wine might be the ticket to calm her jangled nerves.
This was her first time opening a bottle of bubbly and she wasn’t sure how to go about it. In movies champagne corks were always going wild and shooting around the room, ricocheting off stuff. The last thing she wanted was to put her own eye out.
Forget the wine. Let Rowdy handle it when he gets here.
She couldn’t remember a single old movie where the woman opened a bottle of her own seduction champagne or sparkling wine.
Right. She perched on the edge of the bed. Watched the number on the digital clock flip. Seven thirty-five. Seven thirty-six.
She shivered again, this time from cold. She’d tried to turn the temperature up a tad, but he had one of those complicated modern thermostats she couldn’t figure out, downside of growing up, and working, in old buildings.
Wine might warm you up.
She picked up the bottle of Prosecco. The guy at the liquor store had said with a leer, “Good wine to get jiggy wid it,” when she’d asked his recommendation for what wine best paired with a romantic evening, leaving her to wonder if she did indeed want to get “jiggy wid it,” whatever he meant by that.
“You know how to open that?” he had asked, ringing her up.
“Yes,” she’d lied.
Caterpillar eyebrows climbed up his short forehead an uh-sure-you-do expression.
As she was walking out the door, he hollered, “Don’t put your eye out with that.”
She wished Rowdy would get her so they could get “jiggy wid it” together. She picked up the wine, ice water sluicing off it, to drop on her bare toes. She shivered again. Things were starting to unravel.
