Caught by You

by Jennifer Bernard

  That thought gave her a deep stab of pain. Whatever she and Mike had, it was nothing compared to his longtime feelings for his ex-­fiancée. Which meant that while she was falling harder for Mike, he was even more out of reach.

  Peachy.

  “Did you hear what I said?” Mike was poking her in the ribs.

  “Ow. No. Yes. Something about Crush Taylor and a wedding?”

  “Our wedding. He wants to make a big deal out of it. He thinks it would be good for the Catfish’s image. You know, local girl snags Catfish superstar.”

  “Oh Mike. Are you telling me I should dump you for a Catfish superstar? Say, Trevor Stark?” she said, infusing an exaggerated dose of hope into her tone.

  “Ha ha. Not funny.” He circled her wrists in one strong hand. “You don’t belong with that guy. I’d give up another kidney before I let that happen.”

  His possessiveness gave her a thrill that left her speechless for a second.

  “Think about it,” Mike continued. “A big wedding would be good PR for you. Picture a big spread in the Kilby Press-­Herald, you and me testing wedding cakes and bridal veils. ‘Local Girl Catches Groom at Catfish Stadium.’ I bet Harvey and Bonita won’t get that kind of attention. And the judge might be impressed with a big down-­home baseball wedding.”

  Oh cripes. Everything Mike said made sense. Bonita would eat her heart out if Donna made the papers with her wedding plans. More importantly, Judge Quinn would look at her very differently. But an actual wedding . . . suddenly it was all too real.

  “When? When is he thinking?”

  “He didn’t say. It’s up to us, but I’m guessing he’d want it to be pretty soon. He needs some good publicity after the betting scandal last year, and the brawl at the Roadhouse.”

  She winced. That brawl was going to haunt her forever. She felt responsible for that crazy episode, but did that mean she owed Crush a wedding? “Mike, are you sure you want to do this? It will be a lot harder to back out of being married if we make a big splash like that.”

  “I don’t want to back out. Do you want to back out?”

  “I’m not even in yet!”

  “According to Instagram you are. And Twitter, and Facebook. And the checkout lady at Kroger’s.”

  Groaning, she buried her head in her hands. “What have we done?”

  He stroked her back in firm circles that made her skin tingle. “Look, take some time to think about it. You don’t have to decide right away. We can talk about it tomorrow.”

  “I can’t. I have Zack tomorrow.”

  “What kind of a fiancé would I be if I didn’t want to spend time with Zack? That’s the whole point of this engagement. I need to get to know him better, and he needs to know me. It’s very important to me.”

  How did Mike do that? How did he sneak past her defenses without even trying?

  And now she wanted to kiss him. She wanted to move her lips over the handsome planes of his face, tug on the black curls at the nape of his neck. The look on her face must have given her away, because he turned toward her and moved his big body over hers. She sighed, ready to slide against him, open for him, drink him in. His scent surrounded her, smoky barbecue and soap. All her senses screamed for contact, for closeness, for skin against bare skin. But her brain sent her another message. Warning, warning. Get in too deep, there’ll be no getting out.

  She scrambled away from him, toward the arm of the couch. “Let me see your scar. From the kidney operation.”

  He stilled, his green eyes deep as a forest. “Why?”

  “I just want to see it, that’s all.” She’d use anything for a distraction right now.

  Slowly he sat back, then drew up his shirt. She’d felt the hardness of his chest a ­couple of times now, but she’d never seen it bare. He was magnificent, his musculature defined, powerful, intimidating. He had the body of a soldier, a gladiator, a superhero. Below the ridges of his abdominal muscles, a little to the right of his navel, a darker line, about five inches, traced across his skin.

  “Does it hurt?”

  “No. There used to be some numbness, but it’s all normal now. Actually . . .” He hesitated.

  “What?” She couldn’t stop staring at the scar. That one line of tissue had changed Mike’s entire life. It was like a dividing line. On one side, the life he’d planned and hoped for. On the other, the life he had.

  “It’s the one baseball superstition I have. More of a ritual, really. Before I go up to bat, I always put my hand on my lower belly, here where the scar is. I can’t feel it through my uniform, but I know it’s there, and it . . . I don’t know, it does something for me. Reminds me of Joey, maybe. Of everything that matters to me.”

  Emotion welled up, clogging her throat. Feelings for this beautiful man, whose heart would never be hers, threatened to overwhelm her.

  “Want to touch it?” he asked her softly.

  She grabbed on to the opening as if it were a lifeline. Make a joke, make a joke. Her go-­to. “I just had a flashback to Reggie Dean behind the gym in sixth grade. Thanks a lot, Solo.”

  Laughing, he dropped his shirt, covering the incredible terrain of ridges and slopes. “Do I need to beat Reggie up?”

  “I took care of that myself, thank you very much. I’m short but I’m feisty.”

  He settled next to her, his body so warm and hard and tempting. Maybe it was time to give in on the making-­out issue, after all. Her lust for him was getting out of hand.

  “I almost forgot,” he said. “Are you free on Saturday? I got us tickets to Crush’s fund-­raiser event. Figured it would be a good chance to make a statement.”

  “A statement?”

  “An introduction to Mike and Donna. Otherwise known as . . . ‘Madonna.’ Nah, that doesn’t work.”

  She scrunched up her face. “ ‘Dike’?”

  They both laughed. “Even worse. Never mind, we’ll just stick with Mike and Donna. Donna and Mike.”

  Mike and Donna. It really did have a ring to it. Oh cripes, how was she going to keep herself out of trouble with this thing with Mike? Was it even possible?

  Chapter 12

  CRUSH TAYLOR WOULD always be famous in the baseball world for his iconic pitching career. In recent years his legend had extended to the parties he threw at his home, Bullpen Ranch. Mostly these parties were opportunities for him to party with the Catfish and other members of the sports world, with the door always open to any interested females. But once a year he hosted a party for the Kilby community, with the purpose of raising money for a designated worthy cause. The Kilby Burn Center, the new library, and the Special Olympics had all been beneficiaries.

  This year, the selected cause was kidney disease.

  That was thanks to Mike, who had told Crush that choosing the Kidney Research Foundation would go a long way toward convincing him and Donna to agree to his proposed Catfish Wedding of the Decade.

  Maybe he should have picked liver research, thought Mike as he watched Crush pour himself a hefty glass of bourbon at the bar near the massive stone fireplace. An early heat wave had forced the partygoers inside, giving everyone a chance to gawk at the spectacular interior. High ceilings with steel trusses soared overhead, angling down to meet incomprehensibly large panes of glass that looked out on spring-­green pastures. All the furniture was large and upholstered in suede, cowhide, or nubby oatmeal-­colored fabric. Every room had a built-­in bar, and ashtrays sat on every surface. Bullpen Ranch was definitely a man’s world.

  Specifically, Crush’s world, judging by the lineup of Cy Young awards and photos of the pitcher posing with ­people like Catfish Hunter, Nolan Ryan, and Dwight Gooden. Not to mention the many, many women he’d dated and/or married over the years.

  It seemed that the entire city of Kilby had paid to attend the event, which included a cash bar, dinner, a silent auction, and a country-­sw
ing band called Kissing Cowboys. All the Catfish players had shown up in their nicest outfits, which ranged from Yaz’s purple leather tie and patchwork deer hunter cap, to Leiberman’s black suit jacket.

  “Is that what you wore to your bar mitzvah?” Mike teased him. Not that he had any grounds to mock; he was wearing the same blazer he’d worn to his high school graduation. It strained over his shoulders and didn’t quite reach his wrists. Since he’d left the Navy he’d had little use for formal clothes.

  “I think that suit looks great on you,” Donna told Leiberman, who blushed violently. “You look like a young Cary Grant.”

  A miniature Cary Grant, maybe, thought Mike with a flash of jealousy. Donna looked incredible. He couldn’t stop sneaking glances at her. She’d put her hair up in some kind of tousled knotlike arrangement, and wore an off-­the-­shoulder black dress that made her skin glow like pearls and her eyes glimmer like gold.

  She’d wanted to wear her horrible boxy blue jacket, but he’d reminded her that things were different now. They were an engaged ­couple trying to make a certain impression on the movers and shakers of Kilby. She’d risen to the occasion perfectly, but the problem now was that he couldn’t stop touching her. He hadn’t let go of her hand once since they’d walked in, except to grip her elbow, or nestle his palm into the small of her back, where he could feel the flexing of each muscle along her spine. The deep curve of her hip tempted him to explore further, but he clamped down on the urge. Something was bothering her; over the past weeks he’d gotten familiar enough with her expressions to know that.

  He had to get her alone, find out what was up. Maybe if they could sneak into a closet somewhere . . .

  He was scoping out the nearest closed door when a tall ­couple approached them. The woman was all too familiar. The last time he’d seen her, she’d been aiming a camera at them. Bonita wore a sleek white sheath and sky-­high stiletto heels. The tall, sleepy-­eyed man with her had to be Harvey. His fringed suede jacket made him look even more uncomfortable than Mike. Bonita’s sharp eyes slid from Donna to Mike, then back again.

  “Engaged?” Bonita said skeptically. “You expect anyone to believe that?”

  In a gesture one finger removed from rude, Donna raised her left hand. All the fingers curled to her palm except the ring finger, which bore a sparkly cubic zirconium ring they’d selected together. Nothing fancy, since she’d refused to accept anything more expensive.

  “I guess seeing is believing,” chirped Donna.

  “That doesn’t mean anything. It won’t matter to Judge Quinn until you both sign that marriage certificate. In the meantime, I hope you know that everyone’s laughing at you.”

  At the look on Donna’s face—­as if her pet goldfish had just been devoured—­Mike’s determination hardened. This woman was too petty to get custody of Zack. And she should not be allowed to lord it over Donna. Donna was worth a million Bonitas. “We’ll be sure to fax you a copy as soon as it’s official,” he told them. “We’d invite you to the wedding, but I’m afraid there isn’t room. Too many major leaguers are coming, not to mention members of Sting’s band. Of course we have to leave room for Sting himself, just in case.”

  Bonita’s smug sneer evaporated. Mike wanted to do a victory dance, but Donna’s fingernails were digging into the inside of his palm. Oops. Wrong move?

  “Would you two excuse us?” Donna tugged him away from Bonita and Harvey, who shot a yearning glance toward the bar. Mike couldn’t blame him for that.

  He followed Donna, who seemed to know exactly where she was going. He remembered that they’d both been here last year for Crush’s All-­Star party, though the events of that night were pretty fuzzy. After careening through the kitchen, where the catering staff was busy filling trays with little bacon-­wrapped scallops, she pushed open the door to a pantry and dragged him inside.

  He looked around at dimly lit shelves stocked with bottles of liquor, cans of olives, and jars of mixed nuts. Apparently, Crush followed the Bar Snack Diet.

  “Are you hungry? You should have told me. I would have fixed you up a plate,” Mike told her.

  Donna crossed her arms over her chest and set her jaw. Her usual dimple was nowhere to be seen. The shadowy sheen of her skin in the low light made him want to lick her cheek. “You’re not going to joke your way out of this. What are you doing, making up details about a wedding that probably won’t ever happen? I mean, Sting?”

  “I said ‘just in case.’ Seriously, you never know.”

  “You’re not being at all serious. You want serious? How’s this? We’re never going to get married.”

  He froze, noticing for the first time that she seemed genuinely upset. “What are you talking about?”

  “Mike, I went over and over our last conversation. I’ve been thinking about everything you said about Angela and your brother and your family.”

  “So?”

  “You’re still in love with Angela. How can I marry someone who loves someone else?”

  Drawing back, he took in the stubborn cast of her wide mouth, the lips turned down at the corners, quivering just slightly.

  “Is that what’s been bothering you the last ­couple of days?”

  She lifted her chin. “I wouldn’t say it’s been bothering me. It’s just a piece of information I’m taking into account.”

  With one short step, he came to her and caught her in his arms, pulling her against his body.

  “Wrong information. I’m not in love with Angela. How could I be, after seeing who she really was?” Donna’s pile of fiery hair held a sweet, faint fragrance, like early spring wildflowers. The curves of her breasts pressed into his chest. “I loved an illusion. An idea of Angela, someone pure and gentle and perfect. I was this rowdy, physical kid, and she was like a Madonna painting. I never knew what was really going on inside her head. She was so quiet, so untouchable. When she broke off our engagement, all those delusions fell away. I don’t love her anymore. Not in any romantic way. I swear.”

  She tilted her head up, leaning back in the circle of his arms. “I’m nothing like that. Nothing.”

  “So? You’re you. Our relationship is nothing like mine and Angela’s. It’s more real.”

  “More real? How can you say that? We’re pretending to be engaged!”

  He took her chin in his hands. “I’m not pretending. I intend to marry you.”

  She pulled her bottom lip between her teeth, a crease appearing between her eyebrows. “I don’t understand you, Mike Solo. Are you saying our relationship is different from yours and Angela’s because you have no illusions about me, therefore you wouldn’t ever be disillusioned?”

  He let out a hoot of laughter, so loud that her eyes went wide with alarm and she reached up a hand to cover his mouth. He grabbed the opportunity to nibble the soft heel of her hand.

  Her eyes darkened. It occurred to him that they were once again alone in a tiny, dark room. “See, that’s what I like about you, Donna. You always make me laugh, and you say things no one else will say. Our relationship is different because I’m not a naïve kid anymore. I’m a grown man now.”

  He shifted his body so that one thigh slid between hers, so she could feel the thrust of his erection. It was rock-­hard and threatening to burst through his slightly too-­tight pants.

  “That doesn’t prove anything,” she whispered fiercely. “I bet you got hard-­ons all the time back then too.”

  He had to laugh, even though his cock, teased by the contact with her shape, pulsed painfully. “See? You know me so well.”

  “How can I be sure you aren’t still pining for her?”

  “Hmm. Well, you could give me a chance to prove it by letting me lick the crook of your neck, right here, where it curves into your shoulder.” He nestled his face into the body part in question, felt her tendon go taut, then slid his tongue across it. She shivered.
r />   “That doesn’t . . .” she said weakly.

  “Okay, fine. How about this?” He sank to his knees before her, gripped her hips, and drew her toward him. Burying his face between her thighs, he breathed in her scent through the thin layer of fabric. “Showing is better than telling, anyway.” He inched the cloth up her thighs.

  “Solo, you’re crazy.” Her voice held a quiver of laughter, but no hint of objection. He smiled, amazed that he felt so comfortable with this girl who had burst into his life like some kind of fiery-­haired comet.

  “Crazy for you, babe. I’ve been thinking about nothing but this since I saw you in that god-­awful blue suit.”

  “I didn’t know it was such a turn-­on.”

  “You’re a turn-­on. Face it. You make me wild, Donna.” He ran his tongue up her inner thigh until the soft flesh gave way to the silk of her panties. He inhaled the heady scent of her private, secret self, the Donna no one else got to see. The vulnerable and tender Donna.

  Her breath caught, and she shifted her legs apart. He nearly came right then and there. Her willingness to surrender to him went right to his head. She would never hold back, he realized. Never put false barriers between them. Never treat him like he was barely good enough to touch her shoe.

  “I want you, Donna MacIntyre. More than you know.” He reached a finger inside her panties and touched wetness. “I’d finger-­fuck you right here on the floor if the entire city of Kilby wasn’t right outside.”

  A shudder went through her. She dug her hands into his hair. “Maybe this isn’t—­”

  “Are you scared, Donna MacIntyre? We’re engaged, remember? No one would blame us for getting a little carried away before the wedding.” He wrenched her panties away from her sex, exposing the soft cleft with its wink of moisture. “As long as you can keep from screaming, we should be fine.”