by Joanne Rock
Look what people are saying about this talented author….
“Enthralling…a great plot, a wonderful hero and heroine, and sense of history make a totally outstanding book.”
—RT Book Reviews on The Captive
“Expect fireworks.”
—Night Owl Reviews on Manhunting
“Joanne Rock never fails to impress!”
—Writers Unlimited on She Thinks Her Ex Is Sexy…
“Joanne Rock has a home run of a hit with four sexy, hotter-than-hot players.”
—Suzanne Coleburn, The Belles & Beaux of Romance, on Sliding into Home
“Four fabulous tales! The sex is scorching and the four couples are engaging and entertaining.”
—Romance Reviews Today on Sliding into Home
“Scrumptious.”
—Cataromance on Sliding into Home
Dear Reader,
Baseball season is more than the great American pastime around my house. With three sons and a husband who hails from a family of seven sports-crazy brothers (and one sister who learned at an early age how to hold her own), I spend a lot of time at the ballpark in the summer. Opening day of baseball is a holiday that warrants calling in sick, and a good game on the West Coast is worth staying up until 1:30 in the morning to watch.
But while I’m rooting for the home team, chances are far more likely that I’m dreaming up stories for those nine guys who takes the field. Being a Blaze writer, I can have their lives turned around by romance in a heartbeat!
Aces’ manager Heath Donovan doesn’t need much help from me to find his life in a tailspin, however. And he flat-out refuses to be a trophy boyfriend for the sexy siren next door after she mistakes him for the Aces’ playboy third baseman. Good thing book reviewer Amber Nichols takes her manhunting very seriously once she sets her mind to it. She’s not about to let her hot prospect get away….
I hope you enjoy Double Play. Don’t forget to look for sneak peeks from my upcoming releases at www.joannerock.com!
Happy reading,
Joanne Rock
Joanne Rock
DOUBLE PLAY
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Three-time RITA® Award nominee and Golden Heart winner Joanne Rock is the author of more than forty books for Harlequin. A fan of both medieval historicals and sexy contemporaries, she is particularly thrilled to pen her first Harlequin Blaze Historical novel, set in a medieval period. When she’s not writing or spending too much time on Facebook, Joanne teaches English at the local university to share her love of the written word in all its forms. For more information, visit Joanne at www.joannerock.com.
Books by Joanne Rock
HARLEQUIN BLAZE
171—SILK CONFESSIONS
182—HIS WICKED WAYS
240—UP ALL NIGHT
256—HIDDEN OBSESSION
305—DON’T LOOK BACK
311—JUST ONE LOOK
363—A BLAZING LITTLE CHRISTMAS “His for the Holidays”
381—GETTING LUCKY
395—UP CLOSE AND PERSONAL
450—SHE THINKS HER EX IS SEXY…
457—ALWAYS READY
486—SLIDING INTO HOME
519—MANHUNTING “The Takedown”
534—THE CAPTIVE
HARLEQUIN HISTORICAL
749—THE BETROTHAL “Highland Handfast”
758—MY LADY’S FAVOR
769—THE LAIRD’S LADY
812—THE KNIGHT’S COURTSHIP
890—A KNIGHT MOST WICKED
942—THE KNIGHT’S RETURN
For Dean, who doesn’t suffer baseball mistakes lightly—even in fiction. Thank you for helping me with my logistics!
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Prologue
IF EVER THERE WAS an ideal man for a fling, it would be the hot baseball player next door.
Amber Nichols recalled her best friend’s words, blaring in her ear like an iPod on full blast, as the male in question emerged from the surface of Nantucket Sound like a modern-day Poseidon. Amber watched him from the deck of Rochelle’s home on Great Point, overlooking the water. Her former college roommate had generously offered her the beach house more than once during their decade-long friendship, an offer Amber had only accepted now that her life was imploding.
In the course of two months, she’d weathered a wretched breakup and major cutbacks at the newspaper where she worked as a book reviewer. While the breakup had torn at her heart, the cutbacks left her overworked and fearing for her job, leading to stress, exhaustion and shaken confidence all the way around.
Here, she could regroup and relax. Open a new chapter in her life that didn’t involve playing it safe and overthinking every decision.
Of course, Rochelle had given Amber plenty of dating advice along with the keys to the place, convinced a wild affair would cure what ailed her. She had never understood Amber’s penchant for practical, methodical men who approached life with the same sense of caution that Amber did. But then, Rochelle had never met Amber’s perpetually heartbroken mom who had taught Amber the wisdom of holding something of yourself back. Amber simply made dating choices that reflected that.
Dating choices that still seemed to backfire just as surely as her mother’s had, although for entirely different reasons. Obviously, something wasn’t working with her approach. But Amber wasn’t sure she was ready to take Rochelle’s advice during her week of transformation and rest.
Rochelle had been particularly effusive in her description of the studly third baseman for the Boston Aces staying next door. Apparently the club’s manager owned the house and frequently let various team members stay there as a perk.
The sleekly muscled male was living up to Rochelle’s hype. The setting sun caught the rivulets streaming along his skin, making his bronzed body glisten. No slow-motion movie sequence had ever been more flattering to the masculine physique. His square, powerful shoulders were even more mouthwatering as he lifted his arms to wipe his hair from his face. Even from the front of him, she could see the muscles that would form the V of his back.
Her gaze followed that enticing stretch of sinew as she straightened, moving closer to the wooden railing of the raised deck as if drawn by a magnet. Taut abs flexed as he walked, each slab clearly delineated. A trail of dark hair disappearing into the waistband of low-slung cutoffs. Wow.
Yes, Amber could see why Rochelle would think the Aces slugger would make the ideal fling. Not only did he exude animal sex appeal, he would also probably be on a plane in a day or two, safely gone from her life without doing any major damage. But the man was pure fantasy material and way out of Amber’s league. She needed someone a bit more obtainable to help her regain her mojo.
She did want to put to rest her ex-boyfriend’s damning accusation that she had Freon running through her veins when they were in bed together. She’d halfway believed him, knowing she’d always made safe and practical choices in her love life.
No more. She’d recalled an interesting book she reviewed about understanding sexual attraction and had promptly ordered a copy as a personal guide this week. As a longtime book lover, she remained convinced the answers to all the world’s problems could be found in books if one had the patience to research. Armed with The Mating Season, Amber would make her first foray into living more passionately. And, thanks to the delectable man
toweling off fifty yards away on their shared stretch of beach, Amber didn’t have to worry about any ice in her veins. Sure, she had as much chance of snagging a guy like that as she had of roping the moon, but her two-minute fantasy reel of the baseball phenom had done her a big favor. For the first time in months, she felt sexy. And sexually interested.
As she headed back inside the house with a secret smile on her face and a new swing in her hips, Amber thought she just might have the guts to leave the safety of the beach house for a night on the town after all.
1
THE LAST THING Heath Donovan wanted was to leave the house tonight.
He cursed the need as he parked his motorcycle among the thirty-odd mopeds the tourists favored outside The Lighthouse, a local tavern that still served food at this hour. Too bad it also functioned as a big-time watering hole that was packed every night of the week with people who might recognize him.
Locking up the bike, a 1961 Velocette Venom that he kept on Nantucket so he wouldn’t be tempted to rack up the mileage, he bypassed the main entrance. Instead, he headed for the door that led to the take-out kitchen, hoping he could get in and out without anyone noticing him. He had hobnobbed enough in his years as a player. As the Boston Aces’ new manager, he preferred a lower profile, especially the day after a highly publicized game where he’d gotten tossed for supporting his catcher in a spat with the home plate ump.
Lowering the brim of his Patriots hat to help hide his well-known mug, Heath opened the door to the building. The scent of barbecue and eighties rock music spilled out along with the dull glow of neon lights. The converted saltbox house was covered in gray cedar and perched at the water’s edge near a decorative miniature lighthouse. But the picturesque New England vibe ended there. The place had been gutted to fit pool tables and jukeboxes, picnic tables and a dance floor. Tonight, the party overflowed onto the beach where the weekend bonfire would culminate in a midnight clambake.
He took his place in the waiting area—a backroom where they’d installed an extra bar and big-screen TVs for the take-out crowd. Heath wondered if the brunette he’d seen on his next-door neighbor’s balcony would be here tonight. Unlike the downtown area of Nantucket, Great Point didn’t have many choices for a night out. Would he catch sight of her white sundress in the crush?
Not that he planned to act on the rogue attraction that had washed over him like a wave off the sound. Right now, he needed to focus on plotting his way back into the administration’s good graces if he wanted to keep the manager gig he’d worked his ass off to snag.
“Takeout for Jones.” Heath called out the fake name to the woman behind the counter, the multipierced, purple-haired daughter of the guy who ran the place. He’d seen her here plenty of times before and knew she wouldn’t recognize him—or the alias—since her eyes were always glued to the bouncer in the main bar.
The lady bartender gave Heath a nod, never glancing twice at his face and making it easy for him to keep his cover. Leaving him to stare at the TV just in time to see highlight film of his ejection from last night’s game.
He cursed under his breath, pissed all over again to see the pitch that extended the outside corner by two city blocks. And even more pissed to remember that if he wanted to stay in the majors as a manager, he couldn’t champion all his players’ causes. He backed away from the bar to wait until they called him, sticking to the shadows at the back of the room.
He didn’t see the woman with her nose buried in a paperback book until he almost flattened her.
“Whoa!” She stumbled sideways, her hand reaching for him reflexively to regain her balance.
“Sorry,” he muttered, keeping his head down, trying to stay out of the lights to avoid the hoopla that public recognition caused these days. He’d told the front office he would stay out of sight on his forced two-day leave from the ballpark—a bonus slap from the team’s powers that be following the one-game suspension.
But the sight of a white sundress grazing tanned knees forced his head up in spite of himself.
It was the woman who’d been watching him from his neighbor’s balcony. The image of the setting sun piercing her thin skirt to outline the shape of her legs had been the solitary high point in the past twenty-four hours from hell.
Not so long ago, he would have welcomed feminine distraction. Hell, there’d been a time when he would have thought nothing of introducing himself then and there and letting his star power do the hard work for him. But he couldn’t think like some airheaded celebrity slugger when he was back at the bottom in his career, fighting for a slot he wanted to keep more than anything.
“It’s okay.” She released him quickly and straightened the neck of her dress’s halter top, a sweetly modest gesture that stoked an unwanted attraction. “My friends always tell me I need to read less and live more.” She gave the book in her hand a rueful wave and stuffed it in her purse.
“The Mating Season?” Curiosity got the better of him as he spied the title on the volume. He tilted his head to one side to read the cover that remained visible in the top of her denim drawstring bag. “‘The primal dance of ancient gender politics’?”
Not exactly your everyday average light reading material. But definitely intriguing. And unlike the women who’d collided with him on purpose in bars over the years, he knew damn well that hadn’t been this woman’s intent. He’d been the one who’d run into her.
“This is by Madeline Watson-Turner. Great title, isn’t it?” She seemed sincere, missing his cynicism as she passed him the volume. “The book came out a few years ago, but it’s a great survey of human behavior. I find it interesting reading in light of, you know, the bar scene.”
She gestured to the dance floor where couples now two-stepped to a country tune as a big, blue moon-shaped disco ball descended from the ceiling.
Heath didn’t need to look around to know what she referred to, however. He’d been a player in the so-called mating season plenty of times. Women flirted and primped, circling the room for the men that appealed to them most. Guys flexed muscles while doing innocuous things such as carrying a round of beers or setting up a shot at the pool table. All around them, men and women sent a hundred signals to each other in pursuit of that basic human need for intimacy.
“I think I recognize you from the beach earlier today.” He figured he would give her the chance to ’fess up if she knew his identity. If she was a groupie—someone who’d put herself in his path on purpose because of his connection to baseball—he’d rather know now before he thought about her legs in a sundress any longer. “Any chance you’re renting the house next to mine a few miles down the Point?”
Nodding, she peered over his shoulder as if looking for a way out of the conversation. What was up with that? She hadn’t been nearly this distracted that afternoon when she’d been watching him from the porch of the house next door.
“That was me,” she admitted. “I was long overdue for some R & R.”
“Jones,” the bartender called into the tinny public address system that alerted take-out customers when their orders were ready.
Damn. He wouldn’t have minded standing here another minute or two to hear the brunette’s name or find out why she was reading about the pickup scene while the rest of the bar-goers got on with the business of hooking up. Was she actively on the prowl tonight? A part of him really hated that idea. Something about her crisp white dress and bringing a book to a bar made her seem far too innocent to play that game.
“That’s my order.” He handed her book back as he nodded toward the front counter. “Guess my wings are ready.”
She smiled as she again tucked the volume inside her bag.
“No sense letting good food get cold.” She winked. “Enjoy your dinner.”
Without another word, she disappeared into the crowd, weaving her way through the throng toward the back door that led outside.
Heading home? Or did she simply hope to find better light for reading at one of the outdo
or picnic tables?
And had she recognized him and his connection to baseball? He seriously doubted it. If she had known who he was, she did a damn good job of acting as if his fame were no big deal—as if he were no big deal.
Because she wasn’t the least bit impressed by fame? Or because she’d never opened the local sports section? He had to admit she had him curious. And not just because he remembered the exact shape of her legs from that sunset illumination of her dress earlier. In spite of his self-imposed moratorium on dating—or maybe because of it—he found himself drawn to the book-reading brunette.
“Jones, your order is ready.” The voice on the PA system sounded more impatient now.
Between the woman at the counter’s surly attitude and the sundress siren blowing him off without a backward glance, Heath realized he felt like a normal guy for a change. He blended into the background, just like he’d wanted.
As his eyes followed the path the brunette had taken, he found the idea of taking his wings home to devour in silence didn’t hold quite the same appeal as it had an hour ago.
Stalking through the crowd toward the bar, he picked up his food. But by the time he had the bag in hand, he’d already made up his mind that he couldn’t leave the bar until he satisfied his curiosity about the woman. When was the last time any female had conversed about a book with him? Hell, it’d been a long time since anyone had talked to him as if he knew anything about a topic outside of baseball. Besides, she was staying in the house next to his.
Even if he didn’t have any intention of hitting on her, the least he could do was offer her a ride home.
AMBER WAS MORE THAN a little surprised to see her big league third baseman headed her way. After all, she rarely ever attracted anyone but sweetly nerdy types. A celebrated athlete pulling down millions a year was not even a remote possibility. But he approached her now, winding through the throng of beach volleyball players and couples staking out places around a bonfire near the water.
