by Linda Morris
She tilted her head, curious. “You seem awfully sure of yourself. You think Paul could never turn against you?”
“For a reporter? Never.” He crossed his arms, and the confidence radiating from him was unmistakable. This was a man who was certain he had his oldest child pegged. “Paul is a good man. He understands the importance of loyalty. Family. He respects his elders. We may argue. We might fight at times, like any family. Sharing confidences outside the family to a snoop? Break that family bond for nothing? No way.” He ran his eyes down her, cold and dismissive.
Another warning. She’d gotten plenty of them recently, but this one was far more stark a threat than Sarah’s. Paul wouldn’t give up his family—that famous Thrashers legacy—for “nothing.”
Clearly, she was the “nothing” he had in mind.
She swallowed, hating his half smile when her throat bobbed nervously.
He knew he’d rattled her, all right.
A part of her wanted to slink out the door, never to be seen again. This profile would be wrapped up in a week or two. When she finished, she could leave town, never tell Paul the truth, and never have to entangle herself or her son in this Shakespearean family drama they had going on.
She already knew she wouldn’t do that. Paul deserved the truth, as did Jack, and Walter Dudley was going to get it, whether he wanted it or not.
Eventually.
“He didn’t seem all that respectful of his elders at the after-party for the mud run,” she said. “As I recall, he got in your face a bit.”
He shrugged, but the insouciance didn’t travel up to his eyes. “He was a hothead for a moment. He’s still a young man. Sometimes he thinks with something other than his brain. I understand. It didn’t lead to any lasting problems.”
And now he’d dismissed her as a skirt, a piece of ass her son lusted after but cared nothing about. Truly, Walter Dudley was a prince among men.
It shouldn’t bother her, but it did, probably because she wasn’t one hundred percent sure he was wrong.
“As it happens, I’ve heard complaints about the facilities and the turf from a number of sources. I’ve also seen it.” She waved around the box. “You don’t have to be a rocket scientist to see that Dudley Field is in disrepair. The question is, why have you allowed it to get to this state?”
His smirk dropped off with satisfying swiftness. He started forward, and for a second, she thought he might lunge, but he perched on the edge of his chair instead.
“This field has my family’s name on it. I would never allow it to fall into disrepair. Just because it doesn’t look like a big-city stadium and have a hundred luxury boxes for corporate bigwigs doesn’t mean it’s in bad shape. This is Plainview, Indiana, not New York City or Los Angeles. We don’t have local governments in our back pocket, giving us tax breaks and referendums to redo our stadiums every five years. We have to get by on what we can, and we have. Now some reporter comes to town from outside, sneering at a small town, and you think we ought to write a check for twenty million dollars and fix this place up. What the hell do you know about it?”
Her heart started to hammer, but she took a deep breath and seized her nerve. “Mr. Dudley, you’re mistaking me. I’m not blind to the realities you’re up against. This is a new era. People today have so many entertainment opportunities. They can do so many things on the Internet, with video games and social media. Even in a small town like Plainview, the Thrashers aren’t the only game in town anymore. Unless you provide people a quality experience—” She stopped herself. She’d overstepped.
What had she been thinking? She was a reporter, not a baseball operations manager. If the Thrashers wanted to run their business into the ground, it was none of her business. Her job was to document it, not to prevent it.
He laughed, a brief huff of sound. “You sound like Paul.”
Interesting. “He’s a pretty smart guy. Why don’t you listen to him?”
“There’s such a thing as being a little too smart for your surroundings. That’s always been Paul’s problem. He doesn’t fit in small-town Indiana. If he’d been born into another life, he’d be in some big city, living in a high-rise, driving a BMW and working for a major league team. He wants to make the Thrashers into the New York Yankees. That’s not what this town wants or needs.”
A sound at the door stopped Willow’s response in her throat.
“You two okay?” Paul asked. “You’re both still breathing, so I assume you got along all right.”
“We got along fine,” Walter Dudley said with a smile. “I just explained a few things to your little friend here about how the Thrashers business runs.”
Could the man be any more patronizing? “And I gave him a few suggestions about some changes I thought he ought to make.” Willow punctuated this grenade with a bland smile.
“Wow. In that case, I’m surprised you both are still breathing.” Paul looked back and forth between the two of them.
The black expression on Walter’s face would have made Willow laugh if it hadn’t scared her at the same time. He frowned. “I think I’ve had quite enough of the pleasure of your company for one night.” He stiffly said good-bye and left. Ten seconds after he’d gone, Willow’s nervous laughter erupted in a giggle that made Paul shake his head.
“So,” he began with a smile. “You’ve been to my house. You got semi-naked in my study. You sat in my executive box and you survived meeting my father twice. I have one question for you. I have one question for you. When are you going out on a date with me?”
“A date?”
“Yeah. I can’t say we’ve done things in the right order, but it seems like if we’re going to be together, having a date at some point seems like a good idea.”
“Who says we’re going to be together?” The words were a challenge, but the smile she shot him took the sting out.
He leaned in, bringing his knee a whisper from touching hers. Like that, electricity flared to life between them and her eyes went wide.
He brushed a hank of coppery hair back from her face. “This says we’re going to be together.” He knelt before her and took her lips in a soft, undemanding kiss. He didn’t need to demand anything.
At times like this, she felt like she could give him everything. Her heart. Her soul. Her body. A place in Jack’s life. When he pulled away, she was breathless, and she suspected his heart was hammering every bit as hard as hers.
“When, Willow?”
“When’s your next off-day?”
“Thursday.”
“Thursday it is, then.”
God, she wished Thursday was tomorrow and not almost a week away.
Ooh, boy. She might be in trouble here, but for some reason, she didn’t care.
Chapter 7
She’d tell him tonight. Absolutely. She’d promised Kendra her deception would come to an end, and you didn’t break a promise to Kendra. The girl could work a guilt trip like nobody Willow knew, with the possible exception of her mother.
“You have to tell him,” Kendra had said. “I’m going to be calling when you get home to make sure you did. Don’t think I won’t.”
Yet, somehow, when Paul had shown up on her doorstep, taking her breath away in a crisp white shirt and a neat pair of charcoal trousers, she’d momentarily forgotten her vow. His eyes lit when he saw her in an above-the-knee geometric print skirt that swished when she turned and a sleeveless white top over a camisole. His warm appreciation made her grateful for the hour she’d spent in front of the mirror, trying on one outfit after another. The drive had passed quickly while they chatted about this and that, and she’d never found an opportunity to make her confession.
Truth be told, she hadn’t looked very hard.
How exactly did one broach a topic like this, anyway? You’re looking very handsome tonight, and, by the way, you have a son.
Paul had asked her out for dinner, so she’d been surprised when, instead of taking her to a restaurant, he’d turned down the tree
-lined street where he lived.
“I thought we were going out.”
“We are, after a fashion. The finest restaurant in Plainview is the Ladybird Café. It has its charms, but it’s not what I’m after.”
Hmmm, what was he after? Unlike his house, the Ladybird Café didn’t have a bedroom twenty feet from the dining area.
Well, if that was what he was after, who could blame him? They had plenty of combustible chemistry. She’d have to be strong, have to hold him off and resist temptation until they could have a thoughtful, mature discussion about Jack’s paternity.
God, she was screwed. Who was she kidding? She’d never be able to do that.
Inside, he escorted her through the house to the kitchen: a warm, modern space with a colorful tiled mosaic on the walls and gleaming oak cabinets setting off newer stainless steel appliances. In the nook sat a small table with a bottle of wine and a cloth-covered basket in the middle. To one side sat a bouquet of the long-stemmed purple wildflowers that seemed ubiquitous around Plainview at this time of year. He fiddled with a little iPod and speaker setup, and an old jazz standard began. Either Billie Holiday or Ella Fitzgerald, probably. She always got those two confused.
“You did all this?”
“I had a little help,” he admitted. “Sarah did the table setting. Not my area. But I can cook. How do you feel about kung pao chicken?”
Her eyes rounded. “I love it. Can you seriously make kung pao chicken? It’s not from a box or something?”
He shot her a look of disdain. “Please.”
Willow couldn’t believe he’d gone to quite this much effort on her behalf. There were so many things about Paul she didn’t understand yet. She was looking forward to learning them, if he’d give her a chance once she confessed her secret.
Nerves struck with a vengeance at the prospect of the very difficult conversation they’d be having tonight. “Can I have some wine?”
“Help yourself. I’ve got to get started.”
“Mind if I watch you cook?”
“Not at all.”
She poured herself a glass of red and followed him into the kitchen. She’d researched carefully and concluded that a little alcohol once in a while during nursing wouldn’t hurt Jack, and God knew she needed it to soothe her rattled nerves. She perched on a stool next to the island and took a sip.
Paul moved about the kitchen with ease, taking a saucepan and large wok from the rack over the island. From the fridge, he retrieved chicken breasts already cut into small pieces, a bright yellow bell pepper, crisp scallions, and a twisted root-looking thing.
“What is that?” she asked, nose wrinkling. It looked like something a hobbit would eat.
“You profess to love Chinese food and you don’t know what this is? It’s ginger root.”
“Oh.” Thank God. “It tastes better than it looks.”
Moving quickly, he added rice, water and a dash of salt to a saucepan and put it on to cook, and then he retrieved an armful of ingredients from the pantry: bottles, jars and cans. Some she recognized right off, like chicken broth and cornstarch. Others were a complete mystery, like a little jar labeled in Chinese characters and filled with things that looked like peppercorns. When she gave it a whiff, however, she drew back, coughing.
“Those aren’t peppercorns!” she said around a wheeze, her nose burning.
“Not exactly, no.” He smiled and took them from her. “Better not stick your nose in there again.”
“Don’t worry, I won’t.”
“Where did you get these crazy ingredients? Don’t tell me the Plainview IGA stocks this stuff.”
“I got them from a place called the Internet. You should check it out sometime.”
He’d gone to all that effort for her? She couldn’t hide a smile.
He went to work, rolling up his sleeves and cutting the vegetables with methodical precision. She sipped her wine, occasionally stealing a piece of bell pepper to crunch.
“I love watching you cook.” It came out nearly as a sigh. “I can’t believe you did all this for me.”
“I don’t mind. I like it, actually. I could hardly impress you with a night at the Ladybird, could I?”
“Good point. This is an amazing spread, though. Where did you learn?”
“My mom died when I was sixteen. My dad’s solution was to have TV dinners every night, and Sarah was too young to be much help. I had to learn to cook.”
“That’s remarkable. I don’t know how many teenage boys would have done that.”
He shrugged. “It wasn’t a big deal. I had a responsibility.”
“No, you didn’t. Not really. Your dad had a responsibility, not you.” No way was she letting Walter Dudley off the hook.
“My dad had it pretty hard when Mom died. I know you probably don’t think so, but he really did the best he could. He had a team to run and two children to raise, all while he mourned the loss of his wife. There was no reason I couldn’t pitch in and help out, so I did.”
“Until it was time for college.” She hesitated, unsure whether to voice the question that lingered at the back of her throat. They were having such a nice time, and the wine had taken the edge off her nervousness, putting a pleasant shimmer of heat on her face. Still, her curiosity wouldn’t fade. “Sarah told me you were a pretty hot baseball prospect. You played on the same college team with Tom Cord. Why didn’t you give the majors a try?”
Paul didn’t answer immediately, adding cornstarch to the chicken broth and stirring with a thoughtful expression. He turned his back for a moment, poured some oil into the wok, and turned on the burner. “Sarah’s been very talkative, I see.”
“I hope you don’t mind. She was telling me a bit about you.”
“No, I don’t mind. She always gives me more credit for being a hot prospect than I deserve.”
“You don’t think you could have made it in the majors?”
He shrugged, acting as if he didn’t much care. Could he possibly be as indifferent as he seemed? “I probably could have been one of those players who dinks around in the minors for years, getting bounced up to the majors for a couple of weeks at a time whenever a starter pulled a muscle, and then going right back down to the minors when he recovered. Or maybe I could have found some role on a perennial team as a utility fielder, playing twice a month when the starters need a day off. But I belonged in Plainview. This team needed me. I knew I’d be taking over one day and that I needed to work here and get to know everything from the bottom up, so I’d be ready to take over when the time came. I couldn’t do that playing for three different teams a year, living out of a suitcase and renting my furniture.”
“Any regrets?”
“None.” The answer came swift and certain.
“Not even a trace of doubt. I wish I could be so sure I was doing the right thing.”
“You were doing, what, sideline reporting before? How did you get into blogging?”
Her breath caught. He’d unwittingly given her an opportunity to steer the conversation toward Jack. She hesitated. Was this the right time? Maybe it would be better to wait until the profile was finished. Damn, it was so easy to rationalize away something you didn’t want to do. Then again, things between them were heating up. Could she in good conscience allow that without having the full truth between them?
The smell of the oil heating in the wok caught his attention. “Hang on.” He went to check it, and she breathed out, a sound of mingled relief and self-disgust.
“We’re ready to get started.” He put the chicken in, and the sound and smells of searing meat immediately filled the air. He kept it moving and, in only minutes, removed the cooked chicken to a plate and filled the wok with vegetables and peanuts instead.
He worked quickly and efficiently, and she balanced her chin on her hand, savoring the enjoyment of watching a good-looking man do something he excelled at. In a few minutes, he removed the vegetables as well and began making a sauce. Finally he added all of the ing
redients back in.
A few stirs and a shake of the wok, and it was done. He filled their plates with rice and heaped the piping-hot stir-fry atop it, and then followed her back to the table.
She picked up her fork, mouth watering. Oh, my goodness. She hadn’t had anything this appealing since … she couldn’t remember when.
“Oh my God, this is fabulous.” The spicy, savory flavors exploded on her tongue and she closed her eyes for a moment. She tried to keep up a polite conversation during dinner, but really, she had a hard time not simply focusing on the food. She scraped her plate clean and leaned back with a contented sigh. “Fabulous.”
She’d beaten him. He was still eating, meticulously working his way through his meal. He was such a disciplined man—something that made it all the more exciting when he lost control. A shiver wracked her at the memory of the last time he’d let loose, in his study after the mud run.
Maybe if she was lucky, she’d get to see him lose control again.
“I hope you saved room for dessert. Tiramisu.”
Her jaw dropped. “You’ve got to be kidding me! You bake too? You are the perfect man.” She narrowed her eyes. “Actually, you may be a little too perfect. It’s creepy. You’re like a male Stepford Wife.”
“Sorry to disappoint you. I bought it from the bakery.”
She clucked her tongue. “Too bad. You were so close to perfect-man status.”
“You have me pegged wrong, if you think that.”
“Maybe. I have to say, you’re pretty darn close to it.”
He excelled at everything. Unlike her. She’d never been much good at anything except looking good and asking nosy questions. Lucky for her, that combination had turned out to be perfect for broadcast journalism, at least until she’d blown her career up. Still, it was a little intimidating to be around a man who didn’t have a whole lot of weaknesses, at least that she could see.
He leaned back and crossed his arms. “If you feel that way, why did you try to brush me off when you first came to town?”
