“I’ll give her a call,” Molly supplied.
No! Maggie pulled her phone from her pocket and tried desperately to beat her assistant’s legendary dialing speed. The phone vibrated in her hand, and she dropped it, scrabbled to pick it up, and was rewarded with a loud blonk! Indicating she’d accidentally opened the voice command mode.
“Did you hear something?” Thorgerson asked, and Molly’s shoes thumped across the carpet, growing nearer to the table.
The jig was up. Maggie crawled out, the traitorous phone still clutched in her hand. “It was me. Fine, it was me.”
“What… were you doing down there?” Molly asked, arching a brow.
Any lie she could possibly think up would only make the situation worse, and the truth was bad enough. “I was trying to get better reception, I wasn’t paying attention to where I was going, and Mr. Thompson came out of the shower and didn’t notice me. To avoid embarrassing him or myself, I chose, rather stupidly, to hide under the table.”
Both Molly and Thorgerson looked at her as though she had sprouted antlers. She didn’t blame them. Chris looked so damned amused that she was tempted to slap him. He put out his hand, forcing her to cross the room to him to take it. “‘Mr. Thompson,’ is a little formal, isn’t it? Considering how well we’ve gotten to know each other?”
“I said don’t make a big deal out of it,” she said through clenched teeth. “I barely saw anything.”
“I’m not making a big deal,” he said, with a disturbingly cheerful smile.
“Well, since you’ve seen the clubhouse…” Thorgerson cleared his throat. “Shall we move on?”
“Yes, I think that’s a good idea,” Maggie said, unable to make further eye contact with Chris. “I’ll see you at the reception tonight, Mr. Thompson. We can catch up.”
“I look forward to it,” he replied a hint of amusement in his voice. “I’ll dress a little more formally.”
Her face flaming, Maggie took the lead in leaving the clubhouse, while Thorgerson stood by looking acutely uncomfortable. Molly snickered behind her hand.
“Don’t worry about him,” Thorgerson said in a low tone when they’d put some distance between themselves and the clubhouse. “Confidentially, he’s not going to be here next season.”
If that was meant to make Maggie feel better, it didn’t.
Chapter Two
“Go easy,” Javier urged under his breath as Chris deposited his empty champagne flute on a passing waiter’s tray and snagged a full one in the same smooth motion. He supposed Javier was right. Chris was keenly aware that this season could be his last, and he didn’t want to open it on a three-day drunk, no matter how tempting it might sound.
“I’ve got time,” he reminded Javier. “And it’s not like I’m even making it out of the bullpen this year.”
Javier made a face. “I hope you keep up this stellar attitude all season. It won’t get old at all.”
“Give me until May to get my panties unbunched, that’s all I’m asking.” Chris took a deep swallow of champagne. It wasn’t the cheap kind. The organization really wanted to make their new owner feel welcome.
A smile tilted the corner of his mouth, and he scanned the room to get a look at her. Dressed in a short, red dress, one of those tight numbers that looked like it was made out of ace bandages and which revealed a nice expanse of creamy, freckled cleavage, little Magpie was a far cry from the frizzy-haired, nerdy girl who’d hung around the ballpark while her father worked. The years had really done well by her. One of the suits who’d been hovering around her all night stepped close and dropped a Bengals cap on her head. She ducked a little, then smilingly accepted her fate, pulling it carefully over her sleek gold ringlets. More suits arranged themselves around her while a reporter from the local paper snapped pictures.
Javier whistled. “So, is this where I make a sick comment about how lucky we are to be in the owner’s box?”
“Not unless you want your nose broken. That’s Ron Harper’s girl.” A fact that Chris would remind himself of every single moment of every single instance he found himself around her. Maggie hadn’t been back for twenty years, at least. If she had the same love of the game as her late father, she sure hadn’t shown it. The chances that she shared her father’s spirit of camaraderie were low.
“She’s coming over,” Javier said, nudging Chris subtly with his elbow. “Put on your kiss-ass face.”
Even better, Chris would put on his “I-know-you-saw-me-naked” face.
The smile frozen on Maggie’s face didn’t hide her mortification. Of course, she’d worry whether or not he’d bring up her clubhouse visit that afternoon. It might as well have been scrawled all over her face in Sharpie pen.
“Chris, good to see you again. And Mr. Vargas.” She put her hand out for Javier to take.
Don’t kiss it, for god’s sake. Chris watched over the rim of his champagne glass to hide his chagrin as Javier took Maggie’s slender fingers in his and lifted her hand toward his lips. With a twist of her wrist, she slipped his grasp, saying, “No, no. No.”
It took Chris a lot of self-control not to shoot champagne out his nose.
Javier cleared his throat and slipped his hand in his jacket pocket. The guy had never proven to be anything other than hopeless when dealing with women. “So, you two are on a first-name basis, huh?”
Chris met Maggie’s gaze and held it, saying, “We know each other pretty well,” before taking another sip of champagne.
“It’s silly to be formal when I’ve already seen him naked.”
Chris choked into his glass. He’d barely recovered when her assistant hurried up and whispered something into her ear. Maggie smiled at Javier. “I’m so sorry, I have to excuse myself. But I’m looking forward to a great season.”
As she passed, she laid a hand on Chris’s forearm and gave a little squeeze. “I like you in a suit.”
She’d barely left the owner’s box when Javier whistled softly. “You know you have to tap that now. Or sue her for harassment.”
“Yeah, that’s a great idea. Sleep with the owner. That won’t backfire.” On the other hand, she had to Everyone had known back in the day that Coach’s daughter had suffered a huge crush on the hotshot young pitcher. Chris wasn’t a hotshot anymore. He definitely wasn’t young. But Maggie wasn’t little Magpie anymore. She was a beautiful woman, who’d been in an embarrassing situation with him only hours before. Maybe it wasn’t too much to hope he’d get a look a what was under that tight red dress.
Or maybe she’d been fucking with him.
“There isn’t as much potential for backfire as if you slept with the general manager,” Javier pointed out. “Besides, do you really think she’s going to be heavily involved with running the team? She owns some kind of multi-billion dollar investment firm. She’s got that to take care of. I bet she won’t even be here most of the season. In fact, I would go so far as to say that she’ll sell it off.”
“Never.” He didn’t know Maggie well, but he did know that she was Ron Harper’s daughter. If their little exchange just moments ago was any indicator, it was clear she’d inherited her father’s strong will and heaps of self-confidence. Why would his stubborn streak have missed her?
“Wanna put three hundred bucks on it?” Javier asked.
“Three? Why three?” Chris handed his glass off to a waiter. “Make it five.”
He left Javier laughing and moved through the crowded box. The reception spilled into the corridor, outfitted for the chill Michigan evening with space heaters and a generous open bar. He would probably find Maggie there, or, failing that, outside the crisp white canvas the event company had hung to keep the cold air at bay. When she wasn’t at the bar, he made a beeline for the exit.
Bingo. She was exactly where any normal person would go, and that was away from the party. She held a cigarette awkwardly between two fingers as she looked over the rail and across the park. The lights made it bright as day down there on the grass, maki
ng the shadows more aggressive where they stood.
“Ma’am, this is a no-smoking facility,” he said, and she startled out of her contemplation.
“I’m trying to quit,” she admitted. “I just needed an excuse to step out.”
Chris leaned his forearms on the railing beside her. “Overwhelmed?”
“Something like that.” She dropped the cigarette to the concrete and snuffed it out, then nudged it under the rail with the toe of her expensive shoe. “Dad would kill me if he saw me smoking.”
“Your dad would kill you if he saw you littering in the park.” Ah, what the hell. The blazing red dress and the curve in her back made her look like a piece of red rope licorice, all slender and flexible. “And if he saw you were out in public in that dress.”
The moment the words came out, a sense of having truly fucked up made his stomach drop. To his relief, she laughed.
“First and foremost, because it clashes with the uniform.” A slight breeze ruffled her curls, and she shivered. “You probably won’t believe this, but as a kid, I had more navy and orange clothing than any other color.”
“Knowing your dad, I believe it.”
“What happened to Portland?” she asked, leaning back with her elbows on the railing. “I thought you blew this popsicle stand.”
“No, I blew Portland.” He grimaced and revised his statement. “I blew it in Portland. After my Tommy John surgery DLed me for two seasons, I’m lucky to be on any team at all. Your dad was in my corner, though. Even when he quit coaching, he had a lot of influence here.”
“I’m glad to hear it. And to hear that you didn’t blow everyone in Portland.” Her mouth quirked and she shivered again. Her nipples stood out against the fabric of her dress. Eyes up.
Slipping his jacket off, he draped it around her back, and she pulled it over her bare shoulders gratefully. “Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it. I think I look better without the jacket, anyway.”
She snorted. “I think you do, too.”
“Watch it,” he cautioned. “That could be construed as crossing a line. That would be a hell of a lawsuit on opening day.”
“It would never make it through the court that fast.” She had a nerd laugh, right through the back of the nose. Somehow, it was diabolically attractive coming from her. She straightened, his jacket still hanging over her shoulders, and tossed her hair. “Hey. Do you wanna get out of here?”
Only a fool would turn down a chance to spend time alone with a woman who looked like Maggie. “Sure. Where are we going?”
The tip of her pink tongue poked slyly at the corner of her smile for a tantalizing second. “I know this place…”
* * * *
“Turn on the light,” Maggie whispered, though she didn’t know why she thought it was necessary to keep their voices down. Everyone was upstairs, wondering where the guest of honor had disappeared to, but she doubted anyone would guess she’d gone to the batting cages downstairs.
“You know I’m a pitcher, right?” Chris asked, a touch of amusement in his deep voice.
She turned and raised an eyebrow, a hand on her hip. “Aw, do you need me to call in a designated hitter?”
He grinned at her like a guy who had a fix on a horse race and went to the equipment locker against the wall. He pulled down a bat and gave it a practice swing before dropping it into her hands with a dismissive, “There. Should be light enough.”
Her mouth fell open in outrage, and she closed it with a laugh. Some people might have been irritated by such meaningless, aggressive challenges from someone who was, in effect, an employee. Maggie lived for the thrill of competition; she wouldn’t have been as successful as she was without the stubbornness and competitiveness that came from being Ron Harper’s daughter. All the trash-talking might as well have been phone sex. “Step aside, pitcher. Let me show you how it’s done.”
She handed Chris his jacket, tilted her head from side to side and was rewarded with a series of loud, rapid-fire pops as her vertebrae adjusted. As he loaded the machine and grabbed the remote from the wall, she tapped the head of the bat against the rubber floor. She steadied herself, teetering on her pumps as she tried to get into a comfortable stance. She could have taken them off, but winning in heels would make her victory even sweeter. The moment everything clicked, she narrowed her eyes at the arm of the machine and said, “Let’s go.”
The first ball whizzed at her with an audible slice through the air. For a moment, it seemed to hang suspended, then it was hurtling toward her. Every muscle in her body urged her to swing, but it wasn’t time. She didn’t know exactly how to tell when it was time, but she knew. Years of Little League came back like riding a bicycle. She swung the bat and it connected, the impact vibrating all the way down her arms, but it didn’t matter. They followed through of their own accord. Not the hit she’d hoped for, but the next one came off smoother, rolling down the bat like it had been shot from a gun and Maggie was an expert marksman.
“Holy…” Chris self-censored the epithet that was poised to leave his mouth.
Shrugging one shoulder, she replied, “Baseball in the blood,” before hitting the next pitch.
“Okay, wait, wait.” Chris stopped the machine and grabbed a clipboard off the wall. He crossed the batting cage and, muttering to himself, adjusted the settings. “Now give it a try.”
The next pitches came faster and higher. She missed the first and second, then sent the last three into definite foul ball territory. “Damn. Who is this?”
Chris flipped a page on the clipboard. “Ito, from Las Vegas.”
“Ito from Las Vegas. I might try to lure him away.” She wiped a bit of perspiration from her collar bones and handed him the bat. “You’re up, Mr. Big Swinger.”
“Let’s leave our earlier encounter out of this.” He squared up and gave her a nod. “Fire away.”
She hit the remote. The pitch zoomed directly into the zone, Chris swung early, and it smacked into the net behind him. He was nearly hit by the next pitch the machine threw, and he ducked out of the line of fire before the third could come.
Maggie doubled over laughing, stopping the machine. “Oh my god, why did you do all that trash talking if you knew you sucked so much?”
“Hey, there’s a reason I play for this league.” He dropped the bat, laughing with her. “And I thought if I were going to humiliate myself in front of you, it should be total humiliation.”
The thing Maggie hated about moments like this was, they ended. And usually, when they ended, the awkward silence was crushing, like it suddenly became.
Chris broke first. “You’ve been flirting with me all night. I can’t help but wonder if this is leftover from the crush you used to have on me.”
“So what if it is?” She took a step toward him, planning ahead. If there was the slightest chance they weren’t on the same page, she could just reach toward the door and act like that had been her intention all along.
“You might be disappointed.” He hooked his thumbs in his pockets and took a step to eliminate the space between them. “I might not live up to your expectations.”
This close to him, his cologne was like a hypnotic mind-control drug that turned her back into the shy, stammering teenaged girl she once was. Get it together. You’re thirty-seven years old. You own your own company. Hell, you own a baseball team. Forbes once named you the most successful woman under thirty. He’s not out of your league, you’re out of his. Taking a breath, she put one hand on his chest, her fingers closing over his tie. “Well… maybe you’ll just have to work that much harder to impress me.”
Considering how many hormonal teenaged years she’d spent fantasizing about kissing Chris Thompson, he really did have a lot to live up to. The second his lips met hers, all soft and warm, he instantly exceeded those expectations. Wasting no time, he tilted her chin up and shifted his mouth over hers, tongue opening her lips. She moaned, fingers tightening on the silk in her hand, and she let go abruptly. It w
ould suck to have gotten this far, only to strangle him to death by accident.
His hands slid down her back, over bare skin and the fabric that hugged her every curve. She’d worried that maybe she’d dressed a little too sexy for a business reception. Now, she thought it might have been the best wardrobe choice of her entire life.
Gliding his palms from her ass to her hips, he pulled her lower body tight to his. She swayed on her heels, holding his broad shoulders for stability. He pulled back, laughing, to right her. Then his expression went serious. “Hey, you haven’t… you’re not drunk, right?”
“No. Not as much as I would have liked to have been up there.” She laughed and leaned in for another kiss that curled her toes in her pumps.
A door clattered open somewhere in the hall, and Maggie froze. Before she could formulate an alibi—“I was just showing him how to actually hit the ball!”—he reached out and slapped the light switch, casting them into near-total darkness. Near, because a square window of wire-reinforced glass admitted the yellow fluorescents from the hallway. Chris pulled her through the shaft of light that cut into the darkness, to stand with him against the wall, out of sight.
“Maggie?”
“Thorgerson,” she whispered, rolling her eyes.
The park manager’s footsteps got closer, echoing off the concrete and the cinderblock walls. His shadow obscured the light, and Maggie’s breath caught in her throat. How would it look, if she were found down here, in the middle of a party in her honor, with one of the players? It would look like fines. It would look like an ethics investigation. It would look like her family freaking out at how she’d besmirched their name. It would look like…
Chris’s hand slid around her waist, and she gasped, startled. That was when the fear really hit her. Even if her career would survive such humiliation, her family would never forgive her. She would never forgive herself for making a mockery of her father’s team.
Long Relief (Hardball Book 1) Page 2
