High Heat (Hard Hitters #1)

by Linda Morris

“What?” Her fingers tightened on her wineglass.

  “I’m just deciding whether to make you dance a slow dance or a fast one. Do you know how to Dougie?” He gestured to the dance floor, where the DJ was playing a dance song she didn’t recognize.

  She nearly choked on her wine. “Um, I’m more of a slow-dance kind of girl. There’s less room for making an idiot of myself.”

  “I can’t imagine you looking like an idiot.” His eyes dropped to linger on her curves. Her mouth went dry and she took another sip of wine. Parts of her body she’d practically forgotten about heated in response to the gleam in his eyes. “Especially in that dress.”

  She nodded in thanks, not trusting herself to speak around the knot that had formed in her throat.

  The fast song ended and Peter Gabriel’s “In Your Eyes” came on. “I love this song,” she said.

  “Let me guess.” He tapped his chin. “When John Cusack held the boom box over his head and played this song in Say Anything, you cried.”

  “No way,” she lied.

  Of course she had cried. How did Tom know that? Crying over a movie didn’t fit the no-nonsense image she tried to project, but he’d seen through it.

  He pulled her to her feet. “They’re playing our song.” On the dance floor, she settled the curve of her body into one of his arms and clasped his other hand. His muscular shoulder was warm and hard under his suit jacket, and the music swept over her. Unaccustomed to dancing in heels, she slipped for a second on the highly polished parquet. He grabbed her and didn’t let go.

  “You okay?”

  She nodded, unable to speak around the nervous constriction in her throat. He released her slightly to resume dancing, but kept her close. She didn’t mind. She needed the stability—either the wine or the heat in his gaze had her feeling slightly drunk.

  Surely the wine had caused the fizzy heat in her veins. She’d had three glasses, after all.

  Perhaps she shouldn’t have confessed her love for this song quite so readily. It was easy to move to, but it was also easy to feel to. A song that talked about finding completion in your lover’s gaze wasn’t the kind of thing she could tune out when a beautiful man was holding her close.

  It wasn’t anything special about Tom, though. No doubt it would be the same if any reasonably attractive man held her and moved in time to this song.

  No doubt.

  The pulse of the music settled deep in her body. She didn’t know whether he pulled her or she leaned in, but somehow, her breasts brushed against his chest, sending her gaze skittering upward.

  She was used to him making a joke of everything, but not this time. He didn’t crack a smile.

  She stared at his strong, straight nose, that cleft chin, the dusting of dark whiskers that made themselves known on his cheeks in the late afternoon. He probably should have shaved a second time before an event like this, but she was glad he hadn’t. Her hand wandered up from his collar and brushed his jaw, and her eyes drifted half-shut at the sensation of her fingertips against his warm skin.

  Peter Gabriel sang about a moment that kept slipping away, and Sarah swallowed hard. She couldn’t tear her eyes away from Tom’s. She’d fallen into that hot gaze and didn’t know if she’d ever find her way out, or if she even cared.

  Once she’d had a crush on him, but now she was on the verge of something much bigger, much deeper. Something she couldn’t easily walk away from.

  Oh, God. It was just the wine. Please, God, let it be the wine.

  “Sarah, I need to speak to you.” Her father’s voice rushed over her like a splash of cold water, snapping her back to unsexy reality.

  “Excuse me, Tom.” Her dad gestured for her to follow him, and she did, walking down a long hall to a deserted coatroom. Her father wanted to talk now? He hadn’t paid her a blind bit of attention during the dinner; he’d been too busy talking business with Paul.

  He flipped on the light, slammed the door behind them, and turned on her. “What the hell do you think you’re doing, hanging all over him?”

  She blinked, going stone-cold sober in a flash. “You told me to keep him out of trouble.”

  He snorted. “I fail to see how draping yourself on him like a sloppy drunk does that.”

  “We were just dancing.” God, the words sounded weak and pathetic, and she knew it.

  “You’re a team executive, and he’s a player. Never the twain shall meet, remember?” Her father crossed his arms. “You know the kind of woman he normally dates. God, you’re making a complete fool of yourself, not to mention making every tongue out there wag.”

  “Making a fool of myself?” she echoed dumbly. “Thanks for the support, Dad.”

  “I don’t owe you support for doing the wrong thing. Sometimes, you need to hear the truth, and I’ll always give you that.”

  The truth. She didn’t want to believe it, but somehow every unrelenting word pounded its way into her brain, making her feel lower than dirt. She couldn’t form a witty comeback for the life of her, probably because she’d thought the same thing herself a thousand times. She wasn’t in the same league as Tom’s usual girls. He’d dated some of the most beautiful, desirable women in Hollywood. She wasn’t ugly, she knew, but she didn’t compare in terms of glamour, with her made-over dress and sparkly shoes from Dodd’s.

  Her brain spun furiously: His attention doesn’t mean anything. He chases any passably attractive woman. He’s pursuing you because he’s bored in a small town for the summer.

  But then she remembered the look in his eyes when they’d danced together.

  That had been for real. She was absolutely certain. She might not be his usual kind of woman, and maybe her dress hadn’t lived up to the couture fashions his old girlfriends wore, but she couldn’t miss the interest in his eyes when he looked at her. Maybe he only wanted her for a night. Fair enough. One-night stands weren’t her thing, but he did want her.

  She hadn’t made a fool of herself. Not that it was any of her dad’s business anyway.

  “Excuse me if I’m a little bit confused. You and Paul wanted me to keep him in check while he was in town, and you certainly didn’t want him dragging Christina Caputo to the All-Star party, right? Too embarrassing for a family values organization like the Thrashers.” Her dad drew back, startled by her vehemence, but she kept right on going. “When I attend the party with him, which was the only way I could get him to go without bringing some hideous date, you don’t like that either. To top it off, when we have a simple dance together, you freak out and call me all kinds of insults! Make your mind up about what the hell you want from me!”

  “I wanted you to keep the team from being embarrassed by a bimbo, not to turn into one yourself!”

  “Oh, you think I’m embarrassing?” She raised an eyebrow. “Did you ever hear about what made Christina Caputo notorious in the first place?”

  Her father flushed. “Yes, and I’d appreciate it if you don’t bring that up. It’s disgusting.”

  “If you know about that, you know that a slow-dance with a player is pretty tame in comparison. Everybody kept their clothes on and no paparazzi got any scandalous shots. That’s got to be a first for a date with Tom Cord. I’d say I’m doing a hell of a job.”

  She turned and opened the door, and then stopped to say one more thing over her shoulder. “I didn’t want the PR job, but since I have it, I’d appreciate you staying out of my way and letting me do it the way I see fit.”

  Walking away from her father while his mouth hung open was one of the most satisfying moments she’d had in a long, long time.

  Chapter Eleven

  “We’re going on a road trip, motherfuckers!” The bus erupted in a chorus of catcalls and whistles as Coco Jackson worked his way up the aisle of the charter bus, bobbing his head to the beat of the hip-hop song Tom could hear blasting from his earbuds. Their midsummer southern road swing started today. “Buckle up, Kentucky. We are going to kick your ass!”

  “Or at least the asses o
f five of your minor-league teams.” The words earned Tom a high five from Coco, who eased his long, lanky frame down into the empty seat beside him and stowed his duffel below.

  “Bet you aren’t used to having to bust your ass on a crappy charter bus, huh? What, they fly everywhere in the Show, don’t they?”

  “Yeah. Unless the Chicago Cubs are playing the Chicago White Sox,” he said dryly. The crack flew over Coco’s head, though. He simply nodded and chewed his gum thoughtfully.

  Tom looked out in the parking lot where the clubby, or clubhouse manager, stood with his clipboard, making sure they had all of the gear they’d need stowed under the bus.

  On the other side of the lot, a scrum of women and kids milled around a second bus, with harried-looking moms trying to herd kids on board. That must be the wives and families bus. The Thrashers were family-oriented, but only to a point. Walter Dudley wanted the married players to bring along their families on long road trips—it cut down on the partying he disapproved of—but he wouldn’t let them ride on the same bus with the players. At least the old geezer paid for a second charter bus for them, which is more than many teams in Double-A minor-league ball would do.

  In the distance, Sarah’s little gray crossover vehicle swung into a parking spot. She emerged, her glossy dark hair gleaming in the summer sun. She wore snug-fitting pants that didn’t quite make it to her ankles—they had some kind of a damn name but he didn’t know what it was—and a white blouse with a trim jacket. Those whatever-they-were pants showed the firm curves of her rear when she bent over the car’s trunk, making him sit up a little straighter. She retrieved a small suitcase and hoisted it easily.

  She was like that. Independent, taking care of herself without a lot of fanfare. Never needy, never clingy.

  She had a nice ass too, but for once, that wasn’t his priority.

  Not his only priority, anyway.

  “Boss lady is coming on this trip, huh?” He hoped he sounded casual.

  “Sure she is, but she ain’t riding on this bus.”

  Tom’s head swiveled to Coco, who was fiddling with the buttons on his iPod. “What do you mean? I thought all team personnel traveled on this bus.”

  “Not her. Daddy won’t allow it. She rides on the wives’ and kiddies’ bus. Doesn’t want his little girl getting all dirtied up riding with us roughnecks, you know.”

  Across the aisle, a kid from Washington who’d signed with the team last week emitted a thunderous fart.

  Tom shrugged. “In that guy’s case, I kind of see Mr. Dudley’s point.”

  “It’s the man’s team. He can do what he wants. She doesn’t like it, though.”

  “Yeah, I bet she doesn’t.” He watched the activity in the parking lot diminish as everyone and everything got squared away. The clubby checked the last item off of his list and closed up the luggage compartment.

  Something had happened between Sarah and her father the night of the All-Star party, he was sure of it. Her father had dragged her off the dance floor with a face harder than a diamond, and Sarah had returned minutes later, quiet and a little distant. All she’d said was that her dad had wanted to talk business. Whatever the conversation had been, it had broken the mood.

  If her father hadn’t pulled her away, Tom was sure she would have spent the night in his bed. As it was, she’d been reserved the rest of the night, leaving him at the door with a quick kiss on the cheek and a firm good night.

  He’d spent the night in his apartment, him and his hard-on, watching shadows chase each other across the ceiling and wondering what the hell he’d gotten himself into.

  It had been easy to promise Paul he wouldn’t make a move on Sarah when he’d thought she’d do it for him. But if she continued to drag her feet and deny the obvious attraction between them, he couldn’t be held responsible for what happened. They were both grown-ups. Why should he worry about some dumb promise he’d made to an overprotective brother?

  Because he’d given his word to his friend, his conscience reminded him uncomfortably. He had a lot of flaws, but breaking his word wasn’t one of them.

  He couldn’t remember the last time a woman had caused him this much trouble. He could usually get any woman he wanted. If he did have trouble getting one, he simply moved on. Of the women he knew, one wasn’t different enough from another to make her worth worrying about.

  Sarah Dudley was proving to be the exception.

  Disappointment wafted over him as Sarah disappeared into the family bus. A few minutes later, however, she got back out again and headed for the player bus. Tom leaned forward, looking hard.

  She mounted the steps to the player bus, her suitcase banging against her leg. Reedy Johnson got up from his seat in the front row and stopped her with a hand on her arm. From this distance, Tom couldn’t hear what they were saying, but he could tell it was an argument.

  Fancy that. Sarah Dudley in an argument. The woman had probably been born disputing something with her mom’s ob-gyn. Reedy shook his head and Tom could read his lips: I’m sorry.

  Sarah threw her hands in the air, her hair flipping with a toss of her head.

  Tom rose to his feet.

  “What are you doing?” Coco pulled his knees back to let him pass.

  “Nothing.”

  “Don’t make trouble, hear?”

  “Who, me?” He ignored Coco’s snort and pushed past him to approach Reedy and Sarah.

  “What am I supposed to do, Reedy? The damn bus won’t start.”

  “I’m really sorry about that, Sarah, but your dad would kill us if we let you on the team bus. You know how he is. They’re gonna have to get another bus for the families or fix that one. Just wait.” His voice turned pleading, and Tom muffled a grin. He couldn’t blame the guy for squirming. If he were a low-level coach like Reedy, he wouldn’t like to get in the middle of a battle between the Dudleys either. Both of them were bullheaded as could be. He knew whose side he was on, though.

  Sarah was a lot cuter than her old man. Not to mention, she was team personnel. No reason to keep her off the damn bus because of her killer legs.

  “I can’t wait for that bus to get fixed and you know it.” Sarah lowered her suitcase. “I have a press event set up in the visitors’ clubhouse before the game.” Her voice turned urgent. “Journalists are coming in from Lexington and Louisville to interview Tom. SportsCenter is going to carry a portion live! Everybody wants to know how his rehab is going and when he’ll be starting for the White Sox.”

  Reedy shrugged. “Then drive yourself! You can follow behind the bus.”

  “I didn’t plan on a road trip. My car’s only got a quarter tank of gas.” She tilted her head. “Besides, why should I have to?” She switched to a wheedling tone. “Everybody else rides on the team bus. Managers. Coaches. Even the broadcasters! Reedy, come on. You’ve known me for years. He doesn’t have to know. Why can’t you look the other way just this once?”

  “You know why.” Reedy lowered his voice. “Your dad would have my ass if I let you on this bus!”

  “True, but he won’t have my ass.” Both heads swiveled as Tom spoke up. “It’s true. And if he gets pissed at me, who cares? I’ll be in Chicago in no time. Besides, Sarah’s been giving me some tips on my mechanics. I need her with me. If the old man’s got a problem with it, have him talk to me.”

  Sarah’s brows shot up at this blatant lie—understandably, since he never cared about anyone’s opinion on his mechanics—but she didn’t argue.

  Before Reedy could say another word, Tom grabbed Sarah’s suitcase and took it down to be stored under the bus. The players he passed fell quiet, the bus silent except for the rumbling of the idling engine. Rows of eyes, some amused, some surprised, watched him.

  When he returned, Reedy threw up his hands. “Fine! You’re the one who’s going to have to listen to Mr. Dudley’s shit if this gets back to him, which it will, because everything does!”

  “I know, I know.” What would Dudley do, fire him? He wor
ked for the White Sox, not Dudley, and they wouldn’t care about him breaking some stupid rule about no girls on the bus. He took Sarah by the arm, resisting his natural inclination to take her hand. Nearly every player he passed wore a smirk. He’d made enough of a spectacle of himself for one day. He passed Coco, who rolled his eyes at the sight of them but didn’t take his earbuds out long enough to talk to him.

  He pulled Sarah to an unoccupied row near the back of the bus and sat down. She sat down beside him, still quiet.

  “What? You mad? Did I screw up?”

  She shook her head mutely, lips tight.

  “You’re not talking. That usually means a girl is mad.” He frowned. “Is this one of those things where you wanted to do it for yourself, and I butted in and did it for you, so you’re mad?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Uh-oh.” Now he knew she was mad. No woman ever said “I’m fine” and actually meant it. “Seriously, what’s up?”

  She finally met his eyes, and what he saw there set off a dull explosion in his chest. She was smiling. Huh. Not talking, but not mad either. What did this mean?

  He felt like a bomb technician poking at a suspicious package. If he snipped the blue wire, everything would be okay and he’d be a hero. The red wire? Ka-boom!

  Trouble was, he was as good as color-blind in this situation. How was he supposed to be able to read her mind?

  “No one’s ever taken my side against my dad before, except for Paul. And there are some lines even he won’t cross. Dad is his boss too.” Her eyes went soft. He couldn’t believe she was looking at him this way.

  Huh. That sounded promising. “So, is it a good thing that I intervened?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Of course it’s a good thing.”

  He exhaled. Apparently he’d been holding his breath. Hitting on women was easy. Making them like you for longer than a night, or a week, was harder.

  Her knee pressed against his and he followed it with his gaze. So did she. Had that been an accident?

  She didn’t pull away. No accident, then. His heart quickened.

  She shot a quick glance around the bus, and then pressed a kiss to her fingertip and brushed it across his lips, her gaze growing smoky.