Amanda laughed. “No, you’re thinking football. I’m talking about the baseball team. San Francisco.”
“That’s where Marcus is from. You came here with the company?”
She nodded. “I’ve been with PE for eight years. I started in an entry-level position straight out of college. After a few years, they offered to pay for business school. I jumped at the opportunity.”
“You’re a long way from home. You must miss your family.”
“I do. We’re very close. That was the hardest part about making the decision to relocate out here.”
“But it’s been worth it?”
Amanda nodded. “Absolutely. I’ve learned so much working with Marcus. He’s a great mentor and he’s extremely hands-on with the projects he chooses.” She frowned. “Well, he used to be. Since moving here, he’s delegated a majority of those duties to me.”
So he could devote all of his time and energy to the Holcombe? Why did that hotel engender an irrational longing in Marcus? Did its walls contain hidden treasure? Chests of jewels and gold coins? Secret historical documents?
“Marcus wouldn’t have given you that responsibility if he had any concerns about your performance. He’s a bit of a control freak.”
“He is, isn’t he?” Amusement laced Amanda’s words. “It’s been challenging and extremely rewarding. Speaking of rewarding, Marcus mentioned the work you do at the women’s shelter. That’s pretty awesome. He told human resources to be on the lookout for any applicants from the shelter.”
Pamela was surprised that he’d moved so quickly on his proposition. “He hadn’t told me. I thought he’d forgotten about it.”
“Marcus is driven and has earned his reputation as a fierce businessman. But no one is fairer or more supportive.”
Amanda left to join some of her coworkers and Pamela made her way inside the club. She told herself she wasn’t looking for Marcus, but her eyes missed that internal memo. They unsuccessfully searched for him amid the chairs and tables placed throughout the room. She garnered the same result from the long lines snaking past the catered dinner buffet. Finally, she turned her attention to the club’s centerpiece, a mahogany wood-and-granite bar, surrounded by scarlet fabric-covered stools. Her heart swelled at the sight of his broad shoulders in an official team jersey as he leaned against the bar.
He was talking to two members of Congress. As she drew closer, the muscles in his back stiffened and he turned. Her gaze locked on his and she felt helpless as his beautiful blue eyes reeled her closer. He smiled, took her hand, and pulled her to his side, their fingers intertwining. The contact sent shards of electricity down her body, as if she’d tangoed with a bolt of lightning.
“Hey,” he said, his voice low and smooth.
“Thank you for the chai latte. It was a thoughtful gesture.”
He leaned down and brushed his lips over hers, his clean, sporty scent tickling her nostrils. She inhaled deeply, his touch completely erasing her previous promise to keep her distance.
“You’re welcome.” He flicked a finger against her cheek before turning to the two men. “You both know my fiancée, Pamela Harrington?”
His arm was a steel band around her waist, anchoring her firmly to his side. The heat from his flesh seared through the flimsy barrier of her shirt to burn against her skin. She reveled in that strength even as she fought reliance upon it. It wasn’t real and would end the moment he got the hotel.
Both men nodded. Congressman Blumfield shook her hand and said, “Of course. It’s good to see you again, Pamela. Congratulations on your engagement.”
“Thank you, Congressman. I read about your wife’s involvement with the Autism Speaks charity auction. Tell her if there’s anything we can do to help, please let me know.”
“I’m sorry we couldn’t make it to your father’s benefit. But I heard he raised a pretty penny with his donation of an outing with him on Congressional’s Blue Course.”
A subtle shift of her body and she was free from Marcus’s grip. The absence evoked a keen ache, but the separation was necessary. Ignoring his frown, she greeted the other congressman.
“We didn’t mean to intrude on your gathering,” the man said. “We heard the club had been rented out for a company party and we wanted to see which generous bastard was responsible.” He laughed and slapped Marcus on the back. Turning back to Pamela, he added, “Seeing you is a bonus. How is your father? Haven’t seen him at Congressional lately.”
She stiffened. She still hadn’t talked to her father. Following her conversation with Alice, she’d called him at the estate, but had yet to receive a response. His stubbornness about getting a cell phone bordered on bizarre. “He’s been busy on the Hill. I’ll tell him you asked about him.”
When the men finally left, Marcus didn’t try to keep her with him. Maybe he sensed she needed a little space. But she couldn’t escape his presence. The heat of his gaze warmed her body, and she found herself seduced by the melody of his voice. She was caught in the gravity of their attraction, and by the last inning, awareness of him burned as bright as a supernova.
After the game, the kids were treated to an autograph session with some of the players. Pamela couldn’t contain her amusement at the third baseman’s double take when the large jersey-covered back was presented to him for his signature. When Marcus grinned sheepishly at her and winked, Pamela knew keeping her distance from him wouldn’t be possible.
“That was a wonderful thing you did,” she said, after the last employee bade them good-night. “Those kids will treasure this memory for years.” She smiled and touched the scribbled signature on his back. “They won’t be the only ones.”
“I did it for me as much as for them.”
“I’m trying to give you a compliment, Pearson. Accept it graciously.”
“I’ll take the compliment. But there’s something I’d like a hell of a lot more.”
His kiss was hot and possessive, proof of the physical connection that had flowed between them all day. They drew apart, their chests heaving, the air heavy with passion.
He ran his thumb across her lips, bent close, then whispered, “Come with me.”
An hour before, boisterous fans had packed the seats of the stadium, filling the air with their laughter and shouts of joy. Now, not even the stark artificial lighting could detract from the serene emptiness down on the playing field. Pamela peeked over her shoulder to find Marcus watching her, his vivid blue eyes thrown into shadow by the unnatural light.
Everything from his sun-kissed pale hair to his gorgeous eyes to his firm mouth called out to her, stoking the fire of yearning low in her belly. Their gazes locked in a duel. The silence stretched taut and tense between them.
She was the first one to break it. “Can you explain something to me?”
He didn’t try to hide the smirk that curved his lips. “Anything.”
“I’m not quite sure how we won.”
Lines furrowed in the center of his forehead. “We scored the most runs.”
“I know that! The other team was batting and I saw one of their players cross home base. That’s how you score runs, right? So if he did that, how did we win?”
“The batter was out at first base.”
“But the runner got to home first.”
“One of the many obscure, technical rules of baseball.” He paused. “Merkle’s Boner.”
“Pardon me?”
“The reason we scored the most runs. In 1908, a guy named Fred Merkle made one of the worst mistakes in baseball, leaving first base to head to the dugout after his teammate crossed home plate. Cost the Giants the game, and many say the National League pennant. Some people call the play Merkle’s Boner.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
He shrugged. “I’m not, I swear. The rule states that a run doesn’t count if the runner advances home during a play when the third out comes from a forced out, which is what happened.”
“Huh,” she said, the wor
ds swirling in her mind to create a confusing stew. “And they couldn’t name it anything else?”
He laughed, the rich sound ricocheting off every sexual nerve ending. “That’s not an official term, but my guess is that it stuck because baseball is all about sex.”
She shook her head, still unwilling to tiptoe through this dangerous minefield. “No, it’s not.”
“Just think about it. You have Merkle’s Boner, which should be enough to rest my case, as your colleagues would say.”
She crossed her arms over her chest. “I’m still not convinced you didn’t make that up.”
His eyes fell to her breasts, which she’d mistakenly emphasized with her movement. She could feel her nipples tighten, his look a virtual caress. From the sudden tightness in his jaw, she knew that he’d noticed. She unwound her arms and slid her hands into the pockets of her shorts.
“I’m not making it up,” he continued a moment later. “Just trying to prove a point. Come here,” he said, the command as alluring as a hypnotic suggestion.
She went to him, her wedge heels silent on the grass. With one quick, smooth movement, he spun her so that she stood with her back against his chest, the field spread out before them. She trembled, his nearness threatening to override every security measure she struggled to keep in place. Goose bumps flared to life on arms left bare by her thin tank top. Every necessary inhalation made her aware of the strong, powerful body cupping hers.
“The game begins when the player comes up to the plate. His main objective? To score.”
His whispered words wove a spell, wrapping them in a sensual cocoon.
“He’s thrown a few pitches and sometimes he strikes out. But with a little patience, skill, and a touch of luck, he’ll make a connection and try to get to first base.”
Turning her head to the side, he took her mouth, his kiss deep and hungry and possessive. The awkwardness of their position was a turn-on. There was nothing she could do but hold on tight and enjoy the ride.
Sometime later—maybe a few seconds, maybe a few minutes—Marcus broke the kiss. His arms tightened around her and she fell back against his chest. She needed a moment to gather her wits about her, knew she should put distance between them.
Before she could act, he continued, trailing his fingers up and down her arms until all sensation was pinpointed in the sweep of those digits against her skin. “He likes first base, but if he stays there, he’ll never score. So, taking a deep breath and praying he makes it, he hurries to second base.”
Escape was no longer an option, no longer a necessity. She was in a daze, incapable of thought, only able to feel, swept away with his story.
“Marcus, I—”
His lips dipped to hers again, nibbling and sucking, drawing everything from her. His hands cupped her breasts, and even through the barrier of fabric they responded to him, swelling into his palms. She moaned, her head dropping to his shoulder. He squeezed, caressed, and plucked her nipples until she squirmed in a blaze of need.
The assault to her senses overrode every promise she made to herself, every defense she assembled. It blasted away any concerns about his intentions, any worries about her gullibility.
“He can’t stop now, not when he’s halfway to his goal. He waits, with bated breath, for the signal to make his way to third.”
His hands ceased their delicious ministrations. She groaned in protest. Good God, why was he stopping? Then his final words penetrated.
He was waiting for a signal.
She reached behind her to squeeze his muscled bottom and rake her nails across the taut surface. His resulting moan rumbled from his chest, and he returned his gifted hands to her body. The tips of his fingers brushed over the buttons of her shorts and slid down to cup her heated core. She shifted to give him greater access.
“That’s it.” He kissed his way down her neck, his tongue scorching a blazing trail. His nimble fingers stroked her through her shorts, and she couldn’t contain the instinctive rocking motion of her hips. It felt so good. With his lips and his hands he pulled her ever closer to the jagged precipice.
“C’mon, baby. Fly for me.”
Those husky words, murmured into her ear, sent her soaring. She gasped and her muscles clenched, sending a series of seismic quakes throughout her body. She clung to him, grateful for his arm around her waist, which prevented her from dissolving into a puddle on the field.
As the mist of passion receded, rationality came charging back. She was aware of his harsh breath searing against her nape, of his arousal pressing against her lower back.
The enormity of what they were doing crashed over her. Was she a masochist? She’d barely endured an involvement with a man who didn’t care about her, who only wanted to use her for her family’s connections. Had that scar faded away? Did she need a larger, deeper one to take its place?
But Marcus Pearson was unlike anything or anyone she’d ever experienced. She didn’t know how to explain the draw she had to him. She’d never understood the power of passion, how it could make you do things you’d never thought possible. Even now, a part of her wanted more from him.
The knowledge that she possessed so little self-control terrified her. She pushed away from him, her desperate strength clearly catching him off guard. Gathering her courage, she forced herself to look at him. A slight flush covered his cheekbones and his jaw was a slab of granite. His hair, the only soft thing about him, was a disheveled cascade against his forehead. His eyes bored into hers and she wanted to give in to their demand, but she couldn’t do that to herself again.
She wouldn’t.
“You’ve made your point,” she said.
“I don’t know.” His erection was an impressive imprint against his shorts. “The runner is stuck on third. He wants to come home.”
“You mean score.”
“That’s the object of the game.”
“Not this game.”
“Are you sure? That’s not what it felt like a moment ago.”
A cleansing brace of anger rushed through her, rebuilding the chinks in her armor, fortifying her decision. “I’m positive.”
He stared at her with a look full of awareness. As though he knew how weak her defenses were and was debating whether he would press forward for surrender. Finally, with a decision made, he smoothed his hands through his hair, bringing order to the chaos.
“We should be going. The maintenance crew will need to get out here and prepare the field for the game tomorrow and we don’t want to keep them late.”
He surprised her with the thoughtfulness of that statement. He was a complex mixture of arrogance and consideration, ruthlessness and charm. The wedding was in two days. Was that enough time to perfect her mask of indifference? Was such a thing possible with him?
“Hey Pamela,” he called, when she’d started back toward the tunnel entrance.
She turned, her breath catching in her throat at the sight of him standing with the field behind him.
“There’s one more reason baseball is like sex.”
She waited.
“There’s no time limit. You play until the game is over. And some games can go on for a very long time.”
Chapter Ten
“I can’t believe you want to spend your last night as a free man at Congressional Country Club,” Carter said, walking next to him into the club’s bar.
Marcus held his smile in check. “Can you think of a better place?”
Instead of a table, they took a couple of seats at the dark wood bar.
“You’re kidding, right? I’ve heard about this one strip club downtown—”
“Have you seen the woman I’m going to marry?”
Carter leaned toward him and lowered his voice. “And if this marriage were real, I’d understand your reluctance.”
Marcus hailed the bartender and ordered two Lagavulins, neat.
“To good friends,” Marcus toasted.
“To getting what you want,” Carter added.
<
br /> Marcus sipped his scotch. In the beginning it had seemed like a simple idea. Unorthodox, but simple. Marry the right woman to get into Holcombe’s inner circle. He hadn’t thought much beyond that. Hadn’t realized how much would be involved. Hadn’t counted on developing feelings for Pamela Harrington.
Last night had been incredible. He could still hear her moans and feel her body pressed back against his. After he’d sampled her sweetness, there was nothing sexy about a random naked woman dancing on a pole.
He’d had a taste of the siren beneath the saint and he craved more.
If it were only lust, he’d be able to understand. To classify it and contain it. But Pamela was more than a pretty face. He liked her and respected her altruism. Even her idea about getting married at the Holcombe was a good one, he’d realized, after he had time to think rationally and not just emotionally. She was the complete package. Which meant things weren’t simple anymore.
“Real or not, if I had to do this with anyone, I’m glad it’s her.”
“It’s luck, man. You know that saying, God watches out for fools and children.”
“And we know you’re both.” Marcus slapped him on the back. “I’ll be back in a minute. There’s something I need to take care of. Have another drink on me.”
Carter knocked back the rest of his drink and signaled for another. “This is the worst bachelor party ever.”
Marcus left the clubhouse and headed to the golf course. Tomorrow he would marry Pamela Harrington. Everything had to go smoothly. And that meant speaking to Pamela’s father first. Senator Harrington stood next to the first hole, talking to a couple of men. Marcus waited until they’d left before he approached him. This was a conversation they needed to have in private.
“Senator Harrington?”
Turning at the sound of his name, the man stiffened and his eyes grew wide. “What are you doing here?”
“I wanted to speak with you.”
“Who’s sponsoring you?” he asked, looking around. “This club isn’t open to the public. You have to be a member or the guest of a member.”
“I am a member.”
The Tycoon's Socialite Bride (Entangled Indulgence) Page 9
