“To the pool shark,” Mace toasted
He clinked his beer bottle with Becka’s. “You’re definitely a better player than I am, but I usually don’t stink as badly as this. I think I need a goal.” He glanced at the table. “I think we ought to bet on the next game.”
“I don’t play for money, Duvall.”
“No money. Something better.” He set his bottle down and traced a finger along her jawbone. “You win, the evening’s over and I never bother you again…. I win, we go to bed.”
She opened her mouth with the intention of telling him to go to hell, but stopped before the words got out. It was the perfect setup, she realized. He was offering her a chance to reel him in, to get him turned on and, thinking he had her, then take the game from him and show him who was really in control. “I think that’s a bet I can live with.”
Mace walked behind her, sliding a slow hand down her hip, and she jolted. He leaned over the table with his pool cue, looking sexy and a little bit dangerous, yet more than capable of taking this game, of taking her.
Uh-oh. “Wait,” she blurted, just as the cue ball cracked into the colored balls, scattering them around the table.
Damn. Too late.
Dear Reader,
The minute Becka Landon swaggered onto the scene in My Sexiest Mistake, I knew she deserved a book of her own. Fortunately, my editor agreed, and the result is Scoring, the first book in my UNDER THE COVERS miniseries. I’ve always been fascinated by spin-off characters, enjoying the way they unfold as they move from their initial introduction through to a story that focuses just on them. The UNDER THE COVERS miniseries isn’t anything as obvious as a family saga. As you read Scoring, As Bad As Can Be (May) and Slippery When Wet (July), your challenge is going to be figuring out which secondary character in each book will become the hero or heroine of the next.
For now, though, just sit back and enjoy as Becka strikes sparks with hunky Mace Duvall, ex-baseball heartthrob. Be sure to drop me a line at [email protected] and tell me what you think. Or drop by my Web site at www.kristinhardy.com for contests, e-mail threads between characters in my books, recipes and updates on my latest book.
Have fun,
Kristin Hardy
Books by Kristin Hardy
HARLEQUIN BLAZE
44—MY SEXIEST MISTAKE
SCORING
Kristin Hardy
To Shannon Short for a great critique,
to Teresa Brown for being generally wonderful,
and
to Stephen,
luz de mi vida,
for everything.
Contents
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
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
1
“GOD, I LOVE IT when you have your hands on me.” The husky words broke the stillness of the room.
Becka Landon slid her fingers over the muscled back of the half-naked man lying in front of her, the warm oil slick under her palms. Skin slipped against skin as her breath came faster, a faint dew of moisture forming on her flushed face. The scent of the oil wove its way into her senses, the warmth of his body heated hers. She caught her lower lip between her teeth in concentration.
“I don’t want to share you,” he groaned. “Let’s just run away, you and me.”
Becka’s mouth curved. “Sammy, you try running away with anyone and your wife will track you down and brain you with a frying pan.” She slapped him smartly on the shoulder. “Off the table, coach. Time to go teach these kids to play baseball.”
Sammy Albonado, manager for the Lowell Weavers minor league baseball team, sat up and ran his fingers through his grizzled hair. Years of crouching behind the plate as a major league catcher had given him dickey knees and chronic bursitis in his shoulder. Only Becka’s skilled hands could banish the aches on those days when the arthritis gnawed at him. “You got yourself a great touch, kid. I’m gonna have you teach my wife.”
“I don’t know.” Becka put her hands on her hips and gave him a sassy look from under the bangs of her red hair. “If I were you, I’d be a little nervous about bringing Essie in. I might have to tell her you’re threatening to run off on her unless you make it worth my while.”
“Aw, you know I was just joking.” When she only looked at him, he slumped his shoulders in defeat. “What do you want?”
“New hoses for the whirlpool.”
“That’s a hundred bucks. I’ll have to fill out a req.”
“You’re the one asking me to keep a secret, Sammy,” she reminded him, fighting a smile. “I’m only here as long as Ron’s out with his carpal tunnel problem, and who knows how long that will be. I’ve got to do what I can to get this place in shape before I leave.”
“You’re not goin’ anywhere,” he insisted. “Whether Ron comes back this season or not, I’m gonna find a way to keep you on. Even if you do push me around.”
Hope ballooned up inside her before she could hold it down. “I don’t push you around, Sammy, I just…encourage you. But it’s all for the sake of the team.” She gave him an impudent grin and shoved her hands into the pockets of her khaki walking shorts, trying to ignore the leap of excitement. She knew that keeping her spot as team trainer was a long shot. It didn’t do to count on things that might not happen.
Sammy walked out of the clubhouse and into the shadowed space underneath the grandstand, following the sloping walkway that led to the field. A couple of players skidded up from the parking lot in street clothes.
“Hey, Sammy, is it true?”
“What? You should be dressed and on the field stretching, not bugging me,” he barked in the gruff tone he imagined gave him authority. “It’s almost time for practice. In my day we cared enough to be early.”
“But is it true?” asked Paul Morelli, the tough, good-looking catcher with the makings of major league talent.
“Is what true?” Sammy’s voice rose. “Is it true that all of ya are gonna be out on the field in fifteen minutes or I’m handing out fines? You’d better believe it.”
“No, for real, we heard that Mace Duvall is coming as a batting instructor.”
Sammy took his time hitching up his trousers and adjusting his cap, then nodded. “Yep, he’ll be the batting instructor all week, and he’ll go on the road with us.” His look turned to a glower. “But unless you guys get changed and out on that field in ten minutes, you ain’t never gonna meet him.”
“You just shaved five minutes off the time, Skipper,” protested Sal Lopes, the team’s center fielder.
“That’s nothin’ compared to what I’m gonna shave off you if you don’t get your butts out on that field,” Sammy thundered, and the players scattered toward the clubhouse.
BECKA STRETCHED a new cover over the massage table, idly listening to the chatter of the players as they dressed for practice. When she’d first joined, a few of them had tried to put the moves on her, but she’d laughed them off. Becka had been around locker rooms most of her life, whether competing or assisting the coaches, and locker rooms frequently contained half-naked, testosterone-laden men who found it hard to believe that a lush-mouthed redhead like Becka could resist their charms.
Over the years, she’d gotten very good at doing just that.
The buzz of a locker room energized her, and okay, so she’d gotten an eyeful once or twice. Admittedly, it was sometime
s…entertaining, especially when her social life was almost nonexistent. Still, it didn’t throw her off her stride. She’d perfected a slightly bored matter-of-factness that made her one of the boys, even though she was all female. And maybe to their own surprise, the Lowell players found themselves treating her like a bossy older sister rather than date bait.
“Look it up in the book. I’m telling you, he had a .360 career batting average.” That was DeWalt Jefferson, aka Stats, resident baseball trivia fiend. “Why do you think they called him Mace? He was like tear gas, left all the pitchers weeping.”
“You’re full of it,” Morelli’s voice came back. “That’s almost as high as Ted Williams. Next you’re going to be telling me his season high was .400.”
“.383,” Stats said triumphantly.
“That’s a line of bull.”
Becka glanced idly out the door of the training room and into the locker area.
“Hey, if Stats says that’s the number, that’s the number,” Chico Watson, the team’s burly first baseman, broke in. Twenty-three and married, Watson was the elder statesman of the team.
“Man oh man, what I’d give to bat like that in the big leagues,” said Sal Lopes, dreamily pulling on his jersey.
“Me, I’d settle for having his batting average with the ladies,” Morelli grinned as he leaned down to tie his shoes.
“Who’s this?”
Four heads whipped around to stare at Becka before they went back to dressing. “Mace Duvall.”
Even Becka had heard about Mace Duvall, seen his caramel-blond good looks as he’d escorted actresses and models to swanky benefits and premieres. He’d also escorted them to his bed, if the media was to be believed. There was something else about him that nibbled at the edge of her memory, something she couldn’t quite dredge up.
“He retired or something, didn’t he?”
“He got retired, more like it.” Morelli stood and gathered up his catcher’s gear, tucking his leg guards under his arm. “Car accident. A big rig took him out. He’s lucky to be alive.”
LUCKY WAS HARDLY the way the man in the Bronco would have put it. Mason Duvall pulled into the parking lot at Lowell’s LeChere stadium and turned off his truck, listening to the ticks of the cooling engine. Lucky would have been knowing he was going to be back on the diamond. Lucky wasn’t losing the only thing that he’d ever wanted to do with his life.
He climbed out of the truck, frowning at the stiffness in his back and leg and then ignoring it as he habitually did. To favor it was to give in to it, to say that the accident had won.
The accident had already won too much.
He absently tucked his gray T-shirt more securely into the back of his worn jeans, the faded material stretching over his lean, hard-muscled frame. During the long months of rehab, the Florida sun had streaked his light hair with tones of bronze and gold. It curled thickly down over his collar. Back in his playing days he’d kept it trimmed short for convenience. Now, he only bothered to have it cut when it hung down in his whiskey-gold eyes or tickled his neck enough to distract him.
A slight limp marred his loose, athletic walk, a limp that faded as he crossed the street to the back fence of the minor league park. He leaned on the wall and stared at the diamond. It exerted an almost irresistible pull, beckoning him to vault the fence and join the game. Instead, he watched the players complete their fielding drills. They looked like a litter of young puppies, still loose and joyfully gawky, their playing infused more with raw talent than finesse. And now he, of all people, was supposed to come here and show them how it was done.
Once, his job had been to slam balls out of the park like artillery shells, to field anything hit within fifty feet of him, to help propel his team to the playoffs half a dozen times in a single decade. That had been before a trucker long past his legally mandated sleep period had lost control of his tractor-trailer and taken Mace off the road. Before the weeks in ICU and the surgeries, the months of rest.
Before the news that he was never going to play baseball in the major leagues again.
Baseball had been all he’d ever wanted, all he’d dreamed about ever since he’d been a kid. He’d been one of the chosen handful that had had the skill, talent, and drive to live that dream. And indeed, baseball had been his life. When he hadn’t been playing, he’d been working out. When he hadn’t been working out, he’d been watching game tapes. When he hadn’t been doing either, he’d kept the media entertained.
Now, there was a giant hole where baseball had been, so Stan Angelo, his onetime teammate and self-appointed savior, had bullied him, or conned him, rather, into trying out as a roving instructor.
“Just one season, Duvall,” Angelo had said as they’d shot pool in Mace’s half-finished Florida home a month before. “I’m telling you, you’ll like it a hell of a lot better than laying around here bored out of your mind.”
“I’m not bored out of my mind. I’m building a house, I’m working out. I’m fishing.” Mace watched as Stan put a shot wide and cursed. Studiously careful not to smirk at his friend’s mishap, he leaned over the table and stroked a ball in smoothly. “I’m enjoying my life instead of hopping on a plane every other week for nine months out of the year. Just because running around the country working for the organization works for you doesn’t mean it’ll work for me.”
“I doubt it will.” Stan put one in, but missed the next.
“And you’re right,” Mace said too quickly.
“That’s why I’m telling you about the roving instructor spot,” Stan continued, unperturbed. “I talked with the organization about you and they want to give you a try.” His ball bounced too hard off the rails and missed the pocket.
“Yeah, well, thanks but no thanks.” Mace shot smoothly and put the seven ball in the corner pocket and set up for the next shot. “I’d rather just stay here and work on my pool game. Yours could use some work, too, by the way.”
“Hey, I’ve been on the road,” Stan said mildly, watching Mace sink the eight ball. He began pulling balls out of a corner pocket and stacking them into the triangular rack. “Okay, let’s make it a bet. You win the next game, I never mention it again.”
Mace snorted and took a swig of his beer. “The way you’ve been playing, we can just save ourselves the time and agree to stop talking about it.”
“Humor me.” Stan pulled the rack off the balls and gestured to the triangle of color. “I win, you take the roving instructor job for a season.” He chalked the end of his cue and walked to the other end of the table. “So maybe you can’t play. You can still teach. Better than sitting around here all season driving yourself crazy.”
“I’m doing fine.”
“I suppose being here gives you a lot of time to practice your pool,” Stan said placidly.
“Shut up and break.”
“Oh no, I’m the one who set up the bet. You first.”
“Break,” Mace snarled.
“Okay, okay.” Stan leaned over the table, stroked the cue a few times to get the feel, and slammed the cue ball into the balls, sinking two immediately and scattering the rest across the table. “I guess that makes me stripes,” he said, stepping around the table to sink two more colored balls in quick succession with machine-like strokes.
Mace’s eyes narrowed. “Tell me I didn’t just get hustled.”
“A bet’s a bet, Duvall,” Stan said with relish as he sighted along his cue and sank another ball in the corner pocket. “You’re not a carpenter, for Christ’s sake. Or a fisherman. You belong in a ballpark, and you know it.” He put another ball in the pocket. “Try the roving instructor gig. Maybe you’ll like it.” His bank shot put in the last ball.
“Maybe I’ll stop inviting pool hustlers to my house.”
Stan squinted down his cue at the eight ball. “Maybe you’ll invite me to the clubhouse the first year you’re managing in the World Series.” He slammed the ball into the pocket and straightened up with a guileless grin. “Looks like I win.”
Too bad he wasn’t better at sniffing out pool sharks, Mace thought, as he stood leaning on the Lowell ballpark fence and shaking his head.
He’d promised Stan he’d try the job, which as far as he was concerned meant showing up for a couple of days. They’d only taken him on as a favor to Stan anyway.
Mace pushed off from the fence and walked away. If he’d learned one thing in the past year, it was that reality could purely knock the hell out of any plans he might cook up for the future. He was through with doing what he was supposed to do in pursuit of some long-term goal. Nope, from now on, he was going to take life day by day. He’d do what he felt like now instead of constantly focusing on tomorrow. Starting today he was going to live the good life.
BECKA SAT in the dugout watching the players. “You know he won the Gold Glove three times in a row?” Stats asked Morelli before walking past him to take his position at first base, ready to run the minute the hitting coach at the plate slammed a ball into the outfield.
Becka rolled her eyes. She knew without asking that the “he” in question was Mace Duvall. In the past two hours she’d learned enough about the training regimen, lifestyle, achievements, batting stance, favorite shoes, and hobbies of baseball’s number one playboy to last her a lifetime. God help her, she even knew the recipe for his favorite protein shake.
“Sammy says he’s going to stay in the dorms with us,” Morelli said, watching Stats get thrown out at second. “I got an empty room next to me.” Most of the Lowell players didn’t bother to get their own apartments. They just took rooms at the University of Massachusetts dormitories that stood across the street from the stadium, which were empty during the summer break. Management encouraged it; it was easier to keep an eye on young players when they were nearby.
Scoring Page 1