She stared out at the flowing green hills of the Vermont landscape. It was nice, sometimes, getting to see the country you were traveling through instead of just skimming over clouds and appearing in another city.
A crackle sounded next to her and she jumped, turning to see Mace picking up her files to snag the seat next to her.
“I didn’t mean to frighten you.” He looked at her with interest. “You were pretty lost in your thoughts. Must have been thinking about something pretty fascinating.”
“Did you want something specific? Strike that question,” she interrupted before he could speak.
“Whatever you say. I just figured you might be getting bored about now and looking for some company.” He craned his neck to read the title of the book that lay open in her lap. “‘Treatment For Repetitive Stress Injuries?’ Oh yeah, I’ve read that one. You’re going to love the ending.”
Becka could feel the heat of his jean-clad leg radiating across the inch that separated them. Nope, no touching, however much her muscles might want to relax so her leg fell toward his. Her mind knew that this was not a good idea. Yeah, but he’s leaving in two days, the troublesome voice in her head spoke up. To quell it, Becka reached back to pull down the armrest between the seats and looked out the window.
The landscape rolling by was a quilt of fields, forests and rivers. Mace leaned back in his seat. “Pretty country. I didn’t realize that they did any farming up this high.”
“I don’t know what grows here. Looks like they’ve got plenty of dairy. You know, Vermont cheddar and all that.”
He opened his bottle of water and took a drink. “Hard way to make a living.”
“That sounds like the voice of experience. Didn’t you grow up on a farm?” She vaguely remembered hearing something about his rural past.
Mace nodded. “Hogs, mostly, some chickens, a couple of steers every year for eating. I’ve had a close personal acquaintance with more kinds of manure than any kid should ever encounter.”
“Probably good training for the real world,” Becka said dryly. “Where’d you live?”
“Georgia, over by the Carolina border.”
“Did you ever get to a game in Atlanta?”
He shook his head. “We had a minor league team a few towns away, though. I used to drive my dad crazy dogging him to take us to a game. He didn’t like to be gone often, but every so often we’d go.”
“I never actually went to a minor league game until I came to work here, believe it or not. We were so close to Boston we always went to see the Sox.”
“It’s hard to compete with Fenway Park,” he acknowledged. “Where I grew up, we didn’t have a choice. We were a few hundred miles from the nearest major league club. Strictly farm teams for us.”
“Is that where you got the baseball bug?”
His mouth curved. “I think I was born with the baseball bug. Minor league ball was just a way to indulge it. We barely had enough kids in our town to get a couple of Little League teams going, but my dad tried to get me to baseball camp every year. He was great that way. There were a few times he had to scrape the bottom of the barrel, but he always managed it.”
“He must have been really proud of you,” she murmured.
“He was killed before I ever got out of triple A,” Mace said shortly. Even all these years later, it still hurt.
Impulsively, she put her hand over his. “I’m so sorry to hear that.”
The quick, genuine compassion in her voice helped in a way all too many of the condolences hadn’t. “Thanks. I like to think that he knows, somehow, that I made it all the way.”
“It sounds as if he’d have liked that.”
They rode along in companionable silence for a few miles before Becka gradually became aware of the fact that her hand was still on his. The nerves in her palm became sensitized, telegraphing increasingly urgent signals to her brain, warning her to get away while there was still time.
She moved to pull her hand away but Mace caught it with his before she could succeed. “Not so fast. Maybe I should read your palm. I’m sure your love line will show something interesting.”
Becka snatched her hand back. “My love line is my business, thank you very much.” She glanced around the neighboring rows, satisfied to see players either conked out and snoring or bobbing their heads to personal stereo systems. “Speaking of business, did you talk to our friend last night?” she asked in a low voice.
“Not exactly.”
Becka narrowed her eyes. “What does that mean?”
“One of the guys walked by and heard us talking about going out and it sort of took on a life of its own.”
“Group field trip?”
“Something like that.”
“So you sat around and drank beer all night.”
He shifted a bit. “I’ll talk to him later.”
It took work to keep her voice down. “Are you aware of the fact that you’re leaving the day after tomorrow? Later would be a relative term.”
“Yeah, but there’s time between now and then.”
“Don’t knock yourself out, Duvall,” she said sardonically, reaching out to pull a copy of Runner’s World from the seat pocket.
“Hey, Sammy was just telling me what a stellar job I was doing with the training.”
She flicked a glance at him. “Great. Maybe you’ve found your second calling.” She opened the magazine and prepared to ignore him.
“Maybe I have.” He put a hand over the page until she looked up at him. “It’s been fun. Thanks for getting me to give it a chance.”
Becka blinked. Oh, this wasn’t fair. This wasn’t fair at all. Bad enough the man was sexy as hell. Now he was threatening to turn nice on her. First he talked about his dad, now this. It was hard to have a defense for it. “Is that the lady-killer’s secret weapon?”
“What?”
“Sincerity.”
He shook his head at her in mock sorrow. “You know, Florence, you ought to start having just a little faith in me.”
“Next week, Duvall,” she promised, “next week.”
TWO DAYS LATER, Becka stood at the edge of the dugout at the Troy Jackrabbits’ stadium and watched the team mascot. The owners must have gone to the bargain basement when they bought the costume, she thought, because it looked nothing like a jackrabbit. She cocked her head, studying it. Actually, it sort of resembled a dyspeptic gopher, now that she thought about it.
Becka grinned as the top of the eighth inning began. With a five-run lead and their best hitters coming up, the Lowell Weavers were looking at sweeping their two-game series with the Jackrabbits and were feeling frisky.
“Toss me that rosin bag, will ya, Stats?” called Chico, who was next up at bat.
“You know, we win this one, we go into second place, y’all,” Stats said.
Morelli whooped. “Time to go celebrate!”
“Keep your mind on the game. Don’t count your chickens before they’re hatched,” Sammy scolded them.
Two innings later, the chickens had hatched and the ebullient Lowell Weavers exploded into the visitors’ locker room.
“Next stop, number one!” Morelli shouted. “Let’s hit a bar. First round’s on me.”
Steam billowed out into the locker room from the showers and the familiar cacophony rose, driven by the movements of twenty-some-odd men all showering and changing in very close proximity. Becka turned into the training room to wait it out.
Morelli came out of the shower room, a towel slung low around his hips. “Okay, party time, who’s going out with me?”
“Ah man, I’m beat,” Chico said, dropping onto a bench in front of his changing area. “Getting up at six-thirty did me in.”
“You’re turning into a candy-ass in your old age, Watson,” Morelli jibed. “I don’t believe you can’t pull it together enough to go out and celebrate the fact that we just hit the number two spot in the league.”
“No Weavers team has been higher than third in t
he history of the team,” Stats said. “I’ll go with you, Morelli.”
“That’s more like it. What about the rest of you putzes?”
Sammy walked into the locker room and stood with his arms folded across his chest. “You got a curfew, Morelli,” he said ominously.
“Hey, we got a couple hours between now and then to unwind, chief.”
“Yeah, well, the bus leaves tomorrow morning at 6:30 a.m. sharp, and if your butt isn’t on it, you’re going to be one sorry customer.”
“There’s a place practically across the street.” Morelli opened his locker to get his clothes.
Becka left the locker room as he dropped his towel, and stuck her head into the tiny coaches’ office to find Mace at a desk. “You hearing this?”
“Yeah, I hear it.”
“Should you go along to keep an eye on Morelli? If Mallory’s right, he’s headed toward trouble.”
“Maybe. Of course Mallory could be wrong.”
There was something she didn’t trust about the glint in his eyes. “She’s a bartender. I trust her judgment.”
He finished up his notes on the game and rose to leave them for Sammy. “You barely know her.”
No point in trying to explain the quick spark of friendship that had sprung up between them. “So maybe she’s right, maybe she’s wrong. The only way to know is to go along and find out.” Irritation needled her. “Look, you said you’d talk to him a couple of days ago. You leave tomorrow, and you’re quitting after that.” She crossed her arms and gave him a hard stare. “Your follow-through sucks, Duvall.”
“All right, all right, you’ve made your point. Any promise I make, I keep.” He looked her up and down, only slowly, so she could feel her chin coming up in challenge.
He stepped closer to her. “However, maybe you should put your concern where your mouth is and join us?” Amusement flickered in his eyes. “As my date.”
“Go to hell.” She started to turn away.
“Who’s the one who’s always telling me to think about the team?” he said mockingly. “You talk a good schtick, but you’re not even bothered enough about Morelli to make a small personal sacrifice?”
“This has nothing to do with Morelli and you know it.”
Mace dropped into his chair and leaned back until it creaked, grinning with enjoyment.
It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him to stuff it, but she couldn’t stop worrying about Morelli. The only person who had a hope of getting through to him was Mace. Morelli was the team’s make-or-break player, and this was Morelli’s make-or-break season. “Fine,” she said shortly.
“Fine what?”
“Fine, I’ll go to the bar with you guys.”
He reached out to hook a finger in the hem of her shorts. “Not ‘us guys,’” he corrected. “You’ll go with me.”
“Get real, Duvall. How do you think that’s going to look?”
“I don’t see the problem,” he said blandly. “We’re both staff, it’s natural that we should hang with each other rather than the players. We go to keep an eye on them, but nothing says we can’t have a little fun on our own. No avoiding me, no leaving early.”
“I see.”
“Oh, and wear something besides shorts if you’ve got it.”
Becka’s eyes snapped fire at him. “You can—”
“Ah, ah, ah,” he waggled a finger at her. “Think of the team.”
Becka walked out of the room fuming. He wanted her in something else besides shorts? Well, fine. One of her father’s cardinal rules had been that whenever you went on a road trip with a team you brought one dress-up outfit, just in case something came up where you had to represent the team. She wouldn’t exactly be representing the team this particular occasion, but she did have an outfit that would be quite sufficient for Mace Duvall.
Becka’s mouth curved into a slow, wicked smile. He’d exhausted her patience. It was time he learned a lesson. She’d turn on the heat full bore, use everything she had to reel him in, bring him to his knees. And then, when he was begging for it, walk away and leave him wanting.
And she’d enjoy every minute of it.
9
MACE STOPPED at Becka’s hotel room and knocked.
Long seconds passed, then the door opened. A whisper of scent flowed over him. And for just a moment, he forgot how to breathe.
She stood in a short, silky-looking dress in a bottle green. Buttons ran from the low neckline to the hem. Her arms were bare. It wasn’t particularly snug, but somehow the fabric dipped in at all the right spots, hinting at the taut, lean body that lay beneath. He couldn’t help but stare at the fragile bones at the base of her neck and imagine pressing his mouth to them. He couldn’t help but imagine taking his time to flick open the glass buttons and fill his hands with her.
The hemline showed an outrageous expanse of leg. He’d seen more, he supposed, on the day they’d run together, but there was something about a short dress that tempted and aroused. Something about knowing that all he had to do was put his hands on that hem, push up the fabric and…
“Are you ready, or are you just going to stand here staring at me all night?” Her swingy red hair feathered around her face and she’d done something to her eyes that made them look deep and mysterious. Her full mouth was the color of the kind of wine that went straight to a man’s head.
If they didn’t leave now, they weren’t going anywhere.
Mace cleared his throat. “Let’s head out.”
The pool hall was noisy, hot, and crowded. Shaded bulbs dangled down over a dozen pool tables, illuminating expanses of green felt dotted with vividly colored balls. Overhead fans stirred the haze of cigarette smoke that twined up around the ceiling. George Thorogood blared from the jukebox, punctuated by the sharp cracks of pool balls smashing into one another and thudding into pockets.
“Hey, Duvall, over here.” Morelli’s shout carried across from the bar where the Lowell players were clustered. “Good to see you, man. Come on over here and introduce us to your lady frien…” Morelli stopped and took a closer look. “Florence? Is that you?” He whistled. “I think this’s the first time I’ve seen you in anything but shorts. Wow.” He’d obviously had more than a few drinks already and was swaying slightly on his feet.
“Take a seat, Morelli,” she suggested as she locked eyes with Mace. “You’re looking a little wobbly.”
Mace stepped in closer to Morelli and leaned on the bar, flicking a glance at a couple of locals before turning back to the players. “How long have you been here?”
“Oh, ’n hour, maybe.” Morelli reached for the shot of whiskey the bartender had just set on the bar behind him and downed it in a single gulp. “Oh yeah, making up for lost time,” he said, thumping the glass down on the bar and pointing to it to indicate another.
“I keep telling you if you don’t stop drinking that shit you’re going to take all the enamel off your teeth, Morelli,” Chico called from farther down the bar.
“And I keep telling you to quit that candy-ass beer and start drinking real drinks,” Morelli yelled back, his slur becoming more pronounced. “Next time we should go somewhere that doesn’t pour thish cheap crap.”
A few local guys sitting near Morelli snapped their heads around to stare at him, then at the beer in front of them. The bigger one stirred. “You got a problem, buddy?”
Morelli swayed a little as he sucked down another shot and wiped his lips. “Thass not beer, son, that there is a veterinary sample.”
One of the beefy guys stood up fast and got in Morelli’s face. “I’ve just about had it with your mouth. You’ve been a pain in the ass ever since you got here and I want you gone.”
“You tell ’im, Dix,” his friend said with a belch and a hard stare toward the Lowell group.
“Get over yourself, Beavis, you doan know who you’re messing with.” Morelli was weaving even more now.
“All right, you little punk, that’s it.” Dix drew back a beefy fist and swun
g—
And a hand shot up to clamp around his wrist, stopping his fist before it reached Morelli. “That’ll do,” Mace said, stepping between the two men. “You’ll have to excuse my friend,” he said pleasantly to Dix without releasing his wrist. “He’s had a few too many and sometimes it turns him into a jackass.” He watched the bigger man calculatingly. Bulky, but mostly gone to fat. With a bit of luck, they’d get out of this yet.
Dix tried to yank his arm loose. “Don’t mess with me.”
“I have no intention of it,” Mace said, without emphasis.
“Get your hands off me right now or—”
“Hey, wait, you’re that guy,” his friend burst out suddenly.
“Shaddup, Leroy,” Dix snarled.
“No, I know him. He’s that guy played for the Braves, shortstop. The one who hit the grand slam off Pettit in that series game.” He squinted at Mace. “Aincha?”
“Yeah, he is,” Chico said enthusiastically from behind Mace, where he’d been resigning himself to joining the brewing fight.
Dix rubbed his wrist, staring at Mace with a mixture of respect and anger. “Yeah, well you better teach that jackass,” he jabbed a finger at Morelli, “to keep a lid on it or someone will do it for him.”
“Doan need you ’pologizing for me,” Morelli said from behind Mace, where Chico and Stats held him upright.
“Shut up, Morelli,” Mace suggested evenly. “You’re done for the night.” He turned to the other players, now clustered around him. “Okay guys, the fun is over. Who’s Morelli’s roommate?”
Chico raised his hand and gave a disgusted grimace. “I’m the lucky guy.”
Mace said, “Okay, get him back to the hotel, and put him to bed. Becka and I’ll buy a drink for our friends here and smooth things over.”
THE LINE BETWEEN good times and violence was so fine. How quickly a night out could cross from one side to the other, Becka thought with a little shiver, understanding for the first time how living nightmares began. The way Mace had stepped in to defuse the incident made her shiver a little, too. She’d never claimed to be the intellectual type. She was physical, and as much as she didn’t want to be impressed by the way he’d handled the tense situation, at some visceral level she was.
Scoring Page 9