Scoring

by Kristin Hardy

  And then she was on fire in his arms, kissing him feverishly, yanking his shirt from his pants to get her hands on the skin beneath. Her touch was like witchcraft, making everything else meaningless except having her naked against him, crying out her pleasure in his arms. And he’d do that, he thought, clawing his way back from the madness. After he’d taught her a lesson.

  Mace pulled her up until her legs were wrapped around his waist and walked out of the kitchen and toward the bedroom. Twining her arms around his neck, Becka pressed kisses on every part of his face and neck and hair she could reach. “Forget about the bedroom,” she whispered into his ear, her voice ragged, tight with urgency. “Here. Now. On the floor if we have to.”

  Mace shook his head. “Some things are worth waiting for,” he murmured, walking into her bedroom and laying her back on the coverlet. “There’s something I really like about this bed.”

  He dropped down on the springy surface and leaned in for another of those mind-bending kisses.

  “Get your clothes off,” Becka managed. “I want you.”

  “And you’ll have me,” he whispered, pressing his body against hers for a tempting moment. “When I decide.” He stood up and looked at her sprawled on the bed, staring back at him with dazed eyes, her mouth red and swollen from his. “Sugar,” he said, leaning in to give her a quick peck. “I do believe the score is now even.”

  And he turned and walked out.

  13

  BECKA WALKED BACK up the stairs to her apartment, sweat-soaked, legs trembling with exhaustion. The morning run had been just what she’d needed to burn off the irritation that still surged through her from the events of the night before. She aimed her key at the lock just as the door opposite rattled and Mallory stepped out into the hall.

  Stunning, she couldn’t get used to the fact that the woman was simply stunning. That was the sort of woman Mace should be out with, Becka thought, although now that she considered it, he hadn’t given Mallory more than a glance the day he’d met her.

  Mallory studied her. “Let me guess. Your car broke down and you got chased by feral dogs into the river.”

  “Cute.” Becka rolled her eyes. “You know my car didn’t break down.”

  Mallory sighed and shook her head in mock concern. “Are you sure you don’t have a fever or something? I just find it so hard to believe that anyone would voluntarily abuse themselves like this.”

  “If I don’t abuse myself, I’ll wind up abusing someone else,” Becka said grimly, jamming her key into the lock.

  “Uh-oh. Guess you ran into Loverboy again, huh?”

  Becka opened the door and threw a glance over her shoulder. “You don’t know the half of it.”

  Mallory’s eyes brightened. “This I gotta hear,” she said, crowding behind Becka. Inside, she pointedly made for a chair at the kitchen table. “So what happened? I thought when I saw you the other day you said he was supposed to be gone.”

  “I thought he was.” Becka set bottles of iced tea on the tabletop and dropped exhaustedly into a chair. “I was wrong. He’s back.”

  “Mmm-hmm. So I guess he’s ticked off about the lipstick thing?”

  “Forget about the lipstick thing. This has escalated into all-out war.”

  “What happened?”

  Becka told her, feeling the fury afresh as she watched Mallory’s eyes widen and her jaw drop.

  “He did what?”

  “He stood up, tucked in his shirt, and walked out.”

  “But what did he say?”

  Becka set her jaw. “Are you ready for this? He said ‘I do believe the score is now even.’”

  Mallory sucked in a breath between her teeth. “That’s bad.”

  Becka nodded. “Evil.”

  “Truly evil,” Mallory agreed. “Of course the lipstick thing was evil, as well.”

  Becka did a double take. “Whose side are you on, anyway?”

  “Yours, of course. I’m just saying.”

  “I was trying to make a point,” Becka said with dignity.

  Mallory nodded, something that looked suspiciously like a grin hovering around the corners of her mouth. “Judging by what he did last night, I’d say you did.”

  “He had it coming to him.”

  “I bet that’s what he’d say, too. The problem is that men just want the easy labels, good girls, bad girls. They never know what to do with you when you’re real.” She stood up to pace around the kitchen. “And they definitely don’t know what to do with someone who knows what she wants and isn’t afraid to go after it. What you need to do is give it back to him.” She peered out the window, watching their neighbor weed his garden. “Act like nothing happened, come on to him with everything you’ve got. When you’ve got him completely wound up and right on the edge, that’s when you teach him a lesson by walking away.”

  “How do you think I got in this mess in the first place?”

  Mallory smiled at her like a benevolent aunt. “When you’re out for revenge, sweet pea, you’ve got to keep your wits about you. This is warfare. You’re supposed to be seducing him, not yourself. And definitely not letting him seduce you.”

  “I didn’t get seduced by anyone,” Becka said hotly.

  “Then why are you so annoyed?” Mallory sat back down at the table, her short skirt rucked up over her knees. “Sounds like you need to figure out what you want. If you just want to give him a tumble, that’s easy enough. But if you just want to prove something to him, you’ve got to stay in control.” She drained her tea. “Well, I’ve got to git. I’m driving down to Newport for the day.”

  “What for?”

  “I don’t know.” Mallory gave a careless shrug and stood up. “I might move there. Who knows, maybe I’ll go into business for myself.” She gave a wave as she headed toward Becka’s front door. “Good luck with Baseball Boy. Oh, before I forget, that guy from the team was in again last night.”

  “Morelli?”

  Mallory nodded.

  “I thought he was easing off.”

  “He was for about a week, but he got himself pretty toasted last night.”

  Becka shook her head and sighed. “I don’t know what to do about him. I’ve tried talking, but it goes in one ear and out the other.”

  “Yeah, well, if he goes on like this too long, he’s not going to need to get knifed in a bar fight. His liver will give out long before that.”

  “Thanks for the tip. I owe you.”

  “Well, why don’t you come by one of these nights and have a drink with me?” Mallory waved again and walked out the door.

  Becka drifted back into the kitchen to put the tea bottles in the recycling bin. What did she want to do with Mace, she wondered idly. Say they were even, as he’d said, what would she want then?

  The image bloomed in her mind in Technicolor. Mace as a lover, that was what she wanted. If they both agreed right up front that no one was running the show, then maybe it could work. Just a week of good, hot sex.

  Of course, he’d have to die first as punishment for the night before, but after that she thought they might just be able to negotiate something.

  Right now, though, she had something more important to think about, which was a certain bet. She was just itching to wipe the smirk off Morelli’s face, and the only way to make that happen was to make contact with the ball.

  BECKA SHUT THE DOOR of the chain link batting cage that sat under the grandstand of the deserted Lowell Weavers ballpark. It took a moment to get herself set at the plate, to dredge up the long-forgotten motions. She swished the bat through the air, testing it. Slowly at first, then faster, she swung, putting the full motion of her body into the movement until the polished wood whistled through the air.

  She filled the pitching machine with the bucket of scuffed balls that sat to one side and switched it on, hustling up to the front of the batting cage so she could get there before she was in danger of life and limb from flying baseballs.

  Before she could even get set in
her batting stance, the first ball shot out of the machine, making her jump. She took a quick look around, but there was no one to see her. No one on the grounds, period, she imagined. Everybody was probably long gone and hard to find, thrilled to have a day off.

  She raised the bat over her right shoulder and waited. This time, when the ball shot out, she swung at it, but the result was just a swish of air. The result was the same for the next half dozen. By the ninth ball, though, she’d gotten her timing to the point that she could actually put wood onto the ball, even if it did foul up over behind her head.

  “Your foot’s in the bucket.” The drawled words came from behind her. This time, she didn’t even jump. It figured he’d be here.

  She turned slowly to face him. “What?”

  Mace Duvall stood outside the batting cage, where sunlight met shadow on the ground. The sun coming from behind him gilded his hair with a halo; his eyes were shadowed and unreadable. “Your foot’s in the bucket. Don’t step back when you swing, step toward the pitcher.”

  “Why don’t you get out there and I’ll use you as a target, Duvall,” she invited.

  “You don’t really want to do that, do you?” he asked, rounding the back of the cage to the door.

  “Buddy, you don’t want to know the half of what I want to do to you.” The rhythmic “thoof” of balls shooting out of the pitching machine punctuated their conversation.

  Mace swung open the door to the enclosure and stepped inside. “I can think of a few things I want to do to you, too.”

  “Mine involve murder and mayhem,” Becka said silkily, “what about yours?”

  Humor crept into his eyes. “This is a special moment in our relationship, you know. We’re sharing our fantasies.”

  “Let’s make ’em reality, Duvall.”

  “You’re not still ticked about last night, are you? The way I figure it, we’re even.”

  “Oh, you think so? I’ll tell you what I think,” she started.

  “Oh, I’m sure you will.”

  Becka stopped and narrowed her eyes. “What are you doing here? Everybody’s supposed to be off today. I was hoping to get some privacy.” Behind her, the pitching machine switched to idle.

  “There’s plenty of that around. Trust me, the few players that are here are either sleeping or over at the pool.”

  “So why aren’t you?”

  “I kind of figured this is where you’d be. I thought I’d come help out.”

  “I don’t need your help,” she said shortly.

  He gave her a mocking grin. “Sugar, from what I’ve seen, it looks like you need all the help you can get. Assuming you want to teach Morelli a thing or two, and I think you do.”

  It was tempting, she had to admit. She’d seen the difference in the performance of the players after Mace had worked with them for a couple of days. Still, after what he’d done to her… Becka raised her chin. “I’m doing fine on my own, thanks.”

  “Come on. You talked me into sticking around to teach. Seems only fair that you should let me practice on you a little.” Mace picked up the bucket and started tossing balls into it, the long lines of muscle in his back showing through his T-shirt as he bent over.

  It made her mouth water, until she thought of the night before. “You never did tell me why you were here. I thought you were going back to Florida.”

  Balls landed in the bucket with metallic pocking sounds. “Let’s just say this teaching stuff grew on me. I flew back up here and got in my truck to head for Florida, to just quit like I’d been talking about. But I couldn’t do it.”

  “Why?” Becka asked curiously.

  “I don’t know.” Mace looked at her, then straightened up and hefted the bucket. “It felt wrong.” What had felt right was having a purpose, a reason to get up in the morning. Something more than skin diving or golf or pounding nails on his half-built deck. It had felt like something that made a difference. “I was working with the guys at batting practice yesterday and I saw Stats swing. It was part of my swing, I could see it. And he got a hit. I taught him how to do that.” He smiled. “And it felt really, really good.”

  Becka stared at him, her mouth ajar just a bit, as though he’d surprised her. Good, he thought as he walked down to the pitching machine and loaded the balls into the hopper. A woman like Becka needed surprising now and again. “Anyway, I owe you a thank you.” He left the machine on standby.

  She blinked. “Why?”

  He walked back up to her. “Because you talked me into giving it a try at the beginning, when I was ready to cut out. And you did it even when you wanted me gone worse than anything.”

  “Temporary insanity,” she muttered, glancing away, but not before he’d caught the flicker of pleasure in her eyes.

  “Maybe. And maybe it was because you were thinking of something besides yourself.” He pushed the hair out of his eyes with an impatient hand. “When you get torn up, it’s easy to turn in on yourself. You got so many people worrying about how you feel all the time that you start thinking that’s all that matters. I needed to be reminded that it wasn’t.” He picked up the bat and handed it to her, pretending he didn’t see the look of blank surprise on her face. “Now let’s see you swing,” he ordered, stepping in front of her where he could study her motion.

  Becka took up her stance at the plate, bending slightly at the waist, and sent the bat whistling through the air. He watched her appreciatively. There was something about the way that her body looked, especially when she was moving, that purely made his mouth go dry. “Again.” The bat swished and she made a soft noise of effort. The kind of noise she made when she was making love, he remembered, when he was inside her and she was straddling him, riding him.

  Mace walked over to stand behind her, staring at the loose, turquoise running shorts that covered her taut haunches. It would be so easy to just hook his finger in them, pull them to one side, bend her over and… “Get your legs a little wider,” he instructed, sliding one hand along the inside of her thigh.

  She jerked around to glare at him. “Cut it out, Duvall.”

  “Do you want to beat Morelli?” he challenged her. At her reluctant nod, he put a hand back on the silky smooth skin of her thigh. “Then do what I tell you.”

  “YOU NEED TO GET your whole body into the swing, not just your arms.” Mace put his hands on her hips. “These should rotate along with your torso.” Heat bloomed from where his palms rested on her. “When you swing, your hips should turn, just like this.” The heat disappeared for a moment as he reached up with one hand to pull the bat away from her, then held her hips again. “Now swing,” he ordered. She mimed a swing, and his hands rotated her hips. “Again,” he ordered, rotating her with such force that she spun around to face him.

  His eyes flashed with surprise, then darkened as he took a step closer. His hands on her hips pulled her in against him. “Well, you seem to have the rotation part down,” he said softly. “Now the key part is making contact. You’ve got to get wood on the sweet spot.”

  Getting wood on the sweet spot indeed, Becka thought, feeling the beginnings of his erection against her belly. She wasn’t going to make it that easy for him, she thought, remembering Mallory’s advice. Maybe he was right about them being even, but that didn’t mean she was ready to sleep with him again.

  At least not right then. First, she had to show him that two could play at the game of walking away. She slid her hands down his arms—God, biceps like rocks—and over his hard, sinewy forearms, and down where his hands now rested on her ass. “Mmm, I see your point,” she said throatily, bringing her lips closer to his. “Especially about the sweet spot.”

  Mace leaned down to kiss her just as she twisted away. “But I still have a bet to do in a couple of days, so let’s get to it.”

  He gave her a narrow-eyed look, then pushed the wall switch that started the pitching machine going. “Fine, let’s get to it. Okay, swing,” he ordered, as the first ball shot out toward her.

 
; Becka snapped the bat around and sent the ball fouling up back behind her.

  “You’re starting your swing too late. Go a tick earlier than you think.”

  Obediently, she swung again. The ball tipped off the bat, flying up to bounce off the ceiling.

  Mace switched the pitching machine to standby. Becka straightened up and turned to look at him as he walked toward her. “You’re holding the bat too low,” he said. “You want it up higher. Let me show you.” He stepped up behind her, wrapping his arms around her to get his hands on top of hers on the bat. “First, you want a tight grip on the wood.” He curled his fingers around hers. “See? Now raise the bat up higher above your shoulder, and when you swing,” he slowly moved the bat in an arc, “you want to keep it up here.”

  His chest was hard against her back, his thighs pressed against hers. It was like they were in bed, spooning. Becka struggled briefly to bring her mind back to the present. “I’ve never seen you use this technique with the players,” she managed, trying for dry.

  She sensed, rather than saw his grin. “I save this technique for a very select clientele.” He released her and stepped back to switch on the pitching machine. “Now let’s try it again.”

  This time, when the ball came at her she made solid contact, the vibration singing up her arms and drawing a surprised laugh from her.

  Mace clapped. “Good job. That’s the way, now let’s see it again.” She stuck with it for another half hour, making contact with plenty of the balls, Mace offering advice and approval.

  Finally, he turned off the pitching machine. “You were hitting about .300 there. Another day or two like that and you’ll be ready to take on Morelli.”

  Without thinking about it, Becka grabbed him and gave him a smacking kiss. “Thanks for the lesson.”

  His arms came around her automatically. “No problem,” he said. “I’ll take payment like that any day. Of course, you’re going to need some more instruction,” he continued blandly. “Maybe you’d like to put down a deposit on future lessons.”