by Kaylea Cross
OUT OF HER LEAGUE
Suspense Series
KAYLEA CROSS
Out of Her League
Copyright © 2008 & 2014
by Kaylea Cross
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Cover Art by
Sweet ‘N Spicy Designs
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This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from the author.
ISBN: 9780991905089
DEDICATION
To DH and the weasels: Love you to infinity.
And to Jacquie, for showing me the ropes.
Table of Contents
Author’s Note
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Epilogue
Complete Booklist
Acknowledgements
About the Author
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Out of Her League is book one of my Suspense series, and the very first book I ever published. I can’t wait for you to meet this cast of characters! The story arc will continue through five books, each focusing on a different couple in the series, culminating in book 5, Absolution. I hope you enjoy the ride!
Happy reading!
Kaylea Cross
Chapter One
In the middle of the sixth inning, the back of Christa’s neck prickled. The subtle, subconscious warning raised the fine hairs on her nape, tightened her muscles. He was out there again, watching her. His eyes followed her even here, in the safety of the dugout, tracking her every move like some predatory animal.
“Hey, Chris—looks like your number one fan is back,” one of her teammates said dryly.
She glanced up from strapping on her shin guards and looked toward the bleachers. Sure enough, there he was, clean-cut with short, dark-blond hair, medium build and average height, around thirty or so. He sat in his usual spot right behind home plate, making this his eighth consecutive appearance at her games. At first she’d thought he might be a scout, but now he just unnerved her. He was always there, focused on her, calling out comments to her. And if her teammates had noticed it too, she wasn’t being paranoid.
“I wish he’d take up another hobby,” she muttered, grabbing her mask from the bench.
“Yeah,” said her first baseman, giving a shudder. “That guy’s starting to bug the hell out of me.”
“Me too.” Christa jogged up the dugout steps onto the field, careful not to let her gaze stray toward him. Maybe if she ignored him long enough he would go away. Besides, she had more important things to worry about if she wanted to make the national team. She couldn’t afford to let herself be distracted by an obsessed fan, no matter how uncomfortable he made her. With only one last round of cuts standing between her and her lifelong dream, no one was going to take it away from her, least of all him.
Standing behind home plate, she exhaled and cleared her mind, concentrating on the field in front of her until she’d blocked out the buzz of the crowd in the stands.
Focus.
Tugging on her mask, she dropped into her crouch, took the starting pitcher’s warm-up pitches and hurled the ball down to second base.
“Looking good, nineteen,” her fan called out, addressing her by her uniform number. She tuned him out and watched the batter set up in the box before calling the first pitch. It was her job to act as quarterback and call the pitches and the plays. She had to take charge and be the leader, and with national team scouts scrutinizing her performance, every play counted.
Her team retired the side, and in the bottom of the same inning, Christa was the first batter up. She went through the rituals of adjusting her kneepads and batting gloves, settled her helmet firmly on her head and stepped into the box. She focused intently at the release point near the pitcher’s hip. Everything else faded into the background as she stood there, planted and ready to face the first pitch.
“You’re the best, Christa.”
Him again. Somehow his voice had cut through all her efforts to shut him out. Damn it, she had to—
“Show them, Christa. Show them why you’re the best.”
Clenching her jaw, she tried to push that voice out of her head and regain her concentration, but it was no good. “Time,” she said to the umpire, holding up one hand.
“Time.” The umpire suspended play. Christa stepped out of the box and took a breath. Get your head in the game, you idiot. Just shut him out and hit the damn ball. Once she regrouped, she went into her stance and watched the first pitch come in.
“Strike!” the umpire yelled.
Unperturbed, she took a big cut at the next pitch, a dropball, narrowly missing it. Now she had only one strike left to play with. She stared out at the pitcher’s right hip, expecting either a waste pitch or a changeup. All right, lady. Hit me with your best shot.
But the next pitch came in low, too close to the strike zone for her to leave it.
“You’re the best.”
His shout came just as she began her swing, throwing off her timing and making her miss the ball entirely.
“Strike three!” the umpire called.
She froze for a second, then whirled around and stalked back to her dugout, disgusted with herself. Before heading inside, she glanced back at the bleachers with a dark look and found the guy staring right at her, not even trying to be discreet. Worse, he had the gall to wink at her. Oh yeah, the jerk knew exactly what he was doing. Was he trying to throw her off her game for kicks, or was it something else?
Irritation surged up. God, why couldn’t she just ignore him? There was no excuse for letting him get to her. She had more discipline than that.
Despite her poor plate appearance and the idiot in the stands, Christa and her teammates won the game. After the post-game meeting, they gathered up the equipment and headed off the brightly lit diamond, a half- moon hovering in the midnight blue sky. Past the last set of bleachers in the outfield, she realized she’d left her batting gloves in the dugout and hurried back to grab them, as fast as she could while carrying her catcher’s gear and her own equipment bag, plus the team bats. She juggled them to try and find a comfortable hold, but it was a heavy load.
“I can take some of that for you,” a male voice said from behind her.
She stiffened, warning bells clanging in her head. He’d never physically approached her before.
“Here,” he offered with a pleasant enough smile. “Let me take something. I’m heading to the parking lot myself.” Up close his eyes were a pale gray, and the bleakness in them made her uneasy. They had a strange, silver gleam to them, like a timber wolf’s.
Striving for politeness despite the choice words she had in mind, Christa turned away
and shook her head. A glance toward the parking lot showed the last of her teammates already getting into their vehicles. Her black truck was parked against the line of forest on the far side, and she wanted nothing more than to climb into it, lock the doors and get the hell out of there. But he was blocking her way there and no one was around to come to her rescue.
She straightened her spine and circled him, evading eye contact. To hell with her batting gloves. She’d buy new ones tomorrow. “Thanks anyway.”
“Are you sure?” he persisted. “It’s no problem, really. At last let me take one bag.”
“No thanks, I’m good.” Despite the urgency tugging at her she hoped her attempt at being polite would take any sting out of the rejection. The last thing she wanted was to make him angry.
He shrugged. “I wouldn’t mind. I’m Seth, by the way. I already know your name’s Christa,” he added with another smile. It should have been pleasant, but it reminded her of a predator baring its teeth. A chill shivered up her spine.
They were finally nearing the gate to the parking lot, thank God.
To get rid of him she blurted, “See you.” Fumbling with her keys in preparation to activate the remote locking system, she turned away.
“I’ll see you into your car, just to make sure you’re okay. I wouldn’t want anything to happen to you.”
His quiet words sent a spurt of adrenaline through her veins as those disturbingly bleak eyes sliding over her body, making her feel exposed. Shivering in the balmy May evening air, she tried to ignore the voice whispering warnings in her head. Until now she’d never noticed how poorly lit the parking lot was, but tonight the ribbon of forest that edged the ballpark transformed into a sinister place of swaying branches and deep shadows where danger might lurk, where a rapist or killer might drag their prey.
Get a grip, Bailey. Stop freaking out and just get in the damn truck.
As fast as she could, she lugged the gear over to her truck and loaded it in back. When she finished he was still standing there a few feet behind her, expressionless but for the weird glow in his eyes. Was he planning on trying anything? Her pulse jolted. Maybe she should have kept a hold on one of those bats, just in case. She almost dove for the driver’s side door, scrambled into the cab.
She slammed the door shut and locked the vehicle. When she looked up he was standing beside her window. Christa jumped, barely stifled the gasp that rose in her throat. She hadn’t even seen him move. Breath freezing in her lungs, she had to force herself not to cringe away from him. Don’t let him sense your fear. He’ll feed off it.
Wrenching her gaze away she started the ignition, trying to seem unaffected by his nearness. What did she have to do to make him leave her alone?
“It was nice to meet you, finally,” he said through the glass, watching her with that eerily intent gaze. “I’ll see you next game.”
Great. Either he wasn’t getting her stay-the-hell-away-from-me signals, or worse, he chose to ignore them. Either way, something was very wrong with him.
“Drive carefully,” he added, stepping back from the truck. His mercurial eyes seemed to glitter at her in the darkness. “Most accidents happen at night when you’re close to home.”
Her heart leapt. Was he threatening her? Swallowing the lump of fear trying to lodge in her throat, she pretended she hadn’t heard him over the rumble of the engine and sped off. Turning out of the parking lot, she took a last glance in her rearview mirror and found him standing there, perfectly still, watching her drive away.
God, so creepy. No way could she go home to her empty house right now, not after that encounter. She drove to her best friend’s place instead. She pulled her truck into the driveway in the neatly kept subdivision and used her spare key to enter the side door of the Colonial-style two-story house.
“Hello? Anyone home?”
When Teryl’s curvy figure appeared around the corner, Christa felt better already. “Hey! To what do we owe this honor?” Her long blond hair was pulled back into a loose ponytail and she was wearing sweats—a sure sign she’d just hopped out of the bath.
“I thought I’d stop in and say hello,” Christa said. “Hope I didn’t interrupt anything.”
“Of course not, don’t be silly. Come on in. Drew and Hutch were just going over the plans for our new deck.”
Christa halted in mid-stride, her heart tripping at the second name. “Rayne’s here?” Rayne Hutchinson, the cop with the gorgeous face and rock-hard body, star of her X-rated fantasies. God, maybe this visit wasn’t such a good idea.
Teryl eyed her in amusement as she led the way through the kitchen toward the family room. “Yeah. His car’s in the shop so Drew picked him up at the station after work. Why? That a problem for you?”
“No.” A swarm of butterflies fluttered around in her belly. On a drool scale of one to ten Rayne was easily a twelve, and here she was straight from the ballpark in her uniform and tracksuit. She felt like the high school geek pining over the star quarterback. And apparently she wasn’t even all that bright a geek either, because his being out of reach hadn’t stopped her from having an agonizing crush on him ever since she had first met him through Teryl and Drew a couple years ago.
She glanced down at herself, dismayed. Somehow, whenever she saw him she was always covered in dirt, either from her work as a landscaper or from softball. He probably expected it by now.
“C’mon,” Teryl coaxed, holding out a hand and pulling Christa after her into the family room.
Rayne’s dark head was bent over the coffee table next to Teryl’s husband Drew, his strong hands cradling a beer bottle as they pored over some sketches. She mentally cringed at her grubbiness.
“Hey, look who I found,” Teryl announced.
The two men glanced up at her, and the impact of Rayne’s hazel gaze slammed into her like a seventy-mile-an-hour fastball. The air seemed to hum with his masculine energy, and that intimidated the hell out of her. On the ball diamond she could stare down any pitcher without a qualm, block any throw or pitch and throw harder than a lot of men she knew. She was a decent cook, could turn a patch of weeds into a gorgeous flowerbed, even fix a leaky pipe and rewire her light fixtures because her stepdad had taught her—but put Rayne Hutchinson in front of her and she was all jittery nerves and tongue-tied awkwardness. All thanks to her last disastrous relationship.
She lifted a hand. “Hi. Big plans?” She couldn’t help lifting a hand to restrain a lock of hair that had escaped her long braid.
Drew waved her over. “Hey, sweet stuff. It won’t be anything as fancy as your porch, but it’ll have to do.”
“The deck I showed you in that magazine layout,” Teryl put in. “The boys are finally going to build it for me.”
Rayne settled back against the sofa, the smooth fabric of his shirt stretched taut by the muscles underneath. “So, who won the game?”
“We did.” She fought the urge to fidget under his scrutiny.
“She’s going to make the national team this season,” Teryl announced proudly, beaming at her. “They’re already down to their last roster cuts, and she’s a shoe in.”
Hardly. And if she allowed that voice behind home plate to keep distracting her, she wouldn’t make the squad again. “Not that you’re biased or anything.”
“Tough game, was it?” Rayne asked as he eyed her disheveled form.
Yup, she did look awful. “Um, yeah, tonight was a real workout.”
Teryl motioned upstairs. “You wanna grab a quick shower?”
“That’d be great.” At least then she’d be less self-conscious than she was right now.
But in the guest bath, Teryl shut the door behind them and pinned her with narrowed blue eyes. “All right,” she demanded, hands on hips. “How come you came over tonight?”
Christa blinked. “What do you mean?”
“Honey, I’m your best friend. After twenty-two years, you don’t think I can tell when something’s wrong? So come on, spill it.”
Christa sighed. “That guy was there again tonight,” she said simply.
“The Stalker?” The name she and Teryl had laughingly given the guy didn’t seem so funny anymore.
“Yeah, only this time he followed me out to my truck to introduce himself. His name’s Seth, by the way.” As she spoke, Teryl’s brows drew together. “Then he stood there staring at me while I loaded my stuff, and told me to be careful because ‘most accidents happen at night when you’re close to home’.”
“That’s creepy, Chris. Have you told the coaches about him?”
“Not yet, but I will. And from now on I’ll never leave the park on my own.”
Teryl made a huffing noise. “Is that why you came over? Were you afraid he was going to follow you home or something?”
“He didn’t. I checked to make sure I wasn’t being followed on my way here.” Christa moved her hands apart in a helpless gesture. “I’m probably being paranoid, I know, but something about him scares me. Almost like I can sense...I don’t know, evil in him.” She smiled ruefully. “See what having an overactive imagination does for you?”
“Rayne would tell you that’s your gut instinct, and not to ignore it.” She reached into a cupboard and pulled out some towels. “Want me to say something to him?”
“No, thanks. I don’t want to make a big deal out of it. I just wish the guy would leave me alone.”
“Well, be careful then, okay? The guy sounds like he’s a few bricks short of a load.” She gave Christa a friendly pat on the back. “Go ahead and clean up and we’ll see you downstairs.”
When she had gone, Christa confronted her image in the mirror above the sink and winced. Dirt had streaked all over her face, the catcher’s mask having trapped it in sweat lines along her jaw. Her braid was barely intact, and during the game she had somehow developed wings that stuck straight out from her temples, apparently eager to assist in an emergency landing. She glanced at the back of her head to see if maybe a rudder flap had appeared too. Nope—just a couple of sweaty, tangled ringlets at her nape. She showered and toweled off, then dressed in the clothes Teryl had left outside the door. She had no make-up with her but pulled her hair into a ponytail before heading down to the family room, feeling a hundred percent better.