by Regina Kyle
She’d been doing that a lot lately. Sara said it was a great low-impact, non-weight-bearing workout. And Noelle could swim longer, and with less pain, than with any other activity.
Dylan gave her an oh-no-you-didn’t finger wave. “No questions, remember?”
With a resigned sigh, she followed him to the lobby. But instead of crossing through to the other side of the clinic, like she expected, he headed for the main doors. Outside, she could see a sleek, cherry-red, classic sports car parked at the curb and an equally slick shortstop lounging against it. His gaze met hers, and his face split wide in a shit-eating grin.
She came to a quick halt, careful even in her rapidly escalating pissed-off state not to jar her knee. He’d gotten the same spiel on admission as every other patient. Twice, since he was a repeat customer. No going off the grounds without prior permission. Mr. Hotshot Major Leaguer might think he was above the rules, but she didn’t.
“Hold the damn phone,” she said, talking to Dylan but her eyes never leaving Jace, boring holes through his skull through the closed door. “You never said anything about leaving the clinic.”
Dylan looked over his shoulder and smiled. “I never said anything, period. But don’t worry, he’ll fill you in.”
The teen took a step toward the automatic doors and they slid open, belting her with a blast of hot, July air. Whoever said it was the humidity, not the heat, that made you miserable had never spent a summer in Arizona. Hot was hot, humid or not.
“I am not going out there.” She planted her feet wide.
“She says she’s not going out there,” Dylan called through the door.
“Thanks, man,” Jace called back, not bothering to move from his relaxed stance against the car. “I’ve got it from here.”
“That’s what you think,” Noelle muttered as Dylan gave Jace a thumbs-up and took off.
“I mean it,” she said, louder this time so Jace could hear her. “I’m not going out there.”
The doors started to close, but Jace sprang forward and stuck out his hand, stopping them. “Give me one good reason.”
“I’ll give you two.” She held up a finger. “One, it’s hot as hell. And two—” she added another digit “—I don’t have medical authorization to leave.”
“Easy.” Jace crossed back to the curb in two strides and thumped the roof of the car. “I’ve got the air conditioning in this baby cranked as high as it’ll go and a note from Sara springing you for a few hours.”
“A few hours?” Almost unconsciously, Noelle stepped outside, feeling the doors whoosh shut behind her. “Where do you think you’re taking me?”
“Only one way to find out.” He sauntered around to the passenger side and opened the door. “Hop in.”
She crossed her arms and stood firm. “Not until I see the note.”
“Don’t trust me?” he asked, one brow raised.
“Bingo.”
“I’m wounded.” He staggered back and put a hand to his heart like he’d been shot, but when he was done with the theatrics he produced a crumpled piece of paper from his pants pocket and handed it to her.
She smoothed it out and studied it carefully before looking up at Jace, who was half sitting, half leaning on the hood of the car. The man was like a Bengal tiger, coiled and ready to spring. Long legs crossed at the ankles, arms folded over his massive chest and those biceps—gah. She had to look away before words would form. “It looks legit. You’re sure Sara’s okay with this?”
“Her exact words were, ‘Get her out of here. That girl needs a change of scenery, stat.’”
“Sounds like Sara,” Noelle conceded with a wry chuckle.
“So what’s the verdict? You coming?”
As much as Noelle hated to admit it, Sara made sense. She’d been starting to go a little stir-crazy cooped up at the clinic. Last week, she’d even resorted to pulling out a needlepoint kit her well-intentioned but delusional mother had sent her. A ladybug pillow. Seriously, who under the age of sixty did that stuff any more?
She did, apparently, if she got desperate enough.
She didn’t want to be that desperate. And how much damage could one night out do, even if it was with Jace? Heck, she’d already slept with him. Things couldn’t get any more complicated.
Could they?
“Okay,” she said, throwing caution out the window and into the arid desert. “But this doesn’t mean we’re an item.”
“An item?” He snickered. “What is this, high school?”
“Fine. We’re not a couple, then.”
“Understood.” He rushed to beat her to the still open passenger door. “Now can we blow this popcorn stand?”
She looked down at her outfit. Athletic shirt, yoga pants, sneakers. Standard attire at Spaulding. But probably not for whatever Jace had in store for her. “I have to change.”
“Don’t go changing to try and please me.”
“It’s not for you, Billy Joel. It’s for me.”
“Whatever butters your bagel.” Yeah, right. Like she ate bagels. Way too many carbs. “But make it snappy. We’ve got a schedule to keep.”
“Want to give me a hint as to the dress code?”
His eyes raked her up and down. “Like I said, you look fine to me.”
Typical guy.
“Some help you are.” She mentally cataloged the meager inventory of her closet. She hadn’t brought along much more than workout clothes, but she’d thrown in a cute little two-piece skater dress and a pair of jeweled Gucci thong sandals at the last minute that should work for whatever he had planned. After all, it wasn’t like they were going to be horseback riding or skydiving with their respective injuries. “Be back in ten.”
“You won’t regret it, I promise,” he called after her as she went in.
That remained to be seen. With an uber alpha male like Jace Monroe, anything was possible. She held in a breath, the thought both exciting and terrifying her.
And she didn’t know which of those warring emotions she wanted to win out.
* * *
“HERE WE ARE.”
Jace pulled the 1965 Mustang GT to a stop, almost disappointed the drive was over.
What a sweet ride. And he didn’t just mean the expensive rental.
Two hours was a long time to be trapped in a car with someone, especially a car with quarters as tight as the Mustang. And as intimate as he and Noelle had been, they hadn’t exactly done a lot of talking.
Until now.
Her large, loud family. His father. Their respective careers. Even normally off-limits topics like politics (Republican for him, Democrat for her) and religion (she was a lapsed Catholic, he an agnostic). Despite their differences, not once had the conversation turned ugly or lagged. And not once could he remember a conversation with a woman—just conversation—being so...stimulating.
“Phoenix Fright Fest.” Noelle read the marquis on the historic downtown theater they were parked in front of. “Is that where we’re going?”
He studied her for some reaction. He’d gone out on a big-ass limb bringing her all this way on the basis of nothing more than a random comment in a years-old interview with some podunk newspaper.
Her head swiveled slowly away from the window, her jaw slack and her eyes uncertain as they turned on him. “You drove over a hundred miles to take me to a slasher flick?”
The big-ass limb cracked underneath him.
“Not just any slasher flick,” he scrambled to explain. “It’s...”
“Are you kidding?” She cut him off, her voice rising to a decibel level only dogs could hear. “I love horror movies. They’re my guilty pleasure. No matter what hotel you’re in, in what city, you can always find one with the click of a remote from the comfort of your bed.”
“Kind of like porn.” He slipped a finger under the strap of her dress.
“Like you said, whatever butters your bagel.” She slapped his hand away. “How did you know?”
“About the porn?”
“No, smartass.” She unbuckled her seat belt. “About my secret, borderline unhealthy obsession with horror movies. It’s not something I usually share. My agent says it doesn’t fit the public image of a ballerina. I’m supposed to be the cultural icon of idealized femininity, or some crap like that. I think he read it somewhere.”
She was babbling, almost bouncing out of her seat, and it was unexpected, uncharacteristic and utterly adorable.
Score.
“The magic of the World Wide Web. You mentioned it in an interview you gave to a small-town newspaper a few years back.” Turned out Dylan wasn’t just a crack pitcher, he was a computer whiz, too. A few creative searches and he’d managed to not only dredge up the long-ago article but find the website for Fright Fest as well.
“Must have been before Garrett put the gag order on me.” Noelle fumbled under her legs for her purse. “So are we going to sit here all night or go in?”
“Go in.” He exited the Mustang, went around to the passenger side and opened her door. “You ain’t seen nothin’ yet.”
“There’s more?”
“Patience, Duchess. Patience.”
He ushered her through the lobby to the ticket taker, a spiky-haired twenty-something who stared at Jace open-mouthed.
“Ohmigod, you’re...”
“Shhh.” Jace put a finger to his lips and handed their tickets over. “Give us a break, okay, man? We just want to enjoy the movie on the down-low.”
He held his breath as Spiky Hair studied them. He was used to being recognized in California, where the Storm played, but farther from his home base he was usually able to fly under the radar. Leave it to lady luck to put a baseball buff at the door.
“You bet,” the usher said after a beat. “Let’s get you inside. No one will recognize you in the dark.”
He looked at the tickets. “Sweet. VIP passes. Right this way, Mr. Monroe.”
The usher led them to the front of the theater, where the first few rows were corded off. He unhitched the rope and let them pass, showing them to two seats in the second row on the aisle.
“Here you go.” He handed their passes back, along with two programs. “Enjoy the show. The VIP reception and talkback with Mr. Carpenter will be immediately afterward, upstairs in the green room. It’s all in your handouts.”
“Mr. Carpenter?” Noelle asked as the usher made his way back up the aisle. “Does he mean... ?”
“Yep. John Carpenter, the greatest living horror director. At least according to Dylan.”
“Dylan was in on this, too?”
She tensed a little, her lips pressing into a thin line, and he knew immediately what she was thinking. Funny how quickly he’d learned to read her. “Don’t worry. As far as Dylan and Sara know, we’re just two friends cutting loose and blowing off some steam.”
She relaxed and put a hand on his thigh, dangerously close to his groin. Now he was the one getting stiff. “We’re really going to meet John Carpenter?”
“Surprise.” Jace covered her hand with his and leaned in to whisper in her ear as the lights went down. “Told you you hadn’t seen anything yet.”
“Thank you,” she whispered back, her voice barely audible over the creepy opening theme.
It had been ages since he’d been to a horror flick. They weren’t his thing. Give him a sci-fi or superhero movie any day. But within minutes, he remembered why they’d been so popular when he was in high school.
“Don’t go in the garage.” Noelle snuggled close and gripped his hand as the girl on the screen ignored her advice and opened the car door. “He’s in the backseat.”
True to her word, the white-masked killer popped up and Noelle jumped, clutching Jace harder and burying her face in his shoulder. The fresh, flowery scent of her perfume or shampoo surrounded him.
“You have seen this movie before, haven’t you?” he asked with a chuckle.
“Of course.” He could almost hear her smile in the dark. “But the good ones always make you jump, no matter how many times you’ve seen them.”
They watched the rest of the movie in relative silence save for her gasps and screams every time another victim met their grisly end. With each killing, she cuddled closer. The body count was high so by the end of the flick she would have been in his lap if there wasn’t an arm rest between them.
And his dick was as hard as a steel rod, creating an uncomfortable bulge in his jeans. He shifted away from her and adjusted himself before the lights went up.
“Now comes the real treat. Ready to meet the man of the hour?” He stood and held out a hand to her.
She took it, standing and brushing her lips against his cheek in a kiss so gentle he almost missed it. “I’m more than ready to meet Mr. Carpenter. But the man of the hour is the guy who went through all the trouble to set this up. And that’s the real treat.”
10
NOELLE FLOATED OUT of the theater on a cloud of contentment. No, contentment wasn’t a strong enough word. Euphoria was more like it. All because of the conundrum wrapped in an enigma that was Jace Monroe. Superstar shortstop. Legendary ladies’ man. The man on the back of baseball cards and the front of cereal boxes who’d taken the time to discover her guilty pleasure and give her a night she’d never forget.
She didn’t want to admit it, but he’d gotten to her. How could he not? No other man had ever gone to such lengths to please her, inside the bedroom or out. Yet Jace had figured out how to do both in the span of only a few weeks.
“After you.” He swung open the passenger door of the sports car and helped her in.
“Thanks again,” she said when he’d settled into the driver’s seat. “For everything. I can’t believe you did all this for me.”
He turned the key and the engine started with a roar. “Would it tarnish your newly shiny image of me if I told you my motives weren’t entirely pure?”
“Only a little.” She fastened her seat belt and stretched out her bum leg. “Any man who’d go to the lengths you did just to get into my pants deserves a certain amount of consideration.”
“Hey, I never said it was just to get into your pants.”
“So you admit you want to get into my pants.”
“Don’t you mean get into your pants again?”
“Semantics.”
Jace smoothly maneuvered the sports car into traffic. “So, was meeting the prince of darkness all you thought it would be?”
“And more.” The director had been charming, funny and generous to a fault with his time, answering questions and signing autographs long after he was supposed to leave. She smoothed a hand over the program in her lap, tracing the letters in his signature then tucking it safely in her purse. “I’m still a bit starstruck.”
“Now you know how your fans feel.”
“And yours.” She leaned her head back and closed her eyes, fighting a yawn.
“Tired, Duchess?”
“More than I realized until this second.”
“Then sit back, relax and get some sleep. I’ll wake you when we’re home.”
“Home?” She cracked one eye open and turned her head to look at him.
“You know what I mean.” He pulled up at a stop light. “Mind if I put the top down?”
“Sure, why not? It’s a nice night.”
“Not worried about messing up your hair?” He reached above him with both hands, released a latch, then hit a button on the dash, retracting the roof.
“Nah.” She shut her eye and let out a contented sigh. “I rock the windswept look.”
“I’ll bet you do.”
She heard the engine rev and felt the wind pick up. The steady hum of the motor relaxed her and within a few minutes she could feel herself drifting off to sleep.
It could have been ten minutes or two hours when she woke up with her head on Jace’s shoulder, one hand pressed against the rough denim of his jeans.
And that wasn’t the only thing it was pressing against.
A s
low, answering ache stirred inside her, starting in her belly and working its way up to her chest. Almost involuntarily, her hand curled around his thigh.
“Don’t. Move.” He jerked the steering wheel and the car made a sharp right.
“Hey!” Her grip tightened on his thigh, making his erection twitch under her fingertips.
“I’m not kidding, Duchess. One more inch and I’m gonna bust a nut, run us off the road or both.” Another turn and gravel crunched under the tires.
“What are you doing?”
“Making sure I don’t kill us.” He slowed the car to a stop, turned off the ignition and slid the bench seat back.
She sat up and peered out the windshield. He’d parked at the edge of a field, nothing but darkness and the silhouettes of the acacia trees in the distance. “Where are we?”
“Somewhere no one will see me do this.”
He slid across the seat, pinning her against the door with his hot, hard body and claiming her mouth in a scorching, demanding kiss. He framed her face in his big, work-roughened palms and pressed a thumb just below her jawline, where she was sure he could feel her pulse racing like a member of the corps de ballet dancing her first solo.
She kissed him back, openmouthed, her tongue sliding against his. She focused her attention on the magic he was making with his lips and fingers, trying to blur out the niggling fear they’d be discovered by some unsuspecting dog walker or, even worse, a police officer.
“You’re thinking too much,” Jace scolded, breaking off the kiss. He worked one hand under the top part of her dress and cupped her breast through the lace of her bra. His thumb found her nipple and circled it, teasing.
A zing of pleasure rippled through her and she dropped her head back against the seat. “I do that a lot.”
“Stop.” His forefinger joined his thumb and squeezed. “The only thing I want you doing right now is feeling.”
“Feeling what?” She closed her eyes and let the sensations emanating from his fingers wash over her.
“This.” He tugged at her nipple, the brief but sharp pinch of pain surprisingly stimulating.