Perfect Pitch

by Mindy Klasky

  But there was something different about this jersey. Something different about this woman. And it wasn’t just that she filled out the shirt in the most appealing way he’d ever seen. It wasn’t the waterfall of shimmering hair down her back. It wasn’t the gigantic green eyes that looked up at him, tracking his every step as he approached.

  The runner cleared his throat. “Miss Winger? Mr. Thomas will escort you—”

  DJ cut the guy off. “I had you pegged for high heels and one of those skinny little skirts that would make it impossible for you to walk out to the mic.”

  “For a baseball game?”

  He was laughing with her before he even realized he’d moved to her side. The runner glanced back and forth between them, looking like they’d started babbling in some foreign language. DJ ignored the kid as he said to Samantha, “Seriously. Thank you for coming out today.”

  “Seriously. I couldn’t have people thinking the Summer Queen would just curl up and die at a little friendly joshing.”

  He was close enough now that he could smell her hair, or her perfume, or maybe it was just the sweet scent of her skin—like honey, with a hint of something deeper. Something spicier. He couldn’t help himself. He reached out and cupped his fingers around the bend of her elbow. “I know you didn’t have to do this. I appreciate it. Me. Not the Rockets. Not the guys upstairs.”

  It was important that she understand the distinction. Important that he make himself clear.

  Maybe she understood even more than he was saying, because a delicate flush whispered over her cheeks. Her professional smile wobbled just a little at the corners, and she glanced down at her feet. He tightened his grip, not wanting to see her off-balance.

  Her quick catch of breath brought a wash of heat to his own face, and his cock twitched to attention. His fingers were close enough to her side that he could feel her breathing, and he imagined that her pulse was pounding fast.

  Of course it was. She was about to sing the national anthem on television. And if he did anything to upset her now, he’d be an even greater asshole than the world already thought he was.

  He dropped his hand to his side and squared his shoulders. “Ready?” he asked.

  She swallowed hard and nodded once. “Ready.”

  He offered her his arm. The motion was entirely a reflex, more suitable to a tuxedo and a bow-tie and some fancy party than to a ballpark. But he couldn’t deny the thrill that shot through him as she slipped her arm through his, as she settled her perfect pink-polished fingernails against his wrist.

  He felt like he was back in high school, escorting his date to senior prom. He felt like he was a knight, guiding a lady to her throne. He felt like he was an international spy, ushering an heiress to the baccarat table.

  Easy, boy, he told himself. Don’t screw this up, or she’ll never forgive you.

  As they stepped into the sunlight, people began to applaud. The crowd didn’t need the announcer to explain who they were, why they were there.

  Beside him, Samantha beamed, waving with her free hand. She was relaxed and comfortable, full of sunny goodwill. He stood taller in her presence and tried to look contrite. He ordered himself not to look at the dugout, not to see the faces of his teammates who had to be giving him the razzing of a lifetime.

  But he couldn’t keep himself from leaning down as Samantha slipped her arm from his. He couldn’t keep himself from breathing in her honey-and-cinnamon scent. He couldn’t keep himself from brushing a kiss against her lips, the chastest of gestures, the safest of promises.

  And he couldn’t stop his heart from pounding as she smiled at him—one glorious grin before she stepped back, took a breath, and began to sing.

  * * *

  An hour later, Sam was sitting in the owner’s suite, watching the game and trying to figure out exactly what had happened down there, before the game began.

  She’d arrived at the park early, putting into practice the most important lesson she’d learned during her ten months as Summer Queen. If things could go wrong, they would, and there was nothing like getting to a place early to settle the nerves and work out the details.

  She’d traded in her navy-blue T-shirt for the Thomas jersey they’d given her. Someone on the Rockets staff had been paying attention. The shirt fit as if it had been sewn especially for her.

  She’d warmed up in the private waiting room underneath the field, practicing scales and making sure her voice was ready for the challenge of The Star Spangled Banner. She’d brushed her hair one last time and checked her teeth for lipstick. She’d followed a runner down the tunnel, waiting at the edge of the sunlight for her moment to step into the stadium and sing.

  And she’d nearly melted into a puddle when DJ Thomas put his palm on her arm.

  The touch was one thing—it had ricocheted through her like wild lightning, adding a burst of adrenaline to nerves already sparking from her upcoming public appearance. But the heat of his hand had immediately plummeted her back into the steam of her morning shower. Standing there in the dark tunnel, her mind insisted on playing the most graphic of home movies against the back of her eyelids—one blink, and she was sprawled against the tiled wall, her body already surrendered to the oblivious ballplayer who stood before her.

  She knew her cheeks had flushed; she’d felt the telltale heat creep from her breasts to the roots of her hair. She could only hope DJ had interpreted her behavior as nerves about her singing.

  He’d seemed gallant enough, when he’d offered her his arm. Of course, if the man had even a fraction of sensitivity in his fingers, he’d felt her trembling beside him. He’d been the model of politeness, though. He hadn’t said a word.

  But then he’d kissed her. Right there, in front of thirty thousand fans and the television-viewing public.

  The crowd had loved it, of course. They’d cheered, even as her eyes widened in surprise. He’d grinned at her—a cocky, mischievous grin—and he’d stepped away with the slightest of bows toward the microphone. She’d looked at his lips, imagined what they might do if the two of them weren’t the center of everyone’s attention. She’d remembered what they’d done, at least in the private fantasy of her own shower.

  But somehow, her training had come through. She’d stood, proud and tall, in front of the microphone. She’d started the anthem strong and built to the highest note without hesitation. She’d smiled at the end of the song, waving to the crowd as they roared their approval, and she’d followed the Rockets staff member back to the tunnel, to the elevator, to the owner’s suite, all the while forbidding herself to think about DJ’s swagger as he crossed to the dugout, as he disappeared into a huddle of back-slapping baseball players.

  The third inning ended, and the Rockets trotted in from the diamond, seemingly happy with their two-run lead. Samantha sat back in her seat as a dark-haired woman settled next to her. “Anna Benson,” the newcomer said, offering a hand and completing a no-nonsense shake. “Thank you for coming out today.”

  “My pleasure,” Sam said automatically.

  “I’m sorry Gramps couldn’t be here to meet you in person. He’s been a little…under the weather.” A flash of worry darkened the woman’s sea-green eyes.

  Sam almost reached out to pat her hand in automatic sympathy. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Gramps is…” She ended on an up-note, asking a question.

  “I’m sorry! I thought you knew!” The other woman’s smile was as warm as the sun streaming through the glass in front of them. “Marty Benson. Owner of the Rockets.”

  “Of course,” Sam exclaimed, mentally kicking herself for not putting two and two together on her own. “It’s nothing serious, I hope.”

  Again, that flash of worry, ghosting over the other woman’s cheekbones. She rallied quickly, though. “Nothing worth ruining a game over. Especially not when we’re beating New York. Can I get you anything? Something to eat? A drink?” Anna gestured with the silver can in her own hand.

  A beer would hit the spot. S
am could taste its hoppy bitterness against the back of her throat, cold and satisfying after the jangle of nerves from singing. From DJ

  But there was no way she could drink in public. Especially not when this was a command performance of the Summer Queen. Judith Burroughs would have her strapped into a straitjacket, if Sam was ever caught cavorting in public. That’s what the Fair called it. Cavorting covered a wide range of evils—a solitary beer, a public argument, any behavior that compromised the public image of the Summer Queen.

  Sam couldn’t imagine what Judith would call a steamy shower with the sexiest man Sam had ever met. Not when that shower led to—

  “Trey!” Anna called. “Get Miss Samantha a Coca-Cola, please.”

  Sam snapped back to the present conversation, shocked that she’d let her mind wander so far afield. Hoping she hadn’t betrayed her mental ramblings, she said to Anna, “Thank you. That would be perfect.” She was spared meaningless small talk by one of the men calling to Anna, summoning her to a sheaf of papers and a long list of names.

  A boy brought her a plastic cup filled with ice, along with a familiar red can. His gold-shot hair was a little long, and he still had the slight body of a child, but she would have recognized that steady cobalt gaze anywhere. “Trey?” she asked. “Is DJ Thomas your daddy?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” the boy said, nodding solemnly.

  Sam’s smile didn’t falter. She had mastered keeping up a facade. But a piece of her heart withered to dust as she took the cup from the serious child. He was what? Nine years old? Maybe ten?

  DJ Thomas had obviously given his heart to another woman long ago. Sam’s online searches hadn’t mentioned a son. They must have missed a wife, too.

  She forced herself to keep her tone light, even as disappointment painted the back of her throat with a metallic tang. “Trey? That makes you Daniel Thomas the Third?”

  “Yes, ma’am. But I like to be called Daniel. No one here remembers that.”

  She managed not to laugh at the rue that steeped the boy’s voice. “Daniel,” she said firmly. “I think I can keep that in mind. Will you sit beside me, Daniel, and watch the game?”

  “Yes ma’am,” he said for the third time, as sober as if she’d just appointed him a judge.

  She patted the seat beside her, and the child flopped into place. As the fourth inning got under way, Sam asked him what he thought of the New York player coming up to the plate. Without hesitating, the boy rattled off a string of statistics—the player’s batting average at home and away, his consistency against right-handed pitching compared to left. “He’ll strike out, though,” Daniel said with utter confidence. “He can’t pass up the fastball low and away.”

  And, sure enough, the batter struck out swinging.

  Daniel took a moment to scribble something in a spiral-bound notebook. Sam peered over his shoulder and asked, “You’re keeping score?”

  He nodded. “Dad and I go over every game together.”

  What about your mother? Sam wanted to ask. She bit her tongue, though. There was no point in asking questions about DJ’s wife.

  The game spun out, inning after inning. The Rockets scored another run at the bottom of the fifth, but New York knocked in three in a bruising sixth inning.

  Anna circled back a few times, making sure that Sam’s glass was full, asking if she needed anything, but the other woman was clearly pre-occupied with the game and the endless paperwork spread on the table in the corner. The front office might be trying to make nice with Sam, might be treating her to the game of her life, but that didn’t mean Anna could stop her own hard work.

  In the middle of the seventh inning, everyone stood for Take Me Out to the Ball Game. The words bounced across the scoreboard as the organ played. Standing beside Sam, Daniel belted out the song. His enthusiasm was infectious, and she found herself singing along, without any of her earlier concerns about the national anthem, her worries about the key of B-Flat, about the dangers of a high F.

  Daniel seemed to draw strength from her performance; he doubled his own efforts. Many children’s voices would have grown sharp and screechy, pushed to their limits that way. Daniel, though, was blessed with a gorgeous treble. Together, they leaned into the last three notes as the ballpark organist drew them out: “Old… Ball… Game!”

  They high-fived each other at the end of the song, then settled companionably into their seats. The child’s obvious love of the seventh-inning song reminded her of other kids she’d seen, other youngsters who had brightened at the touch of music. That was what Musicall was all about, of course. That was why she was so determined to bring the program to schools.

  Everyone in the suite cheered when the Rockets won by one run in the ninth. The men clapped each other’s backs, and Anna gracefully accepted the congratulations of her guests. A number of those visitors turned to Sam as well, thanking her for attending. She blushed at the praise for her singing voice, and she complimented the team on their great win.

  She was ready to head for the door when a familiar voice sent a tremor down her spine. “Did you get the whole game, Trey?”

  She turned slowly, willing her heart to stop hammering in her chest. There was DJ, looking down at his son’s scorebook. His hand rested easily on the boy’s shoulder as he leaned closer to decipher one particularly complicated notation from a late-inning play. He straightened and offered a fist bump. “Good job, Trey.”

  And then he caught her staring at him. Gaping, rather. Like a fish caught on a line. She swallowed hard and said, “Daniel was great company during the game.”

  Pride flashed in DJ’s eyes. “Maybe that means you’ll have dinner with us tonight?”

  “Oh, I couldn’t!” she protested automatically. Actually, her lips formed the words, and her lungs squeezed them past her vocal cords. But even as she spoke, she was thinking, “Yes, I’d love to!”

  She couldn’t have dinner with a married man. Not when she’d be thinking about all the wicked things they could do together, if he were available. She’d just about succeeded in turning around this whole Summer Queen fiasco. The Fair and the Rockets would have her hide if she created a scandal now.

  Daniel looked as crest-fallen as she felt. “Please, Miss Samantha,” he said.

  Was that a grateful look DJ threw to his son? The pitcher put on an easy smile and asked, “How can you ignore a polite boy like that? Please, Miss Samantha? Let me give my personal thanks for your helping me out of this jam.”

  “The Summer Fair…” she said, before she trailed off. She didn’t want to make any excuses. Nevertheless, she tried again. “It’s not appropriate… They have rules…”

  DJ’s eyebrows peaked. “Rules? Against the Summer Queen eating in a public restaurant? With a ten-year-old boy as a chaperone?”

  Rules against the Summer Queen day-dreaming about ripping the clothes off her dinner companion, Sam wanted to say.

  But DJ was right. Daniel would be there. A reminder that DJ was already spoken for. A reminder that all of Sam’s silly fantasies were just that—daydreams that she’d told herself because she’d been stressed about her national television debut.

  “All right,” she said, and she was rewarded by Daniel’s uncomplicated grin. “Dinner would be lovely.”

  She issued strict orders to her body not to respond when DJ nodded his thanks. She told her lungs to stop hyperventilating at the chance that he might brush against her as he held open the door to the suite. She told her heart to stop pounding when he reached in front of her to push the button on the elevator. And she told her brain to stop spinning out impossible futures when he escorted her to his luxury car in the players’ lot, where he held open her door before reaching down to help her with the inexplicably stubborn seatbelt.

  Her body utterly failed to obey her sternest instructions. It was going to be a long night, ten-year-old chaperone or not.

  CHAPTER 3

  DJ wondered if he was a shithead for choosing Artie’s for dinner. The unusual stea
khouse was a favorite for many of the Rockets players. Situated in an old farmhouse, it was only about fifteen minutes from downtown Raleigh and the ballpark. At least if you drove like ballplayers drove.

  Artie cooked a mean steak. And he wasn’t afraid to ladle extra butter and sour cream on his baked potatoes. He served pies homemade by his long-suffering Aunt Mary, and she understood that a pan properly held six slices. She had a heavy hand with accompanying ice cream as well.

  But the real draw for Rockets players was the fact that the main floor of the building was broken into half a dozen rooms, all separated by heavy velvet curtains. The guys could go there after a win, open up the curtains and celebrate until last call. Or they could nurse their wounds after a loss, huddling in one of the smaller rooms, curtains drawn and privacy maintained.

  Needless to say, DJ had asked for the tiny side parlor that night. A four-top, tucked away from the rest of the crowd. Artie had caught on quick too, winking as he slipped the burgundy velvet curtains from their ties.

  And those curtains certainly worked their magic. In the alcove’s soft light, Samantha Winger was more gorgeous than ever. Her eyes gleamed as DJ held her chair for her, and he barely resisted the urge to settle his palm against the small of her back before she sat.

  Her lips had been soft against his when he’d stolen that kiss at the ballpark, even if he’d felt her stiffen against his hand. Just for a second, though, and then her surprise had melted into confidence as she nailed the national anthem. There was wire beneath all her sweetness, a rigid determination nearly as alluring as her lake of flame-red hair, as the fire that sparked inside her grass-green eyes. This close, her spicy scent teased him, and he almost wished he’d asked Anna to keep Trey for the night.

  It was all he could do to go through the routine of glancing at the menu, ordering a beer for himself and a soda water for Samantha. Milk for Trey. Artie didn’t need to ask what DJ wanted to eat; he just noted, “The regular?” and DJ nodded. Samantha placed her own order, but DJ didn’t pay attention to what she asked for. He was too busy watching the sheen of candlelight on those lips he’d only begun to explore.