by MJ Compton
“I know. You need cold showers after hanging out with me.”
A little too close to the truth. “Busted.”
“We could fix that problem.”
“You’re the one with the problem. Good night.”
October 29
World Series Game 4
The next morning, Red showed up at Tag’s penthouse bleary-eyed, pissy, and loaded down with…stuff. Domestic kind of stuff.
He had to admit Red’s version of baseball party food wasn’t half-bad. Especially for healthy crap. But her temper? Good thing she couldn’t throw for shit. Otherwise, he’d have been beaned by her shoes. Where did she get off abusing his hospitality? Rooting for the opposing team. Leaving out the leftovers so Franz had to deal with them. Refusing his offer of a place to stay.
Being pissy with him.
Besides, he wasn’t in the mood for high-maintenance women. That was another thing that suited him about Terra Baldwin. She was so low maintenance, he didn’t even think about her often. Mostly when he was bored or horny. Otherwise, women were a distraction he didn’t need.
There were guys who could mix marriage with being on the road more than half the year but most couldn’t. Fidelity in the face of groupies was a struggle. He indulged. Not often. Most of those women were unstable and a few were whack jobs. One of the relief pitchers had been stalked by a woman he’d fucked in Washington. It had gotten scary and ugly really fast.
Some of the guys had regular girlfriends in several of the National League cities. Even some of the married men. What was the point of being married if you were just going to crawl between any pair of female thighs whenever the urge struck?
Like it was striking with Red. The more time he spent in her company, the more he realized just how badly he wanted to get her naked.
Tag figured he wasn’t cut out for marriage and family. Oh, his folks were still married, maybe even happily so. But Tag’s father had been exhausted more often or not, working hard to feed his brood of children. Tag had never felt unloved, but he’d never felt like an individual either. Unless he was in trouble. That was the only time he had either parent’s undivided attention.
Life on the farm hadn’t been easy. Boring, yes. Simple. Not particularly. Easy? Never.
He’d known early on that baseball was going to be his way out. Baseball was suited to his temperament. Traveling all the time during the regular season. Having the money and the time in the off-season to seek new experiences. He’d been fined by the team more than once for reckless behavior, but bungee jumping off Bloukrans Bridge in South Africa had been worth the extra money. So had shark diving in Cape Town.
There was something about Celeste Schuyler that intrigued him the same way. Which made no sense. If anything, she was a nester. One of those women who wanted to feed everybody chicken soup and sew on their shirt buttons. He shouldn’t be attracted, unless it was by her air of unattainability. And there was only one way to deal with that.
Get pissy back.
“I don’t think the Gems should be paying you to feed me, when I’m paying the electric bill for your catering business.” Tag’s wheelchair was once more parked in his kitchen. He’d spent more time in that room since breaking his leg than he had in the six years he’d lived in the penthouse. His entire world had come down to pain and torture with Bluto and trying to rile Red. Who gave him plenty of ammo.
Take the food accumulating in his refrigerator. Like the deviled eggs. He loved deviled eggs, and there were trays of them, cleverly decorated for Halloween, under plastic wrap. He’d told her he liked deviled eggs. But there hadn’t been any for his breakfast or his lunch.
And other shit was encroaching into his man cave. Midget pumpkins. Fake spider webs. A preponderance of orange and black stuff. Orange and black were not the Gems’ team colors.
“What’s this crap?” he asked.
“Halloween decorations.” She was squeezing goop from a plastic bag onto cupcakes. Fancy swoops and swirls. More orange. She didn’t look at him.
“Isn’t Saturday the big night for Halloween parties? How are you going to cater a party and still watch the game with me?”
“When the Gems got into the Series, Mr. Dixon rescheduled from tonight until Halloween itself. And because of the scope of his party, I didn’t book any others.”
How convenient was it that Halloween happened to fall on a travel day? If the Gems didn’t win the next two games in Seattle.
The he realized what she’d said.
“Mr. Dixon? As in Drake Dixon? As in the majority shareholder of the Gems?”
“The same.” Red seemed awfully nonchalant.
Tag didn’t like Drake Dixon. Just because he was a Gems shareholder didn’t make the guy a decent human being. Tag didn’t like the idea of Red working for Dixon either. She must have mentioned it at some point, but it hadn’t sunk in. “Why isn’t this crap at his house instead of mine?”
“I thought I would take everything over at once.”
She added an orange flourish to an already overdecorated cupcake. And she still wouldn’t look at him.
“So how did you get the job for Dixon?”
“I cater for the luxury boxes at the stadium, and Mr. Dixon liked what he tasted.”
More likely he liked what he saw with Red. Dixon was worse than the horniest player when it came to women. Tag had heard plenty of rumors. Nasty stuff.
Dixon wasn’t just a dog. He was a wealthy hound, and his kind of wealth could buy all sorts of things. Like silence.
Tag studied Red. She seemed unconcerned about Dixon’s reputation. Maybe she was one of those women who didn’t care about dark rumors and who liked to live dangerously. Maybe she wanted Dixon to try something with her. That would be one way to pay her gas bill.
That ugly thought didn’t sit well. Tag didn’t want to think of Red as the type of woman who’d sell herself so cheaply.
If she was going to put herself on the block, she ought to consider him. Maybe Tucker Alexander Gentry wasn’t as wealthy as Drake Dixon, but his income as a player was somewhere between embarrassing and obscene. If Red wanted a fling with a rich bastard, why not with him instead of Dixon? Unless she wanted hush money.
He watched Red arrange the cupcakes on a platter and then snap a plastic cover over them.
He didn’t like where his thoughts were going. Time to change the subject. “What’s for dinner? Leftovers from last night?” The chicken on a stick had been pretty good.
“I don’t get paid to feed you leftovers.”
There. She was talking about money again.
He got that she was a working stiff, that he was just another job for her. Maybe he wasn’t rich enough for her.
Even worse, maybe he was her plan B.
He turned his wheelchair around and headed for his office.
A little more digging around gave him a better picture of Red’s situation. In addition to the gas cut-off, she had a balloon payment due on her mortgage. No wonder she was using his kitchen. She was desperate, not horny.
Tag had to admire her fortitude. The way she worked to honor her commitments. The whole balloon-payment thing sucked. No wonder she’d been rooting for Seattle last night. She really did need the Gems to play the last two games at home.
He called his agent. Marty Fiscoe’s talent agency was full-service, so Tag knew Marty would get the financial branch working on purchasing Red’s loan from the bank.
Better to purchase the mortgage than pay it off for her. She clearly had pride to go along with her gumption. Tag couldn’t fault her for that. He could do her a little favor, and she’d never know. He figured if he held the loan instead of the bank, he could give her a little more leeway than she was getting from the institution.
“The mortgage isn’t for sale,” Marty told him several hours later.
“That’s ridiculous,” Tag replied as he tried to dislodge part of a lettuce leaf from between his back molars. Mortgages were always for sale. “Did you s
ay it was for Tag Gentry?” He half expected his name to expedite the process. His name meant something in this city. Or it had the week before. Maybe not now that he was benched.
“Actually, it’s already in the process of being sold to someone else. Why do you want that crappy old building anyway?”
Someone else? Who would want an abandoned restaurant in that part of Columbia? “I don’t. I was just trying to do someone a favor.”
“You’re thinking with your dick,” Marty replied. “Is the caterer really that good?”
It was one thing for Tag to have those thoughts. He didn’t like hearing them from Marty.
Tag went with one version of the truth. “She’s camped out here doing her cooking, including for a party she’s catering for Drake Dixon.”
Marty muttered something about sadistic sleazeball pedophiles. So he’d heard things too. “Why do you want to help someone involved with him?”
“So she doesn’t have to be.” Tag didn’t need to think about his response. “I don’t think she knows about him. She’s just happy for the work.”
He hated thinking what the cost of Dixon’s interest in Red might be.
“You stay out of Dixon’s business.” Marty’s voice was as flat and hard as a tombstone.
“I wasn’t planning on getting into it,” Tag replied. He knew how much power Dixon had over his career with the Gems. And Red was a big girl. She could handle herself.
Tag only wished his gut wasn’t as knotted as one of the macramé plant holders his mom was so fond of making.
“Is there any way you can find out who’s buying her mortgage?”
* * * *
Skye worked on Halloween appetizers all afternoon. Dixon’s menu consisted of hors d’oeuvres and a buffet of finger foods, which made advance prep easy. When Tag wasn’t underfoot, questioning her every motive.
Her daily call to the bank to ask for a week-long grace period didn’t go well. All she asked for was seven stinking days. She even tried dropping Drake Dixon’s name, hoping to impress with the quality of the work she had on tap. As usual, the bank refused to negotiate.
She disconnected the call and hung her head.
When she looked up again, it was into Tag’s gray gaze.
“Rough day?” he asked.
She curved her lips, even though smiling was the last thing she felt like doing. “Praying for inspiration for your supper tonight.”
Not true. She’d already broiled a tenderloin and saved aside mixed greens from his luncheon salad.
“Don’t let me keep you, then. I know you have to suck up to Drake Dixon.”
For some reason, every time Tag mentioned Dixon, his voice took on a sneer.
Maybe he was jealous because Dixon had so much more money. It had been her experience that those who had always wanted more.
“So did you get yourself settled in?”
“What are you talking about?” Skye reached for her big chef’s knife.
Tag didn’t miss her action. His eyes narrowed. “The guest room. The one you’re sleeping in tonight.”
Now they were back to that. “I’m going home after the game. I don’t want to displace Franz.”
“I have more than one guest room.” Now Tag sounded impatient. “And a couple of them have their own bathrooms. With hot water coming out of the showerheads.”
Skye narrowed her eyes back at him. No fair luring her with the promise of a hot shower.
“This apartment isn’t furnished,” she said. “There probably aren’t any beds in your guest rooms.”
“Are looking for an invitation to my bed?” Tag snorted. “I have furniture. Where do you think my family stays when they come to visit?”
“A hotel?”
“Not my family.”
As if she would know how families functioned.
The prospect of a hot shower convinced her he was right. She’d been there since early in the morning, and who knew when the final out would happen? And really, what could Tag Gentry do from his wheelchair?
Her cheeks heated as she recalled that moment on his lap. Maybe the wheelchair wasn’t that much of a deterrent. Her small crush on Tag was growing, and her imagination took that moment and turned the wheelchair into something that could be managed. As long as the brakes were on.
Skye didn’t flatter herself.
Because Tag hadn’t reacted to her. Any female under the circumstances would have caused his erection. For all she knew, maybe Franz, Bluto, and Hans had to deal with his rampant sexuality.
A couple of hours later, they’d resumed their poses in front of his television.
“How about a kiss for luck?” he asked her during the playing of the National Anthem.
“The Gems do better when I ignore that question.”
Tag was quiet for the rest of the evening. Skye had a sense he wasn’t entirely focused on the game.
Maybe he was regretting his invitation. She hadn’t brought a bag with her. Leaving after the game wouldn’t be at all awkward. She closed her eyes for just a moment.
“High five!” Tag crowed.
Skye pried her eyes open. The game was over. She rubbed her finger along the corner of her mouth, hoping to catch any drool before it spotted the leather of the sofa. “Who won?”
“Would I want a high five if Seattle had won?”
“Don’t be surly,” Skye said. Every cell in her body felt logy.
“I’m not surly. What the hell is surly? You’re supposed to watch baseball with me, not sleep in front of the TV.”
“Cranky, then.” Skye’s jaw cracked as she yawned.
“Winning bores you?”
“I’m not bored. Just tired.”
“Yeah. You snored through six innings.”
“I don’t snore.”
“News flash. You snore like Homer Simpson.”
The gleam in his steel-gray gaze could have meant anything from anger to teasing. His mood actually had to be good. Hadn’t the Gems won?
Skye stood and stretched. Her spine popped in a good way. “Congrats on the win.”
When she looked at Tag again, he was still watching her.
“What?” She rubbed the corners of her mouth again. His scrutiny made her uncomfortable.
“High five.” He held up his arm, palm facing her. “You get to keep your clothes tonight.”
“I don’t play strip baseball.” But she crossed to him and patted her hand against his.
His fingers closed around hers. He tugged her closer. She was still so sluggish from her nap that she drifted closer to him as if she were a balloon on a string.
“Want me to show you to your room?”
Skye pulled free from his grasp. “Nope. I’m going home tonight, but thanks for your generous offer.” Maybe if she arrived early enough in the morning she could grab a hot shower. And maybe she’d pack a bag. Staying at his place would certainly save her commute time.
“Then a good-night kiss.” Tag reached for her again.
“What’s with you?” Skye took several steps back from him.
“Has a day ever gone by when I haven’t asked you for a kiss when I saw you?”
“Okay. Now you’ve asked. Good night.” She turned to leave.
“Wait.”
She stopped. Braced herself. Turned to face him. “What?” He merely stared at her. “The next two days are going to be really difficult. I can’t blow this party for Mr. Dixon. I’m exhausted. I need to get home.”
“What do you know about Drake Dixon?”
The question surprised her. “He’s wealthy. He’s the majority shareholder of the Gems.” She shrugged. “He gives a lot of parties and pays his caterers really well.”
“That’s it?”
“Yeah. Why?”
Tag hesitated, as if reluctant to share his thoughts.
Skye tapped her foot, counting off the seconds before he continued.
“He has a bit of a reputation,” Tag finally said. “Not a good one.”
“For not treating women very well.” Tag practically snapped the words. “And I don’t want to see you getting sucked into his perverted games.”
“Perverted?”
“I’ve heard the reason he pays so well is because a good portion of the remittance is hush money.”
“I don’t listen to gossip.” Skye turned again to leave. It was sweet of Tag to try to warn her, but Dixon wouldn’t try anything funny with the hired help. That was all she was.
“That’s commendable, but I’m still worried about you.”
She whirled to face him. “Why should you worry about me?”
He looked as if he were going to say something…profound and then shrugged. “I don’t want to have to break in a new cook, and I’m pretty sure neither Hans nor Franz can do more than run the microwave.”
“I’m here for the duration. But I need to go home.”
“You need a cold shower after being with me?”
“Something like that.”
“Are you sure you don’t want a short-term loan to pay your gas bill?”
Skye blinked. “Where did you come up with that? I pay my bills.”
“I was wondering what exactly kind of problems you were having with your building, so I did some research—”
“You had no right!” Fury turned her blood to boiling lava.
“You’re using my facilities to earn your living. I have every right to know what I’m getting into.” His jaw set in a stubborn line.
Crimson rage hazed her vision. “You didn’t snoop deep enough. The power company turned off the gas in my building because my stove is so old the only way to stop the leaking was to shut off the gas.”
He seemed surprised. “You need a cold shower now,” he muttered.
Oh, if there were something nearby to toss at his stubborn thick head, she would have snatched it up and thrown. Her gaze went to the card table set up next to his recliner. His empty plate, fork, and knife were waiting to be cleared. Too bad his serrated table knives weren’t sharp enough to do serious damage to his thick hide.
But to reach the implements, she’d have to stretch across Tag. And that would not only be foolish, it would be dangerous.