Double Play

by Shalvis, Jill

  “That would be great,” he said with such feeling she laughed.

  And as impatient as she might be, she also knew when to back off. “Fine. Last one—tell me what happened to you out in the pen today.”

  When his eyes lit with something that looked suspiciously like triumph, she knew she’d been had, that he’d successfully distracted her from something else. “Wait—”

  “Oh no. Too late.” He had his cover-boy smile in place. “Just a bad day. We all have them.” He spread his hands. “Okay then, thanks for your time, buh-bye.” He turned, and his bag fell off his shoulder to his forearm, jerking a wordless sound of pain from his lips.

  Bad day, my ass. “You’re in pain, Pace. A great deal of it.”

  “Yes. Doing interviews is fucking painful.” Pale now, he let out a tight breath. “But I answered your single question. We’re done here.”

  She touched him when he would have moved off, just a hand on his arm, and felt the heat and strength of him beneath her fingers. “Would you like some Advil?”

  “No. Thanks.”

  His car was shiny and undoubtedly fast, and as a lead-foot herself, she felt a twinge of envy. “Would you say that your personal life often collides with your professional one?”

  “Anyone ever tell you that you’re relentless?” His color hadn’t come back, but she was still breathing hard from their run out here, and it didn’t escape her that he wasn’t. “Or that you might want to consider cardio exercise?”

  She was never insulted at the truth. “Maybe we could talk during one of your cardio workouts,” she suggested.

  His expression burned with challenge, even right through his dark lenses. “I run five miles every day. Feel free to join me.”

  A dare, uttered with the utmost confidence that she wouldn’t even try. But Holly never backed away from a dare, especially one spoken with the certainty that she couldn’t measure up. He could have no idea that she’d spent a lifetime practicing at measuring up, and she was getting damned good at it.

  Clearly confident he’d scared her off, he fished his keys from his pocket as she eyed the Mustang, itching to give it a spin. “Nineteen sixty . . . ?”

  “Eight,” he said.

  “Nice collision of professional and personal.” She’d bet this baby never conked out on him on Highway 1 during morning traffic—unlike hers, which had done exactly that only two weeks before.

  “Yeah. Still not going to comment on my personal life.”

  Dammit.

  Looking amused at her expression, and maybe at himself, too, he tossed his bag into the car, where it landed on one of the soft leather seats, then sucked in a breath at the movement.

  Yeah, he was in bad shape, not that he wanted her to know given that trademark smile he managed to keep in place, the one that was designed to melt away a woman’s panties.

  Good thing she was immune.

  Mostly.

  Okay, she wanted to be immune, she really did, but he’d been lucky enough to be born one of those guys who brought certain things to a woman’s mind, especially one who hadn’t had any of those things in a while.

  A long while . . .

  “Time’s up,” he said with mock regret.

  She smiled back, giving him her own brand of charm. He might be hot and charismatic and able to bend a woman’s mind like Superman bent steel, but she was unflappable and stubborn to a tee. “Your publicist wants these articles written, and so does my boss, which means we’re stuck with each other. So why don’t we go grab a drink and you play nice and give me what I need in order to do my job?”

  He studied her for a beat. “The last reporter really did offer to sleep with me.”

  “A fact that makes me shake my head at my entire gender.” Certain portions of her anatomy quivered, making her a liar.

  A corner of his mouth quirked as if he knew. “Okay, here’s the thing. I know what Sam wants. I even know what you want. But it’s not going to happen. Nice meeting you—”

  “Woo hoo, Pace! Oh, Pace . . .”

  At the voice behind them, a look of utter panic crossed his face, which was so odd and misplaced on his six foot two frame that Holly turned to see who’d put it there.

  A young woman, barely five feet tall, was running through the hot day toward them, wearing only what appeared to be Pace’s white home-game jersey, which fell nearly to her knees. In her hands was a large notebook covered with baseball cards—all Pace’s—her flip-flops slapping the asphalt, her wild, curly dark hair poking out from beneath a Heat cap.

  “Pace!” she called out, waving. “I caught you! I caught you! Ohmigod, luck is finally on my side!”

  At that, Pace muttered something beneath his breath, which rhymed with that luck the fan claimed to have, and Holly choked out a short laugh.

  Stopping just in front of them, the woman put a hand to her heaving chest and beamed up at Pace. “Are you free for dinner tonight to look over the scrapbook I made for you? I’ve brought all the recent clippings—well, except for that nasty one from Sports Life because they didn’t put you in their fantasy lineup. They think you’re too old to anchor their rotation. So are you?”

  He blinked. “Too old?”

  “No!” She laughed gaily. “Free for dinner, silly.” Her voice was high and bubbly, sort of like Marilyn Monroe on helium. “Because last night you said no, and the night before you said no, and the night before that, too, so I was hoping—”

  “Tia.” Looking torn between running and wishing he could vanish into thin air, Pace took off his sunglasses and scrapped a hand down his face. “You’re not supposed to be here, remember? Your doctor told you that, and so did the police. You promised.”

  “I know, but you never got a formal restraining order on me. I checked. I know you wouldn’t want to do that to your future wife, because if I get arrested again, I can’t afford to pay for the bail, not after I hocked my Great Aunt Dee’s pearls for the last two times, so . . .” She finally noticed Holly, and all the air seemed to deflate from her lungs, coming out in one unhappy whoosh. “Who are you?”

  Holly opened her mouth, but Pace spoke first. “My girlfriend,” he said, shocking both Tia and Holly when he put a proprietary hand on Holly’s arm. His hand was huge and warm, his palm calloused. He looked into Holly’s eyes, his own suddenly not nearly as cold and distant, or even wryly amused, but . . .

  Desperate.

  Pace Martin looked desperate, which was dumbfounding enough, but then he tightened his grip and said, “Hurry up, honey. We’ll be late.”

  Honey?

  Before Holly could process that, he shoved her none-too-gently toward his bad-boy car.

  “I—”

  “Shh,” he muttered in her ear.

  Oh no, he didn’t. He didn’t just shush her, and she sent him a glacial stare, but he shot her one of those hey-baby smiles, the one that matched the picture he’d taken for People magazine, while hissing out the corner of his mouth, “I’ll pay you a thousand dollars not to argue with me right now.”

  A thousand dollars? That’d make a nice addition to her never-be-poor-again fund. “You’ve got to be kidding,” she whispered.

  “Okay, two. Two thousand,” he grated out. “Jesus, just hurry.”

  Two thousand dollars.

  Holy smokes.

  And he clearly wasn’t kidding. Another shove and she was in his car, and he was locking the doors, accelerating them out of the lot with an impressive exhibition of speed as she twisted to look back. Tia stood there hugging her scrapbook, staring after them, looking forlorn.

  “Don’t look at her,” Pace directed. “Trust me on this.”

  Holly gawked at him. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” she repeated.

  “No, seriously. Looking at her only eggs her on.”

  She laughed in further shock, even as her stomach quivered at the hair-raising turn he was executing at speeds better suited for a racetrack than the narrow, curvy lanes of the highway. She gripped the consol
e. “You’re more afraid of that little tiny thing than me?”

  “Only very slightly.”

  She tightened her grip as he took them into another hair-raising turn with shocking ease. It gave her a thrill, a kick of adrenaline. “This is going to cost you.”

  He sighed, long and weary sounding, downshifting into the next turn. “Don’t I know it.”

  Chapter 3

  Things could be worse. Suppose your errors were counted and published every day, like those of a baseball player.

  “I figure the price for this abduction should fit the crime.”

  Pace took his eyes off the road and glanced at the reporter in his passenger seat. She wasn’t beautiful. Irritating people couldn’t be beautiful, not in his opinion, and all reporters were irritating. Besides, she was too . . . careful looking. Yeah. That was it. She wore . . . efficient business clothes over some more than decent curves—which he happened to be a sucker for—but there was that whole annoyance factor. She had light brown hair carefully pulled back, matching light brown eyes that carefully saw everything, and a careful smile she’d attempted to manipulate him with.

  He figured that was standard reporter issued.

  He wondered if it gave her a headache, all that carefulness. She was certainly giving him one, and given the pain he was fighting in his shoulder, that was saying something. “Abduction?”

  “Yes,” she said. “That’s what it’s called when one person takes another against their will.”

  “I offered you two thousand dollars, and you jumped into this car so fast my head spun.”

  “Well, you were combining my two favorite things. Money and getting my interview.”

  “I never promised you the interview.”

  “It was implied,” she said sweetly.

  Ha! If she was sweet, he’d eat his shorts. “No, it wasn’t implied. I purposely didn’t imply it.”

  “I’ll be happy to offer a trade. I’ll reduce the fee from two grand to one,” she said magnanimously.

  “You’ll—” He laughed in disbelief as his cell phone buzzed an incoming text from Wade:Three reasons to get down here. Brandy, Cindy, and Sweet Pea. Hand to heaven-SWEET PEA, that’s her real name.

  “You’re not supposed to text and drive in California,” his reporter said from the next seat. “It’s illegal.”

  Pace tossed the phone to the console. Sweet Pea. Over the years he’d seen or heard it all, from the crazy Hollywood underground clubs to the White House. But as ridiculous as it sounded even in his own head, having women want him for the sake of how fast he threw or how big his bank account was had gotten old. “I can’t text and drive—I’m not that talented.”

  She didn’t reply, thank God. Silence. One of his favorite things. He took in the Pacific Ocean on their left, the Santa Ynez Mountains in all their dramatic and rugged summer glory on their right, casting gigantic shadows on the highway and water. Midsummer was a great season, and not just because of baseball. The weather was fantastic, hot and nearly rainless, and the sage and scrub terrain was mind-soothingly beautiful as the late afternoon sun made its way down toward sea. Pace opened his window, adding the noisy warm wind to the mix, which he hoped would keep her from asking any questions.

  “Do you get out of speeding tickets because you’re famous?”

  Or not. When his cell phone rang at that exact moment, he considered it a gift and reached for it without even looking at the ID, a huge risk on a normal day, but he desperately needed the distraction. “Go,” he said, hitting the speaker button, leaving the phone on the dash so his passenger couldn’t complain about the risk, and also so he couldn’t get his second ticket of the month.

  “Not answering your texts?” asked Wade.

  Pace had to roll his window back up to hear him. “I’m driving.”

  “Good. I’m at Jax, and you owe me a beer. Get your ass over here.”

  “Can’t.” He glanced at Holly, who was soaking up the conversation with open curiosity. “Got a situation.”

  Holly rolled her eyes.

  “You getting laid?” Wade asked.

  “Hey,” Pace said quickly. “On speaker, and I’m not alone here.”

  “Sorry.” Wade paused. “So are you?”

  “No!”

  “Man, do not tell me you got a bunch of screaming women surrounding your car again.”

  “One time,” Pace said on a sigh as Holly snorted. “That happened one time.”

  “And I saved you. I keep telling you that edgy, brooding thing you’ve got going on is never going to cut it with the ladies, but you don’t listen—”

  “Okay, what part of not alone in the car don’t you get?”

  Wade laughed. “Who’s with you?”

  “I am.” Holly leaned forward. “Holly Hutchins.”

  “Well, hello, darlin’,” Wade purred silkily. “You as gorgeous as you sound?”

  “She’s a reporter,” Pace said. “So watch your mouth.”

  “I’ll watch whatever she wants me to watch.” Obviously, Wade was Pace’s virtual opposite. The guy had practically grown up on the streets, seeing more as a kid than anyone should see, and he still always had an easy smile on his face. His motto was work hard but play harder. His California-surfer good looks didn’t hurt either, but it was his laid-back nature that had women flocking to him wherever he went.

  Holly would flock to Wade, too; it was just a matter of time . . .

  “I’m doing a series of in-depth articles on the Heat,” Holly said to the cell phone. “From a personal angle. What makes you guys so popular, what makes you tick, who you are . . . I’d love to set up a time to meet with you and get your thoughts.”

  “Just say when,” Wade told her. “I’ll be there.”

  Holly sent a smug smile in Pace’s direction that said, See how easy that was?

  “He’s a publicity slut,” Pace said in his own defense. “And an attention slut, too.”

  “Hey,” Wade said. “True. But hey.”

  “I want to hear more about Pace and the women surrounding his car,” Holly said to the phone. “Sounds like a good story.”

  “No.” Pace didn’t need a recap of how he’d been spotted at the grocery store and besieged. Wade had come to his rescue, happily answering questions and signing autographs, ending up with a date every night for two weeks running as a reward.

  They’d been best friends for years, and Pace still had no idea how Wade handled all the attention the way he did, letting everything bead off his back.

  But Pace didn’t need saving now. He could handle one damn woman. The wind had whipped her hair, making a mess of it. She was trying to smooth it back into place, but failing miserably. Inexplicably, she looked softer with it all wild, and more approachable. Even pretty.

  Clearly, the pain in his shoulder was going to his head.

  “So about that drink,” Wade said. “Bring Holly. There’s a nice crowd, not too many bunnies.”

  “Bunnies?” Holly asked, giving up on corralling her hair to look at Pace.

  “A group of fans.”

  “Female fans,” Wade amended. “They follow our season. They appreciate our talent and enjoy our . . . great attitudes. One’s named Sweet Pea.”

  Pace felt Holly studying him, taking mental notes. “I see the talent,” she said. “But only a bad attitude.”

  Wade laughed.

  “Nice,” Pace said, nodding at her. “Thanks.”

  “Hey, I say that about you all the time,” Wade told him. “Great talent, bad ’tude.”

  Pace rolled his eyes. Some wingman. “Say good-bye, Wade.”

  “Come on. Drive over here. Prove you haven’t forgotten how to have fun.”

  But he very possibly had. “I have stuff.”

  “Stuff? What could be more important than wooing that pretty lady in your car?”

  “There is no wooing going on.”

  “See now, that’s why you never get laid anymore—”

  “Reporter,”
Pace said, pinching the bridge of his nose. “In my car.”

  “Which is why you should—”

  Pace reached out and shut his phone.

  “That wasn’t very nice of you,” Holly said.

  “He’ll get over it.”

  “So . . . you get stalked by women a lot?”

  He opened his window again, which didn’t stop her from talking.

  “I’m just making conversation, Pace. Being friendly. You should try it sometime.”

  They were on a stretch of highway where he had nowhere to turn around, and nowhere to dump her out. Which meant he was stuck with her. “I’m not feeling all that friendly.”

  “Should have taken the Advil.”

  The wind was working wonders on her again. Besides her hair—which had rioted completely now—her cheeks were tinged pink. Her jacket was whipping around, too, opening a little, making her look a whole hell of a lot less buttoned-up. Oddly disoriented by that, he glanced at the clock on the dash. “Listen, I really do have to be somewhere.” Several somewheres. It’d been a long while since his time had been his own. “I’ll call you a cab, have it meet up with us to take you back to your car.” He reached for his cell phone. “I’m sure Tia’s gone by now.”

  “I can’t believe you’re afraid of her.”

  She could be amused by this all she wanted, but Tia was more than just a five foot pain in his neck. Twice she’d gotten into the practice arena and climbed onto the field during home games. She’d attempted to break into the clubhouse as well, and he’d swear under oath that she’d been at his own house, walking the perimeter of his yard trying to find a way inside there, too. “Just do me a favor and stay clear of her. For your sake. Now I really have to—”

  “How about this . . .” She pulled the cell phone from his hand and shut it. “I just come along to wherever you’re going.”

  Yeah. Hell. That’s what he’d figured she’d say.

  “Did you know that baseball players, pitchers especially, are usually blessed—or cursed, depending on how you look at it—with a natural physical prowess and acute mental agility? It manifests into self-confidence and mental toughness. Or, as some would say more clearly, arrogance.”