Thrown by Love

by Pamela Aares

  Ace pitcher Scotty Donovan has been traded from his longtime team—and hates it. But to his surprise, he now finds himself in the sweetest game of his life: winning the heart of smart, sexy physics professor Chloe McNalley.

  Chloe loves teaching, but she's never fit into academia. When she falls for Scotty, she discovers his arms and heart are where she belongs. They share a passion for the game, a fascination for the mysteries of the universe and an increasing love for one another.

  Then Chloe inherits Scotty's new team. As player and team owner, they shouldn't be dating. They try to hide their passion, until a blackmailer threatens them personally and professionally. Exposure could be the end of everything--Scotty's career, Chloe's team ownership, and their new love—unless they find a way to transcend the taboo standing between them.

  For all lovers of romance. And for those who don't yet know that love powers everything. And for my dad who would've loved this book.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Epilogue

  Thank You

  Excerpt, Fielder’s Choice

  Other Books by Pamela

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Reading Group Questions

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  Chloe gathered a fistful of silk and stepped out of the limo. The cool night air sent goose bumps tingling across her skin as she climbed the marble stairs of San Francisco’s gleaming City Hall. Lights danced along the gilded façade and reflected off the sumptuous gowns of women strolling arm in arm with their tux-clad escorts.

  She should’ve tried to find a date, but her jam-packed teaching schedule at Stanford left little room for dating, even if she wanted to face the complicated maneuvers to find one. She could locate a star in a distant galaxy, but finding a man she'd enjoy spending an evening with? She’d barely had time to change and rush to meet the driver her dad had sent to fetch her. Yet she couldn’t deny the truth: although her students loved her classes and she loved exposing them to worlds they’d never imagined, she’d never fit in with the stuffy academic crowd at Stanford. At twenty-six she was the youngest professor in the physics department; most of the others were as old as her father. There weren’t any date prospects there.

  She reached the top of the stairs and dropped the hem of her dress to the smooth stone. Laughter and animated conversations punctuated the strains of soft jazz drifting out through the open doors. Party talk. She was well-schooled in that fine art, although it rarely held her attention.

  Her father, surrounded by a group of men, stood just inside the foyer. They laughed at something he said, the sort of laugh that men give in the presence of another man they revere and admire. He looked like he’d aged a year since their lunch date—had it been only two weeks ago? She hadn’t noticed the fine lines and bluish circles under his eyes that afternoon. Maybe it was the lighting in the foyer but compared to the men around him, he appeared pale and drawn. When he caught sight of her, his eyes crinkled into a smile. He excused himself from the group and aimed straight for her.

  “Hey, Spitfire, I thought you might’ve changed your mind,” he said as he folded her in his familiar bear hug.

  Although she felt nothing like a spitfire after her long week, she didn’t get on him for using the nickname in public. He’d called her that since the time she’d stomped her foot in the foyer at Woodlands, determined not to go upstairs for a bath and bed when there were still precious minutes of daylight left to play in. Of course, she’d been only five at the time and didn’t remember the occasion or the tantrum. He could have made the whole incident up. Like any dad, he was given to the occasional hyperbole.

  “Sorry I’m late. One of my students was struggling with the concept of space-time foaming forth,” she said, brushing her fingertips along her collarbone. She caught the nervous gesture and pulled her hand down to her side. This was just another party, even though a niggling voice deep within her whispered otherwise.

  “I’m still struggling with foaming space myself.” Her father laughed and suddenly didn’t look as pale. He took her by the arm and led her toward the rotunda. “Come in out of that draft. They’re serving a wonderful chablis.”

  He walked with her to the bar, nodding to acquaintances along the way. The gala was a fundraiser for the California Marine Mammal Center, and her father was a major sponsor of the evening. But that wasn’t why most eyes tracked him as he moved about the room. Peter McNalley owned the San Jose Sabers and had taken them, a team no one thought would amount to anything, to a World Series victory two years ago.

  But last year things hadn’t gone so well. The team had struggled, hadn’t even reached the playoffs.

  Chloe studied her father as he traded friendly words with the bartender, tipped him and then handed her a glass.

  Maybe it was worry over the team that dimmed his usual robust energy. One thing about baseball, it had its peaks and valleys. But her dad knew the rhythms, the cycles. He lived and breathed the game; a bad season wouldn’t shake him. She hoped he wasn’t worrying about her. She was busy, sure. But she loved her job.

  “No date, I see.” He didn’t smile.

  In the past few months he’d seemed mighty intent on her finding a nice guy to share her life with. He’d even hinted that perhaps her work schedule was interfering with her chance of meeting a suitable prospect. She had her career, she was happy, she’d argued, and for now that was enough. He obviously didn’t believe her.

  “You wouldn’t want me to foist any of my colleagues on this crowd, although we do have a visiting professor from Oxford coming in next week. I’m told he’s half-normal,” she added with a wink.

  “Half-normal might do,” he said as a smile lit his eyes. That smile, radiating deep joy, made anyone with him want to have whatever he was having, think whatever he was thinking. She’d inherited a bit of that from him–his joy in everyday pleasures. To her, it was his greatest gift.

  He took her arm. “There’s someone I’d like you to meet.”

  “Dad.” She gave him the McNalley ice glare.

  When he led her to a woman in a shimmering gold gown, she was relieved. She wasn’t in the mood for another of his attempts at fixing her up.

  “Dr. Brandon, this is my daughter Chloe.” He tilted his head toward Chloe. “She likes science.”

  “Please, call me Jackie,” she said in a lovely English accent as she shook Chloe’s hand. “I read your paper on dark matter in the Science Herald journal last week. No matter what the academic establishment says about it being too poetic, I thought it spot-on.”

  Chloe’s cheeks grew warm. Her article had been intended for the university newsletter, for a general audience of students at Stanford. The Dean of the Natural Sciences Department had forwarded it to the Science Herald without asking. Passion and science aren’t often paired, so she hadn’t been surprised that the article raised brows in academic circles.

  “Thank you,” she said with a near stammer. Dr. Jackie Brandon w
as one of the most revered marine mammal vets in the world. Her research had changed international policy for the protection of ocean animals. And she had a reputation as a real scrapper. Her daredevil feats rappelling down cliff faces to get to stranded animals and being dropped by helicopter into remote areas to gather data had made her a darling of the press. Chloe had long admired her. She was the kind of scientist—hands-on and dedicated—Chloe hoped to be.

  A waiter who had been circling stepped up with a tray of champagne. “Mr. McNalley,” he said with an awkward grin, “a couple of us were hoping you’d settle a bet.”

  Her dad nodded. “Excuse me, ladies. Apparently, duty calls.”

  “That was sweet of him,” Jackie said as they watched Peter follow the grinning waiter.

  “It’s why everybody loves him.” Her dad stepped into a circle of waiters and soon had them laughing. For all his riches and fame, he was approachable. She wasn’t the only one who felt that he cared.

  “Wallflowers, eh?” A man’s voice boomed from behind them.

  They turned to face two very tall men. Chloe wasn’t sure which had spoken. Both men had athletic builds, but the broad-shouldered blond man standing nearest to her caught her with a look that fused their gazes. He was doing some sort of mind meld, searching the crannies of her being and ferreting out her secrets. She forced herself to look away and back to Jackie.

  “Wallflowers might soon be an endangered species,” Jackie parried. “Particularly at parties like this.” She gestured to Chloe. “This is Chloe McNalley.”

  Chloe thought she saw the blond man’s eyes spark at the mention of the McNalley name. Most men’s did. Her dad was a lion in the sports scene and men paid attention.

  “Dr. Esmond is my associate vet at the Center,” Jackie added, nodding toward the dark-haired man.

  “Gage will do.” Gage extended his hand to Chloe, then turned to the man with the penetrating eyes. “And this is my new buddy, Scotty. He got me tickets to the Sharks game.”

  Jackie laughed. “The way to Gage’s heart, if not through his stomach, is most definitely by scoring him hockey tickets. I think Canadians have hockey pucks implanted in their hearts at birth.” She turned to the man with the mind-meld eyes. “Good to see you, Scotty.”

  Gage didn’t look like a hockey player, and neither did his friend. At least Chloe didn’t think so. Growing up in the sports world, she had come to recognize that players were often of a type. But she wasn’t so sure what hockey players looked like under all that gear and padding.

  “Scotty Donovan.” The blond man extended his hand to her. As his fingers brushed against hers, a rush of energy spread through her body, like tiny particles of light slipping inside and lighting a path. She pulled her hand back, hoping her surprise didn’t show in her face.

  “I’m going for some of those hors d’oeuvres,” Gage said to Jackie. “Want a plate?”

  “I’m beginning to think you men are plotting something,” Jackie said with a toss of her head. “Why is it that you’re always trying to feed me?”

  “To lull you to sleep so I can take over the empire?”

  Gage had a sweet grin, the kind you’d expect from a big brother. He headed off, leaving Scotty standing with Chloe and Jackie. The band in the next room started to play a cover rendition of “Live While We’re Young.”

  “Like to dance?” Scotty said.

  Chloe started backing away, to give him and Jackie room. Jackie followed and nudged her.

  “He means you, Chloe. I’m due to make the rounds.” She waved toward the roomful of people crowding the foyer. “This is a work night for me; fundraising never sleeps.”

  She strode off and left Chloe standing with Scotty.

  Scotty held out his arm. “Shall we?”

  Then he smiled. Oh no. Not that smile. Somehow, though she’d never seen it, she knew that the smile he was beaming at her was the kind that warned you that your world was about to be rocked. No wonder songs and books and movies and fairy tales went on about it. She never thought she’d see it, probably nobody did. And now that she had, she wasn’t sure what to do. Other than stand there feeling ridiculous.

  “If you’d prefer not to dance,” he said, apparently not disturbed by the fact that she hadn’t answered, “we could get some food with Gage.”

  Food was the last thing on her mind.

  “No.” At her reply, his smile began to fade. She took a big sip of her wine, felt it melt into her. “I mean, I’m not hungry.” He looked puzzled. She nodded toward the dance floor as the wine warmed her from the inside out. “I would like to. Dance, that is.”

  Like a sunrise on a cool midwinter morning, his smile returned. Maybe it wasn’t the wine warming her after all.

  “I warn you,” he said with a laugh, “dancing is not my best sport.”

  As she took his arm and felt the iron-hard muscles of his forearm beneath her hand, she wondered what his better sport might be.

  They slipped between two couples and into the throng on the dance floor. He was right about his dancing skills; her toes might complain in the morning. But as he held her and moved her to the strains of a jazzy waltz, the fuzzy feeling in her chest warned her that it might not be just her toes at risk.

  She started to say something to break the strange tension she felt, but the music was too loud for conversation. It always was at events like this.

  He pulled her closer, swirling her with a flourish that nearly ran them into a couple attempting a serious foxtrot. His arm slid protectively around her waist, and he tugged her out of their path, mouthing a half-smiled apology. The hard planes of his chest pressed against her breasts and even through the jacket of the tux and the silk of her gown, she could feel his heat. How long had it been since she’d had a man’s arms around her? And not just any arms—he was remarkably strong, likely not a laptop-toting academic. The thought brought a smile to her lips. She glanced up. He was staring at her mouth.

  The music stopped. He released her and stepped back. They stood unmoving in that awkward pause that ensues when the music stops on a dance floor.

  “I wondered what I might do at this party,” he said, tracking his eyes from her mouth to meet her gaze. “Good thing you came along when you did. Five more minutes of shop talk and they’d have booted me out.”

  She’d liked the timbre of his voice—it had a deep, smoky note to it, the sort of voice you could listen to and never tire of. She wondered what he meant by shop talk, but the band kicked into a rocking version of “You Belong With Me” before she could ask.

  “One more?” He wiggled his eyebrows in an appealing invitation.

  It was an up-tempo song. She did her best in the stiletto sandals and gown to move in the pattern that she and her girlfriends jokingly called flash mob debutante, did her best to be at one with the music and ease into the dance. Another three or four hours and she’d probably be back in the zone, back in the free-spirited dancing she’d loved when she was in college.

  He took a couple steps back. Separated from her and unhindered by trying to follow a set pattern or match his steps to hers, he began to move. And oh my, the man could move. She’d never seen anyone dance quite like him—maybe an awkward version of Hugh Jackman, though detractors might not compare him so generously. But the raw power and sheer joy emanating from him as he danced was infectious.

  He copied a move of hers and laughed.

  She copied him back and to her amazement found that she was laughing too. His movements mesmerized her. She squinted and watched just his form. The fabric and cut of his tux followed the lines of his body as if it had been hand-tailored. Maybe it had been. Surely it had been. She doubted if rental places serviced men that tall and with shoulders that wide. He had the look of someone of privilege, but not the air of one. No, he had an almost heartland charm, and she liked it. There was nothing arrogant in his mannerisms or his speech, just a very real, very beguiling charm.

  That charm shouldn’t make her feel wary, but it
did.

  She glanced over his shoulder and saw her dad standing in the doorway. He shot her an okay sign and then put his fingers to his ears, grinned and walked back out. For a man used to the roar of baseball stadiums, a loud band in a room with poor acoustics shouldn’t faze him. But he’d never been a fan of jazz. It was one of her passions he didn’t share.

  Fingers touched her arm, and she jumped. Scotty leaned down to her, and his lips brushed her ear.

  “Let’s get some air,” he said. He could’ve said let’s run off into the forest or something like it for the shiver the touch of his lips sent racing through her.

  How many hundreds of these parties had she been to and how many times had she danced with handsome men? But she’d never felt like this. And besides, most of those men far too often had designs on her. They didn’t pursue her because of what she loved or what her dreams were. And they certainly didn’t pursue her because she was a scientist and they had some deep love for her as a professor of cosmology. No, they all knew that hooking her would set them up for life.

  But Scotty appeared to be dancing and spending time with her for the sheer joy of it. She couldn’t resist his invitation.

  “Food would actually be good,” she replied, even though that wasn’t what he’d suggested. The rigor of dancing had sent the alcohol straight to her head.

  He nodded, and she followed him off the dance floor.

  He hadn’t offered his arm to escort her. It would’ve felt too familiar, almost awkward, now that they were out of the ritual of the dance. He must’ve known. She liked that—his quick read of the situation too.

  Chapter Two

  Scotty settled Chloe at a table near an alcove. At the moment, he didn’t care that the woman who heated his blood was Peter McNalley’s daughter. They were just dancing, having fun. He didn’t know anyone at the gala and Alex, the one friend he’d expected to be there, hadn’t shown yet, although it was well past nine. He’d let Jackie beat Alex up for being late, something she needed to do often and did well, with that coolly raised British brow of hers. He’d rather spend his attention on Chloe, the most beautiful woman in the room.