Bases Loaded (Mustangs Baseball)

by Roz Lee

  “Why not? It’s big.” He strode over to the floor to ceiling windows. “There’s a view, and the building has security. What’s wrong with it?”

  What wasn’t wrong with it? “It’s cold,” Clare countered. “Even if you filled the place with warm colors and furnishings, it would still be cold.”

  He shrugged and asked to see what else the realtor had. Clare shot down two more apartments before they called it quits for the day.

  In the cab on the way back to his hotel, Antonio said, “Tell me what kind of place you think I should buy, since I clearly don’t have a clue what kind of living space I need.”

  “Are you mad at me?”

  “No, just frustrated. I thought you would like all of those places, but you hated them.”

  “I did. But if you liked them, then choose one. You’re the one who’s going to have to live in it. Not me.”

  He had draped his arm over the back of the seat and allowed it to drop to her shoulder. With little effort, he slid her across the seat toward him. “Describe your perfect house.”

  “That’s easy. It’s Georgian. Big, but cozy, with hardwood floors and high ceilings. Fireplaces in all the key rooms, living room, den, dining room, bedrooms. Maybe even one in the kitchen. It has a large yard dotted with hardwood trees that light up like marquees in the fall. It’s on a quiet street where kids can ride bicycles. It’s old, but not rundown old. It has history, if you know what I mean.”

  “You’ve given it a lot of thought.”

  “Every little girl has a dream house, a dream prince, and a dream wedding.”

  “And where is this dream house?”

  The cab stopped in front of his hotel. A liveried attendant opened her door and waited. “I have no idea, but I can tell you this—it isn’t downtown.”

  “Let me buy you dinner. It’s the least I can do for dragging you all over the place today.”

  Clare stopped in the lobby and turned to him. “I appreciate the offer, Antonio, but no. I need to get home. Things to do.”

  He walked with her to the parking garage despite her insistence she didn’t need an escort. “I know you don’t, but humor me. I like spending time with you.”

  She stopped at her car, fished a set of keys from her purse. He stood by while she unlocked the door. Just before she ducked into the driver’s seat, he caught her by the elbow and pulled her against him.

  Her mouth gaped in surprise. He swooped in to steal another kiss. It seemed the only way he would get to taste her was to catch her with her defenses down. So far, the plan was working out well. He’d caught her off-guard three times, and every time, she’d tensed then melted against him.

  He savored her unique flavor combined with a hint of the coffee the realtor had insisted on purchasing for them. Careful not to let his hands roam places they weren’t invited, he kept one on her elbow and carefully slid the other to the base of her skull. The fall of silken hair over the back of his hand conjured thoughts he was sure she would deem inappropriate if she were apprised of them.

  Tires screeched, reminding him of where they were. They broke apart.

  “I’ve got to go,” she said.

  He loved the breathless quality of her voice. She might be holding him at a distance, but she wasn’t unaffected. Patience was called for.

  He watched her car until it disappeared up the ramp toward the exit. The ache in his groin was something he was getting way too familiar with. It had been an almost constant companion since she walked into that ballroom, and his life.

  When he signed the contract with the Mustangs, he hadn’t given much thought to where he would live. He’d grown up on Long Island and spent a sizeable chunk of his first Major League signing bonus on his Manhattan apartment. He liked living there—in the heart of the city. And everyone he knew had said his apartment was nice. But then, no one’s opinion had mattered but his. Now that he’d met Clare, he wanted a place she would be comfortable with, and that clearly wasn’t anything in downtown Dallas.

  He took the elevator to the thirty-fourth floor and entered his suite. He tossed his keys on the nearest hard surface and raided the mini bar. After the roller coaster of the last few hours, he needed a good stiff drink.

  It hadn’t occurred to him Clare wouldn’t like a downtown apartment. In fact, he had done a lot of picturing the two of them together, but his imagination had only gone as far as the bedroom. And for the life of him, he couldn’t recall a single detail of the room except it had a big bed and they used every inch of its surface. He’d never gotten past that in his Clare-and-Tony-together thoughts. It didn’t matter to him where they lived, but it mattered to her. He needed to look deeper.

  What had she said about the three places they had looked at? It looks cold. This one has no soul. It’s okay, but I just don’t see you living here. This is a pop hit, and you’re more of a classic.

  No one had ever compared him to a classic. No one but Clare. He couldn’t explain what the comment meant to him, but he did know he wanted to do everything in his power to live up to the man she thought him to be.

  He closed his eyes, remembering Clare standing in the middle of the first apartment they had seen. She had nailed it. The place was cold and lifeless, and even though she was as hot as they came, her vibrant heat hadn’t touched the austerity of the room. Now that he had stepped away, he could see what she saw. She would hate his Manhattan apartment. It was all glass and chrome and cold stone floors—all the things Clare said were not him, and he knew for certain weren’t her style.

  Maybe he would put it on the market, furniture and all. That way he could start over completely in Dallas. He’d find a place that suited both him and Clare.

  He mulled that over for a few minutes. Yeah, it was time to make changes in his life. He hadn’t lied to Doyle Walker. He had actively sought out the Mustangs when his contract with the Marauders expired. He loved New York, but he’d always liked it when the Marauders played in Dallas. There was something about the city that appealed to him. It could be the slower lifestyle or the more hospitable climate. Or maybe he’d sensed Clare was near.

  He needed to leave more than New York behind. It was time to relinquish his spot in Bases Loaded to someone else. The club existed in the shadows of the Major League. The brainchild of some players with giant egos and even bigger libidos, it wasn’t for everyone. Most of the membership hailed from East Coast teams, but thanks to trades, there were members on just about every team. As far as he knew, he was the only one on the Mustangs, but perhaps not the first to wear the red and blue uniform.

  Sworn to secrecy, the women who played the game successfully earned a clit piercing along with a gem and diamond studded charm. He hated that every time he took Clare in his arms, he thought about how beautiful she would look running the bases.

  Clare would probably club him over the head if he suggested she any such thing. She wasn’t the kind of woman to do something like that, and he damned sure wasn’t going to corrupt her by suggesting she play. He would not project his depravity on her.

  But that didn’t keep him from imagining how the tiny charm would look dangling from her clit.

  Shit.

  He shifted to relieve the pressure behind his fly. If this kept up, his cock would have a permanent indentation of his zipper along the length of it.

  He would not invite Clare to run the bases. He wasn’t even going to tell her about the club. Thankfully, the tattoo on his ass was easily explained away as a tribute to his baseball playing days. She need never know the truth of it, even if he did manage to get close enough for her to see his butt. Maybe when they were tottering around the nursing home together in about fifty years, he would tell her what it really meant. Perhaps they could laugh about it then.

  He snagged a soda from the mini-bar and set his laptop on the desk near the window. He logged onto the real estate website and plugged Georgian and big yard into the search engine.

  * * *

  Clare slipped into her com
fy sweats and huddled under the throw she kept on the sofa. She wasn’t really cold, but after spending the afternoon with Antonio, she wanted to hide from the world. What had come over her? What kind of alien had taken possession of her brain to make her blurt out her house fantasy?

  He must think she was totally insane. And really, she’d opened her mouth and shot down every apartment they had looked at—all because she had some fantastical image of the man in her head. Maybe he liked all those ultra-modern designs. He probably did. That’s why the realtor had to show them all those places. They’d been what he had asked to see. He’d probably be the proud owner of one of those apartments right now if he hadn’t asked her along.

  She pulled the fuzzy throw over her head and groaned.

  Well. That was that. He wouldn’t call again. He probably ran up to his suite and called the realtor as soon as he saw Clare’s taillights leave the garage. It wasn’t any of her business if he wasted his money on a place that was all wrong for him. It wasn’t like she would ever see it anyway.

  She groaned again and popped her head out from under her makeshift tent. Her obsessing over Antonio needed to stop. Ever since the fundraiser, all she did was fantasize about him in between bouts of hating him for making her feel so many different emotions.

  The red-blooded woman in her wanted to believe he found her attractive, but the insecure girl in her had more doubts than the Mustangs had wins last season. Still…he had kissed her three times. Was that considered first base? It certainly was in her book, especially the way Antonio kissed.

  If she never had a moment alone with the man again, she could live off the memories of those kisses and everything she’d felt when he held her in his arms. She had never experienced anything as exhilarating, as arousing. His body was hard all over, and she had sensed his strength. It was as if he knew he could hurt her and took care not to. Maybe that accounted for the odd sense of safety she felt when she was with him. Maybe that was why she’d told him about her auction fantasies and her perfect house fantasy.

  Thank God, he hadn’t asked her about her perfect man fantasy because she probably would have blurted out that he was the perfect man she fantasized about.

  Okay, so she did believe him when he’d said he liked her body. Maybe a little. Both times he kissed her, he had held her close enough to notice his arousal. Maybe he was attracted to her. It wasn’t out of the realm of possibility. She wasn’t a total dog. She had been in a few relationships, and a couple of those resulted in trips to the bedroom. But none had lasted long after Mr. Wrong had gotten what he wanted from her. After Mr. Wrong number two, another professor at the local college where she taught music theory, she had decided platonic relationships were the way to go. She couldn’t get her heart handed to her on a platter if she kept her clothes on. Removing her clothes stripped more than her body, it stripped her soul bare, and the only thing worse than finding out a man didn’t want her body was finding out he didn’t want her soul either.

  Not that Antonio was going to call again, but she’d do well to stay at home if he did. She’d already shown him too much of herself, inside and out.

  Chapter Six

  Clare parked her car in front of the exclusive spa. Indecision was her middle name today. She almost didn’t get out of bed. Then she almost called Antonio to cancel. Then she almost didn’t dress for the occasion. Then she almost didn’t leave the house. On the drive across town, she almost turned around and went back home. Twice.

  The place oozed opulence—even from the outside. She ran a hand over the black slacks she had finally decided on. Not that it mattered what she wore. If she went inside, she wouldn’t be wearing them for long. This auction item was for a couples massage which meant being naked in the same room with Antonio Ramirez with nothing but a sheet to hide behind.

  Her skin tingled just thinking about it. This was the stuff of her fantasies, but now the reality of it was on the other side of those massive carved wood doors, everything looked a whole lot different. She chewed her bottom lip and stared at the doors, trying to work up the nerve to get out of the car.

  One step at a time. She closed her eyes and held the steering wheel in a death grip. A knock sounded on the window beside her, and her heart leapt into overdrive. She let out a squeak that should have been a scream but didn’t quite make it.

  Oh, shit. Antonio. With one hand braced on the top of her car, he leaned down to peer through the window at her. Her hand trembled as she fingered the button to lower the glass.

  “Hi,” he said.

  “Hi.” She mustered what she hoped was a smile.

  “Right on time. I like that.” He reached for the door handle and tugged, but the automatic lock was still engaged.

  “Sorry.” Clare powered the window back up and removed the key from the ignition. The number of possible escape scenarios had just dwindled to zero unless she concocted a sudden illness. It wouldn’t be much of a stretch. Her stomach felt like gangs of butterflies were having a turf war inside, and imagining Antonio naked beneath a sheet had warmed her skin enough to perhaps convince an EMT she had a raging fever.

  She reached for her purse with one hand and pushed the unlock button with the other. Antonio held the door open for her, stepping back so she could exit the car.

  “Were you waiting for me?” he asked.

  “Uh…. No. I mean….”

  “You were deciding if you were going to go inside.”

  No point in denying it. He’d caught her. “Yes.”

  She slumped against the car. He stood less than a foot from her, close enough she could smell his aftershave. Masculinity shimmered off him like some kind of testosterone aura. It made it darned hard to think. “I…this….”

  He closed the distance between them, pinning her back against the car door. His hands came to rest on her hips, holding her in a soft caress. “We’ll have separate tables. No touching. No peeking. I promise.”

  His smile was genuine and disarming. She opened her mouth to speak, but he held up his hand, cutting off her protest.

  “Just let me lie beside you for an hour or so. That’s all I ask.” For now hung in the air like a flashing neon sign.

  “You won’t look?”

  “I’ll make a deal with you. I won’t peek unless you do. That puts it entirely in your hands. If you peek at me, I get a peek at you. If you don’t, I don’t. Think you can handle that?”

  No. Not at all. She was absolutely dying to see every naked inch of Antonio, and if truth be told, she had spent considerable time in the last few days imagining ways to accomplish it without him knowing. If the rumors were true, he had a certain tattoo somewhere on his body, and today’s massage was most likely the only opportunity she would ever have to see it—if it really existed.

  “How will you know if I sneak a peek?” As soon as the question left her lips, she recognized it for the admission it was.

  His fingers dug into her hips, and a sound resembling a growl rumbled in his chest. “I’ll know, Clare. Trust me, I’m aware of every move you make.”

  She didn’t know what to say to that statement, so she kept quiet.

  “Is it a deal?” he asked.

  “I won’t peek,” she said. Liar.

  He wrapped an arm around her waist, pulled her to his side, and ushered her toward the doors of doom.

  Since this was a couples session, and the staff assumed she and Antonio were a couple in the most intimate sense of the word—why else would they have booked such a session? She eyed the cozy suite that would be theirs for the next hour and a half. A fire flickered in the gas fireplace, casting a golden glow over the dimly lit room. If she hadn’t driven to the spa herself, she might have thought she’d been spirited away to an opulent mountain retreat. Two massage tables, draped in snow-white linens, occupied half the room. The other half held a plush seating group, inviting the room’s occupants to linger. A bottle of champagne chilling in a crystal ice bucket flanked by gold-rimmed flutes sat on the coffee tab
le.

  “You’ll find everything you need over there,” the spa attendant said, gesturing toward the massage tables. “Feel free to use the terrycloth robes. Or not. It’s up to you. When you’re ready, ring the bell—” She indicated a call button within reach of one of the tables. “—and your attendants will join you.”

  Antonio thanked the woman, shutting the door behind her. He turned to Clare. “What do you think?”

  “It’s even more beautiful than I imagined.”

  He wrapped his arms around her from behind, nestling her snug against his hard body. His chin rested against her temple. The intimacy of the gesture warmed her. For a split-second, she allowed herself to imagine he wanted her the way she wanted him.

  “I’m glad you like it,” he said.

  “I’ve never had a massage,” she confessed.

  “Then you’re in for a treat, though I have to admit I’m already jealous of whoever gets to put their hands on you.” His lips brushed the shell of her ear, sending a tingle all the way to her toes. “I wish it was going to be me.”

  God, she wished it was, too, but it wasn’t going to happen. She cringed inside, imagining his disappointment if he ever saw her naked. He might claim to like curves, but one look at her body and he’d be shopping for two-by-four’s again. What did it matter if he had the tattoo? It wasn’t like he would ever…with her.

  She gave herself a mental shake and tried to get the conversation back on track. “So, what do we do now?”

  Extricating herself from his embrace, she sat on the plush couch and ran her hand over the luxurious upholstery.

  “Champagne?” he said. “Then I’ll let you go first in the changing room. You can get situated while I get out of my clothes. How does that sound?”

  “Fine.”

  As he handed the glass to her, their fingers brushed. The instant heat transfer shot through her body like a flash fire. She brought the flute to her lips and sipped. The crisp, cold liquid on her tongue was a shock to her system.