Ogling the Outfielder (All's Fair in Love & Baseball Book 4)

by Arlene Hittle

  “You are?” Sam’s hand jerked in surprise.

  Alex didn’t blame him. She was aghast, too. “I thought you wanted to keep us out of the news.”

  “As I said, that ship has sailed. However, with a little creative press management, we can spin this relationship to the Condors’ advantage.”

  “What do you mean, ‘creative press management’?” Having studied marketing and PR, she had a pretty good idea, but she wanted to hear it from the boss’ lips.

  Beside her, Sam tensed and his scowl deepened. “Yeah. What the hell does that mean?”

  “Simply this: You two will make yourselves seen in public, doing wholesome date-type activities. No more skulking in and out of sleazy motels for a quickie.”

  Sam frowned. “The Westin is hardly a cheap motel.”

  “Doesn’t matter.” Mr. Schmidt waved. “What does matter is that the press captures you two enjoying each other’s company outside of the bedroom. It sends a message that you’re serious about one another, rather than sex buddies.”

  “And that makes the Condors look good?”

  She couldn’t blame Sam for sounding skeptical—not when she also had doubts. In class, she’d read at least a dozen case studies where similar tactics backfired.

  The team’s owner, however, had complete faith in his Big Idea. “Yes, it does. Shows that we don’t condone casual flings between players and staff.”

  “But a real romance is okay?” She turned the idea over in her mind. Part of her was simply relieved both she and Sam still had jobs; another piece was indignant the team would try to spin things to the Condors’ advantage. However, it didn’t surprise her. That was the way images were built—and broken.

  Mr. Schmidt smiled at her. “Exactly. Everyone looks good if you and Sloane are madly in love. Glad you’re willing to be so sensible.”

  “Doesn’t sound sensible to me,” the team’s manager grumbled from his seat near the bookcase. “Sounds nuts. You don’t make bad press go away by staying in the papers. You make it disappear by putting your nose to the grindstone and putting in hard work. Stay outta the papers unless it’s a gamer.”

  Mr. Schmidt’s hearty laugh filled the room. “Jerry, your old-fashioned attitude is refreshing—but wrong. Sloane, Ms. Brandon, when will you next appear in public?”

  She glanced at Sam, whose fingers squeezed hers. It was encouragement enough for her to ask, “When do you suggest, sir?”

  “Sooner is better,” the owner announced, shrewdness glittering in his golden brown eyes. “Why not tonight, after practice?”

  Alex gulped, wondering what, exactly, she’d just agreed to. “That works for me.”

  “Can’t think of anything I’d rather do,” Sam said, even though his grimace said otherwise.

  “Good. My car will pick you up at six o’clock sharp. Dinner at Casanova’s and then a sunset stroll at the desert botanical gardens.”

  Sam stood. “Can I get back to practice now?”

  “Not quite yet, Sloane. There’s one more thing.”

  Alex’s stomach pitched. Something about Mr. Schmidt’s tone indicated she wouldn’t like what was coming next.

  “What’s that?” Sam asked.

  “You and Ms. Brandon will engage in no hanky-panky on these public dates. Step out of line, and you’ll both be out of a job.”

  ****

  Sam paced the dugout, pausing every so often to mutter. “They can’t do that, can they?”

  “Depends on what that is,” Rico said, not for the first time.

  Sam shot his friend an impatient glance. “I’m not going to tell you, so quit asking.”

  “Then you quit asking me if they can do it. Whatever that is, it has to be good if it’s got you so worked up.” Rico grinned and jostled his arm. “Thanks to the papers, I don’t have to ask where you disappeared to after Saturday’s game. How was she?”

  “None of your business.”

  His friend’s grin widened. “That good, huh?”

  Sam’s nod was curt. No point trying to deny he’d enjoyed himself—not when he and Alex would be all over the papers for the foreseeable future. Still, he had no desire to divulge details.

  Before Rico could ask for any, Jerry waved Sam over. He stood with a suited man who looked vaguely familiar.

  What now? He didn’t think he could handle any more surprises.

  “Sam, you’ve met Sean McGill, the players’ association attorney.”

  Ah-ha. That was why the guy looked familiar. Sam shook the attorney’s extended hand. “Hi.”

  “We’re all busy, so I won’t waste your time. Jerry asked me to check into the legality of your—er—situation. Unfortunately for you, the Condors have every right to demand you conduct yourself in a certain way off the field.”

  Jerry grunted. “I was afraid of that.”

  “Wish I had better news.” Sean stared out at the field, looking as if he’d rather be anywhere but in this conversation.

  “Don’t worry about it.” Sam sighed. His mother constantly warned him his bad behavior would bite him on the ass. Turned out she was right—as usual. “We all know this current situation is directly linked to my past bad decisions. I have to man up and accept the consequences of my actions.”

  Even if he did resent like hell being told that he couldn’t touch Alex, he could see the Schmidts’ side. If his sexual exploits were the problem, the obvious fix was proving he could behave like a gentleman.

  That didn’t mean he had to like it. Tonight’s so-called date would be pure torture.

  And he had no one but himself to blame.

  ****

  Alex stared into her closet. It was stuffed full of workout clothes and work-appropriate outfits, but nothing she could wear to one of Phoenix’s swankiest Italian eateries and let the press photograph her in.

  “I’m more of a shorts and T-shirt girl,” she complained to Caro, who sat cross-legged on Alexa’s bed.

  “And we already know Sam can’t take his eyes off you when you’re wearing shorts and a T-shirt.” Caroline jumped off the bed and shoved her out of the way. “Move. I’ll find something.”

  “Something suitable,” Alex emphasized. If she didn’t specify, she’d end up wearing thigh-high boots and hot pants.

  “Yeah, yeah.” With her head buried in the closet, Caroline’s grumble was muffled. She emerged several minutes later—empty-handed. “What woman doesn’t own a little black dress?”

  “I try not to wear much black.” Caro didn’t need to know it reminded her of the dark years, when she dressed in head-to-toe black to match her mood.

  Alex shook her head to clear it. She did not want to go there.

  “Then you should have a little red dress. Or a blue one. You’re failing your duty as a female of the species.”

  “Excuse me. Shopping isn’t a priority.”

  “Obviously.” Caroline poked at the row of white and blue T-shirts hanging in Alex’s closet. “I’d loan you mine, but—”

  “We both know it’d never fit me. You’re what, a size zero?”

  “Three, thank you very much.”

  Equally un-doable. Alex sighed and peered into her closet. Surely she had something she could wear. She rifled through all the hangers and—stuck at the far end of the rod—found a long-forgotten dress. She yanked it out and held it against herself.

  “Will this do?”

  The this in question wasn’t black but deep maroon. It had a long, full skirt.

  Caro tugged on one of the long-ish sleeves. “You’ll get mighty warm.”

  Darn. Her friend was right. The dress was made for a Midwest fall, not late August in Phoenix—which explained why it languished in the way, way back of her closet. She obviously hadn’t touched it since moving in.

  With another sigh, she grabbed her purse and headed for the door.

  “Wait. Where are you going?”

  “Shopping.” She held the door open for her friend. “Let’s go. If we hurry, I’ll have just
enough time to get back here before the car arrives.”

  “You just want me for my car.”

  “Not true.” She pulled the door closed behind them and made sure it locked. “I also need your fashion sense.”

  “No you don’t. We dress nothing alike.”

  Caro had her there. “You’re right. But you can help me find the elusive little black dress.”

  One night as Mistress of the Dark wouldn’t undo years of therapy, right? She had to believe that or she’d never make it through this pseudo-date with Sam.

  As Caroline navigated to the nearest strip mall with a TJ Maxx, the phrase be careful what you wish for danced through Alex’s thoughts. Perhaps the warning was apt. Two days ago, her most fervent wish was a date with Sam. She’d gotten something even better in the form of the wildest night of her life—and now they were about to go on a date mandated by the Condors’ owners.

  She wished she could share her apprehension with Caro. However, her friend’s big mouth was legendary at Condors HQ. Tell her anything and the whole office knew within hours.

  Alex closed her eyes and sucked in a breath. What if Caroline was the reason journalists showed up at the hotel? Her gut sinking, she asked, “Caro, you didn’t tell the press where Sam and I were staying Saturday night, did you?”

  “What? Of course not!”

  She defended her doubt. “Come on. You aren’t exactly known for keeping secrets.”

  “Unless they’re secrets that count. Does anyone know Chris and I are shagging? No. How would I benefit from telling everyone about you and Sam?”

  “I thought tabloids paid for news like that.”

  Caroline pulled her SUV crookedly into two spaces and jerked to a stop. Her eyebrows jammed together in one angry line. “You want to see my bank statement?”

  “No.” Alex paused. “I’m sorry I doubted you. It just seems so suspicious. How’d they know?”

  Caro shrugged. “How do they know anything? Maybe they have spies in the hotel.”

  “Maybe.” It was as good an explanation as any. She just hoped their spies would find them quickly tonight. It’d be tough to keep her hands to herself if she had to do it for too long.

  ****

  Icy water—as cold as he could stand it—rained down on Sam’s shoulders. If he were lucky, an ice-cold shower would wash away any lingering lustful thoughts. Gentlemanly behavior had to be his top priority tonight.

  He snapped off the spray and wrapped the towel around his waist before striding back to his locker. Everyone else was already gone. He checked his phone. Ten minutes to dress. Without wasting any time, he pulled on his dress uniform—gray slacks, white shirt, maroon sport coat and a gray-and-maroon-striped tie.

  When he exited the stadium, stepping into the fading light of a brilliant Arizona sunset, the Schmidts’ limo idled at the curb. Classy. Sam slid into the back seat, and the driver pulled into traffic.

  He scanned the interior for a mini bar. If he had to feel like a teenager on the way to prom, might as well drink like one, right? He located the fridge and yanked on the door. It was empty.

  Damn the Schmidt brothers and their uptight ideas of propriety.

  On the other hand, his mother would say the absence of booze was a good thing. Staying sober would ensure he remained on good behavior in front of the inevitable cameras.

  As Sam tugged at his suddenly too-tight tie, the limo slowed and turned into an apartment complex. Must be where Alexa lived. Curious, he peered out the tinted window. They passed three buildings before stopping at the fourth. The driver hopped out and waited by the door Sam’s face was pressed against.

  He tried not to feel put out by the fact that he’d had to open his own door. Somehow, that didn’t fit with the idea of a full-service limo.

  You’re perfectly capable of opening your own door, Samuel.

  He grunted and pushed the thought into the closet of his mind, with the rest of his mother’s real and imagined admonitions. Then he slouched back into the seat so he wouldn’t look too eager.

  Even so, he found himself sitting straighter when the door latch clicked. The door glided open, and Alex bolted inside, landing on his lap.

  “Sorry about that.” She held up one foot, pointing at the strappy silver sandal. “I’m not used to wearing heels like this—they bring out my inner klutz.”

  He shifted beneath her and tried to think of something other than how good it felt to have her weight against his groin. “Um—”

  “Oh God.” Her eyes widened, and she scrambled to the seat opposite his.

  Think about the job you love. He closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths. When he reopened them, Alexa watched him.

  Sam grinned. “Like what you see?”

  “You look great, as always.”

  He examined her, too. Now that she wasn’t on top of him, he could concentrate on the knockout silver dress she wore. It clung lovingly to her breasts and waist before flaring out into a wide skirt fluffed up by a puffy underskirt. “You look nice, too.”

  “Really?” She plucked at the fluff. “You don’t think the crinoline is too much? I let Caro talk me into it.”

  He shrugged. “Fits right in with tonight’s theme.”

  “You feel it too, do you?” Alex’s sly grin stretched from ear to ear.

  “Like I’m headed to prom?” He reached across the limo for her hand. “You know it.”

  She giggled. “When I saw the car pull up, my heart jumped into my throat, just like it did when the limo arrived the night of my junior prom.”

  Irrational jealousy stabbed his gut. Stupid as it was, he wanted to be the only one to make Alex’s heart race. “Who was he?”

  “He who?”

  “Your junior prom date.”

  Her nose wrinkled. “No one you’d know, I’m sure.”

  Shit. What was wrong with him? He didn’t care about her prom date, and it didn’t matter anyway. Besides, she was right. Except for his teammates and the office staff, they shared no common acquaintances. He sat back. “Probably not.”

  “Does this limo have a mini-bar?” Her gaze darted around the spacious interior.

  “Empty. I already checked.”

  “Damn.” She fiddled with her skirt. “I could use a drink.”

  You’re not the only one. He didn’t say it, though. Dammit. If he was supposed to be a smooth-talking womanizer, why did he feel like such a…a…virginal chess club geek?

  Only one answer, and it had everything to do with this evening’s mode of transportation. He had to get out of this limo, fast.

  He lowered the window separating them from the driver. “How far to the restaurant?”

  “Not far now. About a mile.”

  Someone who could endure the Condor suit for the length of a game could cover a mile on foot in her sleep. He glanced at Alex. “Want to walk?”

  “Um—”

  He followed her gaze to her feet and winced. Those shoes were not made for walking.

  “Never mind.” He’d have to beat back feelings of inadequacy some other way. He settled back against the seat, trying to think of anything other than his pre-baseball high school freshman self. “So what were you like in high school, Alex?”

  “What do you think?”

  Was that panic in her eyes? Interesting. What did a gorgeous, wholesome woman like Alex have to be ashamed of? “Cheerleader and prom queen.”

  “I wish.” Her nervous laughter ricocheted off the limo’s tinted windows. “I was more of a dress-in-black-and-mock-the-popular-kids kind of girl.”

  Sam locked his jaw to keep it from dragging the carpet. Alexa Brandon? “No way!”

  “Way.” She leaned closer and whispered in his ear. “I have the yearbook photos to prove it. You’ll have to come up to my apartment and see them sometime.”

  With the invitation, his gentlemanly intentions disappeared. He turned his head and captured her lips. His hands found her waist and dragged her onto his lap. She tensed for a mome
nt before melting into the kiss. Her hips rocked against him, and Sam desperately wished they both wore fewer clothes—consequences be damned.

  The limo rolled to a stop, and the window hummed down. The driver cleared his throat. “Casanova Brothers.”

  Chapter Eight

  Breathing hard, Alex wriggled out of Sam’s embrace. “We’re at the restaurant. Time to go make nice for the cameras.”

  His eyes were unfocused, and she took a moment to revel in the power she apparently held over the big, bad ballplayer. But the limo driver was out of the car, and they had a directive to behave themselves or become unemployed, so there was no time to waste.

  “Sam?” She waved a hand in front of his face.

  He shook his head and blinked, his focus sharpening. “Yeah. Let’s do this.”

  The limo door opened, and Alex accepted the driver’s hand out of the car. “Are you sure we’re in the right place? This is a strip mall!”

  Sam, who’d joined her on the pavement, echoed her disbelief. “What kind of joke are you trying to pull?”

  “No joke, Mr. Sloane. This is the address Mr. Schmidt gave me.”

  “A strip mall.” Sam’s jaw snapped up and she heard his molars grinding. “Sorry. You’d think Dan could have clued us in to our destination.”

  Alex tried in vain to flatten her puffy skirt. Seeming to have its own agenda, the damn thing fluffed out even more. “I’m so overdressed.”

  The driver, whose name tag labeled him Carl, cleared his throat and aimed a disapproving look at both of them. “Don’t blame Mr. Schmidt. This is the information age. Either of you could have looked up the restaurant.”

  Shamed, she stared down at her red-tipped toes, peeping from the ridiculous high-heeled sandals more suited for a nightclub than a family-friendly pizza joint in a strip mall. He had a point. She could have Googled the restaurant, had she not been so worried about what she was going to wear.

  Too late now. “Let’s look at the bright side.”

  “Didn’t know there was one.”

  She flashed Sam a grim smile. “Since our goal is to make a spectacle of ourselves, we’re off to a stunning start.”