Holm, Stef Ann

by Honey

  "I'm sorry I haven't opened it yet." She reached for the hatbox and set the gift on the counter. "It came when I was busy, and then I had guests over tonight and..." Her composure seemed to be hanging on by a thread.

  Slowly, she lifted the lid. He stood taller to peer inside with her, as if seeing it for the first time himself.

  "I felt like I owed you this," he explained. "You know. Captain and Philly and all that."

  Her eyes drank in the hat. He'd had the milliner, Miss Taylor, make it up special. He'd told her to put a little of everything on it. Feathers, beads, sprig of green stuff, stiff lace, and even a rhinestone buckle with a velvet tie.

  The hat itself was some kind of deep-braided straw with a really wide brim that curved sideways. He remembered that tilt of Camille's hat when she'd sat in Stykem's office. He'd liked that and wanted to buy a hat for her that would always look like she was tilting her head. He'd been pretty specific about his wants to Miss Taylor, and he'd been damn self-conscious about it. But the end result was a hat he thought looked pretty good. At least in the box it did.

  "To make up for the one that got lost," Alex felt compelled to say when Camille hadn't spoken a single word. "In Philadelphia," he added, even though he'd already said that.

  The drip of the faucet seemed to get louder the longer she didn't speak.

  "Those big hats you wear look good on you," he added, feeling like an imbecile, "so I had her make a big one for you."

  Camille reached out and traced a length of feather. The blue of her eyes was wistful. Then she began to cry—cry so hard, her shoulders shook.

  Well, hell... maybe the hat didn't look good in the box after all.

  Alex went to her as she turned away from him and looked down into the sink with its soiled china cups and saucers and cake plates with their little rosebud patterns on them.

  Hesitantly, he put his hand on her arm. She cried harder. Jesus.

  Alex took her in his arms, cradling her head with his hand so that her cheek rested on his shirtfront. "What's the matter, honey?"

  She didn't answer. The sound of her crying cut into his heart. He held her closer, running his hand softly up and down her back. Soothing. Trying to coax her to talk to him. Her shoulders gently quaked as she cried. Tears wet the front of his shirt; her hands were two fists pressed against his chest, as if she were afraid to get closer to him.

  "What happened?" he asked once more.

  On a shuddering breath, "My life's not going so well," she replied in a muffle next to the oxford of his shirt.

  Instead of dwelling on what might have been wrong, he opted to point out the plus side of things. Maybe that would get her to stop crying. "It might seem that way, but you're the manager of the Keystones. And doing a damn good job." The latter was a slight stretch, but women needed to be told they did good in times of crises. He'd learned that much from his mother.

  "It has nothing to do with baseball," she cried, then loosened her fists so her breasts crushed against him, burning an imprint of femininity.

  Trying to keep his mind focused, he listened. "Actually, it does have something to do with baseball. And yet it doesn't. It's just... everything."

  Then she broke into another round of sobbing.

  Alex felt a tick spring to life along his jaw; his teeth clenched to quell it. He did the only thing he could do. He let her cry it all out. Between the gasps for air and the shuddering of breaths, she began to talk— babble was more like it. He just kept quiet and let her go on.

  "I've wanted this for a l-long time. It j-just isn't fair." She moved her arms higher; her palms lay on his shoulders, her cheek still against his chest.

  He could feel her uneven breathing—and feel himself catch fire.

  "She's had her turn as p-president. So has Mrs. P-Plunkett. I thought the ladies would see it's time for a n-new voice." The tips of her slim fingers absently touched the sides of his collar, toying, teasing. She was completely unaware of it as she rambled on—or he knew she wouldn't be doing it. "New ideas. I don't know the exact v-vote outcome. It could have been close. We take a c-closed ballot vote. I'm certain that two of them voted for me. They confided when I was s-serving the lady Prussia. It's the older ladies. They just can't accept change. People who're different. And I'm apparently too d-different."

  Alex drew in his breath as her hands brushed at his hair, very gently. Lightly. And without thought. "I've always prided myself on my impeccable deportment. I like being neat and orderly. It's never been a problem for me. And yet, as soon as I do something different—like manage my father's ball team, suddenly my deportment is questioned. Do I carry myself differently because I tell men to throw a baseball? That's the b-bottom line. That's..." —she gulped in a mouthful of air—"that's what's b-behind all of this. I know it. Nobody dared speak the words to my face, but that's the p-problem. I never should have made that jest about the players' drawers." She buried her face against his collarbone. "That's the real reason I wasn't elected as the Garden Club president. It has nothing to do with my g-garden."

  Players' drawers? "What's that about underwear?"

  "Never mind. I said it. It's over and done with."

  Alex tried to string the words together to make some sense out of them. Baseball... Garden Club... president... deportment. It all seemed disjointed to him.

  "What galls me most is that Mrs. Calhoon doesn't need a second term. She has lots to occupy her time with." Camille's warm breath kissed his neck as she spoke into his collar. "She probably implied to the club that those who didn't vote for her would have their mail misplaced. Even though there's a law against mail tampering." She grew thoughtful. "All right... maybe she wouldn't go that far."

  She quieted sniffling a bit. Then nothing.

  At length, she continued. "But if that's true... then she won because people liked her over me."

  He thought she'd just about cried herself out, but on that last thought, she began anew with the tears. He held her snugly, his hand around the back of her neck. The heel of his thumb stroked the side of her throat, then higher to where her hair began. The strands felt like a smooth network of silk, swept neatly into the combs. Slowly, lightly, he massaged the pulse point of her skin where the curve of her neck met her shoulder. She gave an unconscious sigh of pleasure, then wound her arms around his waist, locking her hands behind his back.

  "None of this would have happened if it wasn't for Ned Butler." A cry eclipsed her words. "Actually, that's not true. None of this would have happened if it weren't for my father's temper. I can honestly tell you that I really didn't have any d-desire to be the manager of the Keystones." She pulled away to look up at him. "B-but you know what?"

  The fact that she asked him a question threw him off guard. "What?" His voice sounded thick and heavy to him—much like the lower part of his body.

  "Now that I'm the manager, I'm going to do better than my best just to prove a point. And to give me something..."—her voice broke—"something to do because baseball is all I have now."

  Alex braced himself as her eyes flooded once more. His hands slipped up her arms, bringing her close again. Every inch of him was aware of her. She drugged his senses with her voice, her touch, her smell.

  He brought his mouth to her forehead and kissed her. The feel of her skin next to his lips was like the purest silk. Superfine and flawless. He had known beautiful women in his life, but Camille Kennison was stunning. In his glory days, he would have wanted her just so he could say he'd had her. In the past three years, he'd matured. Now, he found himself wanting more—and to his overwhelming surprise, it wasn't just the physical. He wanted to be inside her, inside her body, her mind, her heart.

  He kissed her brows, his large hands explored the hollows of her back. He caught her chin with his finger and brought her face toward his. Her eyes shimmered blue like a frosted pond, yet there was no coolness in her gaze. Just bare emotion, layers of vulnerability.

  She breathed lightly between parted lips dusted with
rose, as if painted by dewy petals. Her voice was so soft, he could barely hear her words. "I don't like living alone. I think I've made a big mistake."

  He knew about mistakes. He clung to the thought of them just about every day. But memories weren't life preservers. You couldn't keep holding onto them and not expect to drown. That's what he'd been doing.

  "People can fix mistakes." With his finger, he traced the side of her cheek. He moved his mouth over hers. "Or die tryin'."

  His lips explored the velvet warmth of her, touching her like a whisper, slow, drugging. He could feel her inhale and drink him into her lungs. It was a sensuous thought that got his pulse to thump madly through his body. Her hands rose, curling around his neck and drawing him tightly to her.

  The kiss changed, no longer light like a summer breeze but electric and devouring. He opened his mouth wide over hers, coaxing and drawing her tongue to meet his in sensual swirls that pounded through his blood. She made him feel things he'd never felt before.

  It was that thought that had him lifting her into his arms, her shapely behind beneath his hands, as he sat her on the countertop. Her legs slipped apart and he nestled himself between them, bringing her closer. Tilting his head to one side, he brought her fully against him. He traced her lips with his tongue, then slipped inside her. She tasted like sweet frosting and cake as she kissed him back, matching his hunger.

  The airy fabric of her dress lay beneath his palm as he skimmed her sides and brought his hands higher. He relaxed his hold on her enough to graze his fingertips over her breasts while kissing her. A sigh escaped her mouth, and she arched toward him. The whaling of her corset and the layer of underclothes that covered her kept him from fully appreciating the satin of her skin.

  He lifted his hands. His fingers were too large, the buttons too small. The combination slowed the process. The first one worked free. Then the second. Down one side of the panel. Slowly. All the while kissing her. Her hands were on his shoulders, keeping the two of them together.

  It was heaven and hell at the same time.

  He unfastened enough of the buttons to part her dress to her waist. He broke his mouth from hers to push aside the buttery folds of cloth. With his breath ragged in his chest, he viewed her in her white chemise, its square collar caught together with a tiny ribbon. The light above them cast her in ivory, pure and perfect, cleavage in just the right places to create hollows of light and shadow.

  He reached out and took the combs from her hair, mesmerized as thick curls clouded around her waist just like spun honey. His heartbeat throbbed in his ears. He felt his legs tremble.

  "Camille." He breathed her name in awe. With respect.

  The fact that she let him undress her filled his mind with a myriad of thoughts, mostly dishonorable. But amid all his fantasies and carnal desires came one decent thought. Even if she said he could have her, he couldn't do it. He had a conscience, whether anyone else might believe it or not. She had virgin written all over her and he was a son of a bitch if he ignored that.

  "You're beautiful, Camille. So beautiful, you make me ache," he said in a low tone, kissing her softly. Against the curve of her lips, his murmur filled her ears. "But if I don't do this"—he began to slip a button back into place—"you'll have to fire me. And then I'd miss your telling me I stink as a ballplayer." Then he slowly put the front of her dress back together while she sat in stunned silence.

  When she was in order, he kissed her once more. Just a peck that said he was sorry, or so he hoped she'd take it. Damn but if her eyes didn't begin to moisten.

  He didn't carry a handkerchief, so he grabbed an embroidered white napkin from the counter. She took it. "I think you're all cried out for tonight, honey. But for what it's worth, if I were that Lady Prussia woman, I would have voted for you."

  She dabbed the corners of her eyes with a tea towel, its edge colorfully embroidered with songbirds. "Lady Prussia is a white cake."

  "Yeah, well." He meant to brush the comment off, but then he paused and said, "It is?"

  "Yes." Then out of left field, she asked, "Would you like a piece?"

  Alex stood motionless, Camille still sitting on the counter in front of him, her hair a river of gold about her shoulders. His chest hurt, as if he'd been slugged in the ribs. Would he like a piece?

  He reached up and caught her beneath her arms and lowered her gently onto her feet. "Sure," he caught himself saying, mentally kicking himself in the ass. He should leave. Go home. And once there, dunk his head in cold water and forget about what had happened between them. He should have done a lot of things instead of pulling out a chair at the small table.

  But that's what he found himself doing. Then he watched her as she moved about her kitchen, getting a cake plate and cutting a slice of lady Prussia for him while the dripping water plunked into a metal bucket.

  "You want me to take a look at the leak in your pipe?" Double wrong move. First he stays for cake, then he says he'll fix her plumbing.

  "I can fix it myself." She set the cake in front of him, along with a fork and a napkin.

  "Okay." He took up the utensil, self-conscious with her gaze on him. He cut into a bite and brought it to his mouth. Nodding, he swallowed. "It's good."

  "I know."

  She sighed, back in control. She took out a chair and sat across from him looking like a fancy woman on a tease postcard with her hair parted down the middle and spilling over her shoulders. Then she glanced at the hatbox. "That was thoughtful of you to buy me a hat. It's not that I don't appreciate it. It's just that... it's on the large side."

  The fork in his hand suddenly felt clumsy. "You don't have to wear it. In fact, do me a favor and don't wear it." Then unbidden, he asked, "You get a lot of hats sent to you?"

  "Actually, this is the first."

  For some fool reason, he was glad.

  But the feeling was short-lived when the light caught on her sapphire ring as she moved her hand.

  "I guess you're used to rings," he said, damning himself for bringing up the jewelry.

  She looked at the blue stone with its circle of tiny diamonds. "My father gave this to me on my sixteenth birthday."

  She didn't say anything further. Neither did he.

  He ate his lady Prussia in silence. How in the hell had he gone from making love on the kitchen counter to eating cake at the kitchen table?

  Jesus. He really had reformed.

  Chapter 13

  Camille had no reason to go see Alex Cordova at his wood shop at the end of Elm Street. Especially on an afternoon that was perfect for sitting in the shade sipping lemonade; perfect for tilling and weeding gardens, repotting houseplants, fixing leaky pipes, or a variety of other things. She should have been doing any number of them rather than paying a visit to Alex.

  But she'd concocted an excuse to see him.

  Why, she didn't care to analyze. She should have been mortified by her behavior last night and done anything she could to avoid him. Obviously, they'd have to see one another again, but in a crowd she wouldn't be tempted to do anything aside from talk to him. Last night, she'd lost her head. And herself in his arms.

  Just thinking about him standing between her legs, kissing her, touching her... brought a rush of goose-flesh over her skin and a hotness to her cheeks. She felt her knees grow weak as she walked; her heartbeat seemed to echo her ears.

  Even with all that, she felt that facing him alone would be better than facing him with the other players watching her every move. At least this way, she could get it over with.

  Get it over with...

  As far as she was concerned, last night had ended too quickly. She had only one regret—that fit of crying, which in the light of day seemed so utterly spineless and embarrassing. Aside from that, and beyond the kissing, she'd enjoyed having Alex sit at her table, eating lady Prussia cake and listening as she rambled about her life. The companionship had been like a quenching drink after a dry thirst. She hadn't even been aware of how much she'd needed
to talk to him. Alex had patiently let her go on about the Garden Club and her new living arrangements.

  Much to her disappointment, he'd declined a second piece of cake and gone home. Then she'd been left with four walls and a sinking feeling in the bottom of her stomach. She was alone.

  Suddenly, a house of her own had lost a bit of its appeal.

  She hadn't foreseen how much that would affect her. At her parents' house, Leda was always nearby, as was her mother. Her father was around in the mornings and evenings. Even his tirades at breakfast seemed something to look forward to now that she ate at an empty table with only a coffeepot to keep her company.

  Several months ago, if somebody had told her she'd own her own house and be managing the Keystones, she would have laughed and said they were badly mistaken—or even delusional, because never in a million years would she consider such a thing as surrounding herself with sportsmen.

  Spitting, cursing, scratching. She cringed.

  So much for rational thought.

  It was irrational kissing on her sink counter that brought her out on a mild summer day, heading over to see a man who could put her out of sorts with a mere glance. A man who made her fantasies pale in comparison to the real thing.

  The paved road and neat boardwalk came to an end. In its place was a dirt lane with elms that grew in no particular pattern. Through the network of oblong leaves, sunlight dappled the earth. No breeze stirred the air. Flies lazily hovered over dandelions and meadow grass. Butterflies flitted from bluebells to wild phlox.

  Camille, fringed parasol raised, gloves neatly buttoned, and hat angled smartly on her hair, approached the old building where she hoped to find Alex.

  The shop's shingled roof and siding shimmered gold from a linseed oil wash. Quiet blanketed the yard. A totem pole under construction rose high and strong, as if it were a sentinel guarding the building and its occupants. Flawless detail set off the completed blocks of animals, plants, symbols, and objects. One figure in particular caught her attention—a grizzly bear with its mouth open, snarling furiously.