by Honey
"I appreciate the thought, Miss Kennison."
Miss Kennison.
They were back to that again. Miss Rose Delish was probably Rose, or whatever her real name was. Camille couldn't explain to herself why she felt disappointed with the formal address.
She absently twisted the sash of her robe in her fingers. "I'd better let you get some sleep... we want to win tomorrow's game."
Is that perfume I smell?
Then a thought jolted her. What if he wasn't alone? What if there was a woman in his room? Right now. How stupid could she be to stand out here and go on about fans when he could have company?
"I'm sorry I disturbed you.... I have to go now.... I mean, you're busy and I just wanted to mention the fan because it's hot and I—"
Unexpectedly, he gripped her wrist, gently pulled her inside the room, then quietly shut the door behind her. She was so startled, she could hardly breathe, much less move.
She sputtered in confusion, "Mr. Cordova, what's this all about?"
"I couldn't leave you out there reciting all that crap about the fan. Somebody might hear you, open their door, see you out there in your unmentionables, see me in here without mine and come to conclusions."
In a rush, she denied, "But I'm not in my unmentionables."
His warm fingers touched the edge of her wrapper and slipped beneath the fabric at her throat, causing her to gasp with surprise. "Close enough."
Roughened from playing ball, his knuckles skimmed over her bare skin where the taffeta underwaist did little to cover the tops of her breasts. Then the back of his hand slid lower, toward her waist, slowly loosening the silk.
With a will of their own, her eyelids lowered and her lips parted. She felt herself swaying toward him. What was she thinking? That was the problem. She wasn't thinking. "I didn't mean it to look like I was inviting myself into your room. I honestly wanted to tell you about the fan and..."
... And maybe I was curious about you and Miss Delish.
She gazed about the interior, which was bathed by two keyed gaslights, one in the ceiling, one on the wall beside the bed. The only people in the room were her and Alex. No other woman. No sign of a woman. Men's clothing was scattered over the chair's arms and back, as was Alex's uniform and his shirt. A suitcase with the lid open rested on the floor.
And a fan had been set on top of the bureau. The blades purred.
"Oh..." she whispered, "you already have a fan."
"Yeah." His mouth mesmerized her when he spoke. "But it isn't cooling me off."
She rose a hand to her throat and swallowed.
The air in the room felt thick and sultry. Her wrapper seemed to cling to her. Although she was fully covered she felt naked in front of him.
As if he could read her mind, huskiness lowered the volume of his next words. "You look like you're going to melt from wearing too much."
She didn't speak, unable to think of a decent reply. She couldn't very well deny she was without her blouse. It was true. And it was also true that she had no business being in his room. At this hour, or any other. If she wanted to maintain propriety, she should turn around and leave right now.
"You need a long, cool soak in a bathtub," he suggested, the sight of his bare chest making it hard for her to follow what he said next. "One August in New York when we were playing the Giants, I had the hotel bring up an old-fashioned bathtub to my room and fill it with cold water. I put the fan on the windowsill and soaked while the air breezed over me. Stayed in there for the afternoon reading Good Housekeeping, smoking cigarettes, and drinking beer."
In a tub naked. Reading a magazine. Good Housekeeping? Drinking beer. Smoking cigarettes. The vision of Alex that filled her mind was virile and unabashedly at ease, with heat-quenching droplets running over bronzed, bare skin. She really should leave...
Alex went to the bureau, toward the fan. When he turned away from her, she saw the scars and instantly grew unsettled by the fierce tattoo on his shoulder. She could feel the blood drain from her face. All of her past bewilderment and confusion welded together. He was a complex man, not easy to know because he let so little of himself show. But with the turn of his back, she now knew where one piece of the puzzle fit.
She knew why he was called "the Grizz."
Alex turned up the speed on the Emerson fan. Thick air churned behind him and sluggishly crept through the room. Facing her, he asked, "Can you feel it?"
When she didn't answer, his eyes followed hers to his shoulder. He didn't initially say anything. The image itself said everything, as did the scars. They were claw marks. The tattoo was that of a grizzly bear's head and upper body. What made the drawing so vivid was the fact that the grizzly's arm had been penned midswipe, making it appear ferociously real with the fluid move of Alex's body.
"It was no big deal," Alex said, his jaw suddenly tight.
"It is a big deal. It's who you are. Alex 'the Grizz' Cordova." She moved toward him, her gaze never wavering. "What happened?"
He inhaled, ran his hands through his hair. "It was a long time ago and it was a stupid thing to do. I wish I could say I was drunk when I got it. But I was stone-cold sober."
"I wasn't talking about the tattoo." She'd drawn up to his side. "What happened to you?" Tentatively, she reached out and touched the curve of his shoulder. The hot skin jumped beneath her fingertips, but she didn't stop her exploration. She skimmed the smooth, marble-hard flesh of his shoulder and back; then traced the five subtle ridges.
Their noses nearly brushed as he looked down and she looked up, their breath fused together. "I had a run-in with a bear who seemed to want me dead," he said, the tone of his voice belying his light words. "When I didn't die, I thought the spirit of the grizz was in me—was with me and made me a better player when I went back to Baltimore after the attack."
"Where did it happen?"
"Up near Alder."
Her chin lifted a fraction, their noses met. "Really? In Montana." That he'd been there before and she hadn't known it made her feel queer. Like they'd been meant to know each other, but it hadn't been the right time until now.
"Yes." His arms encircled her waist and he brought her flush against him. As if he needed her.
Her arms remained at her sides, but she made no protest. The flat of his belly pressed the knot of her robe's tie. Through the thin fabric, she felt the hard contours and definitions of his body as he settled next to her. She felt herself dissolving, but she did her best to tamp the feeling down. "Why were you in Montana?"
"My manager, George Dunlap, sent me out there after the ninety-five season. I had a bad year and he told me to get out of town and rethink why I played ball." His mouth all but touched hers. She could practically feel the vibration of his lips while he spoke. "I went. What the hell did I have to lose? So I stayed at a lodge and I had nothing to do. I'd get up and walk out to this meadow I found and I hit baseballs. No one was around to hunt them down for me, so I had to find them myself." He brought his lips over hers. So briefly, so lightly, she almost thought she had imagined the kiss. "What do you have on your mouth?"
His sudden change in topic had her lifting her lashes to stare into his eyes. At the time, it had seemed a silly whim to have bought the cosmetic. Now that she'd been found out, she felt ridiculous. "Lip rouge."
Alex scowled. "What the hell for?"
"Because... it's called Rose Delish."
Raising his arm, he rubbed the pad of his thumb slowly over her lower lip, removing the traces of rose pink rouge. Her breath came out in a shaky exhale as he touched her as intimately as if they were lovers. "Am I supposed to know what that is?"
"Maybe..." Her voice was but a choked whisper. She wouldn't dare say why she thought he should. It seemed insignificant now. Nothing else mattered but the two of them. In this room. Together. At this moment.
He kissed her once more, with a lazy exploration that made her bones feel like they were melting. "You do taste delicious. But then you always have to me, honey."
Oh God. That made Camille bring her arms around Alex's neck and hold him. For some strange reason, she wanted to cry. The broad expanse of his chest became her pillow; her cheek lay against him, her head was tucked beneath his chin. A heady, musky scent clung to his skin, making her so aware of him, it was almost anguishing to be this close. "Is that how the bear found you? In the meadow?"
"Yeah." His voice rumbled beside her ear. "I heard a crack above my head and a low growl. I barely had time to see what was coming down on me from the tree. The next thing I knew, she'd straddled my chest and I couldn't go anywhere. Once you hear that snarl, you never forget it." The blunt ends of his fingernails moved over the silk of her wrapper as he lightly stroked her back. The slow, deliberate motion raised the gooseflesh on her arms.
In a voice just barely audible, she asked, "Then what happened?"
"I didn't move. Maybe I should have tried to run, but the honest truth is, I was too scared. I felt my legs grow numb and I didn't know how badly I'd been cut until I felt the stickiness of blood at my shoulder." He pressed a kiss at her temple, making standing difficult. "My first thought was, Don't let it be my pitching arm."
Camille lifted her face to his. "How did you get away?"
"The grizzly just went off on her own after a few minutes. I figured I could walk back to the lodge, take a few stitches, and be all right in a day or two. Damned if I didn't get fifty-six of them and end up stuck in bed for a month. I don't remember how I made it back. Determination, I guess. She cut me good. On the shoulder." He stood back and pointed to the side of his abdomen, where rows of tiny scars were barely visible. "On the stomach. On the back." He turned so that she could see the opposite shoulder. "On my legs." His hand went for the button fly of his denims.
She blurted, "I don't need to see."
"Don't you?" The beginnings of a smile tipped the corners of his mouth.
The distraction he presented was difficult to resist. Trying to keep her thoughts clear, she said, "So you stayed in Montana for a while, then went back to Baltimore?"
Bringing her close once more, he murmured, "Something like that."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean I watched the sun rise and set for the first time in my life and I appreciated it. I felt a soul connection with that grizz. It had more to do with being a survivor than anything else." He ran his palms down her arms, then slid his hands upward inside the sleeves of her wrapper, until he caressed her shoulders. "I stayed in Montana for the rest of the winter." His lips claimed hers again in a kiss that lingered. "I had the tattoo put on by an Indian man. At times," he said, his mouth continuing to graze hers as he spoke, "I can still feel the grizz's paw on me. That quick and sinewy power. That's why I wanted the tattoo before I left Alder. To make sense out of the attack. If I could see the grizz with me, it would be real and I'd be better for its having happened to me. And that's how Alex 'the Grizz' Cordova came back to the city."
His hands pulled her closer. The swells of her breasts crushed against him in sweet agony. "And you never told anybody the reason why."
"Nope." His fingers massaged, easing away her tension. "I pitched the best season of my career afterward. We won the pennant. Year after that, we won it again... and then we might have the next... but..."
His words trailed off and he kissed her, slipping his tongue between her lips. The kiss turned heated and wanton, their mouths clinging together. Alex pushed her wrapper off her shoulders. It floated to her ankles. His tongue probed the recesses of her mouth sensually. It was quite drugging—quite the most extraordinary feeling she'd ever had.
She reached up to slip her fingers into his hair, holding his head close to hers, kissing him without thought or regard for consequences. His hair was long and glossy, silky to her touch. She loved the feel of it. She loved his mouth on hers, his tongue dueling with hers.
"I recognized your hat today," he said between kisses. "I told you not to wear it."
"I wanted to."
"You fixed it up."
Her mouth caught his. "I unfixed it. I like my hat."
"You do?"
"I do. When I wear it, I think of you."
He backed her toward the bed. She made no protest as he leaned over her and lowered her into the comforter to lay beside her. His fingers slid up her waist, then tilted her face so he could kiss her with a lazy and swirling penetration of his tongue. She should have taken this moment for what it was— stolen, fleeting. It was harmless. Or was it?
In spite of telling herself it shouldn't matter, she asked against the wet fullness of his mouth, "Why didn't you come to dinner?"
"It just wasn't the right day to celebrate."
"Why not?"
He combed her hair with his fingers, catching a fistful and bringing it to his lips. "I had something to do."
Looking up into his face, she searched his eyes. "What?"
"You ask a lot of questions." He took her jaw between his hard fingers.
He was about to kiss her when she raised her fingertips and pressed them on his mouth. "Because today you've been answering them."
For a long moment, he said nothing. His voice was low and deep, thick with desire when he answered. "I was at church."
She didn't move. His reply took her utterly by surprise. "Church?"
"Yeah. I've been known to go in one every now and then." The ends of his hair tickled her nose as he dropped down to kiss the side of her neck.
"Really? Church?"
Putting his weight on his arms, he straightened his elbows. "Church of the Immaculate Conception on Harrison Avenue."
Embarrassed, she blurted, "You weren't with Miss Delish?"
"Who?"
His finger traced the edge of her underwaist. Her breasts strained at the tight fit of fabric, leaving little more than her nipples hidden in the piece of underwear. "Never mind." She shivered with unbridled pleasure as he slowly grazed her damp skin, exploring the curves and valleys, looking at her.
Light caught the medal around his neck. It swung on the chain away from his chest. She lifted her hand to capture it. It was indeed a man wearing a robe, staff in hand and crossing what looked to be water, carrying a child on his back. "What's this called?"
"Saint Christopher."
"Who is he?"
"The patron saint of travelers. My grandfather gave him to me. He's supposed to keep me safe."
"Does he?"
His mouth curved. "Not when I'm with you, Miss Kennison."
She heated like an ignited match when his fingertip teased her nipple. It rose, hard and swift, beneath the circles his fingertip made. "Why don't you call me Camille anymore?"
"If I don't call you Miss Kennison, I'm liable to get real comfortable with you. Do you want that?"
She swallowed. Right now, she didn't know what she wanted. Yes, she did, but it came with a price. Change. Change in the way Alex would view her. The way she would view herself. Flirtations, coquettish laughter, and her arm through a man's while strolling... that had been the extent of her experiences with men.
Until Alex.
No man had ever kissed her the way he did, touched her breast, her nipple. No one had ever made her want to feel every inch of his naked skin, be with him in a way she never should have thought about.
He'd shown her she could be passionate. Could crave intimacy and the pleasure it brought her body. But if she let him know her in the way that a husband knew his wife... She didn't want to confuse what she was feeling now with love. Love couldn't be reasoned out of. It was a woman's greatest bliss—but her deepest sorrow when lost. She'd read poetry. She knew that more times than not, it came with bittersweet pangs.
Beyond that, marriage wasn't something she thought about. Perhaps in the future... With one touch, Alex made her feel like she was the only woman he'd ever desired to be with.
Her heart fluttered wildly as she gazed up at him. "What I want is for you to call me Camille."
He lowered his head within inches o
f hers. The air stirred by the fan passed over them and did little or nothing to cool her skin. She lay there, drowning in a flood tide of heat. Her whole body felt thirsty.
Several seconds lapsed, then Alex softly kissed her.
Her arms came over his shoulders as if they belonged there, now and for always, holding him close as he kissed her.
Time was suspended.
Alex pushed up her underblouse until it came to her collarbone. From the way they lay beside one another, the whalebone of her corset barely kept her breasts firmly in place. He pulled the top hooks, freeing her breasts from their tight confinement. He bent his head over her, stroking one nipple with his tongue. Camille sucked in her breath, her back arching as he traced a slow circle around her with his tongue.
His touch felt so good it almost made her chest ache. Her mind reeled. Feeling this way made her crazy, and at the same time, she didn't want the feelings to end. She wanted to have him in her arms forever.
Between the damp caresses he gave her breast, he asked, "You want me to stop?"
"No!" Her reply was too quick, too telling.
He pulled her into his mouth again, hot darts of pleasure warming the center of her. The flat of his belly pressed snug against her side. When he spoke, his head was still bent forward. "Are you sure?"
That he had to ask... "Yes." His hair tickled her skin and caused her to shiver.
She clutched his shoulders. The fine stubble on his chin abraded her as he nuzzled the valley between her breasts.
"No man has given you a hat but me," he murmured. "And I'd bet that no man ever has"—he caught the fabric of her skirt and inched the hem up to her waist—"done this."
Her heartbeat pounded in her ears. "No."
A smile bracketed his mouth. "Then I'd better make sure you like this better than the hat."
Oh God.
Without her being completely aware of what he'd been doing, he'd taken her skirt and petticoat and brought both folds of fabric to her waist. His hands slowly caressed, teased... explored. His fingers trailed up her inner thigh and made her shudder. The building pressure in her was so intense, she couldn't speak.