Diamond in the Rough

by Marie Ferrarella

  Miranda deliberately took her time, enjoying that he obviously felt at a disadvantage. Her eyes slowly swept over the journalist. It was something she’d learned from observing her father. With every pitch, SOS had taken his time on the mound, sizing up the batter each and every time, unnerving him as he mentally selected just the right pitch to throw and bring the batter down.

  Rather than saying no, or drawing the moment out, she ended his quandary and replied, “I’m Miranda.”

  Like a drawbridge that had its chains severed, Mike’s mouth dropped open. His eyes widened as he stared at her in disbelief.

  “You’re Miranda?” So much for intuition, Mike upbraided himself. Unless this woman had an amazing plastic surgeon on retainer, she wasn’t any older than about twenty-five.

  Amusement highlighted her face. She enjoyed catching the man off guard, although she wasn’t exactly sure why he looked as surprised as he did.

  “Yes, I am.” Her line of work had taught her to go straight to the heart of the matter when it came to getting answers. “Just what were you expecting?”

  The image of a fanatical groupie chasing after Shaw in orthopedic sneakers instantly disintegrated. How had the man managed to attract someone so young into his camp? She was too young to have watched many of his games.

  “Not you,” he replied honestly.

  The words seemed to emerge out of his mouth in slow motion. Which happened to be the exact speed of his brain waves. This was an unusual predicament for him. Competition for jobs as a sportswriter was close to cutthroat. His lightning-fast brain—with a tongue to match—was what had landed him the position at the Times to begin with. So just how did one drop-dead gorgeous female negate all that without even trying?

  At any other time, Miranda might have been flattered. It had been a long time since she’d found herself in a social position, a long time since she’d been on the receiving end of a compliment. Test tubes and analytical data tended to be silent. But this was the man who had seen fit to mount a crusade against her father. Which made him unlikable, no matter how pretty his blue eyes were.

  “Baseball fans come in all sizes and shapes,” she informed him and then tried not to respond as she felt his eyes drift over her. His gaze couldn’t have been more intense if he were measuring her for a thong bikini.

  “Obviously,” he murmured.

  And they did, he’d be the first one to say that. It was just that he’d had a preconceived notion of what she, SOS’s champion, would look like. He’d met a few of SOS’s fans, the ones who continued to stick by him despite the betting scandal. This Miranda was far too young to be a fan. And yet, he thought back to the heated e-mail exchange. She was definitely a fan. But it made no sense to him. Most people Miranda’s age didn’t even know who—or what, for that matter—SOS was.

  He realized suddenly that he had completely forgotten his manners. Kate wouldn’t have been happy with him. Rising to his feet, he gestured toward the other end of the room, where round tables and chairs were sprinkled about. “Would you like to sit at a table?”

  Miranda gracefully planted her seat onto the stool beside his. “This is fine.”

  Mike sat down again, acutely aware that as he took his seat, his body was captivatingly close to hers. And that the room had become several degrees warmer.

  He began to raise his hand to signal the bartender. “What’ll you have?” he asked.

  Miranda didn’t miss a beat. “An apology would be nice.”

  Mike dropped his hand down again before the bartender looked his way. Turning on his stool, Mike studied the petite, intense woman beside him. It wasn’t only the reporter in him that was curious about her, but it made for a good start.

  “Your dad an SOS fan?”

  Miranda almost laughed then. If ever there was a man devoid of ego, it was her father. He wasn’t an easy man to know, keeping everything to himself, but she knew that much. In a world where people were eager to take credit for an accomplishment, her father had always tried to keep out of the limelight. He shunned publicity, both the good and then the bad, wanting only to play the game he loved.

  “No, not exactly a fan,” she finally acknowledged. If he’d admired his own work—or more importantly, himself—she felt he would have at least attempted to speak up in his own defense rather than stoically accept the commission’s ruling that he be barred from baseball. “But he understands the man.” As well as anyone could, she added silently.

  Her answer only raised more questions. He could see where his article would generate her terse response if her father was a diehard SOS fan and she’d been indoctrinated from the time she was a little girl, but obviously, that wasn’t the case.

  Mike tried again. “He a gambler, too?”

  The smile disappeared and her eyes, an incredible shade of sky-blue, darkened visibly.

  “No, he’s not.”

  As a matter of fact, except for that one incident that had brought him down, as far as she knew, her father never gambled. The one time she’d asked him about the details of the incident, he’d watched her for a long moment, then told her to leave it alone. She’d done as he’d asked, but that didn’t keep her from wondering.

  Mike felt as if he was trying to find his way through an elaborate maze in the dark. “So you just decided to champion Shaw on your own.” He leaned forward, creating an intimate space for the two of them. “If you don’t mind my asking, why?”

  That was why she was here, she reminded herself. “Because Steven Shaw doesn’t deserve to be remembered for one isolated moment of weakness, not when he had such an outstanding career from start to finish.”

  She had a point, but that didn’t change the way things were. “Human nature,” he told her philosophically. “People tend to remember the bad rather than the good. Especially when they feel they’ve been betrayed.”

  Miranda raised her chin defensively. He liked the way fire came into her eyes. “He didn’t betray anyone,” she protested.

  Now, there she was wrong. “His fans felt differently. They believed in him.”

  “And one transgression changes all that? What kind of fickle fans are they?” she demanded, passion growing in her voice. “For God’s sake, he didn’t kill anyone. He placed a stupid bet.”

  Other men could place bets, but not a baseball player. She ought to understand that. “The man broke a cardinal rule.”

  “I don’t remember ‘Thou shalt not bet’ being one of the Ten Commandments.”

  “It is in baseball,” he pointed out. “If you’re a player.”

  “And God forgives—but the baseball commissioner doesn’t, is that it?” she asked sarcastically. On the way over here, she’d promised herself that she’d keep her temper, but she’d had all these feelings bottled up inside for so long. It seemed to her that no one, no one had taken her father’s side in this.

  “Something like that,” Mike answered. “If you don’t mind my saying so, you don’t look like the type to be a baseball groupie.”

  She’d always hated that term, hated the connotation associated with it: mindless people who blindly followed a team or a player. There was far more to being a true fan of the game than that.

  “I’m not,” she retorted. “I just love the game. And, I hate injustice.”

  “So you think that Shaw got a raw deal.”

  “I know he got a raw deal. The man played his heart out at every game. Nothing, but nothing came before baseball for him. The so-called ‘offense’ took place over ten years ago. The statute of limitations runs out in seven years for everything but murder. Don’t you think it’s only fair that it run out here, too?”

  Maybe, if SOS had had this woman pleading his case, the commission might have been swayed, he mused. She certainly was passionate enough about her cause. “Like I said, baseball has different rules.”

  Miranda shook her head. “Baseball is the all-American game and America stands for justice, or so we like to think.”

  “Why are you so
adamant about Shaw?” he asked. “From what I hear, the man’s almost a recluse.”

  “He was,” she corrected. A hint of pride came into her voice. “Right after the car accident.”

  It had been touch-and-go for a while. Her father had even been in a coma and some thought he’d never recover. But he did, or at least his body had. But even that was not entirely true. In the last ten years, five operations were needed to make him whole again. Fixing his spirit, however, took even more effort.

  “But he’s set to start coaching a Little League team now and he’s finally coming out of his shell.”

  Mike thought of all his failed attempts at getting an interview. The woman had really aroused his interest now. Maybe this would was the key to getting to the man. “Sounds as if you know a lot about him.”

  For a moment, Miranda debated shrugging off his assumption, but that would be lying. And it would seem as if she was ashamed of being Shaw’s daughter and she wasn’t. She believed in her father, she always had. She was proud to be his daughter, proud of what the man had accomplished. His being banned from baseball didn’t change that. Just made her that much more protective of him.

  More than anything in the world, she wanted to get her father inducted into the hall of fame. He’d earned the honor. He deserved it.

  This sportswriter still waited for an answer. “I make it my business to,” she told him.

  She saw interest flare in Mike Marlowe’s deep blue eyes.

  Miranda didn’t often act on impulse. Something told her that she’d made a mistake coming here.

  Chapter Three

  “Do you know SOS personally?”

  As he asked the question, Mike could feel his pulse accelerating. He tried to talk himself down. It was too much to hope for, stumbling across a private in with Shaw.

  He caught himself hoping anyway. In all ways but one—maintaining lasting relationships—Mike thought of himself as an optimistic guy. And this whimsical meeting might just be the opportunity of his young career.

  He glanced at the woman on the bar stool next to his and waited for an answer. He was more than a little convinced that she would affirm his hunch.

  Miranda blew out a breath. No doubt about it, this was a mistake. She should have never agreed to this meeting, never mind that she had been the one to suggest it in the heat of the moment. It was a mistake, pure and simple.

  Served her right for letting her emotions get the better of her. In that respect, she’d taken after her mother, not her father. Being stoic, like SOS, was simply not in her nature.

  Although, God knew she tried. But any good intentions had died the second she’d read Marlowe’s column. Someone had to speak up for her father. And look where that had gotten her. Tap dancing madly around words in a sports bar, edging away from an overly eager, overly handsome sportswriter.

  Time to retreat.

  Miranda slid off the bar stool and slipped her purse strap onto her shoulder. “I have to go,” she told him with finality.

  Mike read between the lines. Her evasive action told him what he wanted to know. God, but he was glad he’d answered her e-mail. “You do know him personally, don’t you?”

  She hated lying, but she also understood the kind of floodgates that could be opened if she admitted knowing SOS, much less that the former pitcher was her father. She’d been through this more than once.

  Still, the word No refused to form on her lips this time.

  “And if I do?” Miranda hedged.

  The excitement built within him. “Then I’d fall to my knees right here and start to beg.”

  That wasn’t what she was expecting him to say. Amused, she asked, “That might be interesting, but why would you go to such lengths?”

  He felt not unlike Aladdin holding the magic lamp in his hands, about to come in contact with the genie for the first time. “For you to use your influence with SOS so that I could land an interview with him.”

  She knew without having to ask that no way in hell would her father go along with an interview. It had taken her a long time to get the man to communicate with her beyond a few precise words at a time. He wasn’t the kind of man to talk to strangers, much less bare his soul to a journalist. Her father was, at bottom, a very private, very shy man. He always had been. She couldn’t remember his ever having given an interview. Certainly not since Ariel’s death.

  And with each devastating incident that occurred in his life—Ariel’s death, his divorce, her mother’s passing, the scandal and finally, the car accident—her father had just grown more reticent and distant. Even in the best of times, he wasn’t someone who liked listening to the sound of his own voice. He preferred doing to talking.

  Looking at Mike, she shook her head. “I’m afraid you’re out of luck there—”

  “On my own, yes,” he agreed, talking quickly, “but I’ve never met anyone who actually had access to the man before.”

  Miranda had learned how to bob and weave with the best of them. “I didn’t say I did,” she reminded him.

  “You didn’t say you didn’t.”

  Fair enough, she thought. He had her there. But she could remedy that. It meant a small white lie about knowing her father. “Okay, I don’t know him.”

  Mike smiled broadly. “Too late, Miranda. I don’t believe you.”

  Her stomach tightened when he said her name, and she didn’t like it. She really needed to get going.

  Miranda shook her head. “That has no bearing on the situation.”

  As she began to leave, Mike stunned her by doing exactly as he’d proposed. He fell to his knees right in front of her, impeding her exit. He caught hold of her wrist—preventing her from just walking around him to the front door.

  “Please.” The entreaty seemed to vibrate from every pore of his body.

  She was acutely aware that people were watching them. Her father’s daughter when it came to drawing undue attention, she felt uncomfortable as the center attraction.

  “Get up,” she blurted, trying unsuccessfully to disengage herself. “People are going to think you’re proposing.”

  He’d rattled her, Mike thought. Good. Maybe he’d get her to see things his way after all. “If that’s what it takes to get an interview with SOS…” Mike’s voice trailed off.

  Her eyes widened. Just her luck to champion her father’s cause with a man who was mentally deranged. “You’re crazy. You realize that, don’t you?”

  Mike rose to his feet, still holding on to her wrist. “Look, I’ve tried to get an interview with SOS half a dozen times—if not more—and he won’t return any of my calls.”

  She could well believe that. Not wanting confrontations or to get into a discussion as to why he wouldn’t do an interview, her father would simply just ignore the call altogether.

  “He likes to keep to himself,” she told him.

  “But he’s obviously opened up to you.” And where Shaw could do it once, Mike was positive the pitcher could do it again.

  “I wouldn’t call it that.” And technically, she was telling the truth. Getting information out of her father—any kind of information—took a great deal of time, as well as patience.

  Again, Mike saw it for what it was. He prided himself on being able to read people, a combination of body language and attitude. “Look, I get it. You’re trying to protect the man. That’s really commendable of you. But you also feel that Shaw’s gotten a raw deal—”

  “He has,” she interjected. Then she looked down at her wrist, still caught in his grip. “Am I getting my hand back anytime soon?”

  “That depends,” he answered.

  “On what?”

  “On whether you bolt and run the second I let go of it.”

  Her eyes narrowed. She didn’t appreciate these kinds of games, but it was her own fault she was here in the first place. Marlowe certainly hadn’t sought her out, she’d come gunning for him.

  “I won’t ‘bolt and run,’” she promised.

  Slowly
, he spread his fingers out from around her wrist, his eyes remaining on hers. When she continued to remain where she was, he went on.

  “Okay, let’s say I’m willing to reexamine my position in print. You have to admit that I’d need to talk to the man to do that—which means an interview.” He looked at her pointedly. “Can you get me one?”

  “And if I did—not saying that I can,” she qualified quickly, “how do I know you won’t use that to do a hatchet job on him?”

  Part of Mike took offense, but he knew where she was coming from. From time to time, Shaw’s past transgression drew articles and speculation out of the woodwork. So, he decided to keep his defense simple. “You’ve read my columns?”

  She’d read him faithfully for the last few years, ever since he began to write the column. But to say so might make him feel he had the advantage. “Yes.”

  “Anything there—before the article on SOS—to make you think that I’m biased or that I have some kind of an ax to grind? Or that I’m laboring under some preset agenda that I’ve set up for myself?”

  She blew out a breath, then shook her head. His columns had always been fair. “No.”

  Miranda didn’t sound a hundred percent convinced. “Ask around if you want to. Anyone in the business’ll tell you that I call it the way I see it and I’m nobody’s lackey.” He’d laid his cards on the table and he held his breath. “Now, do I get an interview with the man?”

  Even if she wanted him to have it, she couldn’t make that kind of promise. “That’s not up to me, that’s up to him.”

  “So you do have some influence.”

  She’d walked right into that one, hadn’t she? Miranda upbraided herself. Another mistake. But, try as she might, she couldn’t work up any anger against the sportswriter. “I wouldn’t exactly say that.”

  “What are you, his assistant?”

  The time for denying that she knew her father was obviously over. Inclining her head, she gave him a non-answer. “I’m whatever he needs me to be.”

  The simply stated affirmation stopped Mike in his tracks for a second. What she said could be interpreted in a number of ways, some of which he found himself not exactly happy about. If she was saying what he thought she was saying, that made her out of bounds. If she was romantically involved with the former major-league pitcher, he wasn’t about to act on any of the impulses he’s been entertaining for the last few minutes.