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Contents
Slugger Gone South
The Real Thing
Between the Sheets
Tradeoff
Bloom
Valentine Vote
Safe at Home
Trapped by Cupid
The Rebel’s Own
Trouble Brewing
Sneak Peek
This edition published by
Crimson Romance
an imprint of F+W Media, Inc.
10151 Carver Road, Suite 200
Blue Ash, Ohio 45242
www.crimsonromance.com
Copyright © 2013 by Elley Arden, Leslie P. García, Jean Hovey, Stephanie Jones, Bea Moon
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author’s imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.
ISBN 10: 1-4405-7377-8
ISBN 13: 978-1-4405-7377-4
eISBN 10: 1-4405-7378-6
eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-7378-1
Cover art © istock.com/grafikeray and istock.com/wabang70
Contents
Slugger Gone South
Acknowledgments
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
About the Author
Slugger Gone South
Alicia Hunter Pace
Avon, Massachusetts
Acknowledgments
Many thanks to Wes Wallin, Mike Harris, and Chris Douglass for their willingness to help us understand not only the mechanics, but the culture of baseball.
We so appreciate University of Georgia alumna Tomi Rich for her help with the details of campus life in Athens, Georgia.
A big thank you to Tara Gelsomino for her insight and mad editorial skills that helped us take Marc and Bailey to a deeper emotional level.
Chapter One
Despite being raised in the South where the high priest of the Sports Church is football, Bailey Watkins loved baseball. She loved the order, the precision, and the pace. While other sports were slaves to the time clock, a baseball game took its fine sweet time but could still go from near defeat to sudden victory with a good crack of the bat.
So when word got around that a big — really big — major league baseball player was coming to Merritt, Alabama, for the Tee Off for Autism Celebrity Golf Tournament, Bailey was so pleased, she even agreed to don her nurse hat and man the first aid station in the name of charity.
Of course, in her wildest dreams, she never imagined that player would be him.
By the time she’d found out, it was too late to tell Tournament Chair Missy Bragg that she was backing out. Few told Missy “no,” and those who did could seldom make it stick.
So here she sat on the hottest day in July, under the hospitality tent as Missy’s victims — stars from the entertainment industry, big names from no less that seven professional sports teams, and a silver medal-winning Olympic skier — milled about. Also in the mix was the bevy of reigning and former beauty queens whom Missy had imported to be their dates for tonight’s gala.
Though she had not yet seen the Good First Baseman Gone Bad — as she liked to call the man who’d eternally damned her to the land of the brokenhearted — Bailey pulled her visor down over her eyes and sunk lower into her chair. He would likely never notice her as long as she lay low. He didn’t even know she lived in Merritt now. Besides, it had been eight years. Who was to say he would even remember her? It would be good if he didn’t.
Plus, nobody was paying any attention to her. Why would they? There were free ham biscuits and a fruit tray. He loved biscuits.
According to the schedule on her clipboard, the tournament opening ceremonies were in fifteen minutes. Clearly, he wasn’t coming. He was probably busy getting engaged again or taking another court-ordered paternity test.
She began to relax. Since golf wasn’t exactly a high-risk injury sport, the most she’d probably have to do was treat a bee sting or two and give out some sunscreen and sports drinks. She was just about to check on her supply of ice packs when she saw a golf cart speeding toward the tent. Missy was driving hell for leather — and she had a passenger. Him.
Marc “Polo” MacNeal. Bane of her existence.
Bailey looked down and pretended to study her clipboard as if the future of all mankind depended on her knowing the names of the volunteer caddies or who had donated the free T-shirts.
She had met Marc in the middle of their freshman year at the University of Georgia, and they had dated the better part of two years. The last time they’d seen each other had been in the spring of her junior year. He had already left to play in the minors, but he’d moved quickly from the double to the triple A’s. That April, she’d flown to Scranton to watch him play, and he’d given her an engagement ring that was much bigger than what a twenty-year-old ought to have been able to afford.
But most twenty-year-olds couldn’t catch or hit a ball like he could. Marc was the whole package, and he’d only spent two months in Scranton before the Yankee management took notice. When he’d been called up to the majors, Bailey had been one big bundle of conflicting emotions: so proud of him, scared of the changes, but excited about their future, too. And in love — so in love. Couldn’t forget that.
If she’d paid more attention to the fear, she might have been better prepared when the news hit that Marc had been accused of impregnating a Scranton woman and was to undergo a paternity test — and the news hadn’t come from him. Because Marc was a former UGA student, the scandal had been worthy of front-page attention in the Athens Banner-Herald. Bailey had been grief-stricken to the point of numb — too numb to answer his calls or, three days later, open her dorm room door to him. The way she saw it, there were only two things he could do: admit it or lie about it, and she didn’t want to hear either one. So she’d packed up his ring and sent it back to him. Then she’d put her heart on ice where it had been ever since.
And Marc had been in New York ever since — eight years, 341 homeruns, and one pennant later.
She’d lost count of the number of women. And there had been so many — models, actresses, women famous for being famous. He’d gotten engaged to a good percentage of them, though he had yet to make it to the altar.
And now here he was, just a few yards away. Bailey didn’t dare look up, but she could hear Missy shouting orders about unloading Mr. MacNeal’s clubs and getting him signed in.
Good. He’d be out of here soon. He’d never know.
“And you come right this way!” Missy’s voice was getting closer. “Bailey will take good care of you. She’s not just some volunteer here giving out Band-Aids. She’s the best nurse in this town. Why, she saved my friend Lanie’s life!”
Ah, hell.
She looked up into eyes so brown that the irises were barely detectable. He narrowed those eyes and stuck out his lower lip. So he never had stopped res
orting to the pouty mouth when things weren’t going his way. Clearly, seeing her was a surprise, and not a pleasant one.
“Bailey!” Missy said. “This is Polo MacNeal. His plane was late, and he has a headache. Can you take care of him?”
Their gazes locked and held as Missy pivoted, called over her shoulder that she had to check on something, and disappeared.
His black hair was cut shorter than it had been the last time she’d touched it, but it still lay in loose curls all over his head and, unlike many MLB players, he had remained clean-shaven. Not surprising. Even if the Yankees hadn’t had a strict no-facial-hair policy, Marc knew his assets. There was no way he would have wanted to cover up that chiseled jaw or distract from the most beautiful mouth in the history of mouths, even when it was pouting. Especially when it was pouting.
Not that she cared.
“Hello, Marc.”
• • •
Bailey. It was her. Marc glanced at her hands. No rings, though that didn’t mean anything.
Not that he cared.
“Nobody calls me that anymore,” he said because it was the first thing that came to mind. She shrugged like she didn’t care, which she didn’t. She’d proven that well enough.
“A baseball player has to have a nickname,” Bailey said lightly. “I suppose it went from Marc to Marco Polo, to Polo?”
He nodded. Obviously she had not followed his career or she would have known without asking how the name evolved. But then why would she have?
“I had no idea you lived here,” he said. If he had, he wouldn’t have come — regardless of the insistence by his old acquaintance, Harris Bragg. Harris, the former University of Alabama National Championship winning quarterback — or actually, his wife — was very persistent that he do this. He’d offered to just send a check, but Missy had kept calling, kept talking about how “giving back” to the community would be so good for his image. Never mind that this wasn’t his community and his image was better than that of a lot of pro athletes. But Lord knows that woman could wear down the Swiss Alps. So here he was.
“My Great Uncle Tiptoe lives here,” Bailey said. “After I graduated, there was a job opening. I had some previous plans to move to New York, but that didn’t work out.”
Didn’t work out? Didn’t effing work out? And whose fault had that been? He swallowed his anger because he had no choice. He’d had too many women, been engaged too many times, but that was about all the “bad boy” the Yankee front office was willing to tolerate out of him.
“Look, I just need some ibuprofen and some water. Can you manage that?” He couldn’t deal with this; he needed away from here. No matter how glossy her taffy-colored hair was. No matter that Bailey made that ridiculous T-shirt with the cartoon golfers look better than Missy Bragg ever could.
“I can manage it.” Her words were wrapped up in sarcasm tighter than cowhide on a baseball. He’d been on the bad end of that scowl before, too. “I can manage whatever I have to. But what you really need for an ordinary headache is acetaminophen.”
“Whatever. Give me four.”
“I am not giving you four. Two is enough, and I’m not giving you that until I check your blood pressure. Sit down.”
What in the hell? “Look, Florence Nightingale, I don’t need my blood pressure taken. I need something for my headache. If I were in a drugstore, they wouldn’t take my blood pressure. They’d sell me all the acetaminophen and ibuprofen I wanted!”
“But you aren’t in a drugstore, are you? You’re here at my mercy because I’m the one with the painkillers. And if you want any, I suggest you sit down.” She reached for a stethoscope and blood pressure monitor, her movements slow and calm, but Bailey had a steely tough glint in her eyes.
She’d turned mean. Hard. Of course, his first clue to that should have been when she’d sent his ring back by Federal Express without giving him so much as one second to explain.
He closed his hand around her upper arm and leaned in until their noses practically met and their eyes blurred. “So you want to play doctor?”
She drew back, but not in fear. Oh, no. Bailey wasn’t afraid of anything — well, except for thunderstorms. No, she drew back just enough so that her crystal-clear blue eyes met his in perfect focus. There had been a time when he’d wanted those eyes looking into his more than anything. Now, he just wanted away from them.
“I don’t play doctor,” she said. “I don’t play anything. You’re the one who plays games. I do real work.”
That was it. He was out of here, headache or no. Nothing was worth this. He turned to go.
“Now sit down in that chair,” she demanded. “You won’t win this tournament; you won’t come anywhere close if you go out there with a headache.”
So Bailey still knew that about him — knew that he couldn’t perform when he didn’t feel well. And she still knew how badly he wanted to win, how much his self-worth was tied up in being the best. To keep from looking at the anger in her eyes, Marc let his eyes drop to Bailey’s hands. That brought back a memory he could have done without. Back in school, she would stroke his temples when he had a headache, massage his shoulder when he had a muscle strain. But that time was past.
“Fine!” He slammed himself into the chair and held out his arm.
“Don’t talk.” She wrapped the cuff around his bicep. “Don’t move.”
He closed his eyes and pretended he was somewhere — anywhere — but here.
• • •
Bailey knew it was ridiculous to insist on taking his blood pressure. Marc was a world-class athlete who got regular medical attention, but she did it anyway and she knew exactly why, even if she didn’t like the reason. Handling the familiar equipment made her feel confident and powerful.
“141 over 87,” she said. “That’s marginally high but not nearly high enough that it should be causing a headache. And your pulse is a little fast.”
“If my blood pressure and pulse is high, it’s because of you,” he said spitefully.
He had a point; she was antagonizing him. Still, she carried on.
“Do you often get headaches? Do you have migraines these days?”
“No migraines, Bailey.”
Suddenly, he looked tired, and something turned in her, willing her to remember sweet times, when he had needed her. She gripped the stethoscope like it was a lifeline. “Are you taking care of your allergies? You don’t have a sinus infection, do you?” She hadn’t meant for her voice to come out so soft. His sinus infections had always started with an allergy flare-up and headache.
“No, Bailey. It’s just a plain old headache from too little sleep and being on a plane too long.”
“Are you sure? Do you have a fever?” His temperature had always spiked so fast. Without thinking, she placed her hand against his cheek to check.
He smiled like he used to and pressed her hand more firmly against his face.
“No fever,” she said.
He raised his eyebrows. “Is that the scientific way to check for fever these days?”
She jerked her hand away. Why had she touched him, and how dare he make fun of her?
She turned away and zipped the blood pressure monitor into its case. “Have you eaten today? Had any coffee?”
“I ate what they gave me on the plane, and you know I don’t drink coffee.” He sounded perplexed. Good. He deserved to be.
She turned back and met his eyes. “I know you didn’t drink coffee when you were young and sweet. Who knows what you do these days, apart from chasing women and baseballs.”
His mouth went hard. “Yeah? Sometimes I hit baseballs, too. Pretty well, in fact. Just give me the damned Tylenol so I can go play golf.”
Why was she doing this? Arguing with him? Keeping him here? It was time to relent. She reached for the kit with the me
ds, just as Missy Bragg rushed up with a blonde in tow. She was six feet tall with legs eight feet long.
“Polo! This is Miss Texas! She’s your date for the gala tonight.”
He gave Bailey one last haughty look, then the devil moved into his eyes, and an angel took hold of his mouth, spreading it into that smile she should have forgotten. But that smile wasn’t for her. He lifted his face in the direction of Miss Texas.
“Hello, darlin’.” Marc rose up with that same slinky panther’s grace that was always in evidence when he stretched his glove up for a ball he knew he couldn’t miss.
He ran his tongue over his beautiful mouth. Slowly. All the while, he did nothing to hide how much he appreciated the view that was Miss Texas. With a flip of blonde hair, she placed a hand on her hip and preened. This woman knew her power.
Bailey would never have that kind of power. But she had acetaminophen. She shook two tablets into a pill cup and fished a bottle of water out of the cooler.
“Here you are, Mr. MacNeal. I hope you feel better.”
“Thanks,” he tossed over his shoulder, already on his way out of the tent. He swallowed the pills, but he uncapped the water and offered it to Miss Texas. “Would you like some before I germ it all up?”
And they linked arms and walked away, laughing as they went.
Chapter Two
More than anything, Bailey wanted to go home to her apartment over Uncle Tiptoe and Aunt Aileen’s garage where there was no golf, no Miss Texas, and no Marc MacNeal. Maybe she could. If she could find a replacement, she could feign illness. She picked up her cell phone and began to scan through her contacts, looking for a likely coworker. Of course, if Marc noticed she’d gone, he would know humiliation had made her go to ground, but she didn’t care. Right now, pride meant nothing, and getting the hell out of here meant everything.
Bailey dismissed most of the names she scrolled through for one reason or the other — working today, on vacation, sick kids. She finally found a likely candidate and was just about to dial her and offer her first-born when Missy sped up in her golf cart. This time she was alone.
Whirlwind Romance: 10 Short Love Stories Page 1