by Sykes, V. K.
She decided to tell him the whole story—at least an edited version. “It all started when I bumped into Joe Ridge here at the stadium a few days ago,” she said, smoothing her hands over her simple skirt of blue cotton. “Joe invited me to dinner—you know we’re old friends from the Dragons. Locke was there at the same time, and he came over to our table as Joe and I were finishing up. After Joe left for a meeting, Locke and I wound up talking for a while.”
“Yeah, and this happened right after you’d hit me with your idea of trading for him,” Dembinski said skeptically.
Taylor sighed. “Yes.” Don’t elaborate any more than you have to.
“Go on.”
“We talked about a lot of things. He said he thought he was being showcased for a trade. I probed a little about where he might want to go if a trade were to happen. Nothing earth-shattering.”
“What else?”
“The next day, I bumped into him in the stadium parking lot. Maybe he’d been waiting for me. I don’t know. Anyway, he asked if I’d like to have dinner with him.”
“And you obviously agreed.” Dembinski frowned.
“I guess it was a mistake, considering I was suggesting we trade for him.” She shrugged. “Honestly, Dave, the truth is that I just wanted to see him again. We’d kind of hit it off the evening before.”
“Did you give him any indication that we might be interested in trading for him?”
She shook her head. “No. He was a little suspicious, but I certainly didn’t say anything to confirm that.”
“Keep going.” Now his eyes bored into hers.
“Well, the night before last, he called me and said he’d just had a really upsetting conversation with his daughter in New York and needed to talk to someone. The way he sounded, I didn’t think I could say no. So, we had a few drinks and talked.”
Sorry, but I’m not going to mention that I had the best sex of my life, too.
“Then I left for Philly the next morning, and we haven’t spoken since,” she concluded.
Dembinski nodded, but showed little reaction. “Let me ask you this. Are you planning on seeing Locke again? Socially, I mean, if I’m not being clear enough.”
That was not what Taylor had expected to hear. She rolled her lips nervously as she thought about her answer. What did Dembinski want her to say? Obviously, he would expect her to not see Ryan again, wouldn’t he? In any case, the way he’d phrased the question didn’t make sense. How could she plan on seeing Ryan again, even if she wanted to take that risk? She could plan until the cows came home, but the chances of Ryan wanting to be with her again after this seemed more remote than the Cubs winning the World Series anytime soon.
She decided to try an oblique response instead of giving him a direct answer. “Do you really think he’d want to see me again socially after all this?” She forced a smile. “I’d imagine he must have been more than a little pissed off when he talked to you.”
“You think?” Dembinski said, curling his lips.
Taylor flinched but didn’t respond. She could imagine how another guy would react to being told something like that.
“So, are you going to answer the question?” He wasn’t letting her off the hook.
What the hell—you’ve shaded the truth enough, Taylor. Time to let the chips fall.
“As far as I’m concerned it’s a hypothetical question. But I’ll tell you this. Yes, I would like to see Ryan again, but it’s not going to happen. I’m sure he thinks of me as swamp life right about now.”
Dembinski gave her a slow smile. “Well, at least you didn’t try to tell me that it’s none of my fucking business. And, in one sense, it isn’t. But you two are on the same team now, and if I’m reading you right, that guy’s gotten to you.” His expression hardened. “Shit, Taylor, you know damn well how problematic it would be to get involved with a player.”
Taylor hung her head instinctively. “Of course. I told him that, too. Believe me.”
Too bad you couldn’t follow through on it.
“Then enough said on that for now. The most important thing I’m going to say to you is this.” Dembinski fixed her with a gaze that gave her a new definition of steely. “I don’t want you to ever go free agent like that on me again, you hear me? When you do anything—and I mean anything—that impacts the Philadelphia Patriots, I need to know about it, and not days after the fact, either. And I sure as hell don’t want to have to hear about it from goddamn Ryan Locke, or anybody else other than you. Are we perfectly clear?”
Taylor swallowed hard but looked him straight in the eye. “Crystal clear, Dave. Absolutely.”
“Good. Now, get the hell out of here.”
Though Taylor didn’t appreciate the abrupt dismissal, she counted herself lucky to be exiting the room with her head still attached to her shoulders. She strode quickly to the door and opened it.
“And Taylor?” Dembinski said without turning around. “You need to realize that it’s really lucky for you that this trade seems to be working out.”
Shuddering, Taylor closed the door behind her.
14
TAYLOR PACED THE upper concourse while keeping an eye on the action down on the field. Both restless and exhausted, she knew there was no point in trying to do any work in the office this afternoon. Not after the humbling meeting with Dembinski. In one sense, she felt like she’d dodged a bullet, since the guy could have hammered her a whole lot worse. Still, he’d gotten his point across in no uncertain terms—Taylor was never again to keep her boss in the dark about anything to do with player transactions, and she should think very carefully about whether to see Ryan Locke in anything other than a strictly work-related situation.
Not that she’d really needed to be told either of those things. What she’d done with Ryan had been both out of character and against her training and better judgment. For someone who’d been career-focused—her mother would say career-obsessed—she’d behaved little better than some team groupie when it came right down to it. And as much as her heart told her she wanted to keep seeing Ryan, Taylor knew she couldn’t let it happen. Not even if Ryan wanted to.
Which was exceedingly doubtful after what she’d done.
But, God, her stomach had practically done a back flip today when she saw him standing at first base in the pristine white Patriots uniform that fit him like the proverbial glove. Somehow he looked even hotter than he had the last time she’d seen him in uniform, which had been in his Hornets road gear. And for a guy who’d never played the position before, Ryan gave the impression that he was comfortable out there, not to mention determined. Even from up in the stands, Taylor couldn’t miss the hawkish concentration in his dark eyes as he pounded his big, black first baseman’s glove before crouching in preparation for every pitch. When he ran his tongue across his lips to moisten them, all she could think about was how good those lips had tasted only a few nights ago.
She had to hold back an audible groan. She really needed to shove those memories in a lock-box and throw away the key if she wanted to stay both sane and employed.
Given that Ryan had benefited from only two days of practice, she’d been shocked to see him playing his new position so soon. But according to Rick Clark, who’d accosted her after she left Dembinski in his eagerness to learn what the boss had said, Ryan had so impressed Pedro Delgado with his positional intelligence and glove work that he’d recommended giving him some game action this afternoon. Now, in the sixth inning, Ryan was still out there and Taylor couldn’t help feeling a sense of triumph.
She only wished she could give the game and Ryan’s play her full attention. As much as she tried to shut everything else out, what she mostly thought about as she paraded uselessly around the full, noisy stands was exactly what she could say to Ryan when they next met. Because they had to meet, and very soon. Taylor knew that the only way she could hope to lift herself out of the mess she’d created was to deal with Ryan head on, getting everything out on the table. Acknowledg
ing what she’d done, and hopefully finding a way to go forward on the basis of front office executive and player.
A business relationship. Cordial, friendly, but appropriately distant.
In other words, a miracle.
The Atlanta batter slapped a weak grounder that the pitcher, Nate Carter, took a futile stab at but couldn’t reach. Ryan charged in behind Carter and, with surprising fluidity, scooped the ball up as he shot a quick look over to third base. But the runner on second had broken for third as soon as he saw the ball was hit to the right side, and Taylor knew it would be a close play to try to nail him. Ryan barely hesitated before racing the batter to first and stepping on the bag.
One down and a runner on third.
A little shiver crept up Taylor’s back. She didn’t think Ryan would necessarily be faulted for choosing the safe out at first base. But, given that there’d been nobody out in the inning and it was a tight ballgame, most infielders would have tried to throw the runner out at third. Carter obviously thought so, too, since both he and second baseman Esteban Nunez had immediately held a quick pow-wow with Ryan not far from the mound. Ryan kept nodding, but his mouth was a grim line and he didn’t say more than a couple of words.
How much had Ryan’s lack of confidence in his throwing arm had to do with his split-second choice on the play? Taylor filed it away in her mental database of questionable on-field decisions.
Maybe she’d ask Ryan about it when they talked, which she planned on making happen before the day was out. While that conversation was going to be more painful than she even wanted to think about, Taylor wasn’t about to spend another sleepless night like the last one. She’d find Ryan, take whatever he had to dish out, and then get on with business. And life.
* * *
“DON’T LET THAT one get to you, man,” Nate Carter said to Ryan as they headed into the clubhouse after the game. “It was a tough call, especially for a guy new to the position. Don’t sweat it. Hell, it’s just an exhibition game, anyway.”
Ryan liked the affable Patriots’ ace, even though his lifetime batting average against Carter was a whopping .231. He took solace, though, from the fact that the league average against the award-winning, hard-throwing lefthander was regularly well south of .220.
He nodded his appreciation of the pitcher’s support. “I was thinking it’d be stupid for me to play the hero and maybe end up with men on first and third and nobody out. Too much chance that they’d have a big inning.”
Carter let out a disbelieving snort. “With me on the mound? Surely you jest, Locke.”
Ryan rolled his eyes, though he knew Carter was just busting his chops. When Carter and Nunez had gone to him after he opted to throw to first instead of third, he figured they’d be pissed big time that he hadn’t tried to get the lead runner. But they’d taken it easy on him. The reason he hadn’t fired a bullet to the third baseman was simple—he’d been worried that he couldn’t get enough juice on his throw unless he risked a wild one. Though it was a relatively short throw to third, at least compared to what he was used to in the outfield, he hadn’t exactly been firing laser strikes in practice. All he needed in his first game in the field was to embarrass himself with a weak throw that would leave two runners on and nobody out.
Before Carter headed over to his locker, he clapped Ryan on the shoulder. “Some of the guys are going out for a couple of beers tonight. You should come, too. Get to know your new buddies.”
Ryan really appreciated the offer, as well as the warm reception he’d received from all the Patriots. The fact that they’d been intense and sometimes even bitter rivals on the field these past years didn’t faze veteran players like Carter and star outfielder, Jake Miller. “Sounds good. Thanks.”
“The Summer Moon, then, anytime after eight.”
The Summer Moon.
Ryan wondered if he’d ever be able to walk into that joint again without thinking about Taylor Page. Grimly, he clamped down on that train of thought. The best thing he could do would be to try like hell to forget the woman. Yeah, someday soon he’d tell her what he thought of how she’d treated him, but he wasn’t going to tie himself in knots over it. The pain of betrayal he felt in his gut whenever he thought about her would fade soon enough, and dwelling on her would only slow the process.
After a quick shave and shower he dressed, shoved his wallet and keys in his pockets, and then raked a hand back through his hair one last time before he left the clubhouse. It had been another long day, and his body had already been sore from all the infield practice before he even took to the field for the actual game. The fact that Jack Ault had left him out there for seven innings today had blown him away. He wasn’t sure if it was exactly a vote of confidence in him by the coaches and higher-ups, but it sure felt like it. And for the first time since Ridge had given him the news of the trade, Ryan took a long look around the nearly empty Philly clubhouse and concluded that, to his surprise, he kind of already felt like a Philadelphia Patriot.
It was only a short walk down a dark concrete corridor to the player and staff parking lot on the south side of the stadium. As he emerged, he had to shield his eyes as he faced the sun at a direct angle. By the time he got his sunglasses on, pulled out his keys and clicked the remote, he realized that someone was standing behind his Cherokee, barely visible but instantly recognizable from her shining blond hair.
What the hell?
Taylor was supposed to be in Philadelphia, but it was definitely her. And the last place he expected to see her was standing beside his freaking car.
Once he got over his shock, Ryan quickly crossed the lot and strode right up to her, coming close enough that she instinctively took a step back. Her sunglasses hid her eyes, so he couldn’t read her. All he knew was that she looked one hundred per cent fucking gorgeous in a tight little skirt and blouse outfit that seemed to highlight every one of the delicious curves he’d explored in detail the other night. But she must have been standing in the hot sun for a while, since perspiration had collected on her brow and a bead trickled down one cheek. Remembering her damp brow as she lay exhausted in his arms, spent and breathing heavily, he had to fight an overwhelming instinct to lean forward and nuzzle her damp cheek.
“We should talk,” she said in a clipped voice, a pair of gold bracelets on her wrist clinking against each other as she swept a nervous hand back through her hair.
Even with her mouth turned down and her hair flying in the stiff breeze off the Gulf, Ryan thought Taylor Page was as beautiful as any woman he’d ever seen. And as angry as he was with her, he still had a powerful urge to feel her full, soft breasts against his chest, and taste her sweet lips. In fact, taste every inch of glorious skin on her delicious body.
Get a grip, Ryan. That train’s left the station.
“So, talk,” he responded tersely.
She let out a heavy sigh. “I know I messed up, Ryan, and I`m sorry. But I wasn’t trying to screw with you. Honestly.” She took the sunglasses from her eyes and stuck them on top of her head, peering earnestly at him.
Ryan saw nothing but sincerity in her sapphire-blue eyes as he got rid of his own sunglasses. But she held his gaze only for a moment before flicking a glance around the nearly empty lot.
“This isn’t the place to have this conversation,” she said. Then she scrunched her eyes in a grimace. “If you even want to hear what I have to say, that is.”
“You bet I want to hear it,” he replied in a grim voice. “Just tell me where and when.”
“Nowhere around here, that’s for sure.”
Wow, she must have gotten royal shit from Dembinski.
“Okay, my place, then.” Fat chance, but the words seemed to fling themselves out of his mouth.
Taylor stared at him, then pulled her glasses down over her eyes. Ryan would have preferred she keep them up so he could read her expression.
“Let’s make it Sand Key Park,” she said. “It’s fifteen minutes from here, at most. You know it?”
“See you there.” Taylor turned and fished around in her bag, pulling out her car keys.
Ryan’s gaze didn’t waver as he watched her walk briskly to her car two rows over. She’d jerked him around, and he had every right to tear strips off her, letting her know that nobody screws with Ryan Locke and gets away with it.
But, God, he still wanted her. Everything he’d thought about saying—every biting, harsh word—seemed to be sinking deeper into some recess in his mind, as if none of it wanted to see the light of day. Did she truly regret what she’d done to him? Was he big enough to accept the apology that he sensed might be coming?
He wasn’t sure, but he was game to take a chance.
* * *
SAND KEY PARK sprawled over the northern end of a long barrier island just below Clearwater Beach. The trees that lined the narrow access road were kind of scrubby and not terribly attractive, but the park’s prime attraction was its long stretch of white, sandy beach. Rows of tall, stately palms bordered the parking lot and the edge of the beach, and some picnic tables were nestled among the trees. Taylor parked her car, chose one of the nearby tables, and kept watch for Ryan’s Cherokee.
She’d filled her Starbucks travel mug with coffee at the stadium and was pleased to discover it had remained relatively warm. Right now, though, she wished she’d loaded the thing up with Scotch or cognac or anything else that would take the edge off her jangling nerves. Forcing on a mask of bravado that hadn’t fit worth a damn, it had taken all her nerve to approach Ryan in the stadium parking lot. But taking the next step felt like a giant leap between tall buildings. If she didn’t get it right, she’d suffer a tragic fall—at least in terms of further eroding her once robust self-esteem. And, she worried, in making an enemy for life. She had to admit the idea of that was profoundly depressing.