by Lori Wilde
“It is soft,” Breeanne said, more sharply than she intended.
“This is the scratchiest thing I’ve ever touched. I’d rather wear burlap.”
Breeanne reclaimed the scarf and rubbed it between her palms. If anything, it felt softer now than when she first took it from the box. With a stubborn tilt of her chin, she tied the jaunty cheetah print around her neck.
“What exactly did you wish for, a soft scarf? Because a delusional self-fulfilling prophecy is the only explanation I can come up with for why you think this thing is soft.” Suki’s laughter bounced around the bookstore, spiky and too loud.
“For your information, I wished for a successful writing career.”
“I can’t imagine how a miserably prickly scarf is going to help with your writing.”
At that moment, Breeanne’s cell phone rang. Lightly touching the scarf at her neck, she pulled her phone from her pocket and checked the caller ID.
Kip Miller. Her agent.
Her entire body went numb, and she broke out in a sweat. It couldn’t be. Could it?
The phone rang again.
“Who is it?” Suki asked.
“My agent,” Breeanne whispered.
“I just got chills.” Suki shivered, and hugged herself. “You wished for something to happen with your writing career, and boom, the agent who’s snubbed you for over a year calls out of the blue, and on a Saturday afternoon to boot.”
“What do I do?”
“Answer the phone! Hurry. Before he hangs up.”
Breeanne tilted her head, and managed to answer coolly despite the fact she was trembling all over. “Hello?”
“Breeanne,” her agent’s cheery voice boomed. “Kip Miller here. I’ve got a golden opportunity for you.”
She transferred the phone to her other hand, wiped her sweaty palm against her thigh. “What is that?”
“Ever heard of the baseball pitcher Rowdy Blanton?”
Her stomach flipped. “Of course I have, he’s from my hometown.”
“I know. That’s why I’m calling. Jackdaw Press signed him to write his autobiography, and he’s in the market for a ghostwriter. I pitched your name, but they weren’t all that impressed with your credentials. However, Blanton’s contract gives him final approval on the ghost and he’s auditioning writers on Monday. If you’re smart you’ll get over to his place and convince him you’re the woman for the job.”
CHAPTER 5
Don’t let the fear of striking out hold you back.
—BABE RUTH
Dipped cone.
Breeanne sat in her eleven-year-old blue Nissan Sentra that was parked in front of the private locked gate outside Rowdy Blanton’s property. Dead center in the middle of her crisp white blouse, just below where her cleavage would be if she had any, was a big blob of melted chocolate. Every day after lunch for the last six weeks, since Breeanne’s cardiologist told her that she needed to gain ten pounds, she had pulled up to the drive-through at Dairy Queen and ordered a chocolate dipped cone. In all that time she’d gained only a measly half pound.
But no one had sympathy for a skinny girl who couldn’t gain weight. Or, for that matter, a clumsy girl who dropped waxy dipped cone chocolate onto the front of her crisp white blouse when she was on her way to persuade the biggest celebrity in town to hire her as his ghostwriter.
Dammit.
Why couldn’t she have gotten a regular soft-serve cone? Or better yet, an M&M’s Blizzard in a cup? A cup was much safer than a cone. Then again why had she stopped for ice cream in the first place? Why hadn’t she driven up to his house first thing this morning?
Why?
Because she’d heard through the trusty Stardust grapevine that Rowdy Blanton liked to sleep until noon. He might be grumpy if she awakened him too early, and she would blow her chances straight off the bat.
Really? She was spinning fibs for herself?
Frankly, as badly as she wanted this writing gig, after her encounter with Rowdy on Irene Henderson’s lawn, he scared the living daylights out of her.
The man was as devastating as a mudslide, breathtaking as a forest fire, daunting as gale-force winds. Major league baseball should have nicknamed him Force of Nature instead of the Screwgie King, although he was arguably the best screwball pitcher ever to take the mound.
Sweat broke on her brow.
How easy it would be to smack the Sentra into reverse and burn rubber all the way down the hill to Stardust. Normally, she was a people pleaser who preferred the path of least resistance, but this was her writing career. The one thing she wanted most in the world was within her grasp. All she had to do was reach for it.
She would not chicken out. Chocolate or no chocolate, she was going in there and ask for the job. This was her big break. No excuses.
Okay. Resolve strengthened. She could . . . no, she would do this.
But how to camouflage the chocolate stain, and how to get through the locked gate?
Whenever she faced a health-related challenge, her parents loved to say, Don’t worry about trying to eat the whole enchilada at once. Take it one bite at a time.
Right. First things first. Deal with the stain.
She leaned over, popped open the glove compartment, and found a couple of napkins. On the floorboard in the backseat she located a plastic water bottle that had a tablespoon or so of water left in it. She wet the napkins, dabbed at the chocolate blob, watched the stain smear, and widen.
Nut bunnies.
It wasn’t working.
What now?
She gnawed the corner of a thumbnail. Stopped. Sat on her hands. Remembered the cheetah scarf in her purse. All weekend, she’d taken the scarf around with her, bugging everyone she met to feel the material, anxious to see if anyone else felt the softness she did. But family and friends, neighbors and acquaintances all said exactly the same thing. The scarf was scratchy, rough, abrasive, coarse.
How was it possible that when she touched the scarf it felt like rose petals, Callie’s fur, and chenille throw pillows combined?
Hmm. If artfully draped, could the scarf hide the stain? Blowing out a tight breath, she tied the scarf strategically around her neck and checked her reflection in the rearview mirror.
The chocolate stain disappeared.
Whew. Crisis averted.
One problem down. Now for the second. She approached the ornate wrought-iron gate, searching for an intercom box or a doorbell or something that would grant access, but she didn’t see anything.
What did she expect? An open gate, a “Welcome Breeanne Carlyle” sign?
She didn’t have an appointment because his phone number was unlisted, and her agent hadn’t known what his phone number was either, and that was why he’d told her to go up there in the first place. Rowdy Blanton was so famous he needed a fortress to discourage hangers-on, and looky-loos. She curled her fingers around the cool iron bars, and the gate simply swung inward.
Not locked after all.
Surprised but wary, she stepped back. She distrusted things that came too easily. When things came easily it usually meant strings were attached. Then again, in this situation, what was the worst that could happen? Rowdy would call the cops on her for trespassing? His burly bodyguard would toss her out on her ear?
Or Taser her.
Getting Tasered wouldn’t be much fun. And with her heart condition, what if it caused an electrical short-circuit and killed her?
Calm down.
No one was going to Taser her. The sky was not falling. Her heart was healed. How long was it going to take for her to adjust?
The two-minute drive to the top of the hill winded through East Texas pines and fields of vibrant wildflowers. A gigantic mansion constructed of Austin limestone sprawled like a lazy frat boy, overblown, overindulgent, and clearly over budget. Breeanne pulled to a stop in a driveway full of cars.
Rowdy had company.
She squeezed the spongy steering wheel cover. The blue veins at her wrist bu
lged against the pressure. Her mouth dried and tasted chalky, as if she’d eaten a green persimmon.
Steeling her jaw, she marched stiff-legged up the cobblestone walkway to the front door. She knocked with a confidence she didn’t feel, hung out her cheeriest let’s-be-friends smile, and mentally practiced what she was going to say. Hi, Mr. Blanton, remember me? I’m the girl in the cheetah panties.
Good grief. No.
The door jerked open. The same domineering guy who’d chauffeured Rowdy to the estate sale in the Escalade stared down at her. His bulky shoulders filled the doorway, blocking her view of the foyer. He wore a small gold hoop earring in one ear, an expensive suit, shaved head, and those same Secret Service sunglasses that shielded his eyes.
He didn’t crack a smile, and hers evaporated. He slid the sunglasses down on his nose, his gaze slicing over her without a hint of recognition. Okay, she knew she wasn’t particularly memorable, but come on, it had been only a week since they last met.
“What do you want?” He grunted.
“Um . . . um . . .” The words that had been on her tongue rolled down her throat. “I’m . . . I’m . . .” Spit it out, for godsakes. “Job interview.”
He narrowed his eyes as if he didn’t believe her. Women were probably coming to the door all the time on one false pretense or another just to get up close and personal with Rowdy.
“The ghostwriter position. My agent, Kip Miller, told me that Rowdy . . . er . . . Mr. Blanton was conducting interviews today.”
The big guy stared impassively at her for so long that her muscles started to twitch. Finally, in a flinty voice, he growled, “He’s in the gym.”
Gym? Did that mean Rowdy was working out and not taking interviews right now? Or did it mean he was interviewing in people in the gym while he worked out?
At the thought of Rowdy’s body sweaty from a workout, her nerve endings lit up like city lights. She blinked, pressed a palm to her breastbone, right over the scarf and the blob of Dairy Queen dipped cone chocolate beneath.
“This way.”
She hesitated a split second, but he walked like he was headed for a fire, and she didn’t know what else to do, so she hurried after him.
The focal point of the cavernous living room was a massive limestone fireplace. Framed photographs of Rowdy in uniform and baseball memorabilia adorned the walls and crowded the shelves of a beefy glass trophy case celebrating an illustrious career cut short way too soon. From the beamed vaulted ceilings, to the overstuffed leather sectional, to a cowhide rug, to the King Kong flat-screen TV mounted above the mantel, everything about the room screamed testosterone.
It smelled like testosterone too.
Her nose juddered, and a lazy shiver shook her spine bone by bone.
What would it be like to date Rowdy Blanton, and come back to his place for a nightcap? Sink down in one of the leather chairs. Feel the heat from a flickering fire. Drink some exotic cocktail like a Screaming Orgasm. Listen to sexy make-out music. Taste the salt of his skin. Hear his seductive voice whisper her name as he tugged her down onto that rug and had his way with her.
She fluttered a hand to fan herself. Oh dear.
Breeanne had no more grown accustomed to the dark, cavelike atmosphere of the living room than Bodyguard Dude pushed open the Santa Fe–style door that led into a sun-filled courtyard. The mix of honeyed scents intoxicated, and Breeanne shaded her eyes against the bright sun. Indigenous Texas plants filled the courtyard—the bluish green of Ebbinge’s Silverberry, the ruffled white crape myrtle blossoms, the scarlet plume of the bottlebrush, the spiky purple flowers of the hummingbird-attracting chaste tree.
Ahead of them lay an infinity pool.
The faint scent of chlorine mixed with the enticing smell of native pines. She longed to linger at the pool, dig in her heels, adapt to this environment, and investigate the zipline that ran from the crest of Rowdy’s property to Stardust Lake glimmering at the bottom of the hill. She’d always wanted to try ziplining, but whenever she mentioned trying daring physical activities, her parents freaked out. Afraid it would somehow stir up heart problems.
“Keep up,” Bodyguard Dude barked, and it was only then that she realized she’d stopped to stare at the zipline, picturing herself flying down it.
She scurried to catch up to him. “I’m Breeanne Carlyle. What’s your name?” she asked, striving to be friendly. It was a long shot, but if she got the job, she would be dealing with this guy every day.
“Warwick.”
“Warwick what?”
“Just Warwick.”
“Is it a family name or—”
“I was hatched from an alligator egg. Don’t try to get chummy. I bite.”
She raised both palms. Ooh-kay, this guy cracked hard as a macadamia nut. Got it. But she wasn’t giving up. “What is it that you do for Mr. Blanton, Warwick? Bodyguard? Butler? Chauffeur? Jack-of-all-trades?”
“This ain’t 60 Minutes, lady.” He maneuvered her toward a solid glass enclosure that was bigger than a Gold’s Gym and housed top-of-the-line workout equipment. He shoved the glass door of the glass building open, pushed her inside, and left.
Abandoning her in this foreign environment.
Hard-pumping workout music blasted from the surround sound. The primal beat vibrated the floor and flooded her body with strange sensations. The pulse-revving smell of masculinity in peak physical condition steeped the room. Dazzling sunlight glinted off the glass, bathing the shiny metal in a cathedral of rainbows.
And there he was. His gorgeous bare flesh on blatant display.
Rowdy Blanton.
He wore a pair of black exercise trunks, a high-tech pedometer strapped to his wrist, red and black sneakers, and nothing else. He moved on an elliptical machine, each step a glide of hard muscles and sculpted sinew. His arms pumped the handles as easily as if he were brushing his teeth.
Her girly parts whispering a hallelujah prayer of gratitude, even as every shy bone in her body—all two hundred and six of them—squeaked, Get out of here, but her feet froze to the bamboo flooring, and she couldn’t have moved if gas well fracking had triggered an earthquake underneath her feet.
Not to sound like a gushy teenager or anything, but OMG, stripped of his clothing the guy was hotter than an active lava flow. Her fantasies went wild.
Him. Her. Exotic lotions. Acrobatic sexual position.
Regretfully, he wasn’t alone. Three beautiful women flanked him. A brunette, a blonde and a free spirit whose hair was a shocking shade of electric blue, all of them gazing at him as if he was Hercules, and they his willing concubines.
A fourth woman, a redhead, squatted near a sad-faced bloodhound. Breeanne wasn’t sure, but she thought the woman said, “Come on, Nolan Ryan, you know you want to sit on my shoes. Here boy, sit on my shoes.”
Huh?
It took her a second to realize that the dog was named Nolan Ryan, but obviously, she’d misheard the rest of it, because for the life of her, she couldn’t figure out why the redhead would want the bloodhound to sit on what were clearly expensive designer stilettos.
Breeanne glanced down at her own sensible, discount-store ballet flats, and cringed. What had she been thinking? Dressing like a schlump? She thought she looked professional, but apparently sexy was the order of the day.
Nut bunnies. If she had a do-over, she’d raid Suki’s closet.
“So.” The redhead giggled. “If I don’t get the job, can I apply to be your girlfriend instead?”
These gorgeous women were interviewing to be his ghostwriter as well?
Breeanne’s hopes grabbed the last train to nowhere as her chances of convincing him to give her the job dropped from slim-to-none to absolute zero. She might as well leave now. Except she wasn’t sure she could find her way back to her car without an escort.
“Sorry,” he told the redhead, but he didn’t appear the least bit apologetic. “That position is already filled.”
“You have a girlfriend?” The fre
e spirit’s pierced lip poked out in a pout.
Duh, Blue Hair. Look at the man. Of course he has a girlfriend, probably one in every major city in the country.
“Yes, I do,” he said. “And here she is right now.”
Breeanne turned to see what extraordinary creature must have come into the room behind her, but instead of finding a Gisele Bündchen look-alike, all she saw was her own reflection in the mirrored wall. Mossy green eyes stared at her from behind black-frame glasses. The waistband of her skirt was slightly twisted, and there was a big fat run in the back of her pantyhose. Because yes, her legs were so pale she wore hose, banking on the fact that pantyhose were so far out of fashion they were now officially retro.
The only thing remotely chic about her was the cheetah scarf, which on second viewing did not quite cover the chocolate smear.
What a train wreck! She didn’t have a prayer of getting the job.
She closed her eyes, swallowed her shame. When she opened them, Rowdy was staring directly at her.
Correction. Not staring at her.
He was staring into her. As if he could see exactly what she looked like naked, and was enjoying what he saw. No man had ever looked at her as if she was the choicest cut of beef in the butcher shop.
And she liked it.
Rowdy climbed down off the elliptical machine, pulled a pristine white towel from the handlebars, and sauntered toward her, languidly mopping sweat from his handsome brow. As if on cue, programmed precisely for this moment, “Sexy and I Know It” pulsed from the speakers.
Breeanne’s knees liquefied.
If she were hooked up to an EKG right now she’d bet her last beta-blocker it would show she was throwing premature ventricular contractions like a diner waitress slinging lunchtime hash.
Did the guy keep a defibrillator handy. Because if he was going to strut around like that he damn well should.
Breathe.
Seemed logical. But somehow the advice was easier to give than take. Her lungs barely moved, allowing in only a thin sip of air. It wasn’t enough.
Run.
She couldn’t heed that advice either. Not between her noodle knees and her ice-block feet and her granite resolve to land the job. If she wanted to work for him she had to accept that he was the hottest thing on two legs, and just get over it.