Back in the Game

by Lori Wilde

  Soldier on.

  Breeanne studied the bottle. Opening it seemed pretty clear-cut, but she didn’t want to make a mistake, so she Googled “how to open a bottle of champagne.”

  Google took her to an article on WikiHow, and yes, uncorking champagne—aka sparkling wine when it wasn’t from Champagne, France—was as straightforward as it looked. But the article did come with the dire warning: Don’t put your eye out. Causing her to wonder exactly how many people had put out an eye with a champagne cork?

  Gingerly, she followed the directions in the Web site article, and was rewarded with a soft, gentle pop. The cork landed elegantly in the middle of the comforter. Would you look at that? She was no longer a virgin at opening champagne bottles. Hopefully, her next virginity-busting move would be equally as satisfying.

  Except it was eight o’clock and Rowdy still wasn’t home.

  What if he’d changed his mind and decided to stay in Dallas? What if he and Zach had made contact and were bonding with a night on the town? What if he’d hooked up with a woman?

  What if, what if, what if.

  To keep from wigging out completely, she poured a glass of the Prosecco, and took a sip. The bubbles tickled her nose. The lightly, sweet, fruity taste reminded her of the Moonglow pears that grew on the backyard trees at Timeless Treasures.

  Idly, Breeanne picked up a chocolate-covered strawberry. By eight-thirty, she’d eaten three chocolate-covered strawberries, drank the glass of Prosecco, and poured another. “I Threw a Seduction and Nobody Came,” she said to her reflection in the mirror. “That’ll be the name of my autobiography.”

  Not that anyone would publish her autobiography because she hadn’t done a damn thing with her life except not die.

  “Ha,” she said, and raised the glass of sparkling wine to her reflection. “Take that, birth mom. I didn’t die. Ppptttt.”

  She hiccupped, pasted a palm against her mouth. “Oops.”

  Narrowing her eyes, she glared at her reflection. “What’s that? I need to get past not dying and start living? Well, I gave it a shot and you see how this is turning out.” She flung her arm wide and wine sloshed from her glass, splattered the rug.

  Oh crap. At least it wasn’t red wine.

  Headlights cut across the window, the sound of a vehicle engine motoring up the drive.

  Rowdy! He was here! He was here!

  What to do? What to do?

  Okay, okay, she could handle this. She wrung her hands and her pulse took off like she was running the Kentucky Derby in high heels. She downed the remaining Prosecco, parked the glass beside the ice bucket, rearranged the remaining strawberries so they didn’t look so sparse, dove onto the bed, and struck what she hoped was a sexy, come-hither pose.

  That’s when she glanced down and saw a big blob of chocolate had fallen off the strawberry, fallen the middle of her bustier and started melting.

  Seriously? You gotta be freakin’ kidding me!

  Rowdy couldn’t wait to get home, see Nolan Ryan, and slide into his own bed.

  In Dallas, he’d called Zach repeatedly and kept getting his voice mail. He called the three guys on the team who were still talking to him, a lot of them were still mad that he’d staged the walkout, and one of them told him where Zach was living. He’d driven to the condo and spent the night in his car, but his brother had never shown up. On Saturday, he’d hooked up with old friends who told him tales of Zach’s wild partying behavior. The friends insisted on taking him to dinner, but the entire time he kept sneaking glances at his watch, anxious to get back to Stardust.

  When had he become such a homebody? Before he was sidelined, on the nights he wasn’t working, he was either out on the town or throwing parties. Now, that lifestyle held the shine of an old boot.

  Instead, he wanted to hang out with Breeanne and talk baseball for hours and cook her spaghetti carbonara.

  And that scared him. A lot. He didn’t know who this new Rowdy was. Or what world he fit in.

  He pulled into the driveway and spied Breeanne’s Sentra. A helpless smile spread across his face. She was here checking on Nolan Ryan.

  He hurried into the house, eager to see her and tell her what had transpired in Dallas, but the house was dark and quiet. Nolan Ryan greeted him at the door. He flicked on the light, and squatted to hug his dog.

  And heard the distant sound of music drifting down from upstairs. Curious as to what Breeanne was up to, he followed the music to his bedroom.

  The door was open a crack.

  He smelled vanilla and cinnamon, identified the song. “Between the Sheets” by the Isley Brothers. A strange feeling grabbed hold of him. One part anticipation, one part dread, one part . . . What was that other part?

  He toed the door open wider.

  Candles flickered shadows on the wall, illuminating Breeanne in a soft glow as she lay stretched out across his bed, elbow bent, propped up her left side, palm cradling her cheek. A bottle of sparkling wine was open with two glasses sitting beside it. One of the glasses had a quarter inch of wine in the bottom.

  Her sexily tousled hair tumbled about her shoulders. Her slim right arm rested down the curve of her hip. She would look as adorable as a basket of calico kittens if it were not for what she was wearing.

  A tight black bustier tucked her in and pushed her up, amplified her meager cleavage. A tiny triangle of cheetah panties invited him to stare at the sweet V of her thighs. A lace cheetah garter belt held up black fishnet stockings, and call-girl-high cheetah peep-toe stilettos clad her feet.

  Holy Frederick’s of Hollywood.

  Someone must have given her makeup techniques because she’d taken off her glasses and mastered the smoky-eyed look of a French cabaret singer. “La Vie en Rose” replaced the Isley Brothers on the playlist. The sight of her shiny red lips filled his mouth with the taste of candied apple and sent molten steel shooting straight to his dick.

  Va-va-va-voom-vamp-vixen.

  She flicked out the tip of her pink wet tongue and slowly licked her lips.

  His pulse slammed in his windpipe. His chest ached. His legs quivered. The room shrank. Walls closed in. Ceiling dropped. Floor lifted.

  Aw shit, aw damn, aw hell.

  “I need you,” she whispered.

  His head buzzed. The hairs on his arms stood up. His nerve endings burned electric, pitching hot tingles up and down his body. It was all he could do not to crawl right up on that bed with her and do what both Breeanne and nature were begging him to do.

  Don’t!

  She was a virgin, and while she might not believe it, he was the last thing she needed.

  “What you need,” he drawled, calling on every ounce of willpower he possessed, “is a cold shower.”

  A flash of uncertainty crossed her face, but her smile hardened in place and she patted the quilt beside her. “Let’s get dirty first, then we can take one together.”

  “As invitin’ as that offer is, I’m afraid I’m gonna have to decline.”

  Her bottom lip trembled slightly, that plucky smile losing its starch. “You’re not attracted to me?”

  Rowdy stepped over to the dresser, picked up the baseball sitting there. The first baseball he’d ever thrown in a major league game tossed it into the air, snagged it, tossed it again, higher this time, stepped forward, and caught it behind his back.

  “I know I’m not all that pretty, but I thought this getup would help.” She sat up, swept a hand at her outfit while at the same time grabbing for one of the king-sized pillows to hold in front of her.

  “Are you nuts? You’re gorgeous.” He kept tossing the ball, catching it, concentrating hard to keep from saying, “Screw it all,” and sweeping her into his arms.

  “I am?”

  “Not in an obvious way, but dammit, Breezy, from the moment I saw you across Irene Henderson’s lawn, I wanted you.”

  Her throat moved as she gulped. She was hugging the pillow, knees to her chest, and unwittingly giving him a luscious view of the se
ction of sweet flesh where her upper thigh melded into her butt cheek.

  “Really?” she whispered.

  “Hell’s bells, woman, can’t you see what you do to me?” He glanced down.

  Her gaze tracked below his waist, and underneath the overdone makeup, he could see her blush.

  “I can’t stop thinking about you. The smell of you is all over my house,” he said. “Every time I turn a corner I get a whiff of springtime, fresh and green, mixed with the scent of old books. A sweet, woodsy library smell that makes me want to read. I go around the house sniffing things you’ve touched.”

  “You do?”

  “When we’re working, I steal sideways glances to keep from outright ogling and when you’re not around . . .”

  Her lips parted, and in a husky, Marilyn Monroe whisper, she said, “What?”

  He shrugged, and looked down again at the bulge straining his zipper.

  “Oh,” she said, her eyes widening. “Oh. You—”

  “Yeah.” He nodded. “I do.”

  “Well.” Her shoulders straightened. “Now you don’t have to go it alone. I’m right here in front of you.”

  “I can see that.” He raked his gaze over her. She dropped the pillow to her lap and her breasts were moving up and down in that tight little bustier every time she breathed. “But this ain’t happenin’.”

  She fixed her eyes on his. “Why not?”

  He held her stare, tossed the baseball from palm to palm now instead of up and down. Smacking it against his skin. Back and forth, harder, faster, building an escalating rhythm. “You’re my ghostwriter. You know too much about me.”

  “Ah, you’re afraid I’ll spill your deep, dark secrets.”

  She didn’t know his deep dark secrets, but he wasn’t going to bring that up. “I don’t do long-term. Not romantically. Not deeply. Not for the long haul, and you’re a long-haul kind of woman.”

  She slipped her legs off the bed, stood up. The pillow fell to the floor. He tried not to stare. Failed.

  “You’re assuming,” she said. “And that makes an ass out of you and me.”

  “Look, if I take your virginity you’ll imprint with me like a baby duck. I can’t have you following me around all starry-eyed and moony.”

  “That’s pretty egotistical of you. Thinking you’re so irresistible that I’d lose my head over sleeping with you.”

  “Hey, it’s happened before.”

  “It must be such a burden carrying around the weight of your ego.”

  “I just don’t want you to get hurt.”

  “Because you care so much about me?”

  “I like you. You’re fun to be with.”

  “So what’s the problem?” She came toward him, acting bold, but he saw that her hand was trembling.

  “Your first time should be with someone you’re in love with.”

  “Were you in love with the woman who took your virginity?” She took another step.

  He couldn’t stop tossing the damn baseball. Smack. Smack. Smack. “No.”

  “Then why do you think I have to be?”

  “It’s different. You’re a woman.”

  “The old double standard, huh?”

  “Women are different. Sex means something to women.”

  “And it doesn’t mean anything to men?”

  “Sex means sex. Love is love. You can have sex without love and love without sex.”

  “And you don’t think I understand that?”

  “I don’t know if a virgin can separate the two.”

  “Why don’t you let this virgin decide for herself?” She was toe to toe with him now and almost eye to eye in those stilettos.

  “You deserve better. I don’t want to use you.”

  She rolled her eyes. “If you start singing ‘Baby, Don’t Get Hooked on Me,’ I’m seriously going to belt you.”

  “I’m not much of a singer.”

  “Good thing.” She touched his arm.

  He dropped the ball. It hit the floor with a thump and rolled under the bed.

  They stared into each other’s eyes, breathed the same air so charged with sexual tension it smelled like ozone.

  She plastered her palm against his chest.

  He was struck by her bravery, and that was the only thing that kept him from walking away.

  “I don’t want love from you,” she said.

  He gulped. Twice. “You’re sure?”

  “I want action and excitement. I want to know what I’ve been missing, and from all the stories you’ve been telling me, I know you’re the man for the job.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “You’re repeating yourself.”

  “I know.”

  “I want my first time to be wild and crazy and uninhibited. When you’re in love, you’re too busy worrying about the other person. I don’t want to have to worry about what you want or feel or think. I just want you to make me feel good.” She slipped her arms around his neck, leaned in close. “Got it?”

  When had his sweet kitten turned into a tiger? Her plan sounded perfect. Right up his alley. Why did it feel so wrong?

  “I want you to teach me how to have mind-blowing sex. There’s only so much you can learn from a book. I’m ready for a hands-on—and I do mean hands-on—tutor.”

  He shook his head. “I’m no teacher.”

  “But you are a good lover.” She pressed her lips to his, wriggled her hot little body against him.

  She smelled of chocolate-covered strawberries and wine. Ah, she was tipsy. That explained why she was so ballsy. Not that he minded. Normally, he would approve of a woman who asked for what she needed, but not her. Not now.

  Her eyes held a bright sheen and she was wobbly on those heels that made her legs look like those of a runway model. He ached to taste those tipsy lips, taste the wine on her tongue. He groaned. Even the strongest man had his breaking point, and Rowdy did not usually deny himself pleasures of the flesh. But if he kissed her now, he was done for.

  Gently, he unhooked her arms from around his neck. “Look,” he said, desperately searching for something to throw her off. “You might enjoy yourself, but what about me? Novices aren’t much fun.”

  Her breathing stilled. The uncertainty returned to her eyes and he felt like a shitheel.

  “But . . . but . . . I want you.”

  “The Rolling Stones said it best. You can’t always get what you want, sweetheart.”

  Her eyebrows dipped into a frown and her body stiffened. “Dammit, it’s not fair.” She swatted his shoulder. “I’ve been waiting twenty-five years to have sex and I’m alone in a big fancy house with a sizzling hot major league baseball pitcher with a playboy reputation. I’m dressed in sexy cheetah print, your favorite, and I’m not interested in a long-term relationship and I still can’t get laid? What’s wrong with me?”

  “There’s nothing wrong with you.”

  “Then do me!”

  “Breeanne, I can’t.”

  “Bullshit.” She dropped to the floor, tears smearing the smoky-eyed makeup she’d spent so much time on.

  It killed him to see her so torn up. “Are you okay?”

  She folded her arms over her chest, and started up at him with raccoon eyes. “Admit the truth. You don’t want me. I’m too skinny, and scarred and I’m not pretty enough for you. That’s it, isn’t it?”

  He reached down a hand to help her to her feet. “Bullshit. You’re perfect.”

  “You don’t have to lie. I know what I look like.”

  “You wanna know the real truth?” he growled.

  Gingerly, she placed her palm in his hand and allowed him to tug her up, her stare distrustful. “Yes.”

  “Your passion scares the hell out of me.”

  CHAPTER 19

  Things could be worse. Suppose your errors

  were counted and published every day,

  like those of a baseball player.

  —AUTHOR UNKNOWN

  “It does?” That bright
ened her for a moment.

  “Scares the pants right off of me.”

  “Oh goody. I’ll help you get out of them.” She reached up for his waistband.

  He hopped back.

  “If the biggest womanizer in the world won’t have sex with me, who will?” she wailed. “Who will?”

  “First of all, I’m not the biggest womanizer in the world.”

  “Yes you are. I’m your autobiographer. I should know.”

  “I might have overexaggerated my number a tiny bit.” He measured off an inch with his thumb and forefinger.

  “How much?”

  “Sixty percent.”

  He could see her doing the math in her head. “That’s still a lot,” she said.

  “I’ve had a good time, okay. But I’m not a heartbreaker. I don’t go around breaking hearts.”

  “Aha!” she said, raising an index finger. “Caught you in a bald-faced lie.”

  “What?”

  “You said sex means something to women. If sex means something to women, then you were breaking those women’s hearts. Ergo you’re a liar.”

  “Ergo?”

  “It’s a word, look it up.”

  “The women I’ve been with know it’s just fun. I make that clear up front. Just like I have with you.”

  “That’s all I want. Fun. A good time. Why does everyone get to have fun except me?”

  “You wanna have fun?”

  “Yes! That’s what I’ve been saying all along. Do me!” She started undoing the stays of her bustier, but her fingers got tangled in the laces and she hiccupped.

  “How long were you waiting for me?”

  “Dunno. An hour? Maybe longer.”

  “And how much wine did you have?”

  “I’m not the least bit drunk if that’s what you’re insin . . . insin . . .” She hiccupped again, slapped a palm over her mouth.

  “You’re tipsy. You wouldn’t be doing this if you weren’t at least a little tipsy.”

  “Like you know me so well.”

  “I’ve spent as much time with you as you have with me.”

  “Yes, but you’re always doing all the talking.” She was inching her back up the wall, her boobs jiggling beneath the loose ribbons of those stays.

  He couldn’t stop staring. He wanted her so damn badly. His body was harder than it had ever been, and yes, that was counting his super horny teenage years.