by Joanne Rock
Fingers snapping in front of his nose wrenched his thoughts away from Jamie.
“You got your head in the game, Montero?” a voice from the bench piped up as Lance climbed the steps to leave the dugout. “We need this one.”
They were playing the Boston Aces tonight, a rivalry that stretched back to when the league was in its infancy and tickets to a day game cost pocket change. Boston had beaten them out in the playoffs the previous year, but New York had spent big bucks on some rookie talent to improve their chances this year. One of whom just had a base hit with two outs in the bottom of the seventh. The Scrapers were down by two, so the runner on first could be the tying score.
“Is my head in the game?” Lance turned toward the lineup on the bench, staring down his teammates. He normally minded his own business with the other players, but in a youth-dominated sport, sometimes it paid to defend your territory and put the mouthy ones in their place. Narrowing in on the perpetrator, he leveled his bat in the guy’s direction. “Bobcat, you work on that hole in your glove and let the big guns take care of the hits.”
He grinned as he stalked off to the on-deck circle for a few warm up swings, keeping things on friendly footing. Of course, half the team hooted at the taunt while the other half smothered laughs. The right fielder had bobbled one early in the second inning that cost the Scrapers a run, and no doubt big Bob Cacciatore would be stinging from that error all week. But if he couldn’t handle the ribbing, he damn well shouldn’t dish it out.
In the meantime, the hitter walked, advancing the leadoff runner and bringing Lance up to bat. The crowd reaction was predictable—he’d been sent to the All-Star Game for five years straight. But he had die-hard detractors along with his fans. This was New York, after all. No major league city was more notorious for tough fans.
And tonight they seemed louder than ever. Or maybe that was because Boston’s supporters didn’t mind traveling to cheer on their team. Scrapers Stadium sported plenty of Boston blue and red this evening. And as Lance readjusted the Velcro straps on his batting gloves, he noticed a crowd of Boston fans featured on the overhead screen. That in itself wasn’t unusual.
What was out of the ordinary is that the whole row of guys wearing Aces T-shirts also held up paper copies of Jamie McRae’s gorgeous face in front of their own. The jumbotron broadcast ten identical smiling Jamies for the whole stadium to see.
One of the hecklers waved a sign that read “Boston’s Secret Weapon is the Catfight Queen.” The guy next to him flashed a piece of cardboard that said “Jamie McRae—the Ultimate Distraction” next to a cartoon of Lance with eyes the size of dinner plates and a head that looked like a bobble head doll.
Is your head in the game, Lance?
Bobcat’s question suddenly didn’t seem so off base as the noise in the stadium rose to a fever pitch.
Damn. It.
A hundred-mile-an-hour fastball suddenly seemed like the best place for him to take out his frustration. He’d been trying to polish up his womanizer image and he’d inadvertently flirted with a notorious divorcée in front of the whole world. But that was the nature of the media, wasn’t it? One mistake could alter the course of a career.
And the only defense Lance had against the hooting and hollering crowd was to send that fastball into the East River. A simple matter of physics and iron will.
Too bad the first ball got past him.
And the second.
Down in the count, he half regretted talking smack to Bobcat. How could he brag about getting hits when he watched two fastballs sail past him without getting the bat on a square millimeter of it?
Careers were made or broken at moments like this. And it wouldn’t have jack squat to do with a strikeout and everything to do with a sexy songbird who had taken up residence in his head—and in the public eye—at the worst possible time.
Seeing the potential career-defining moment in front of him, Lance realized Jamie McRae wasn’t going away simply because he ignored her. Like it or not, the two of them were forever linked by an unguarded moment caught on film.
Digging in at home plate, Lance tightened his grip on the bat and stared down the hard-ass pitcher with a left arm like a cannon. Lance kept his eye on the ball as it left the guy’s hand and swung for the fences.
When the splitter hit the bat, it wasn’t a crack that would send it to the East River, but Lance knew beyond a doubt it was a hit that would end up in the stands. The solid connection of his time-tested Louisville Slugger on the ball was the kind of beautiful moment a player never forgot. Even on his home field where he’d hit one out plenty of times.
There was magic playing under the lights for seventy-five thousand fans at one of the biggest baseball stadiums in the world. And something about having all those people there to witness it, driving the ball deep into the opposite field against one of the best pitchers in the majors, tattooed this particular three-run homer forever in his mind.
Jogging the bases, Lance noticed the jumbotron had stopped showing the hecklers with Jamie photos, swapping instead to fireworks and all kinds of home run graphics. But he didn’t need to see Jamie with his eyes to see her in his head because—even with a clutch at bat behind him—Lance knew his head had never been in the game tonight. He wouldn’t rest until he’d tracked down Jamie and explored the connection between them—because it wasn’t going away just by ignoring it.
HER PHONE WOULDN’T STOP ringing just because she ignored it.
Jamie knew this from experience since she’d ignored every call she’d received after the latest media maelstrom had blown through her life, aka Lance Montero. But she definitely couldn’t take any calls right now when the source of her latest problems might put in an appearance any moment.
She’d been waiting for him in the players’ parking lot for the last twenty minutes. It was easy enough to get into the area where the home team parked their cars, although there were loads of security guards around to make sure people passing through didn’t touch the sleek, high-end automobiles the athletes favored. A few members of the media milled around the door where the players would exit into the garage, but Jamie had avoided their notice by wearing a false nose she’d purchased for an old Halloween costume. It wasn’t the first time she’d used the fake schnoz. Between the prosthetic, a hat and some sunglasses, she was fairly safe as long as she didn’t mingle.
“Here he comes,” someone shouted near the doors.
An answering rustle of excitement surged through the throng as floodlights clicked on and last-minute audio feeds were tested. Jamie hung back, sticking close to Lance’s car in the hope she could ride out of here with him. As much as she wanted to put the kibosh on the media interest in their nonrelationship, she knew that couldn’t be done without some help from him. And she had a plan to make it happen that would serve them both well.
Still, an unexpected flutter of excitement went through her at the thought of seeing him again and she marveled at the surprising chemistry they’d experienced. Not that she could listen to her instincts when it came to men. Especially powerful men with a foot in the spotlight. She’d been dragged through that wringer before and didn’t plan to go back for seconds, no matter how enticing the baseball player looked in a suit.
The hubbub around the door increased and then she spotted him. Tall and commanding, he dwarfed most of the media members. He had to be all of six foot three, his shoulders easily wedging their way through pedestrian traffic toward the low-slung Viper that one of the security guards had confided belonged to him. The information hadn’t been difficult to come by as the security officer had been all of twenty years old and easily impressed by a suggestive glimpse of thigh.
Jamie could have upped the size of her nose times three and she’d still bet a tight skirt would have yielded information. It was one of those endearing quirks of the male species that they were hardwired to respond to a woman’s legs.
“I can’t right now,” the shortstop star was saying to one of the r
eporters, keeping his responses brief and his feet moving.
“Do you have a date with Jamie McRae?” one of the camera wielders shouted over the din of other questions. “Did you know about her infamous past before you met?”
“How long have you known each other?” someone else asked.
“Did you hit that three-run homer for her tonight?” another pressed.
“The hit was for the team,” he replied, calm and charming in the face of ten microphones aimed for his mouth.
His movement toward the car brought the throng with him like a swarm of bees, the noise level rising with their proximity. Jamie hoped she could find a way to slide into the car without much fuss, but the closer he came, the more difficult it seemed. She’d been proud of herself for slipping her own press. She hadn’t fully prepared for confronting his.
And it was formidable.
Panicked, she sidled closer to the passenger-side door as Lance noticed her. She could tell the instant he spotted her since she felt his eyes on her clear down to her toes like a physical caress. A man’s glance should never have that much power over a woman. But the butterflies in Jamie’s stomach picked up their jittery dance at one look from those melted chocolate eyes of his.
And damned if he didn’t see right past the fake nose, the sunglasses and the hat. The shift in his expression from coolly determined to surprised and curious was as plain as the oversize nose on her face.
At least, she hoped she was reading him correctly.
There might be hell to pay if she jumped into his car uninvited. Not that she hadn’t danced with the devil a time or two in her day.
“Get in,” he ordered, pressing a button on his key remote that sounded a click of the doors unlocking. The engine rumbled to life before he reached the vehicle, a trick of a remote starter.
Hurrying to do as he asked while all eyes in the parking garage turned to her, Jamie slid into the passenger seat and locked herself side. Slumping down in the seat to avoid the sea of camera lenses swinging in her direction, she admired Lance’s easy athleticism and economy of movement as he folded himself into the driver seat. He put the car in Reverse before the door was even shut.
“We meet again,” he observed lightly, flipping down her sun visor to help shield her face from the spectators beginning to recognize her.
“I had no idea you’d be so mobbed after a game or I would have found another way to get in touch with you.”
The garage’s security staff was already moving the crowd to one side, clearly accustomed to protecting the players from this kind of thing.
“You failed to notice what an uproar our first meeting created?” He whipped the car around as soon as he had enough room to maneuver.
Wasting no time, he jammed down on the gas pedal and steered them around to the upper levels where an attendant waved them through to an exit that would put them on the West Side Highway. They were as good as home free.
Jamie pulled off her nose and swiped away the thin film of stage makeup that had held it in place. Depositing it into her bag, she hit the ignore button on her cell phone for the umpteenth time that day.
“Actually, I’ve worked hard not to notice since I’ve had all the bad news I can handle this year.” Tipping her head back onto the seat rest, she allowed herself a moment to enjoy the speed of the luxury sports car, the motor humming with the smooth accent of superb foreign engineering. The scent of leather and a subtle bay rum aftershave soothed her.
The thought triggered a frisson of warning down her neck. How could she feel so calm in the presence of a powerful, moneyed man? Would she ever learn her lesson where these kinds of guys were concerned? Straightening, she shook off the sweet languor and resurrected a few protective barriers.
Well, she did place her oversize purse on the console between them.
“So you avoided the news all day, but you didn’t avoid me.” He turned to flash a quick wink before focusing once again on the road. “I like that.”
Her heart skipped a beat at his easy flirtation. He had a charm that drew her in without making her feel pressured or like he was giving her the hard sell. There was something warm and genuine about the man despite his fame and his millions.
“About that—”
“I wanted to see you again, too.”
Now her heart skipped more than a beat. It seemed to miss a whole sequence, freezing her in place for a moment while she tried to absorb what those words meant. How could such a simple statement carry so much impact?
And how could the city’s favorite son want to hang out with the country’s breast-baring scarlet woman?
“You did?” The vital organ that halted a moment ago now beat with renewed flurry, making her all jittery inside.
She shoved all thought of her plan for containing this mess aside to hear him out.
“Definitely.” He sounded resolved, his jaw locked in a determined jut as she stared at his profile. “I’ll admit it probably doesn’t make sense for either of us on paper. And I’m sorry your split from your ex put you through such a public ordeal. But I couldn’t get you out of my head today and I don’t think ignoring what happened between us is going to make it disappear.”
“It was nothing,” she insisted, more to herself than him. She’d replayed the handful of words exchanged in an everyday, ordinary conversation at the coffeehouse many times and couldn’t come up with any quantifiable reason she should be so attracted to Lance. “We didn’t even say anything marginally intelligent to one another. We just stared and ogled like a couple of teenagers, right?”
Although, she had to admit, that had been kind of nice. For months, guys had made lewd comments about the catfight. Even guys she’d known and had thought would be above making inappropriate comments had disappointed her, framing icky remarks in the context of a “joke.” It’d been a long time since a guy made her feel sweetly self-conscious the way Lance had today. For a few moments he’d had her wishing she could spend hours hanging out with him. Getting to know every little thing about him.
“You waited by my car in a fake nose to tell me what happened didn’t mean anything?” He peered into the rearview mirror and then changed lanes quickly, surprising her with a fast exit off the highway.
“I had a good reason for that.” She turned to look behind them and saw a second car swerve onto the exit ramp and nearly hit a city garbage truck. “Has that guy been following us?”
“Ever since the parking garage.” Lance navigated the city streets with the ease of a native, finding his way east toward midtown around buses and pedestrians. “I’m taking you to my place so we can talk in private.”
The words hung in the air between them like a dare, challenging her to contradict him. How could she get involved with another powerful man whose career would overshadow the fledgling singing venture she’d sidelined for too long even before her divorce?
Worse, how could she allow her crappy claim to fame taint his image and draw all kinds of negative press his way?
“Maybe we should use a run-in with the media to our advantage,” she suggested, knowing she’d never be able to articulate her plan once she was alone with him in his apartment. She’d already been dazzled speechless by him once today.
“How so?” He took a sharp left into the tunnel for an underground parking garage, casting them in darkness even though it wasn’t quite time for the sun to set yet.
Casting a spell of intimacy in the car that she wasn’t ready to feel.
Taking a deep breath, she blurted her idea before she fell captive to the potent attraction between them all over again.
“We need to stage a public breakup.”
3
“ISN’T IT A LITTLE PREMATURE for a breakup?” Lance steered the car into his parking spot in the subterranean garage and shut off the engine. “We haven’t even been to first base yet.”
Pocketing the keys, he turned to face her across the shadowy interior. She was incredibly sexy in a short cotton tank dress with
a jean jacket thrown over her shoulders. A series of silver pins around the collar glittered even in the darkness, the metal reflecting a light from nearby. She twisted the handle of her leather purse strap between her fingers, her edgy nervousness surprising him. Her reputation painted her as a mouthy rebel. But right now, he never would have guessed she was the same woman who had plowed through the press with an umbrella earlier today.
“And I think it would be better for us if we forgot about first base and um—struck out instead.”
“If you had any idea what my on-base percentage is this season, you’d see how unlikely that is.” He’d had an epiphany tonight while he was launching that ball into the upper deck. He’d been in the game too long to play it safe. He was at a stage of his career—and his life—where he needed to swing for the fences.
Trying to run his life according to what the fans wanted wasn’t going to fly. With his kind of fame, the media could always find something to make him look like the bad guy. He might as well live life to the fullest and hope his good deeds would help show the world he wasn’t some shallow playboy racking up the millions for his own gratification.
Now he just hoped he could make Jamie see why that was a better plan. Sure he cared about his career—recognition like going to the All-Star Game and winning a Gold Glove was important. But he’d been playing long enough to know you couldn’t live your personal life according to popular opinion. If his fans didn’t approve of him dating a controversial socialite, he’d just hope he could provide them with game stats too valuable for the Scrapers to trade him away.
“I’m serious.” Her voice turned husky as she pressed the point and something about the smoky quality of it tripped down his spine like a lover’s caress. “If we have some kind of public tiff where the media can catch it on film, we can do fast damage control. By the end of the week, we’ll be a nonitem as far as the press is concerned.”