The Catcher and the Lie

by Rita Oberlies

  Dedication

  To Daniel, Timothy and Sean for your love, affection and support. To Nonnie, for being more than just my mother. To Dad, memoria in aeterna.

  Chapter One

  A twinge of conscience hit Abby hard. Fortunately it had the grace to disappear before she coughed up an apology. After all she wasn’t the one who spewed dessert all over an overpriced pair of Italian loafers. The fact that she had dissolved into laughter at the sight of Boston’s latest prince of the paparazzi drenched in buttercream frosting was hardly a punishable crime.

  Biting back a smile, she tried to redeem herself. “I did my best. I couldn’t force Gracie to give back the piece of cake.”

  A pretty shade of pink spread across her cousin’s cheeks. “Okay, did you ever think about just telling Nick that my daughter has trouble holding down certain foods?”

  “Well,” Abby said, “sometimes there is more value in learning difficult lessons through experience.”

  Finally a full smile cracked Bridget’s face. “Cripes, you can be a pill sometimes. Poor Nick looked like he was going to bust a blood vessel.”

  Abby bent down and wiped up the remaining evidence of the earlier mishap. “No doubt his anger was addressed at me and not Gracie.”

  “Of course,” Bridget said, dragging a trash can across the tiled floor. “He’s not stupid.”

  “That’s open to debate.”

  “Ouch. That’s a pretty strong statement about someone you barely know.”

  Hoping to avoid eye contact, Abby squeezed another round of 409 on the already spotless floor. Moving her hand in a slow circular motion, she focused on the tile and not her cousin’s curious expression. The fact was, she didn’t know Nick Valente well. On the few occasions that their paths crossed only a sprinkling of words were exchanged. Just enough to reinforce Abby’s belief that the Bisons’ newest catcher was a walking billboard for all that was wrong with professional sports. It hadn’t helped that he had pegged her as the nanny during their initial encounter at the ball park. Her jeans and mustard-stained T-shirt were not a sufficient excuse to dismiss her as hired help.

  Abby stood, pivoted and dropped a wad of wet paper towels in the trash can. “Well, you always claim I have radar when it comes to losers. I hate to say it, but he takes the cake. No pun intended.”

  Bridget ran her hands down the front of her silk sundress. “Let’s go face the music. Drop the evil smirk and play nice with my guests.”

  Abby rolled her eyes, took a peek at her now-wrinkled skirt, and groaned. “Remind me to skip your next party. Unless the guests are all under four feet tall I’m staying home.”

  Bridget tugged on Abby’s arm, practically dragging her up the stairs. “No can do, my friend. Your satirical commentary and questionable fashion sense make you an A-list guest. Besides I need all the moral support I can get to survive these functions.”

  “Please, you live for these nights. Don’t think I missed your posing for that photographer from the Daily News.”

  A small patch of pink returned to Bridget’s cheeks. “Better to pose than to get caught unprepared. I had to include them tonight or they would have crashed. Everyone wants a picture of the division leading boys. People think this is finally going to be the year.”

  “Heck they could end world poverty with the money they’re throwing at Nick.”

  “Bite your tongue. Kevin is pulling in almost as much, so I can’t exactly complain.”

  Instead of following her cousin’s lead, Abby pivoted away from the patio doors. “I’m going to grab some juice. Maybe check on Gracie.”

  Bridget stopped in her tracks. “Five minutes. If you’re not out here pretending to be an adult I’ll send Kevin in to track you down.”

  Abby raised her fingers to her forehead in a mock salute. Ignoring her cousin’s warning, she enjoyed the last twenty minutes of Dora the Explorer with her favorite four-year-old before returning to the kitchen. Sifting through a stash of beer and soda, she finally snagged a juice box. Popping in the tiny, sharp straw, she never noticed the approach of footsteps just inches behind her.

  “Too much sugar will rot your teeth.”

  The voice was one she recognized. One she had hoped to avoid for the remainder of the night. Pushing the refrigerator door closed, Abby turned slowly. Almond-shaped eyes, crinkled in the corners from too much sunshine, openly mocked her.

  “Thanks for the reminder. Makes me wonder what a healthy dose of regurgitated sugar is going to do to your flashy shoes.”

  Nick laughed. The deep, rich sound took her by surprise. “Don’t fret, blossom. I’ve got more shoes than Imelda. I’m afraid you’ve only been blessed with one pair of those razor-sharp teeth.”

  Abby slid away from the counter in an effort to gain distance. “Call me a risk taker. I need something to keep me awake for a few more hours.”

  Instead of allowing her space, Nick took two large steps in her direction. “Bored by the company? Most chicks would sacrifice their offspring for a chance to mingle with this crowd.”

  It was impossible to ignore the sarcasm. Clearly he was amused by the notion that cavorting with a bunch of overgrown, oversexed athletes was not exactly her idea of a dream evening. Although she wanted to take three steps back, Abby pushed herself closer.

  “Actually, this gal was looking forward to tonight until Mark showed up with Miss Silicone Valley. Do you think it would be tacky if I asked for the name of her plastic surgeon?”

  For a moment Nick looked stunned. He was nothing if not predictable. Mark Dufour was a thirty-five-year-old pitching coach. Blessed with personality. Cursed with rapidly retreating hair follicles. Abby thought he could give Bruce Willis a darn good run for his money. For three years they had enjoyed a special friendship which revolved mostly around her efforts to find the perfect woman for him. He deserved the best and she was determined to deliver the goods. The half-dressed honey on his arm tonight was a definite step in the wrong direction.

  “You really are an odd duck,” Nick said, taking a long pull on his bottle of Coors. His gaze dipped from her face all the way down to her lilac-painted toenails.

  Abby shrugged. “Don’t lose sleep worrying about your egregious lack of manners. Years of therapy have taught me to embrace my fowl nature.”

  “Whoa, didn’t mean to ruffle your feathers, Daffy. Should I put in a good word for you with Mark? Maybe tell him that the bitchiness is just an adverse reaction to too much medication.”

  Line crossed. Abby had been called many things in her life but never bitchy. She worked hard at tempering her smart mouth. An occasional slip, especially with someone as deserving as Nick, shouldn’t count against her. As she mentally counted to twenty in an effort to curb her visceral need to lash back, Abby silently critiqued the man in front of her. Black designer slacks. Grey silk shirt that left too much of his thick arms exposed. Dark eyes probably a perfect match for his soul. Only his hair escaped her mental hatchet. Messy cocoa-colored spikes were just damn sexy in her book.

  “Hard offer to pass up,” Abby purred, laying it on like molasses. “But unfortunately Mark is not your typical jock.”

  Nick’s brows rose in confusion. “Meaning?”

  “His brain exceeds the size of his strap. Convincing him I’m not a shrew might be a really tough sell.”

  “I never said you were a…”

  Before he could finish backpedaling, Abby cut in. “And while you might fancy yourself as being smooth as a Georgia peach, your powers of persuasion might falter with those who know that the term ERA is not some baseball conspiracy trying to attract feminists.”

  The click of heels snapping on tile brought an abrupt halt to their exchange. Tossing her half-empty juice box i
nto a trash bin under the sink, Abby lowered her voice. “Besides I’ve got a plan that involves a big bottle of Jack Daniels and a tiny black thong. Wish me luck!”

  An image of her ass cupped in black silk hit him hard. She’d be a handful. Soft flesh. Sharp tongue. He closed his eyes and forced back the fantasy. Not happening. Not here. Not with her. And that was a damn shame. The only thing worse would be seeing her leave tonight on some lucky bastard’s arm.

  Taking pot shots at her probably wasn’t a smart move. He was out of line tonight and would undoubtedly get his behind chewed by the team captain or worse, his wife, Bridget. If Trista hadn’t tottered into the kitchen in her four-inch heels he would have apologized. The truth, although he wouldn’t share it, was that Abby was closer to a skin irritant than a bitch. Impossible to ignore and frustrating as hell.

  That black thong comment was just wrong. Most of his teammates were healthy, single and horny. From what he observed, Mark was no different when it came to women. Abby was way out of her league. She had wholesome-as-honey stamped all over her.

  Ignoring the predatory gleam in Trista’s eyes, which was embarrassingly easy, Nick headed out the French doors onto the crowded patio. The sight of purple toenails dangling in the water immediately caught his attention. A quick visual sweep of the pool area came up empty. Where the hell was Mark’s date and why was his arm draped around Abby’s waist?

  Hell, she hadn’t been joking. She was actually putting the moves on the pitching coach. Trying to ignore the sound of his own teeth grinding, Nick weighed his options. Watch the little spitfire strike out or pull the plug on her intimate pool party? Knowing he had deliberately pushed her buttons, Nick sliced his way through the crowd.

  Since he hadn’t had the foresight to wear shorts that evening, joining the duo poolside was something of a challenge. Grabbing a nearby chair, he dropped it less than two feet behind Abby’s back.

  “Hey,” Nick said. “Mind if I hang here for a few?”

  Conversation stopped as two heads whipped around. Abby’s face registered annoyance, while Mark looked mildly amused.

  “Still adjusting to the new scenery, Valente?”

  “Heck, yeah. It’s hard to make friends when you’re the new kid in town.”

  Abby snorted. “Maybe if you learned to play nice, you wouldn’t have to eat your lunch all by yourself.”

  Nick leaned forward, resting his powerful arms on the top of his thighs. “Oh, I know how to play nice, cupcake. I’m just real choosy about who I share my slinky with.”

  Mark shot him a heated look, clearly not pleased with the conversational thread. The last thing Nick needed was to get in a pissing match with a senior member of the coaching staff. “What’s your schedule like tomorrow, Mark?”

  “Probably hit the park around eleven. Give me a little time to work with Carpenter before the game.”

  “Can you squeeze me in? I want to run through some film. I noticed a couple of things the last time Bobby pitched and I want to get your thoughts.”

  Mark Dufour was hardcore when it came to his responsibilities. An offer to review film was impossible to turn down. “Plan on meeting in my office at ten. That should give us plenty of time.”

  Nick turned, expecting to see a glazed look on Abby’s face. Few women he knew enjoyed strategy talk, particularly at a social gathering. Instead of disinterest she looked like a panther preparing to pounce.

  “Bobby needs to drop his curve ball with left-handed batters. He’s getting clocked way too frequently.”

  Mark’s arm again settled around Abby’s waist. “Honey, I’m taking your advice under advisement. Bobby knows he needs to work a little harder on that pitch.”

  Nick felt like a hammer had connected with his temple. She was dead on. In his last two starts Bobby had given up double-digit hits that way.

  “Kevin is thinking about banning you from the ball park. Said you’re funneling advice through Bridget so frequently, that he can’t even have a quiet meal at home anymore.”

  Abby slapped her hand down on Mark’s thigh. “Please, he’s just embarrassed. While you guys are sitting around scratching your er…heads, I’m working out the kinks in your starting lineup.”

  Nick’s anger returned in a flash. Abby’s fingers remained curled just above Mark’s knee. Though the contact wasn’t overtly sexual, it was familiar. Too familiar.

  “Where did your date run off to?” Nick wedged his shoes between the pair in front of him. “Usually she sticks like glue.”

  Instead of answering immediately, Mark pierced him with a sharp glare. Obviously he had hit a nerve.

  “Probably needed to check her lipstick or pluck an eyebrow,” Mark said, wrapping his arm around Abby’s shoulder.

  Divine intervention, in the form of Bridget, brought an end to the touching scene. “Hey, Abs, would you mind doing story time tonight? Gracie kicked her dad out, said Kevin skips too many pages.”

  That’s all it took. Without a backward glance, she was off, leaving behind a trail of water and two agitated men. Nick wanted to leave well enough alone but he engaged his mouth seconds before his brain.

  “I’m totally out of line here but I’m going to say it anyway. Abby McCabe wants to get horizontal with you in a bad way.”

  A thick spray of beer spewed from Mark’s mouth. Clearly he hadn’t seen that curve ball coming. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Well, for starters, she wasn’t too happy to see you show up with Candice draped across your chest.”

  A sharp burst of laughter turned dozens of heads. “Damn Nick, you’ve been suckered. Abby can always spot an easy target.”

  It was a rare moment when Nick found himself at a complete loss for words. Mark looked sincere, which left him annoyed and baffled.

  “Abby and I dated a handful of times a couple years back. We didn’t click as more than friends.”

  “Maybe,” Nick countered, “her feelings have changed since then.”

  “Buddy, she’s set me up on three blind dates since the start of the season. Told me this was going to be the year she got it right.”

  Nick’s stomach rolled. She had played him. The fact that he deserved the payback didn’t soothe his ego. The knowing look in Mark’s eyes spoke volumes.

  “Listen, sometimes Abby has a trigger temper. She’s taken me down a notch or two, usually when I deserve it. Let it slide.”

  It was sound advice. Too bad he had no intention of following it.

  Sitting on her tiny porch four hours later, Abby tried to find the peace that had eluded her since the birth canal. Tucking her knees under her faded Fred Flinstone T-shirt, she focused only on the calm summer night. A smattering of fireflies dotted the small patch of grass that passed for a backyard.

  Turning down the offer from Connors and Leahy had been the right decision. Hell, it had been the only decision. Studying law had been a labor of love. Settling down to a career as an attorney would have required a morphine drip. It was her dad’s dream. Not her own. Now that Tim and Sean had followed in Dad’s footsteps, did it really matter if she strayed off the chartered course? Her parents were disappointed with her, but really, that was almost a constant state. She was twenty-nine, single, with dubious income-earning ability. The fact that she was happy in a postage-size two-bedroom cottage was merely salt to their wounds.

  The days of craving their approval had long passed. Teaching literature part time at a local college stimulated her brain, while penning a column for the number one paper in Boston helped put food on her table. It was a good mix. A mix that on most days left her feeling fulfilled.

  Tonight’s party had resurrected dormant feelings that she steadfastly fought down. Since their days in quilted diapers Bridget had been her cheerleader, mentor and closest ally. They had survived braces, boyfriend betrayals and over-achieving families together. The day her cousin found Kevin had been a triumph for both of them. He was proof that great things were within their reach. For Abby it was like ga
ining a third brother, minus the judgmental gene. Jealousy was a dangerous emotion and she was ashamed to admit she felt it tonight. Not that she begrudged her cousin’s good fortune. No, she simply wondered when her time would come, and secretly feared it may have already passed.

  Relationships were a mystery to her. Mark was a perfect case in point. Attractive. Successful. Relatively sane. A lover of children and cholesterol-laden food. In theory the man of her dreams. They lasted four dates.

  Her brain was part of the problem. On those rare occasions that she met someone that sparked a chord she instinctively reverted back to her inner ten-year-old. Of course back then she had aimed a soccer ball at Matt Burke’s unmentionables as a way of catching his attention. Today her weapon of choice was a razor-sharp tongue. Either way, the result was the same. Verbal castration apparently wasn’t the first step toward undying love.

  At least in the case of Nick Valente the outcome was for the best. He was lethal. Nurturing a crush on him was about as intelligent as taking the bar exam to gain favor with your family. Dumb with a healthy dose of desperation.

  She was shallow enough to admit Nick was, aesthetically speaking, one of nature’s finer attractions. Like women all over the city, she openly drooled at the sight of Nick in his form-fitting uniform pants. He made Kevin look lean, which was no small feat. Even her myopic cousin had to wipe spittle from her chin the day he became a member of the Boston Bisons.

  The circumstances that had chased him out of Tampa had been sketchy. But what had leaked to the public hadn’t been good. His professional and personal life had been a mess. The fact that the full story had never emerged was an enormous red flag. Someone, probably Nick, had coughed up a lot of money to keep the gossip at bay. One fact had been indisputable—when he arrived in town five months ago, his estranged wife had been nowhere in sight.

  Maybe sleep would come easy tonight. She was tired, mentally more than physically. Tomorrow wouldn’t help. Saturday had long since lost its charm. Instead of being a day of relaxation it had become a monster day, chock full of obligations. It was more than a small blessing that her parents would be enjoying their beach house over two hours away. At least that was a headache she could avoid. The ball game was another story. Since Kevin spent so much of the season on the road, Bridget religiously attended as many home games as possible. Nine times out of ten Abby sat beside her in the family section. It was a routine they both enjoyed. Unfortunately, some of that pleasure had faded with the arrival of Nick.