“To the pool shark,” Mace toasted

He clinked his beer bottle with Becka’s. “You’re definitely a better player than I am, but I usually don’t stink as badly as this. I think I need a goal.” He glanced at the table. “I think we ought to bet on the next game.”

“I don’t play for money, Duvall.”

“No money. Something better.” He set his bottle down and traced a finger along her jawbone. “You win, the evening’s over and I never bother you again…. I win, we go to bed.”

She opened her mouth with the intention of telling him to go to hell, but stopped before the words got out. It was the perfect setup, she realized. He was offering her a chance to reel him in, to get him turned on and, thinking he had her, then take the game from him and show him who was really in control. “I think that’s a bet I can live with.”

Mace walked behind her, sliding a slow hand down her hip, and she jolted. He leaned over the table with his pool cue, looking sexy and a little bit dangerous, yet more than capable of taking this game, of taking her.

Uh-oh. “Wait,” she blurted, just as the cue ball cracked into the colored balls, scattering them around the table.

Damn. Too late.

Dear Reader,

The minute Becka Landon swaggered onto the scene in My Sexiest Mistake, I knew she deserved a book of her own. Fortunately, my editor agreed, and the result is Scoring, the first book in my UNDER THE COVERS miniseries. I’ve always been fascinated by spin-off characters, enjoying the way they unfold as they move from their initial introduction through to a story that focuses just on them. The UNDER THE COVERS miniseries isn’t anything as obvious as a family saga. As you read Scoring, As Bad As Can Be (May) and Slippery When Wet (July), your challenge is going to be figuring out which secondary character in each book will become the hero or heroine of the next.

For now, though, just sit back and enjoy as Becka strikes sparks with hunky Mace Duvall, ex-baseball heartthrob. Be sure to drop me a line at kristinhardy@earthlink.net and tell me what you think. Or drop by my Web site at www.kristinhardy.com for contests, e-mail threads between characters in my books, recipes and updates on my latest book.

Have fun,

Kristin Hardy

Scoring
Kristin Hardy

To Shannon Short for a great critique,

to Teresa Brown for being generally wonderful,

and

to Stephen,

luz de mi vida,

for everything.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

1

“GOD, I LOVE IT when you have your hands on me.” The husky words broke the stillness of the room.

Becka Landon slid her fingers over the muscled back of the half-naked man lying in front of her, the warm oil slick under her palms. Skin slipped against skin as her breath came faster, a faint dew of moisture forming on her flushed face. The scent of the oil wove its way into her senses, the warmth of his body heated hers. She caught her lower lip between her teeth in concentration.

“I don’t want to share you,” he groaned. “Let’s just run away, you and me.”

Becka’s mouth curved. “Sammy, you try running away with anyone and your wife will track you down and brain you with a frying pan.” She slapped him smartly on the shoulder. “Off the table, coach. Time to go teach these kids to play baseball.”

Sammy Albonado, manager for the Lowell Weavers minor league baseball team, sat up and ran his fingers through his grizzled hair. Years of crouching behind the plate as a major league catcher had given him dickey knees and chronic bursitis in his shoulder. Only Becka’s skilled hands could banish the aches on those days when the arthritis gnawed at him. “You got yourself a great touch, kid. I’m gonna have you teach my wife.”

“I don’t know.” Becka put her hands on her hips and gave him a sassy look from under the bangs of her red hair. “If I were you, I’d be a little nervous about bringing Essie in. I might have to tell her you’re threatening to run off on her unless you make it worth my while.”

“Aw, you know I was just joking.” When she only looked at him, he slumped his shoulders in defeat. “What do you want?”

“New hoses for the whirlpool.”

“That’s a hundred bucks. I’ll have to fill out a req.”

“You’re the one asking me to keep a secret, Sammy,” she reminded him, fighting a smile. “I’m only here as long as Ron’s out with his carpal tunnel problem, and who knows how long that will be. I’ve got to do what I can to get this place in shape before I leave.”

“You’re not goin’ anywhere,” he insisted. “Whether Ron comes back this season or not, I’m gonna find a way to keep you on. Even if you do push me around.”

Hope ballooned up inside her before she could hold it down. “I don’t push you around, Sammy, I just…encourage you. But it’s all for the sake of the team.” She gave him an impudent grin and shoved her hands into the pockets of her khaki walking shorts, trying to ignore the leap of excitement. She knew that keeping her spot as team trainer was a long shot. It didn’t do to count on things that might not happen.

Sammy walked out of the clubhouse and into the shadowed space underneath the grandstand, following the sloping walkway that led to the field. A couple of players skidded up from the parking lot in street clothes.

“Hey, Sammy, is it true?”

“What? You should be dressed and on the field stretching, not bugging me,” he barked in the gruff tone he imagined gave him authority. “It’s almost time for practice. In my day we cared enough to be early.”

“But is it true?” asked Paul Morelli, the tough, good-looking catcher with the makings of major league talent.

“Is what true?” Sammy’s voice rose. “Is it true that all of ya are gonna be out on the field in fifteen minutes or I’m handing out fines? You’d better believe it.”

“No, for real, we heard that Mace Duvall is coming as a batting instructor.”

Sammy took his time hitching up his trousers and adjusting his cap, then nodded. “Yep, he’ll be the batting instructor all week, and he’ll go on the road with us.” His look turned to a glower. “But unless you guys get changed and out on that field in ten minutes, you ain’t never gonna meet him.”

“You just shaved five minutes off the time, Skipper,” protested Sal Lopes, the team’s center fielder.

“That’s nothin’ compared to what I’m gonna shave off you if you don’t get your butts out on that field,” Sammy thundered, and the players scattered toward the clubhouse.

BECKA STRETCHED a new cover over the massage table, idly listening to the chatter of the players as they dressed for practice. When she’d first joined, a few of them had tried to put the moves on her, but she’d laughed them off. Becka had been around locker rooms most of her life, whether competing or assisting the coaches, and locker rooms frequently contained half-naked, testosterone-laden men who found it hard to believe that a lush-mouthed redhead like Becka could resist their charms.

Over the years, she’d gotten very good at doing just that.

The buzz of a locker room energized her, and okay, so she’d gotten an eyeful once or twice. Admittedly, it was sometimes…entertaining, especially when her social life was almost nonexistent. Still, it didn’t throw her off her stride. She’d perfected a slightly bored matter-of-factness that made her one of the boys, even though she was all female. And maybe to their own surprise, the Lowell players found themselves treating her like a bossy older sister rather than date bait.

“Look it up in the book. I’m telling you, he had a .360 career batting average.” That was DeWalt Jefferson, aka Stats, resident baseball trivia fiend. “Why do you think they called him Mace? He was like tear gas, left all the pitchers weeping.”

“You’re full of it,” Morelli’s voice came back. “That’s almost as high as Ted Williams. Next you’re going to be telling me his season high was .400.”

“.383,” Stats said triumphantly.

“That’s a line of bull.”

Becka glanced idly out the door of the training room and into the locker area.

“Hey, if Stats says that’s the number, that’s the number,” Chico Watson, the team’s burly first baseman, broke in. Twenty-three and married, Watson was the elder statesman of the team.

“Man oh man, what I’d give to bat like that in the big leagues,” said Sal Lopes, dreamily pulling on his jersey.

“Me, I’d settle for having his batting average with the ladies,” Morelli grinned as he leaned down to tie his shoes.

“Who’s this?”

Four heads whipped around to stare at Becka before they went back to dressing. “Mace Duvall.”

Even Becka had heard about Mace Duvall, seen his caramel-blond good looks as he’d escorted actresses and models to swanky benefits and premieres. He’d also escorted them to his bed, if the media was to be believed. There was something else about him that nibbled at the edge of her memory, something she couldn’t quite dredge up.

“He retired or something, didn’t he?”

“He got retired, more like it.” Morelli stood and gathered up his catcher’s gear, tucking his leg guards under his arm. “Car accident. A big rig took him out. He’s lucky to be alive.”

LUCKY WAS HARDLY the way the man in the Bronco would have put it. Mason Duvall pulled into the parking lot at Lowell’s LeChere stadium and turned off his truck, listening to the ticks of the cooling engine. Lucky would have been knowing he was going to be back on the diamond. Lucky wasn’t losing the only thing that he’d ever wanted to do with his life.

He climbed out of the truck, frowning at the stiffness in his back and leg and then ignoring it as he habitually did. To favor it was to give in to it, to say that the accident had won.

The accident had already won too much.

He absently tucked his gray T-shirt more securely into the back of his worn jeans, the faded material stretching over his lean, hard-muscled frame. During the long months of rehab, the Florida sun had streaked his light hair with tones of bronze and gold. It curled thickly down over his collar. Back in his playing days he’d kept it trimmed short for convenience. Now, he only bothered to have it cut when it hung down in his whiskey-gold eyes or tickled his neck enough to distract him.

A slight limp marred his loose, athletic walk, a limp that faded as he crossed the street to the back fence of the minor league park. He leaned on the wall and stared at the diamond. It exerted an almost irresistible pull, beckoning him to vault the fence and join the game. Instead, he watched the players complete their fielding drills. They looked like a litter of young puppies, still loose and joyfully gawky, their playing infused more with raw talent than finesse. And now he, of all people, was supposed to come here and show them how it was done.

Once, his job had been to slam balls out of the park like artillery shells, to field anything hit within fifty feet of him, to help propel his team to the playoffs half a dozen times in a single decade. That had been before a trucker long past his legally mandated sleep period had lost control of his tractor-trailer and taken Mace off the road. Before the weeks in ICU and the surgeries, the months of rest.

Before the news that he was never going to play baseball in the major leagues again.

Baseball had been all he’d ever wanted, all he’d dreamed about ever since he’d been a kid. He’d been one of the chosen handful that had had the skill, talent, and drive to live that dream. And indeed, baseball had been his life. When he hadn’t been playing, he’d been working out. When he hadn’t been working out, he’d been watching game tapes. When he hadn’t been doing either, he’d kept the media entertained.

Now, there was a giant hole where baseball had been, so Stan Angelo, his onetime teammate and self-appointed savior, had bullied him, or conned him, rather, into trying out as a roving instructor.

“Just one season, Duvall,” Angelo had said as they’d shot pool in Mace’s half-finished Florida home a month before. “I’m telling you, you’ll like it a hell of a lot better than laying around here bored out of your mind.”

“I’m not bored out of my mind. I’m building a house, I’m working out. I’m fishing.” Mace watched as Stan put a shot wide and cursed. Studiously careful not to smirk at his friend’s mishap, he leaned over the table and stroked a ball in smoothly. “I’m enjoying my life instead of hopping on a plane every other week for nine months out of the year. Just because running around the country working for the organization works for you doesn’t mean it’ll work for me.”

“I doubt it will.” Stan put one in, but missed the next.

“And you’re right,” Mace said too quickly.

“That’s why I’m telling you about the roving instructor spot,” Stan continued, unperturbed. “I talked with the organization about you and they want to give you a try.” His ball bounced too hard off the rails and missed the pocket.

“Yeah, well, thanks but no thanks.” Mace shot smoothly and put the seven ball in the corner pocket and set up for the next shot. “I’d rather just stay here and work on my pool game. Yours could use some work, too, by the way.”

“Hey, I’ve been on the road,” Stan said mildly, watching Mace sink the eight ball. He began pulling balls out of a corner pocket and stacking them into the triangular rack. “Okay, let’s make it a bet. You win the next game, I never mention it again.”

Mace snorted and took a swig of his beer. “The way you’ve been playing, we can just save ourselves the time and agree to stop talking about it.”

“Humor me.” Stan pulled the rack off the balls and gestured to the triangle of color. “I win, you take the roving instructor job for a season.” He chalked the end of his cue and walked to the other end of the table. “So maybe you can’t play. You can still teach. Better than sitting around here all season driving yourself crazy.”

“I’m doing fine.”

“I suppose being here gives you a lot of time to practice your pool,” Stan said placidly.

“Shut up and break.”

“Oh no, I’m the one who set up the bet. You first.”

“Break,” Mace snarled.

“Okay, okay.” Stan leaned over the table, stroked the cue a few times to get the feel, and slammed the cue ball into the balls, sinking two immediately and scattering the rest across the table. “I guess that makes me stripes,” he said, stepping around the table to sink two more colored balls in quick succession with machine-like strokes.

Mace’s eyes narrowed. “Tell me I didn’t just get hustled.”

“A bet’s a bet, Duvall,” Stan said with relish as he sighted along his cue and sank another ball in the corner pocket. “You’re not a carpenter, for Christ’s sake. Or a fisherman. You belong in a ballpark, and you know it.” He put another ball in the pocket. “Try the roving instructor gig. Maybe you’ll like it.” His bank shot put in the last ball.

“Maybe I’ll stop inviting pool hustlers to my house.”

Stan squinted down his cue at the eight ball. “Maybe you’ll invite me to the clubhouse the first year you’re managing in the World Series.” He slammed the ball into the pocket and straightened up with a guileless grin. “Looks like I win.”

Too bad he wasn’t better at sniffing out pool sharks, Mace thought, as he stood leaning on the Lowell ballpark fence and shaking his head.

He’d promised Stan he’d try the job, which as far as he was concerned meant showing up for a couple of days. They’d only taken him on as a favor to Stan anyway.

Mace pushed off from the fence and walked away. If he’d learned one thing in the past year, it was that reality could purely knock the hell out of any plans he might cook up for the future. He was through with doing what he was supposed to do in pursuit of some long-term goal. Nope, from now on, he was going to take life day by day. He’d do what he felt like now instead of constantly focusing on tomorrow. Starting today he was going to live the good life.

BECKA SAT in the dugout watching the players. “You know he won the Gold Glove three times in a row?” Stats asked Morelli before walking past him to take his position at first base, ready to run the minute the hitting coach at the plate slammed a ball into the outfield.

Becka rolled her eyes. She knew without asking that the “he” in question was Mace Duvall. In the past two hours she’d learned enough about the training regimen, lifestyle, achievements, batting stance, favorite shoes, and hobbies of baseball’s number one playboy to last her a lifetime. God help her, she even knew the recipe for his favorite protein shake.

“Sammy says he’s going to stay in the dorms with us,” Morelli said, watching Stats get thrown out at second. “I got an empty room next to me.” Most of the Lowell players didn’t bother to get their own apartments. They just took rooms at the University of Massachusetts dormitories that stood across the street from the stadium, which were empty during the summer break. Management encouraged it; it was easier to keep an eye on young players when they were nearby.

“You better not take all his time, Morelli, ya motor-mouth,” Chico threw back as he stepped out of the dugout. “Give the rest of us a chance.”

Next, they were going to start arm wrestling over who got to have the locker next to “him,” Becka thought exasperatedly as Sal Lopes moved into position at first and got prepared to run. They might have been old enough to vote, most of them, but they were all as starstruck by the great Mace Duvall as any Little Leaguers would be.

Becka watched the hitting coach knock a ball into the outfield, with Sal Lopes rounding second and heading for third in a feet-first slide. She couldn’t have said whether it was luck or premonition that had her watching Sal intently as he slid into the base, but she saw the exact moment his ankle folded against the bag at an angle that made her cringe. In seconds she was sprinting out to the field.

“I can’t believe I’m such an idiot,” Lopes groaned as Becka helped the pitching coach carry the player into the training room and lay him on the massage table. “Of all the stupid things to do, the day before Duvall gets here.”

“It’ll be okay,” Becka soothed, fitting a cold pack around the ankle, which was already swelling alarmingly. “Now you just sit and keep it elevated. Once the swelling eases a little, I’ll tape it for you.” She rummaged around the meds cabinet for ibuprofen. “Swallow a couple of these and lie back for a bit.” The phone rang and she turned to her desk.

“Landon,” she said briefly.

“Hey, sis.”

Becka blinked. “Nellie? What are you doing there? I thought you and Joe were still on your honeymoon.”

“We got back on Sunday. Joe wanted to have plenty of time to get me moved. Speaking of which, Mom said you wanted some help moving?”

“Not exactly. I was just trying to find that buddy of Joe’s who carries loads for hire. I can’t stay on the phone, though, I’ve got a hurt player here to deal with.”

“Oh, you don’t need to hire Charlie to move you,” Nellie said airily, ignoring her. “Joe will do it.”

“Nellie, give the poor guy a break. You just got back two days ago. You can’t just sign him up for duty.”

“Sure I can,” Nellie laughed. “I got my permission slip three weeks ago when he said ‘I do.’ You were there.”

“You’ve been watching Mom too much,” Becka muttered. “Joe might have something to say about that.”

“I know how to take care of Joe, don’t you worry.”

Actually, it was probably true, Becka thought. Her baby sister had always had her fiancé—now husband—wrapped around her little finger, and used the fact mercilessly. Becka glanced over at Sal and tapped her fingers restlessly.

Nellie chuckled again. “Joe’s asking if it can wait until the weekend.”

“I have to be out by Friday morning,” Becka said. “Let me just hire his friend. It’s not that big a deal. Look, Nellie, can I call—”

“What about tomorrow?”

“Nellie, you guys took that time so you’d be able to get your stuff moved into Joe’s place. You don’t need to spend it moving me. I just want Charlie’s number.”

“No way. Joe and I will help. How much do you have?”

“Five or six pieces,” Becka said, giving up. Somehow, in a way she never figured out how to resist, this always happened when Nellie and her mother were concerned. It was like playing Pin The Tail On The Donkey. One minute she knew exactly what direction she was going, and the next she was spun around until she didn’t know which way was up and let herself get pushed wherever they would push her. And the worst part was, they always meant well, which was what made it all but impossible to fight without being utterly ungracious. Becka sighed. “A couch, the table and chairs. My dresser. Oh, and we have to stop by Ryan’s. She’s giving me her bed. Now, please, I’ve really got to go.”

“Ryan’s not getting married for weeks, is she? Where’s she planning on sleeping?”

“With Cade, I assume. If you’re dead set on the moving thing, it’ll have to be early. I work tomorrow.”

“How early?”

Becka considered. “It’ll probably take a couple of trips, even with Joe’s truck. Could you guys do nine o’clock?”

“How about eight?”

Becka shrugged. “The earlier the better as far as I’m concerned.”

“We’ll see you then.”

“Great. Thanks for calling.”

“You want to talk to Mom?”

“I’ve got to get back to work,” Becka said rapidly. “Bye.”

“Hey, you didn’t have to rush on my account,” Lopes put in as she put the receiver in the cradle.

Becka rolled her eyes. “Believe me, it wasn’t on your account.”

2

MACE WALKED through the door to the administrative offices of the Lowell Weavers. The stadium was new, but its weathered brick and iron blended with the turn-of-the-century factory buildings that surrounded the ballpark, reminders of Lowell’s heyday as a textile center. Though the mill buildings now housed upscale housewares stores and trendy boutiques instead of steam-powered looms, the town still held the faded dignity of a bygone era.

Turning back into the locker room area, Mace heard Sammy Albonado before he saw him.

“Just give me another coupla weeks to straighten him out, Rick. Don’t jump the gun on this.”

Mace knocked on the open door. Albonado waved him in, nodding vigorously to the unseen caller on the phone.

“I really think he’s got what it takes, we’ve just got to get him focused.” Mace took a seat, looking around the cramped office with its battered metal desk and file cabinet. An insurance company calendar dangled from the putty-colored wall, next to faded schedules from seasons long gone. Tacked to a beat-up corkboard on the door was that night’s lineup.

Sammy paused to listen, nodding again. “Okay. Have a good one.” He hung up the phone and grinned, sticking out his hand. “Well, glory be, it’s Mace Duvall.”

“In the flesh.” Mace gripped Sammy’s hand.

“You know, I was at that game a couple of years ago where you hit for the cycle. Single, double, triple, and homer in the same game. What a night.” Sammy shook his head in admiration, standing up to shut the door that led into the locker room. “Want a drink? Got Gatorade, Coke, water, you name it.” He dropped back in his chair and rolled back to flip open the door of the mini-refrigerator that sat behind his desk.

“Water?”

“Sure.” Sammy passed Mace a bottle and cracked open a Coke, leaning back until his chair creaked in protest. “I gotta say, I’m happy to see you here. If you can get a tenth of what you know about hitting into these kids’ heads, we’ll be way ahead of the game.” He took a drink, sighing in satisfaction at the first taste. “I can teach ’em fielding, but we really need someone like you to help them understand how to look at the ball.”

Mace twisted the cap off the bottle of water and took a swallow. “Well, I’ll do what I can, but I’m not making any guarantees.” He stared into the clear plastic bottle. What the hell was he doing here? And what was he hoping to accomplish?

Sammy examined him shrewdly, then gave a smile that Mace didn’t trust. “Of course you can’t,” he said jovially, “but you know hitting and that’s what counts. Watch the game tonight and you and I can talk over breakfast tomorrow morning. Practice starts at 1:00 p.m.” The phone rang and Sammy gave it a baleful glare. “Okay, take a look around while I get this. I’ll be out in a minute.”

Mace opened the door to step into the empty locker room. Then he heard a throaty female laugh.

“TIME TO TAPE UP that ankle, Sal.” Becka turned to where Lopes lay on the training table. Trying to be gentle, she pulled off the cold pack. The sight underneath made her wince. Though the swelling wasn’t as bad as it could have been, angry red and purple streaks overlaid a hard-looking knot just over the joint.

Lopes raised himself up on his elbows. “How’s it look?”

Becka lifted his ankle gently, moving it slightly to test range of motion. His breath hissed in. “Hurts, huh?” she asked softly.

“Not too bad,” he managed in a strained voice. “I’ll be okay tomorrow.”

Becka took another look. “I’m thinking you’ll be lucky if you’re actually walking tomorrow. We need to get this X-rayed,” she said decisively and checked her watch.

“I got to get playing tomorrow,” Sal protested. “Duvall’s only here a week.”

“He’s an ex-ballplayer, not a god,” she said impatiently, pulling a tensor bandage from the supply cabinet. “You rest this and let it recover now, or it’ll just keep giving out on you. Even if it’s just fractured, you’re going to need to take it easy for at least several weeks.”

“They’ll put me on the disabled list,” Sal groaned.

“Two weeks or so on the DL isn’t going to ruin your career,” Becka chided him. “It’s not broken, that’s something at least. Let me tape it up and I’ll drive you to the E.R.” With gentle, competent hands she wound the tape around his ankle until the ankle was supported and restrained. “Okay, big guy, sit up and let’s get you on your feet.” She turned to rummage in the supplies closet, digging back toward the rear. “I have some crutches here somewhere that you can use….” She emerged with them just as Lopes tried to slide off the table.

As soon as the injured foot touched the floor, he yelped and lost his balance.

“Dammit, Sal!” Becka dropped the crutches and leaped to catch him. He slumped against her, face screwed up in pain, one arm hooked over her shoulder. The locker room rang with post-practice silence.

“Okay, let’s get you on the table first.” Becka puffed with exertion as she struggled to hold him. Even for someone in her shape, moving him was a job. “Let’s move back toward the table a bit at a time. Just let me carry your weight when you need to put your bad foot down, and take little steps. Okay?” She took his grunt for assent and moved him slightly, first one step, then two.

It was like the clumsy, shuffling slow dances she’d done in junior high, Becka thought, or maybe like a pair of dancing bears. They made progress, though, until Lopes began laughing. Caught in the ridiculous clinch, Becka couldn’t keep from joining him.

His shoulders shook. “Hey baby, I got some moves for you.”

Becka smothered another giggle. “Stop it or I won’t be able to hold you up,” she ordered as she propped him against the table. She took a breath of relief before leaning in to wrap her arms around him for the final push. Then laughed again.

“You know, in ten years in the majors I can’t say I’ve ever seen physical therapy like that.” The voice was like warm molasses, with just a hint of a drawl. Becka jerked her head up to see Mace Duvall in the doorway, watching them.

Her mind stuttered to a stop.

He was lean and tawny like a jungle cat, with the same sense of coiled energy waiting to spring. The face that had merely been good-looking on television was taut and honed down, almost predatory in person, made more so by the thin scar that ran along his left cheekbone. He looked at her like he wanted to snap her up. In some indefinable sense, he was more present in his body than any man she’d ever seen. The blood thundered in her ears.

Sal, meanwhile, was hyperventilating with excitement. “Oh wow, man, you’re Mace Duvall. It is truly a pleasure to meet you.” Sal’s words snapped Becka out of her daze, and she finished helping him up onto the table. Sal grinned. “Hope you don’t mind if I don’t get up.”

Mace stepped over to shake hands with the young ballplayer, but he never took his eyes off Becka. “What happened?”

“Bad slide. Just a sprain, though. How long you here for?”

“A week.”

“Florence Nightingale here said I’d be back up tomorrow,” Sal said, hooking a thumb at Becka as she leaned over to pick up the crutches.

“I think I said we should go get it X-rayed, Sal.” Becka slapped the crutches into Lopes’ hands.

He ducked his head in embarrassment. “Oh. Well. Yeah,” he mumbled, “but I gotta make a pit stop.”

“Okay,” she said with a glance at Mace. “Then I’ll drive you to the E.R.”

“Right. Gimme five minutes.” He swung out of the room, still grinning. Oddly, the space seemed smaller with just her and Mace, Becka thought, struggling to banish the uneasiness. Maybe it had to do with those mocking eyes. Maybe it had to do with the unexpected edge of desire that suddenly sliced through her.

She struggled to breathe deeply and slow her system down. So she was attracted to him. Big deal. She’d been attracted to plenty of guys in her life. No way was she going to pat his ego and fall at his feet like every other woman he met. This was her territory and her job. She wasn’t about to let some pretty boy make her uncomfortable.

His mouth curved up in a slow smile as though he knew what she was thinking. It brought out the temper in her.

You’re a professional, Becka reminded herself. Act like it. “I take it you’re the infamous Mace Duvall.” She stuck her hand out. “I’m Becka Landon, the infamous trainer.”

“SO WAS THAT your version of bedside manner?” Mace asked, shaking her hand, intrigued to feel her pulse jump unsteadily under his fingers. He’d always been partial to redheads, and this one had the glowing, luminous skin that was a combination of good fortune and complete, utter fitness. Deep, dark red without a hint of orange, her hair feathered down to end just above her shoulders, framing exotic cheekbones and slanted green cat eyes that stared out at him from under a fringe of bangs. Her lush mouth looked soft and sulky.

He didn’t blame the player for trying to grope her or whatever had been going on. She obviously took her own medicine when it came to working out. Even camouflaged in a polo shirt and long walking shorts, her taut, curvy body made him wonder just what kind of things she could get up to in bed.

Becka raised her chin belligerently. “He was hurt, I was doing my job. You have a problem with that?”

He might just have a problem with her, he thought, wondering how those full lips tasted. “Only when it means distracting players in the clubhouse.”

“Oh, get over it,” she said impatiently, turning to jerk the cover off the table. “His foot wouldn’t hold his weight and it was either catch him or scrape him up off the floor.”

Something about the way her eyes snapped at him tempted him to push her a bit, just to see how she’d react. “Happens a lot that way?”

She flushed. “Now you’re being insulting. These kids like to play tough guy when they’re hurt. I was just trying to keep him from making things worse.”

“Looks like you distracted him from his pain just fine.”

Her cat eyes narrowed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I don’t usually see trainers in a clinch with players.”

She laughed then. “Are you kidding? To these kids I’m like their old Aunt Edna. Sal’s thinking about the games he’s going to miss, not me. His mind doesn’t work that way.”

Just for a heartbeat, his gaze flicked down to the buttons on her polo shirt. “Sugar, every eighteen-year-old’s mind works that way.”

She wanted to be annoyed. She wanted to be offended. She didn’t want to feel this flush of heat. Then she saw amusement flicker in his eyes and irritation rescued her.

“Gee, Duvall, are you always such a charmer or did you cook up the sexist routine just for me?”

Oh, belligerence suited her, he thought. She had herself a temper, Miss Becka Landon did, and she wore it well. And if she looked this good in shorts and a polo shirt and mad, he couldn’t help wondering what she looked like in nothing at all. “No offense intended, just a friendly warning. You don’t want to underestimate these boys. Half of them just got out of high school two months ago. Their hormones are still kicking in. Something you think is harmless might have them daydreaming about you when they’re on the field.”

“Oh stop, Duvall, you’re flattering me.”

He stepped closer to her, and her heart jumped in response.

“You don’t want to underestimate me, either,” he said softly, staring at her throat where the pulse beat madly under translucent skin. Flattery didn’t even come close to what he wanted to do with her.

She should haul off and put him in his place, Becka thought, but her mind kept focusing on the flecks of copper in his golden eyes, and the heat she could feel radiating from him. Seconds stretched out, until she heard Sal’s voice as he crutched back toward the training room.

“I’m ready, Florence.”

Becka turned and got her keys and purse. She glanced at Mace.

“Well, this has been fun, Duvall, but I’ve got to run. Guess I’ll see you tonight when the game starts.”

The corners of his mouth curved in a slow grin and his eyes flickered with a heat she felt down to the pit of her stomach. “Funny, I thought it had started already.”

3

EARLY-MORNING SUN SLANTED across Becka as she helped Joe tie the last of her kitchen chairs onto his pickup. The final amalgamation looked a lot like something out of the Beverly Hillbillies, but it all fit, even the bed picked up that morning from her girlfriend Ryan’s house.

“We’re ready to roll,” Joe called, dusting off his hands as he walked over to stand with his wife. “Everybody in.” Blunt-featured and stocky, he seemed to adore Nellie beyond reason. And like Becka’s father, he was endlessly patient. Maybe patient enough to be in a relationship in which his sweetheart always knew best—or at least thought she did.

As for Becka, she’d go down kicking and screaming before she’d let someone control her, particularly a lover, she thought, squeezing next to Nellie in the cab. She wasn’t, however, always as quick to notice if they were so self-absorbed like her ex-boyfriend Scott had been. Having a boyfriend was a relatively small part of her life, all things considered. Except for the sex, of course. Still, no one she knew had died from doing without, she thought, trying not to count how long it had been. The image of Mace Duvall popped into her head and she pushed it away with baffled irritation. One thing was for sure, next time she had a lover, he wasn’t going to be a playboy.

“So how’s the new job going?” Nellie asked, her hand on Joe’s knee. “It’s sort of like what you used to do for Dad’s team, right? I always envied you, running off with Dad to the big games all the time.”

Becka smiled as she thought about all the Saturday evenings she’d spent volunteering for the college basketball team her father coached. And getting up at the crack of dawn even on the weekends. “It wasn’t all fun and games,” she said. “Those weight rooms and locker rooms smell like something died in them.”

“Couldn’t bother you too much if you’re back in one.” Nellie winked at Becka. “So, have you walked in on any of the players in the buff yet?”

“Hey,” Joe protested good-naturedly. “You’re a married woman, you shouldn’t be thinking about guys in the buff.”

“No guys in the buff at all?” Nellie asked coyly, running her fingertips up the inside of his leg.

Joe shifted in his seat. “You’re gonna feel real funny if you make me run off the road,” he said gruffly.

With a delighted giggle, Nellie bussed him on the cheek until a flush bloomed up his neck and across his face.

They were good together, Becka thought suddenly, looking at them. In some indefinable way they’d melded since she’d last seen them. The thought warmed her. Okay, so maybe their type of marriage would send her to the nut-house within five minutes, but the important thing was that it worked for them.

“So, your team any good?” Joe asked, cheeks still stained a faint pink.

“Oh, so-so,” Becka admitted. “These guys aren’t going to be in the majors any time soon. They’re just a step up from high school.”

“Still goofballs?”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Becka said protectively. “They’ve got talent, some of them. They’re just still figuring out how it all works. We have lots of instructors coming through to give them hitting clinics and stuff.”

“Anybody famous?” Joe asked, linking his hand with Nellie’s.

“We’ve got a big name in now. Mace Duvall, used to play shortstop for the Braves.”

Joe whistled. “Hey, I saw him play in the World Series on TV a couple of times. Guy swings a hell of a bat.”

“You think that’s big, you should see his ego.”

“It ain’t ego if you can back it up,” Joe said thoughtfully. “I read an article on his training routine one time. That’s one guy who works his butt off. And that was in the off-season. I’d hate to see what he does when he’s playing.”

Becka hesitated a beat. “He doesn’t anymore. He got hurt. That’s why he’s here instructing.”

“Oh, yeah, that’s right.” Joe drove for a moment. “Boy, what a drag.”

“What happened?” Nellie asked.

“Car accident.”

“That’s so sad.”

The tug of sympathy Becka felt caught her by surprise. It was sad, she realized, both for the sport, which had lost one of its superstars, and Duvall himself, who had so nearly lost everything. However much he might annoy her, a huge part of his life had been snatched from him, she thought slowly. What did a person do after that? What else could possibly come close?

HE LIKED MORNINGS best. Perhaps it came from growing up on the farm, getting up before dawn to feed the stock. Perhaps it came from his early playing years, when the morning was the only time he had to himself. Maybe it was purely constitutional. In any case, he had always woken up chirping with the birds.

Mace leaned an arm on the cracked red vinyl seat of the diner booth, looking across the Formica tabletop to where Sammy Albonado sat hunched over his coffee cup. It was hard to be sure, but he thought that Sammy’s eyes had actually opened a fraction now that the caffeine was hitting.

Some people were morning people and some people weren’t.

The waitress sauntered up to refill their mugs. “You’re a goddess, Bernice,” Sammy said without looking up.

“Don’t mention it.” She set down the pot and pulled out her order pad. “What’ll it be, boys?” she asked, pen poised.

“Three eggs over easy, fried ham, and a bagel,” Sammy ordered.

Bernice didn’t write, she just stared at him.

Sammy shifted in his seat. Seconds passed by. “What?” he burst out pugnaciously.

“Your wife called. Reminded me your last cholesterol test was 290.”

“She what?” he yelped. “Oh, come on, it was a little high, but give me a break. The woman gives me porridge for breakfast. Porridge.” Sammy gave a pained look, whether over the idea of the cereal or over actually opening his eyes, Mace couldn’t tell. “Now she’s cutting me off at my favorite diner? I should never have brought her here.”

“So you’re telling me that after the doctor’s warnings and all the worrying your poor wife is doing, you’d rather order the heart attack special than eat what’s good for you?” Bernice folded her arms over her chest and gave him a disapproving stare.

Tinny honky-tonk music played on the mini-jukebox a few tables down. Gradually, Sammy’s belligerent look faded into sheepishness. “No.” He cleared his throat. “I’ll just have orange juice, toast, and uh,” he flinched at Bernice’s stare. “Oatmeal.”

Bernice kept a straight face. “There’s hope for you yet, Sammy Albonado.” She patted him sympathetically and turned to Mace. “How about for you?”

“Three eggs, scrambled with cheese, bacon, toast and orange juice,” Mace rattled off, enjoying Sammy’s anguished look. “Don’t worry, Sammy, I’ll let you smell it.”

“You’re lucky I don’t run you out of town, Duvall,” Sammy muttered, glowering as Bernice walked away with his order. “Woman’s worse than the drill sergeant I had in the army. I oughtta start going to Denny’s. That’d show her.” He added creamer and three packets of sugar to his coffee cup and stirred until the spoon clanked against the porcelain.

“So whatdja think about the game last night?” he asked. “We hammered that Brooklyn team.”

Mace watched him drink and tried not to wince. “I think you’ve got some talent here. They’re rough, though.” He took a swallow of his black coffee, strong and unsweetened, just as he liked it. “They need a lot of work.” And he was the last guy in a position to give it to them. It was a damn-fool idea, one that he’d decided the night before to give up. All he had to do now was figure out how to break the news to Sammy, who was nodding wisely at him.

“Settling ’em down is what A ball is for. Half the time, they’re just here to grow up enough that they can focus on the game.” Sammy stirred his coffee again. “I figure you can be a good influence on them. Steady ’em down, especially Morelli.”

He wasn’t a stable pony, Mace thought, glancing out the window. He felt a surge of annoyance toward Stan, and then at himself for agreeing to be in this spot. He was damned if he’d take a job just because someone in the organization pulled strings for him. The thing to do was quit and go back to Florida, leave the spot for someone who wanted it. He’d do some fishing, surf a little, maybe play a little golf.

And go back to going quietly mad in his sprawling beach house by the sea.

He tuned back in to Sammy, who was still talking.

“I don’t know, Sammy, I’ve been thinking about this and I just don’t know. These kids need to be taught by—”

“By a champ, and here’s what I’ve got planned,” Sammy said. “We work on batting practice and go to fielding.”

“Sammy, that’s great, but I’m not the guy—”

“I know you’re not here for the fielding drills this time, but I figure it doesn’t hurt to overlap assignments.”

Mace looked Sammy in the eye; Sammy looked back. Mace gave up. When he’d been a player, Sammy had been famous for his single-minded focus on the game. Obviously, he’d gotten it in his head that Mace was the right man for the job and wasn’t about to take a hint. Mace prided himself on dealing straight with people, but he also knew when it was time to throw in the towel. Maybe it would be easier to just write a resignation letter and do it that way.

“All the game reports and player files are in the top drawer of my cabinet.” Sammy stopped to sip his coffee. “Ask Becka for a look at their training records if you want.”

“Where’d you find that one, anyway?” Mace asked idly, as the memory of green eyes and luminous skin vaulted into his mind. He’d been out with plenty of beautiful women in his time, but something about Becka Landon lingered in his imagination.

Maybe he was being too hasty about this quitting thing.

“Where’d I find who, Becka?” Sammy asked as Bernice set their breakfasts on the table. “The Boston College trainer recommended her. Our guy came down with carpal tunnel so we had to find a sub at the start of the season. She’s top-notch.”

Mace gave him a skeptical look before digging into his eggs. “How is she with the players?”

Sammy stared at Mace’s plate with starving orphan eyes. “I’ll give you five bucks if you slip me a slice of bacon,” he offered. When Mace just looked at him, Sammy sighed and began slathering jelly on a piece of dry toast. “They call her Attila behind her back, and Florence Nightingale to her face, if that gives you a clue. She’s a demon in the weight room. These boys are in better condition this year than any team I’ve ever had before.” He bit into the toast.

“They’re probably pushing themselves to impress her.”

Sammy chewed thoughtfully, then shook his head and swallowed. “Nah. At first, maybe, but every time one of them tries to hit on her, she gives them the brush-off. I saw her once, acted like a third-grade teacher would at one of her kids feeding her a line. Didn’t even bother to get on her high horse. She just laughed. Cooled him right down.”

It would take a lot more than a simple brush-off to cool him down if he made a pass at her, Mace decided, remembering the unsteady feel of her pulse under his fingers. “You’re not concerned with having her in the clubhouse? Breaking the players’ concentration?”

Sammy shrugged. “We’re only two games out of second place. They’re playing hard and they’re improving. What more do you want?”

A certain curvy redhead wrapped around him naked, Mace thought before he could block it. It had been a long time since a woman had climbed into his head like Becka had. A slow grin stole over his face as he remembered her provocative pout. Maybe he’d drop by and see if he could worm loose her phone number before he left. For years he’d been tagged with a rep for scoring with women. Maybe it was time that he actually earned it.

Starting with the delectable Ms. Landon.

BECKA SAT at her desk in the training room, updating player records, absently wrapping a twist of red hair around her finger.

“Got a minute?”

She recognized the slow drawl even before she glanced up to see Mace leaning against the doorway to the locker room. The quick frisson of excitement that whisked through her had her scowling. It had only been a few months since she’d unloaded her cheating bum of a boyfriend. The last thing she needed was to get caught up in more trouble on two legs, and Mace Duvall definitely qualified as trouble. Okay, maybe she’d felt bad about his situation earlier that morning, but too much sympathy could be a dangerous thing. Be too sympathetic to a jungle cat and you might just wind up being a snack, she reflected.

“What do you want?” she asked briefly. “I’m working.”

“Looks like my timing’s perfect,” he said easily. “Sammy said you could review the training records with me.”

She ignored a flutter somewhere in the vicinity of her solar plexus. Sports trainers weren’t supposed to have flutters on the job. “I’ll need time to finish this report first.”

“That’s fine,” he said equably, not moving.

Trust him not to take a hint, she thought. “Batting practice isn’t for two hours. Why don’t you go back into your office and I’ll come get you when I’m done.” He’d kept his distance during the game the night before, but time and time again she’d looked up to find his eyes on her. Time and time again she’d found him on her mind. Okay, if she were honest, she’d thought about him before she’d even seen him. His presence just made it worse. Hoping that sheer rudeness would drive him away, Becka bent her head back to her reports dismissively and tried to ignore the figure in the doorway.

Out in the locker room, the vacuum cleaner of the custodial staff whirred. On the other side of the wall, in his office, Sammy argued with what was probably the stadium manager over letting an Elvis impersonator do a pregame show from the pitcher’s mound. Life in the minor leagues went on.

Mace smiled to himself and pushed away from the doorway to walk toward Becka. Her head jerked up like a deer scenting a predator, her eyes wide and startled. He caught a hint of her fragrance and leaned in close to her to get a better whiff. Like sunkissed wildflowers, he thought. “I’ll just grab a seat,” he murmured into her ear. “I don’t mind waiting when I want something.” Enjoying her reaction, he moved past her to retrieve a chair from the back of the room.

Sitting across from her, Mace watched her pore over the reports, trying to understand why she fascinated him, trying to understand why he’d woken in the night thinking of her. He’d escorted internationally acclaimed beauties, women who worked at their mystique as though it were a career. How was it that tomboyish Becka Landon crept into his dreams?

It wasn’t as though she’d given him the come-on, he thought as he leaned back in the chair. Maybe she had a mouth that a man found hard to ignore, but she’d made it clear that she was no fan of his. So why was he getting hung up on her? He wasn’t a glutton for punishment. A woman said no to him, that was that.

But Becka’s body seemed to say yes. Despite herself, she responded to him. Perhaps therein lay the fascination. Mace studied the coppery spill of hair that trailed across her cheek as she worked. An energy hummed around her, a glow of vitality that radiated from her skin, taut warm hide stretched over perfectly toned muscles. He had the sudden urge to touch her, to see if he could feel that energy, like some kind of magic force field.

Becka was digging for a paper clip in the tray of odds and ends that sat at the base of her desk lamp when she glanced up at him and her hand froze. For a long instant, he stared into the cool green of her eyes, trying to divine just what it was about her that had its hooks in him. On impulse, he reached out to take her hand, just as she pulled a paper clip out of the tray and bent back to her paperwork. She fumbled as she clipped a sheet into the file. Minutes passed while she stared at the papers without writing or turning a page.

Finally, she put down her pen with a snap. “Fine. What do you want to know?”

“Are you sure you’re done?”

“You know I’m not done. Let’s just get this over with.”

“Are you sure?”

“Take advantage of my generous mood, Duvall,” she advised him. “It may not last.”

“Who are you working on?”

“Morelli.”

“Ah.” He leaned forward with interest. “Kid’s got some good moves.”

Becka handed him the file. “You think he’s got the goods?”

Mace shrugged diffidently. “Too early to tell, but I like the way he handles himself.” His eyes flicked to her mouth. He liked the way she handled herself, too, now that he thought about it. “So what do you do with yourself when you’re not working?” he asked abruptly. “What about dinner?”

Becka’s mouth opened in surprise, then shut. “Sorry, Duvall, I don’t date colleagues.”

“Don’t worry about it. I’m not going to be a colleague any longer than it’ll take me to turn in my resignation.”

“What do you mean? You just got here. Your assignment’s supposed to be for a week.”

He was only here because they were humoring him, he reminded himself. It wasn’t like he was running out on the job. “It was a dumb idea. I shouldn’t have started it.”

“But you did start it.” An edge entered her voice. “You should at least finish the assignment.”

“What does one week matter?”

“To these kids? It’s everything. You’re a minor deity around here, you know. The amazing Mace Duvall, baseball superhero. They’ve memorized every detail they could dig up about you.” She shoved her chair back and paced across the office. “They talk about you every waking minute. I’ve got a kid with a severe high ankle sprain who won’t stay off it because he’s got the chance to work with you while you’re here. And now you’re telling me you’re going to leave without even getting into your assignment?”

“Hey, disappointment is a part of life. They might as well get used to it.” The words tasted bitter in his mouth. “Besides, they’re grown-ups. They can handle it.”

“No, they’re kids. You’re the grown-up and you’re supposed to be responsible,” she shot back, jerking her chin up.

Like a girl protecting her kid brothers against the neighborhood bully, he thought, surprised at just how sexy it was. An enticing flush ran along the tops of her cheekbones. “Look, it’s not that big a deal. I mean, really, what does it matter if I resign? I could walk out of the front door right now and get hit in the head by a falling brick and be just as gone.”

“Unlikely,” she said, sitting down reluctantly.

“So are a lot of things that happen, believe me.”

“All the more reason you should control what you can, and keep to your word.”

“What word? I made a stupid bet over a game of pool. I lost, and the stake was being a batting instructor for a season. I’ve got no real business being here, so I’m pulling out. It’s nothing personal.” He picked a steel ball the size of a walnut out of the tray of paper clips and began rolling it idly back and forth across the desktop.

“I’m not taking it personally,” she returned hotly. “I could care less if you stay or go but it’s important to these kids. They’re trying to do something here they care about. All you seem to be in it for is the moment.”

“There are worse ways to live than just enjoying the moment.”

“Some of us believe in getting the job done, not laying back and singing all summer long.”

“The ant and the grasshopper?” he asked, his voice amused. Then it turned serious. “So what happens if you’re the ant and you get crushed? You never get to enjoy the results of all your hard work and you never get to appreciate life one day at a time like the grasshopper. You lose out on everything because you think you’re going to be lucky and have things work out like you expect.” Whiskey-gold, his eyes abruptly flamed with heat. He let the gleaming sphere roll, his attention focused on Becka.

“So you live your life planning to be unlucky?” Her fingers reached out to catch the ball before it rolled off the desk.

“No.” With a lightning-quick move, his hand trapped hers. “I plan to get very lucky indeed.”

Her system jolted. She tried to jerk back from the heat that licked up her arm, in sharp contrast to the cool steel.

“Not so fast,” Mace said, holding on. “You have very shaky hands for a therapist. I noticed that yesterday. Why do you think that is?” He turned her palm up, tracing a finger down the soft, sensitive flesh there.

Becka snatched her hand back. “Get lost, Duvall. Go flatter one of the girls in the front office. I’ve got better things to do.”

He stared at her a moment, a smile playing on his lips. “You know, I might just stick around here after all.”

“Do tell. Is your conscience getting the better of you?”

“No, but wondering what you’d be like in bed is.”

For a moment she just stared at him, eyes darkening. Then she seemed to recover. “Find another reason, Duvall,” she said witheringly. “I don’t do ladies’ men.”

He gave a look of pure amusement. “Then it’s a good thing I’m not one, isn’t it?”

She snorted. “Yeah, tell me another good one.”

“It’s a mistake to believe everything you read, you know.”

“We’re finished with this conversation, Duvall. I’ve got enough to do without wasting time on quitters.”

A brief shadow flickered in his eyes and was gone just as quickly. He tossed the steel ball back into the tray. “See you around, Florence.”

“Not if I see you first.”

4

MACE LEANED on the dugout fence in the afternoon sun and watched batting practice. He’d always loved being out on the diamond, feeling the spring of power in his muscles, the excitement of knowing the game was just hours away. The nights he had good batting practice were the nights he felt like he could do anything.

“That was a ball you just swung at, Jefferson,” Sammy bawled as Stats stepped out of the batting box. “What, these pitchers such good friends of yours that you wanna give ’em gifts? Make ’em work.”

Mace grinned and stepped up to the batting box to talk quietly into Stats’ ear. A few pitches later and the young shortstop was waiting out balls and slamming the strikes into deep left field.

“You do that in a game, you’ve got yourself a .340 average, buddy.” The buzz of triumph Mace felt surprised him. Grinning, he turned to size up the next batter just as Becka stepped into the dugout, video camera at her side.

She spared him a glance. “Where do you want me?”

“I get a choice?” He couldn’t resist running his gaze down her legs, long and smooth in her walking shorts.

“Don’t get cute, Duvall. Sammy asked me to help out. How do you want the batters filmed?”

“From the side. Film the entire at bat, even if Sammy and I are up there. I want to see everything they do.”

She nodded and moved back into the background as Morelli came to the plate.

“Okay, Morelli, show me what you got,” Mace said.

Becka put the video camera to her eye and began filming. A miniature version of Morelli appeared in the viewfinder, then Mace moved into the frame. Somehow, in the electronic image he looked even more lean, even more male. The sunlight on his hair brought out the gold and bronze; sunglasses hid his eyes. Something about the frame of the viewfinder made it impossible to look away.

Mace finished talking to Morelli and moved back. Becka ignored a ridiculous twinge of disappointment, focusing instead on the task of filming the young player. At the next pitch he swung late and the ball thumped into the catcher’s mitt.

Mace stepped back into the frame, slipping on a batting helmet and gloves and taking the bat from Morelli. The polished wood whistled through the air as Mace took a few practice swings to loosen up. When he was satisfied, he stepped into the batting box and raised the bat over his right shoulder, lowering into position with taut precision. His stance spoke of coiled violence. Becka’s pulse began to thrum.

The pitching coach on the mound threw one low and outside. Mace merely adjusted his position and focused more intently. The next pitch came nearer the plate, but Mace just looked at it.

“Come on, Duvall,” the pitching coach called. “You don’t really want to relive all those times you whiffed when you were up against me in Cincinnati, do you?”

“I’ll be whiffing in your dreams, Butler. Those were balls. Get it over the plate and we’ll talk.”

Butler wound up, kicked, and threw a curve ball that barely made it into the strike zone, low and outside.

And Mace exploded into motion.

The curving snap of movement seemed to deliver every bit of power in his entire body to a single point on the bat. Becka swore she could see the ball flatten where it made contact with the wood, before it slammed out of the park on a trajectory headed for New Hampshire.

“Oh man, he crushed it,” someone cried out behind her.

It took her breath away. It was one thing to see Mace standing before her, loose and rangy. It was quite another to see him do what he’d been born to do. The tiny figures that performed athletic feats on television bore no relation to the burst of power that she’d just seen. A little curl of desire twisted through her.

The players surrounded Mace like groupies around a rock star. Becka turned off the camera and lowered it shakily, raking a hand through her hair. She took another glance toward the crowd, and found Mace’s whiskey eyes locked on hers.

“MAN, DO YOU REALIZE that tomorrow is going to be our first day off in twelve freaking days?” Morelli asked hours later, after the team had played and won. He shifted as Becka worked on his shoulder to loosen up the knots. “I’m gonna go out and party tonight and sleep ’til noon.”

Chico Watson sat in the whirlpool bath, trying to soak away a sore hamstring. “Laying around sounds good to me. What are you gonna do, Florence?”

Becka pressed the heels of her hands against a knotted muscle in Morelli’s shoulder. “I don’t want to think about it. It’ll only depress me.”

“What, you going in for a root canal?”

Becka flashed a grin. “Almost as bad. I’m moving tomorrow.”

“Moving? What the hell for?”

“Call me crazy, but something about spending two hours a day driving to work is starting to get to me.”

“Where’s the new place?”

“Just across the river.” She shrugged. “It shouldn’t be too bad. The furniture’s all in. All that’s left is boxes, and I’m getting a cargo van.” She laid a heat pack on Morelli’s shoulder.

Chico stirred. “Why you renting a van? I’ve got a truck. Tell me where to go, I’ll help you out.”

“It’s your day off, Chico. You don’t want to help me move. Trust me, I don’t even want to help me move.”

“Hey, I got nothing better to do. My wife was supposed to come up from New Jersey with my kid but she couldn’t get off work. Helping you move is better than sitting around and feeling sorry for myself. Buy me pizza and beer and you’ve got a deal.”

She looked at him for a minute. “Vegetarian pizza.”

“You ever eat anything that’s not all sprouts and tofu, Florence?”

“I’m supposed to be setting a good example for you. Pepperoni’s full of fat and nitrites.”

“Puts hair on your chest. Tomorrow’s your day off. You can go back to setting a good example when we’re back on the clock.” He folded his arms over his chest. “Pepperoni and beer, or I don’t help you move.”

She eyed him as he stared blandly back, then her face relaxed into a smile. “Pepperoni and beer it is.”

BECKA WIPED down the training tables with alcohol, glancing at the whirlpool to check that the water was draining properly. The noise of the locker room gradually died away as the players finished changing and headed back to the dorms.

Sammy stepped into the training room. “I’m heading out for the night. You all set here?”

“Sure thing, chief.”

“How’s Sal’s ankle looking?”

“We were lucky that it didn’t turn out to be a break. He can start doing some basic stretching and strength exercises in a week, but right now he’s got to stay off it and let it rest.”

“He’s really hot to work with Duvall while he’s here.”

The thought of Mace was like a splinter under her skin. Despite what he’d said earlier, Mace had apparently made no plans to move on yet, which could mean almost anything. She frowned. “I’m sure Sal will get a chance to work with another instructor. If he tries to push this now, he’ll only keep himself sidelined longer.”

“You’re the expert. He’s on the bench until you give the word.”

“Thanks. Have a good night, Sammy.”

He waved and ducked out of the room.

The outside door shut with a rattling clunk and Becka listened to the silence rush in. There was something soothing about being in the clubhouse after everyone had gone home. During the day, it was crowded with bodies and noise, the rising scents of leather and exertion. Now, a quiet peace settled over the rooms. Finally, she could relax. She wasn’t shy about being the lone woman in an organization of men—actually, she kind of liked it—but sometimes it was nice to have a break from all the testosterone. She rolled her head in a circle and rubbed her shoulders, easing the tight muscles of her trapezius.

“I’ll rub yours if you rub mine.”

She caught a breath at the sudden voice, whirling to see Mace standing at the doorway. “Don’t ever sneak up on me like that,” she burst out at him. “You took ten years off my life.”

“Sorry. I thought you knew I was still here.”

“I assumed you’d left like everyone else. I usually have the clubhouse to myself by this time.”

He stepped closer to her. “I guess you’re going to have to get used to sharing, then, aren’t you?”

“What are you doing here? I thought you were quitting.” She refused to back up, even as her pulse began thudding.

“I haven’t decided.” He stared at her a moment. “That batting practice today kind of did a number on my back. I was hoping I could get you to work on it for a little.” He reached out and traced a finger down the side of her neck to her shoulders. “We could trade. I give as good as I get.”

Becka jerked back from his touch. “Don’t tell me that line has actually worked for you in the past, Duvall,” she said, trying for scathing, trying to ignore the shiver of butterflies in her stomach. “I’d expect better from such a big-league player.”

His smile turned wolfish. “Just for the record, I don’t bother using lines. I’ve always favored the direct approach.” His hands dropped down to the buttons on his shirt. “You’re missing out if you don’t want me to rub your neck, though. Guess I’ll just let you work on me.”

Becka gave him a dismissive glance. “Sorry, we’re closed for the day.”

“Not ’til the team’s gone home, you aren’t, and until something changes, I’m a member of the team.”

“I give you a rubdown tonight and you quit tomorrow.”

“Who knows? Maybe I will, maybe I won’t. I haven’t decided.”

She stared at him for a moment. “Fine. Get your shirt off and get on the table. But next time, you tell me you want treatment before I get everything all cleaned up.”

“Sure thing. You’ll be happy to know you’ve got me thinking, by the way.”

Becka snapped a cover over the table, then opened the metal door of the supplies cupboard to get to the massage oils inside. He wanted a rubdown, fine, she’d give him a rubdown and send him on his way, just like she did all the players. She snatched a clean towel off the linen shelves, then swung around.

And the shock went through her entire system. Mace stood with his shirt off, looking at her inquiringly. For an instant, everything stopped while she stared at the corrugated muscles of his belly, trying to remember how to breathe.

As a physical therapist, she had studied the human body exhaustively. She had been around athletes of various levels for years, both clothed and unclothed, but nothing had prepared her for the way Mace Duvall looked with his shirt off. Flat ridges of muscle defined his abs and pecs. The taut, cannonball lines of his shoulders and arms spoke of power and control, of energy coiled into muscle built by effort and determination. The sun had darkened his skin, bleaching the light dusting of hair that ran in a suggestive trail down his belly to disappear in the waistband of his jeans.

He gave her an amused look. “Face up or face down?”

“Huh?” she said blankly.

“You want me face up or face down?”

Her brain simply refused to work. “Uh, where do you want me to work on you?”

His grin widened. “You really want me to answer that?”

Becka flushed, unable to keep her own eyes from straying to follow his gaze. “On the table, Duvall, or I’m out of here.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said smartly and laid down, folding his hands under his chin.

She took her time moving to the head of the table, trying to compose herself. Trying to convince herself that touching him would be just like touching any other patient she’d ever had. Becka squeezed the massage oil on her hands and rubbed them together for a moment. As friction heated the oil, the scent of citrus wove into the air around her. She took a deep breath to clear her head, then lowered her hands to his shoulders, hesitating for just a moment before she touched his bare skin.

The warmth surprised her. It was as though he was stoked by some inner fire. She caught her breath for an instant and pressed downward, sliding her hands from his shoulders to the small of his back in one smooth motion. Her palms registered the texture of his skin, the cords of muscle that lay beneath. He was hard and rugged, smooth and streamlined, powerful, all hardened sinew and coiled strength.

Her practiced hands searched for knots, working to release the pockets of tension from muscles that had been asked to do too much that day. His broad back tapered to a narrow waist, a small patch of soft hair nestled at the very base. Now using pressure, now using deep strokes, she worked at him.

Time seemed to stop as she sank into the mesmerizing sensation of flesh against flesh. Smooth skin over bone and sinew, his body beckoned her to keep touching as she worked the tension from his back and shoulders, pushing on the hard muscles in the lumbar spine where his back dipped low just before rising to the tight, hard curve of his ass.

Becka moved to the side of the table, down by his waist, and ran the heels of her hands up the lines of muscle on either side of his backbone. Again and again she repeated the movement, now using her thumbs, now using her palms, coaxing every bit of tension from the muscles.

She stretched out over his body, her fingers curling over the edge of his shoulders, the skin of her forearms resting lightly on his back.

And suddenly, her mind filled with the vivid image of them naked together, her bare skin pressed against his, his hands tormenting her until she was hot and mindless.

She jerked upright, pulling her hands away as though they’d been burned. She opened her mouth to speak, but no words came.

Mace turned his head to look at her inquiringly.

Becka licked her lips. “Okay, that’s it, you’re done,” she said, backing away. Then she glanced at the clock and gave a heartfelt curse. “How did it get to be midnight?” She wiped her hands and tossed the towel into the hamper.

Mace pushed himself up to sit on the edge of the table. “I thought it seemed like it went on for a while.” He stood and stretched. “Guess you lost track of time.”

“Get dressed so we can get out of here. I have to get up at the crack of dawn tomorrow to move.” Becka crossed to her desk, fishing her purse from the bottom drawer. She didn’t want to look at him standing there with his shirt off. She definitely didn’t want to remember what it had felt like to touch that body. Quickly, she snatched her keys, then rose and turned.

And found herself face to face with him.

He topped her by about eight inches, which left her looking at his clavicle. She dragged her eyes up from the hard planes of his chest, only to find herself drowning in his eyes.

“I dreamed about you last night,” he said softly, his drawl whispering over her skin and along her bones. “I’m trying to figure out why that is.” He touched his hand to the side of her face, running his fingertips down her cheek and tracing them into the open collar of her polo shirt. She shivered. Her purse dropped from nerveless fingers with a soft thud.

“I’m thinking it’s because of your mouth,” he said, staring at her. “I’m thinking it was because I was wondering what it might be like if I did this—” he dipped his head to take a light nip at her lower lip, sliding a hand around her waist to draw her nearer. “Or if I did this—” he brushed her lips with the tip of his tongue, featherlight, tempting them to part as her breath shuddered out. “Or maybe I should just do this,” he whispered, and he closed his mouth over hers in a hard, urgent kiss that sent her spinning into passion, unable to think, only to feel.

Hot and demanding, his mouth made no pretense of gentleness. The rough scrape of his beard was a sharp counterpoint to the silk of his tongue, to the teeth that scraped at her lips. His body was hard against her, the insistent pressure of his desire sending little shudders through her.

The heat overwhelmed her. His hands ran down her back, molding her to him. Though she might have satisfied her need to touch others through massage, she’d been starved for the feel of a man’s hands on her body. Need flooded through her, had her almost whimpering for more.

Long minutes passed as they dove into one another, mouths locked, hands roving. The soft release of breath punctuated the silence. Becka ran her fingers across his cheek and into his hair, even as Mace made a sound low in his throat and pulled her closer.

Mace had kissed her out of curiosity and desire. He’d no idea that kissing her would be like a fist in his gut, robbing him of air, making his head whirl, leaving him weak. Her mouth was a ripe, red fruit, tempting him to devour. It was too much, he thought dimly as he feasted on her lips, but he was powerless to stop himself.

The lithe, taut feel of her against him sent his system into overdrive and he made a small growl of satisfaction. For nearly an hour he’d lain on the table, feeling the stroke of her hands driving him mad, using all his control to keep from rolling over and pulling her to him, knowing it was too soon to touch her. Now, he needed to stop, but he couldn’t resist tasting her just a little more deeply.

Mace’s fingers slid down to the waistband of Becka’s shorts, tugging her shirt loose so he could touch the smooth, silky skin of her back.

Becka sighed against him. The sudden surge of wanting overwhelmed her. Sensation vibrated through her, making her excruciatingly conscious of every atom of her body. She needed his hands on her everywhere, needed him to release her from the tension that was stringing her tight. It wrenched a moan from her and she moved to wrap her arms around his back. Her car keys slipped from her fingers to hit the floor with a jangle.

She jumped at the noise. Sanity came rushing back. What was she doing? Tumbling for him, just like every other woman he’d ever met? He wanted to know what she was like in bed, he’d said so, and he’d been halfway there. She pulled out of his arms and sucked in a long breath.

“Oh no, we’re not done yet.” Mace reached for her again, his eyes darkened to the shade of old amber.

“Yes we are.” Becka put a hand on his chest. True, it trembled a bit, and she had to fight the urge to stroke him, but at least she was making a stand. Even though all she wanted to do was wrench his clothes off and… “I hope you’ve satisfied your curiosity, Duvall. From now on, hands off.”

“On work time, sure.”

“All the time,” she retorted, tucking her shirttail back in. “Let me be really clear about this. I’m not interested in being part of your parade.” She looked him up and down. “You’ve been around the block a few too many times for me. Now if you’ll get your clothes on, I need to get home.”

Mace slipped his shirt on. Becka picked up her purse and keys and started to walk out the door. Swiftly, he reached out an arm and pulled her in close against him.

“Now let me be clear about something. There is no parade of women, I don’t give a damn what people say. My life is my own, not what the media makes it. As for you and I—”

“There is no you and I.” Becka pressed her hands against his chest and glared at him. “And if you think I’m going to sleep with you—”

Wicked amusement filled his eyes and he brought his mouth down to ravage hers until he felt her arms weaken and heard her soft sigh. Then he raised his head. “It’s not a matter of if, darlin’,” he said, staring into her dazed green eyes. “It’s a matter of when.”

And he walked out the door without another look.

5

THERE WAS NO DOUBT about it, moving sucked.

Becka took a deep breath and began lugging a box of pots and pans up the dark, narrow stairwell that led to her new apartment. Feeling blindly for each step, she concentrated on using her chin to stabilize the trio of stainless steel mixing bowls and plastic dish rack that she’d balanced on top of the box.

Bad enough she’d spent every spare minute in the past three days filling boxes, packing things in newspaper until her hands were black. Now she had to spend one of her rare and precious days off hauling them over to the new apartment. Only the prospect of eliminating her commute made the project even remotely tolerable.

A soft tearing sound warned her that the box she carried was failing rapidly. Obviously, it was going downhill more quickly than she’d expected when she’d packed it, she thought, trying to speed up.

The box gave another alarming rending sound as Becka emerged onto the landing. She lurched to get her fingers under it just as the mixing bowls slid from under her chin to cascade onto the battered hardwood floor of the hall. The dish rack followed as the box canted to one side, and Becka fought to get a grip on the weakening bottom. Just a few more steps, she thought, fumbling for her doorknob. Just a few more steps and she’d be able to—

The bottom of the box gave way. Pots and pans clattered out, lids rolling to the walls or circling with metallic ringing sounds. Finally Becka gave up and just dropped the box in disgust, with grim enjoyment at the crash.

There was a loud thump from behind the door opposite hers, a barking voice that ascended in volume as Becka stared at the door in alarm. “Hey, can’t a person get a little sleep around here?” The door banged open and a disheveled woman swathed in a white terry-cloth robe glared at her, face still pale with sleep.

Becka blinked. “Oh wow, I didn’t think anyone would be here on a weekday. I’m really sorry. My box broke and I…” She waved a hand at the ripped cardboard, trying not to stare at the woman’s smudged eyes and the wild waterfall of sable hair that tumbled to her waist.

The woman looked at her a moment longer. “Yeah, well, some of us work nights. Do me a favor and keep it down.” She slammed the door shut without another word.

And nice to meet you, too, neighbor, Becka thought as she leaned down to pick up the pans. Fumbling through her door, she carried the pile inside to spill them on her couch. Yup, it was shaping up to be a daisy of a day. After the humiliation of the night before, irritation—she was sure it was irritation—had kept her amped up and awake into the wee morning hours. Bad enough that he’d kissed her, but he’d made her respond.

And then his smug parting shot. Becka huffed back into the hall and stomped down the stairs. A matter of when indeed. It would be a cold day in hell before she slept with Mace Duvall, no matter how magic his mouth might be. She’d only responded because it had been a while, that was all. Which was the absolute worst reason in the world to get involved with someone, she reminded herself crossly.

And just where was Chico, she wondered, smothering her annoyance as she checked her watch again and crossed the parking lot. He was over two hours late. Even stuffed to the gills, her valiant little Toyota could only carry about seven or eight boxes, which had been why she’d reserved the cargo van, since cancelled. There were very few immutable laws in life, but one of them was certainly that she who gave up a U-Haul reservation on the last Friday of the month was not about to get it back. Thanks to Chico’s unreliability, she was going to spend her whole day ferrying boxes from Cambridge to Lowell.

“Need some help?”

Becka turned to see the woman from upstairs standing behind her, an ironic smile on her face. “I’m with the welcoming committee,” she said, sticking out her hand. “I’m Mallory Carson, your neighbor.” She’d swapped the robe for a T-shirt and shorts, and tamed her hair into a ponytail. The smudged makeup was gone, leaving her with the clean-scrubbed look of a high-schooler on a face that any high fashion model would envy.

Becka shook her hand bemusedly. “Becka Landon. Hey, I’m sorry I woke you up.”

“I’m the one who’s sorry. I don’t usually jump on complete strangers, I swear.” Mallory gave a brilliant smile. “It’s just that I was at work really late last night. I’m a bartender,” she explained, yawning into her hand.

“Well no wonder you were ready to strangle me.”

She shrugged. “No big deal. I’m up now, so let me help. It’ll keep me from having to do something really disgusting like vacuuming.”

Becka popped the trunk and pulled out a box for Mallory and one for herself. As they crossed the parking lot to the broad side porch that led into the house, Mallory studied Becka with frank curiosity. “So are you from somewhere else or are you just moving across town?”

Becka balanced the box on her knee while she opened the front door. “Cambridge, but I work here.”

“Why do you want to leave Cambridge for a backwater like Lowell?” Mallory asked, following her in.

Becka shrugged. “Cambridge isn’t any fun if you’re never there to enjoy it. Dealing with the drive and the traffic was making me crazy.”

“Yeah, I guess I can sort of see that.” Mallory started up the stairs. “So I guess I should fill you in on the rest of our little happy home here. Two apartments on the ground floor, Ed and Lorraine. Ed’s in construction, so he’s usually out of here at the crack of dawn. Helpful if you have something really heavy to lift, but kind of a dim bulb. He was having an affair with Lorraine, but he just broke up with her to see someone else, so we’ve got lots of slamming doors around here right now.” Puffing, Mallory followed Becka onto the upstairs hallway and through her front door.

“Third floor only has one apartment. Anne, a grad student over at UMass Lowell. Psychology, I think. Terrifyingly earnest. Watch out about making any jokes when you talk with her. She’ll get this really concerned look on her face and say things like ‘That’s a very interesting question, Mallory, but the more important thing to ask is why you’re so concerned with how many male chauvinist pigs it takes to change a light bulb. We should talk about this latent hostility you have toward men.’”

Becka laughed. “I think you’re exaggerating.”

“Probably,” Mallory said cheerfully, setting the box on the floor and walking to the kitchen window to look at the vacant lot next door. “Now Mr. Metzger is the one you want to watch out for. That lot next door is his property and you’d better remember it. He’s got a lot of vegetables growing and he’s totally paranoid about people coming along and stealing them. I’m not saying he’ll take after you with a shotgun, but he’s been known to be unpleasant.”

Becka looked over her shoulder and out the window at the white-haired old man moving among the lush green beds of vegetables. “Does he sell any of them?”

Mallory shrugged. “Couldn’t tell you. I’ve never managed to have a conversation with the man beyond him barking at me. I guess I look like a zucchini-napper.”

“Why are you being so nice to me?” Becka asked as they started back downstairs.

“Catholic guilt,” Mallory said good-naturedly. “Helping you move is my penance for being rude. So what’s the story with you? The neighbors will be wondering.”

“I’m the trainer for the Lowell baseball team.”

Mallory goggled at her. “You teach them how to play baseball?”

Becka laughed. “No, I do everything else. Supervise workouts, keep them healthy. It’s a fancy version of a physical therapist.”

“Small world. I run the sports bar just across from the park.”

“Double Play?”

“Yeah. Some of your players come in after the games, especially the dark-haired one with the long eyelashes. He’s real popular.”

Becka’s eyebrows rose. “You’d better take a good look at their IDs. Most of those kids are barely old enough to vote. Not to mention the fact that they’re violating curfew.”

They went down the front hall and out onto the porch.

“So it’s kind of unusual for a woman to be a trainer on a guy’s sports team, isn’t it?” asked Mallory.

“A little,” Becka admitted over her shoulder as she stepped out the door. “They were hard up and I was the best option they had. I’m trying to convince them I’m indispensable.” She turned to walk forward and stopped. Across the parking lot, leaning on her car, was Mace Duvall.

“Do they give you a bad time?”

“Only some of them,” Becka said darkly, forcing her feet to start moving again. His eyes never left her, making her conscious of every step she took, of the strands of hair trailing down her cheeks, of the thin, dust-smudged tank top she wore. She crunched across the gravelly pavement of the parking lot and stopped in front of him. “What are you doing here?”

“Helping you move. Hi.” He nodded to Mallory then took his gaze back to Becka. “Chico’s wife surprised him this morning, so he asked me to pinch hit for him.”

Ignoring the awareness that buzzed through her system, Becka walked past him to pull a crate of sheets and towels from the back seat of her car. He was not going to get to her. She knew what she wanted, and it did not include getting involved with another guy who played the field. “I can handle it, thanks.” She swung the door shut with unnecessary force.

“I’m sure you can.” Mace caught the door neatly before it slammed and scooped another box out of the back. “As long as you don’t mind spending the entire day shifting your things in that little cracker box. I’ve got the Bronco. We can move your stuff in a couple trips.”

Becka kept walking as though she didn’t hear. Mace shrugged and followed her across the parking lot.

“You’re not ticked about last night, are you?”

The laughter in his voice made her keep control. “Did something happen last night?” she asked coolly. “I must have missed it.”

“I don’t know, you were sure breathing hard.”

She ignored him. Mallory watched avidly, dashing up to catch the door before it slammed behind Becka.

Mace glanced at her. “Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it. I’m enjoying this. I’ll be up in a few minutes.”

He grinned and ducked in the door. Ahead of him, Becka started up the stairs, and he watched her appreciatively. Whatever she did to keep in shape, it was working.

He took a better grip on the box he was carrying, glancing at its contents. Books, mostly, tossed in haphazardly. He wasn’t surprised to see that they were mostly nonfiction. Becka didn’t strike him as the type for novels. The book on nutrition fit his image of her, as did one on t’ai chi, and one on…

“Ancient Chinese sexual secrets for Western lovers?”

Above him, Becka stumbled and caught herself before stepping out onto the upper landing. She walked quickly into her apartment without a backward glance.

Mace followed. “Well, this looks like a useful reference book.”

Becka dumped the sheets in her bedroom, next to the unmade bed that still stood in the center of the room. “Keep your paws out of my stuff,” she snapped and burst back into the living room to find him fishing the book out of the box he’d set by her shelves.

“Oh, but I think I could really learn something here.” He held the book out of her reach, stepping nimbly around her toward the bedroom. “Here we go, the Tortoises of Spring. ‘The woman places her hands and feet on the bed. The man inserts his jade stalk into her cinnabar grotto and plucks her lute strings ten times,’” he read, somehow managing to stay just out of her reach as he dodged around the bed. “‘He ceases when she rejoices. A hundred illnesses will vanish.’” Mace flopped down on the quilted surface of the mattress and sent Becka a wicked look. “We could cure those hundred illnesses right now, if you want.”

“You’re pushing your luck, Duvall. Hand it over, now.” She stretched across him, groping for the book.

Mace rolled onto his back and held the volume away from her with one long arm. “Hey, look at this one. She’s hanging from ropes coming down from the ceiling.” He slanted her a look. “Your mother know you read this?”

Face flaming, Becka made another stab for the paperback just as her hand slipped on the slick cover of the mattress, sending her falling down on top of him.

For long seconds, the only thing that registered in her stunned brain was the hard length of his body against her. Hard and getting harder, she realized, turning her head only to brush her lips against the taut skin of his neck. She made a move, then, to get her hands under her and rise.

Swiftly, Mace rolled to pin her half beneath him. “No sense in rushing. You owe yourself a break after all that lifting.”

She felt an alarming thrill of excitement, and a trembling that started deep inside. Oh no, she thought, this wasn’t the way it was supposed to go. She was supposed to be impatient and worried about time. She wasn’t supposed to wonder what it would feel like if he kissed her again with that mesmerizing mouth.

She wasn’t supposed to want him.

“It seems to me we didn’t get much of a chance last night to see where this could go,” Mace murmured, nuzzling her throat.

Keeping a grip on her wits was vital, Becka thought, striving for the detached amusement she used on the players when they made passes at her. “Better brush up on your lines, Duvall. They could use some work.” She fought to ignore the soft kisses he pressed into her skin. How could a man’s mouth be so soft and gentle when his hands felt so hard sliding down the curve of her hip, running up to brush over her breast? She jerked as the heat scorched through the thin cotton of her tank top.

“Maybe I should just skip talking, then,” he said, his eyes snaring hers, capturing her gaze until she couldn’t look away.

Becka steeled herself not to respond to the whirlwind of sensation she knew was coming. And while she prepared to defend herself against it, he slipped in to seduce her with gentleness.

His lips were warm, soft, taking light, quick samples rather than drinking her in as he had the night before. Nibbling his way across her jaw, he left a trail of heat and awareness that teased, enthralled. Before she could adjust, he returned to her mouth for more of those teasing kisses, now on one side, now on the other, now on the lids of her eyes that had somehow fluttered closed. The better to focus on his kisses so she could ignore them, except they never came where she expected. Like the soft, random landings of a butterfly, his kisses touched from point to point, here then gone, over before she could register the little buzz of electricity they triggered.

More. It drummed through her in frustration. The light touches only ignited cravings she didn’t want to have. She tried to think of all the reasons she had for keeping her distance from Mace Duvall, even as need began a slow twist in her gut. If she let her treacherous body take over, it was just like handing him the reins.

Becka cast about to remember just why it mattered but only wound up getting lost in the heat of his body against hers, the tantalizing pressure that made her wonder what it would feel like to have him naked on top of her, inside her. She shifted against him, her arms coming around his neck. A puff of breeze came through the window.

Mace brushed along her jaw, sampled the softness of her earlobe, but always he journeyed back to her lips. Her mouth was addictive, he thought, like an irresistible dessert. One taste drew him back for another, and another. He could feel the heat simmering in her as she tried to bank it back, as she tried to ignore what he was doing to her. It made it all the more enticing to tempt her, to savor that full lower lip like it was taffy, warm and sweet.

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