﻿ “Miranda Shaw, are you telling me you’re just using me for your own purposes?”

“No, I –” She saw Mike’s broad grin when he couldn’t keep a straight face. “Do you enjoy flustering me?”

The grin only widened. “I didn’t know women still blushed.”

“I’m not blushing,” Miranda insisted. “I’m allergic to hotshot sportswriters. I can’t come within fifty feet of one.”

“Too late for that,” he told her. “Looks like you’ve entered the ‘danger zone.’”

She was going to ask what he meant by that, but she didn’t get the chance. The very next thing she knew, Mike was leaning over, moving his upper torso to invade her space.

And then his lips touched hers.

And all hell broke loose.

Marie Ferrarella, a USA TODAY bestselling and RITA® Award-winning author, has written more than one hundred and fifty books, some under the name Marie Nicole. Her romances are beloved by fans worldwide.

Diamond in the Rough

Marie Ferrarella

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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To Nik, who really did teach himself to read at four

because I wasn’t getting to the baseball scores

fast enough. And to Mark, who is my

walking encyclopaedia in all things sports.

Chapter One

“Why that sanctimonious, pompous, low-life bastard…”

Born equal parts of surprise and outrage, the less-than-flattering character description leaped out of Miranda Shaw’s mouth before she could stop it. The heated pronouncement contrasted with the soothing strains of whisper-soft classical music that was being piped into the pharmaceutical laboratory where she worked.

Her cheeks heated and her breathing became shallow. This was worlds apart from her condition minutes ago when she finally declared herself at lunch ninety minutes after the traditional time and picked up the sports section of the L.A. Times. She’d been reading the sports section since she was four years old. Too impatient to wait for her mother to read the all-important baseball scores to her, Miranda had doggedly taught herself how to read by sounding out the opposing teams’ names.

Her rabid interest in baseball had come into being because she adored her father. Steven Orin Shaw, known as “SOS” to his one-time legion of fans, had once been regarded as one of the greatest pitchers to ever grace the mound—until a scandal had brought an abrupt end to his career.

But not to Miranda’s allegiance. Only death—hers— would have terminated the steadfast loyalty that beat in her twenty-four-year-old heart.

She felt that loyalty flare—along with her temper— as she read words by a man who had been her favorite sportswriter, Mike Marlowe. Oh, she differed with his opinions now and again, but never violently. And, up until this point, she’d admired both his broad range of sports knowledge and his ability to make his topic come alive.

But at this moment, she wanted to skewer him. Slowly.

It was that time of year again, when people around the country packed away their Christmas decorations and frowned over their impetuously written New Year’s resolutions, a large number of which had already been broken. And this time of year, the Baseball Writers Association of America turned their attention to the all important question of who, if anyone, was going to be inducted into the baseball hall of fame in Cooperstown.

However, long before the actual voting came the lists. She had already made her peace with the fact that her father would never be on these lists.

But this idiot, this supreme jerk who had so colossally disappointed her, had the unmitigated gall to touch on the fact that her father had been banned from baseball for all eternity. And he devoted most of his column to the lament that the once-pure game was assaulted now by numerous scandals. Marlowe had belabored reasons why SOS could never be considered for placement in the esteemed hall.

It was bad enough to know this without having someone painstakingly elaborate, in rapier-sharp rhetoric, all the reasons that SOS had disappointed his fans and shamed the great game of baseball.

So he’d had a moment of weakness and gambled, so what? Lots of people gambled and her father had never bet against his team. In the larger scheme of things, it wasn’t such an unpardonable offense. Not enough to merit being permanently ostracized.

Except that it had.

After reading Marlowe’s column, all she could think of was that her father would see it. He didn’t need this now, not now. First the scandal and then the awful accident six months later. Those incidents had all but turned him into a hermit. It had taken her years, but she had finally gotten him to come around, to venture out of his shell and start interacting with people again.

This could ruin everything.

The moment her angry words ricocheted around the almost empty lab, Tilda Levy looked up from the computer screen. She rubbed the area just above her eyes before turning in Miranda’s direction.

“Did you get your paycheck early?” she asked dryly. It was a given that most of the research chemists employed by Promise Pharmaceuticals felt vastly underpaid, especially considering the demands placed on them and their time.

“What?” Completely focused on the article, Miranda needed several moments to make sense of Tilda’s wry question. “No. It’s this article.”

Getting up from her chair, she pitched the paper into the wastepaper basket by her desk. The basket fell over. Muttering under her breath, Miranda picked up the basket and put it back.

Tilda leaned over, craning her neck to observe her friend. They’d been friends since they’d paired up in chem lab their junior year in high school and Tilda was well aware of Miranda’s taste in reading material even though they definitely didn’t share it.

Pausing to save her work, Tilda nodded toward the banished newspaper.

“What’s the matter, doesn’t your favorite sportswriter think the Angels will win the pennant this year?” she asked, referring to Miranda’s favorite baseball team—the team her father had played on the last seven years of his career.

Miranda didn’t answer right away. Instead, she just scowled and she glared down at the offending paper.

“It’s about your dad, isn’t it?” Tilda asked.

Miranda shoved her hands deep into the pockets of her lab coat. She wanted to pace, but the lab wasn’t made for releasing bottled-up energy of the human variety. It was designed to maximize experimentation.

Blowing out a breath, she bit off one word. “Yes.”

With a shrug, Tilda went back to what she was doing. “Don’t pay any attention to it. Tomorrow that article will be lining some bird’s cage—or sitting in a bin, waiting to be recycled.”

But today it was being read by who knew how many people? And, most likely, her father. And that was all that counted.

Miranda squared her shoulders. Bottling this up wasn’t going to help. She needed to excise this somehow.

“He said that—” Miranda pulled the paper out of the trash again, holding it the way a person might hold a dead rat they’d been forced to retrieve. It took her a second to find the right page. “‘Steve Orin Shaw, SOS to his friends and the players that feared him, sadly embodies everything that is bad and corrupt about the game…’” She stopped, her throat hitching, as she was momentarily waylaid by angry tears that came out of nowhere. “There’s more,” she finally managed to say, clearing her throat.

“There usually is.” Recognizing that Miranda was not about to let this go easily, Tilda left her workstation and came over to her former lab partner. She draped her arm around Miranda’s shoulders. “Look, people’ll always talk, even when there’s nothing to it. And when there is,” she added innocently, “they go into high gear. There’s nothing you can do about it.”

Miranda shrugged off Tilda’s arm. Her eyes narrowed as stubbornness came into them. “Yes, there is.”

All Tilda could do was sigh. “You do realize that murder is illegal in all the fifty states.”

“There’s some play for justifiable homicide,” Miranda countered. She didn’t want to kill Marlowe, just watch him eat his words. And to retract them—publicly, so that a little of her father’s pride could be salvaged.

Tilda shook her head. “I don’t think a judge would see Marlowe’s writing an article insulting your dad as a sufficient reason for your killing him.” She dropped her bantering tone. “Let it go, Miranda.”

But Miranda could sooner stop breathing than say nothing. Her father needed someone in his corner, fighting the fight he wouldn’t. Being banished from baseball had robbed him of his spirit, his zest. Granted, as she grew older, he’d had less and less time for her because he was on the road so much. And then Ariel had died and everything began to fall apart. First her parents’ marriage and then her mother. But, through it all, the one thing she wouldn’t allow to change was the way she felt about her father.

He needed her more than ever now.

“I can’t.”

Miranda planted herself in front of her computer again. But this time, there were no equations, no on-going research figures dancing before her on the monitor. She pulled up a screen and began to write. Feverishly. Had they been wired for sound, the keys on the keyboard would have groaned and whimpered from the lightning assault.

Curious, Tilda looked over her shoulder. “What are you doing?”

Miranda continued typing. She lifted her chin as she answered, as if silently daring the world to take a swing at her for expressing her opinion.

“I’m telling Mike Marlowe what I think of him and his high-handed article.”

“Are you going to tell him whose daughter you are?”

They both knew that would probably add weight to the e-mail. But it would also make it seem biased. And she was doing her best to be fair—not that the cretin deserved it.

She paused to push her blond bangs out of eyes that turned a darker shade of blue when she was angry. “No, just that he’s an ass.”

Tilda laughed, shaking her head. Backing away, she gave her friend some measure of privacy. Her mouth curved in amusement. “I’m sure that he’ll find that enlightening.”

Mike Marlowe had expected feedback from his article. To some degree, he got it with every article he wrote for the Times. With his most recent piece he’d expected e-mail from die-hard lovers of the game who agreed with him.

It was sad, really, he thought. There’d been a time when Shaw had been revered as the greatest pitcher who’d ever lived, certainly the greatest living pitcher of his generation. He could make the ball do everything but sing the national anthem—and there was some doubt about that. He remembered watching the man play and worshiping his precision. In an arena where a career total of three thousand strikeouts was astounding, SOS had managed to garner two more than four thousand. A lifetime total of three hundred wins was something every starting pitcher dreamed of. SOS had three hundred and seventy-seven under his belt when he was forced to retire from the game.

In almost every way, the man had been a god among men, almost being the key word.

And it was almost that wound up being Shaw’s undoing.

The one unpardonable offense in baseball was not the loss of a crucial game, or the throw of a wild pitch that ultimately cost the team the World Series. It was steroid use and gambling.

It didn’t even have to be the supreme sin of betting against your own team, which indicated that you were somehow involved in throwing the game. The very act of placing a bet where the outcome of a sporting event was the deciding factor of the prize was comparable to partaking of the forbidden fruit. SOS had committed that offense, that one unforgivable sin. One late summer he had bet on a series of games. And he had been discovered and disgraced.

Mike supposed it was to the man’s credit that Shaw hadn’t tried to deny what he was being accused of or attempted to explain it away. He hadn’t pleaded temporary insanity or momentary drunken enthusiasm for the game he loved more than life itself. Shaw had stepped up to the plate, taken the pitch without flinching and retired his bat, as well as his glove.

Mike remembered that awful day well. Remembered hearing the news broadcast just as he and his family were about to have dinner. Remembered catching those mind-numbing words—banned from baseball forever—just as his father had turned off the set in the living room. Hearing them, he’d bolted out of the kitchen back into the living room and turned the television set on again, his stomach twisting itself into a knot. He was twelve at the time, too young to lose a hero to the ugliness of reality.

Surprised by his actions, his father had begun to reprimand him, but Kate, the wonderful woman who had become their stepmother, had shaken her head and told his father to come help her in the kitchen. Kate knew how much the game—and the pitcher—had meant to him.

There was no question that he loved his dad, even during Bryan Marlowe’s absenteeism just before Kate had come into their lives, but as for heroes, well, there was only one for him. Steven Orin Shaw. SOS.

That August day—August 7th—he’d been stripped of his hero. Stripped of his innocence. SOS had come crashing down off the mile-high pedestal he and countless other boys and men had placed him on. After listening to the news bulletin, a dark parade of emotions had bounced around inside of him: disbelief, denial, dismay, disappointment.

Disappointment eventually overtook his other emotions, making him hurt so bad he could hardly stand it. His brothers had tried to help him come around, as had his father. But it was Kate who’d finally gotten him out of the tailspin.

“We’ll never know the real full story,” she’d told him, sitting beside him on his bed in his room later that night. “Mr. Shaw isn’t elaborating on what made him do this. And, up until now, he’s been a very good, decent man who played his heart out for the game.”

“How do you know he’s a good, decent man?” he’d challenged, doing his best not to cry angry tears. Tears were for babies. “He coulda done something else we don’t know about.”

“Maybe,” Kate had agreed. She ran her fingers through his light blond hair, the very action calming him down. “But I really don’t think so.”

“Why?”

“Because there’s pain in his eyes,” she told him simply. “Deep, bottomless pain. He’s had tragedy in his life and survived. Those kind of people are honorable people.”

He remembered looking at her then, confused. “What kind of tragedy?”

“His older daughter, Ariel, died of cancer. Something like that can destroy a person, but he went on playing. Because a lot of little boys like you were counting on him.”

“Then why did he do this?” he’d cried.

“I don’t know, Mike. But I do know that he’s sorry it ever happened. Sorry that he disappointed boys like you. And girls, too,” she added with that smile of hers that promised him it would be all right.

And it was.

Eventually.

Discovering that his hero had feet of clay hadn’t killed his love of the game—something else he shared with his stepmother. He went on to go to other baseball games and eventually, could even tolerate watching the Angels play again. Without Shaw.

Like all boys at some point or other, he’d entertained dreams of being a baseball player himself. Not outstanding enough to ever make it to the minors, much less the majors, he went to college, got a degree in journalism and did the next best thing to playing—writing about the game and the players who made it all come to life.

He’d honestly thought he’d gotten over his disappointment in Shaw until he’d started writing the article. It was as if something deep inside of him was set free. The boy who’d been so sorely disappointed had been there all along, waiting to ask why.

Until he knew why, he couldn’t begin to forgive. But all his attempts at interviewing Shaw over the last few years during baseball season had been rebuffed. The man didn’t even return his phone calls.

Every year the members of the Baseball Writers Association of America would get together and pore over a list of eligible retired players to decide if there were any viable candidates. This year, there had been a rumor going around that perhaps it was time to bend the rules a bit, to forgive and forget and welcome a man who, had he not committed the unforgivable, would have been a shoo-in.

As far as Mike was concerned, there was a difference between retired and run out on a rail. One was honorable, the other drenched in disgrace.

When he’d heard the rumor a third time, Mike knew he had to say something, to finally speak up and make his feelings known. Looking back, maybe it had been the hurt boy who had written the article. But what he’d written needed to be said and he was certain that it had been the right thing to do.

But obviously “Miranda” from Bedford didn’t share his opinion, he thought with a bemused smile as he read her latest e-mail. She’d told him so in no uncertain words—he paused to count the number of e-mails with her name on them—ten times. Ten different times. He shook his head. Who would have thought there were ten different ways to say the same thing?

The woman was probably an old groupie, he thought. Baseball groupies had been around as long as the game, following a team from city to city just to sit in the stands and look adoringly at some player or other, if not the whole team. He had no doubt that Miranda had probably gotten a little something on the side once from SOS—the man was only human after all—and felt a personal connection to the pitcher.

Mike rolled the thought over in his head. Shaw had been touted as the ultimate family man—until the death of his daughter. Shaw’s wife, he’d heard, never recovered and eventually died, but not before divorcing him. That had been a black period for the pitcher, but he still played. Some said better than ever, as if he was taking solace the only way he knew how. Off the field, there’d been talk of women and wild parties, but nothing had ever been substantiated.

Mike couldn’t help thinking that this Miranda was probably from that era.

Straightening, Mike began to type.

Dear Miranda, he wrote. I’m afraid that you might be allowing sentiment to cloud your judgment. No one is arguing that SOS wasn’t a dynamic player in his day, only that he turned out to be a monumental disappointment to the worshipful boys—and girls, he added in deference to his stepmother, who all thought of him as their hero. Heroes blackened by scandals are no longer heroes, no matter what their personal stats are. I stand by my position. Under no circumstances is SOS to be absolved of his sin and welcomed into the hall of fame, to share space with the men who truly deserve to be there.

He reread his words once, decided that he was satisfied and hit Send.

Working at her station, Miranda noticed the e-mail response that suddenly popped up in the corner of her screen. Because the subject referenced was the title of the article that had gotten her so angry, she opened the e-mail immediately. She hadn’t really expected an answer.

Scanning the reply, she set her jaw hard. Within a heartbeat, she was firing back a response to Marlowe’s response.

Were you always such a pompous ass, or did your present so-called vocation do that to you? I’ve been following your column for some time now. Until today, I actually thought you had a brain, as well as a heart, but obviously the wizard decided to abruptly take them both back.

Not bothering to reread her words, something she usually did very carefully before sending anything, Miranda hit Send. She hit the key so hard, she broke a nail.

Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Tilda watching her. Taking a deep breath, she forced herself to let it out slowly in an attempt to calm down. But she’d no sooner blown that breath out than more words appeared on her screen.

Clever. Obviously I am not going to make my case with you, which is all right. Different opinions are what make the world go around. Let’s just agree to disagree.

He was being lofty, and high-handed, making her out to be the small-minded one here when they both knew it was him.

I don’t agree to anything, she fired back. You’re wrong, as well as inflexible. If you were in front of me right now, I’d make you eat your words.

Mike leaned back, studying the latest missive that tore across his screen like silent gunfire. He’d obviously struck a nerve. Part of him felt like just letting this go. But both his father and stepmother had taught him to stand up for what he believed and never to back away from a fight, even one that was annoyingly inconsequential, like this one.

No matter what my location, he typed, referring to her comment about standing in front of her, I’d still believe what I believe. He took off the kid gloves he’d envisioned himself wearing during the initial response. Forgiveness is for dropped pitches, not dropped morals. If you’d like to continue this debate in person, you name the time and place.

There, that should put her in her place, he thought, pressing Send.

Mike didn’t think he’d receive an answer, other than a few choice expletives, so he was rather surprised when yet another volley of words appeared on his computer screen.

Bailey’s Sports Bar. Six o’clock. Today.

Chapter Two

Mike stared at the screen, waiting for something more to appear.

Several seconds passed. No additional words materialized. The brief, staccato sentences seemed to pulse on the field of white, looking for all the world like a challenge. It reminded him of a cocky kid with his chin thrust forward, daring him to take a swing.

Except that in this case, the words belonged to a cocky female. One who obviously lived and breathed the game of baseball—or maybe just focused on Shaw to the exclusion of everything else.

The woman obviously was in dire need of a life, he decided.

For a second, he debated the wisdom of meeting her. Undoubtedly, there were too many birds nesting on her antennae and he had no desire to get tangled up with a crazy woman. But then, Bailey’s Sports Bar was a pretty crowded place at six, even on a Monday. Besides, he had to admit that his curiosity had been aroused. If the woman actually knew SOS, she might be willing to tell a few stories. This might the closest thing to an interview with Shaw that he could score.

Or maybe, if he played his cards right and she did know the former pitcher, he might even wind up getting an introduction.

But as he finally put his hand to the keyboard, Mike saw a single word take form on his screen. Afraid?

She’d hit him where he lived.

You’re on, he typed, then realized he needed a way

to recognize her when she walked into Bailey’s. How

will I know you?

Her answer was far from satisfying. Instead of a description, she gave him a cryptic reply. I’ll know you.

Miranda liked having the advantage on her side. Maybe it wasn’t polite, but at the moment, with the article still warm on her desk, she wasn’t feeling very polite. And this know-it-all didn’t deserve any cut slack.

Unless the photo on top of your column is an outdated one, she added.

It was a distinct possibility. A great many people in the arts used publicity photographs far more reminiscent of years gone by than of present day.

He answered her in less than a beat. Only by a year.

That meant he was good-looking, Miranda thought. Either that, or the photographer was deeply enamored of Photoshop. In either case, it didn’t matter. Giving the man a piece of her mind in person was most important. If people like him, bent on maintaining a grudge, didn’t exist, her father could receive the honor he richly deserved. He told her that it didn’t matter to him, but she knew better. How could something like that not matter?

Good, she typed. I’ll see you at six, she reiterated.

Maybe six-thirty would be a better time, Mike decided, typing the words the moment he reconsidered.

But it was too late. The woman on the other end of the dueling e-mail exchange was gone. His amended suggestion received no response and the sentence he’d typed sat as a solitary bottom line, lonely and unnoticed. The dialogue, such as it was, was over.

Mike studied the very brief correspondence, beginning with the woman’s opening e-mail to him about today’s column. This “Miranda” had to be old, he decided. His proof was that there were no one-letter shortcuts in any of the messages as had become the custom in quick messaging. It was a way of communication that personally irritated him. As a journalist, he’d always thought of the English language as an art form, something to be utilized rather than pared down. Most of the people he worked and socialized with didn’t feel the same. They were all in their twenties or early thirties.

This led him to the conclusion that the woman he had agreed to meet in person had to be some obsessed middle-aged—or older—harpy. She probably had a shrine in her bedroom devoted to Steven Orin Shaw, complete with a wall of photographs. Most likely she had it surrounded with candles.

Mike leaned back in his chair, knotting his fingers together behind his head as he mulled over the situation.

Maybe he wouldn’t show.

He did have an excuse. It was only Monday, but he did have to start getting ready to fill in for Ryan Wynters this weekend. The senior sportswriter had come down with the worst case of flu according to his editor, Howard Hilliard. Ryan was supposed to be covering the Super Bowl this Sunday. Since he was next in line, that meant that he was now covering the tradition-honored event. By all rights, he should be home, packing, not wasting his time sitting on a bar stool in a sports bar with some incensed female nut-job intent on a duel of words.

Whoever this Miranda was, he wasn’t going to convince her and she wasn’t going to convince him. What was the point of going?

He frowned.

The point of going was that he’d said he would. And he always kept his word.

Mike sighed.

Lance Matthews, the theater critic who sat opposite him, looked up. His gaunt, elongated face was devoid of any sort of telltale emotion or even a clue as to his thoughts.

“A little stronger and that could qualify as a class one hurricane. Did Ryan call in to say he was feeling well enough to cover the Soup Bowl after all?”

“Super Bowl,” Mike automatically corrected, even though he knew that Lance had made the mistake on purpose. Just like everyone knew that Ryan had to practically be on his death bed to miss the event. “No,” he added slowly, “I’m just debating whether or not to meet this fan at a sports bar.”

Something akin to mild interest passed over Lance’s alabaster face. “Fan of what? You?”

Mike heard the incredulous note in the other man’s voice. Lance was the one with an ego, not him. “No, of Steven Shaw.”

The man nodded and Mike expected him to drop the matter. Lance looked down his nose at anything more physical than finding the seat numbers on his theater tickets. But apparently the man did absorb a few things that went on around him. He actually knew who Steven Shaw was.

“They’re a small but steadfast bunch. Loyal to the end, so I hear. I thought they might come out of the woodwork after your little Steven-Shaw-should-rot-in-hell-for-all-eternity piece.” He ended the pronouncement with a smug smirk.

“I didn’t say that,” Mike protested. “I just said that, if we reconsider our stand and put him in the running for the hall of fame, then we’ve surrendered our standards. We’d be setting a terrible precedent and a bad example for the younger fans.”

Lance raised his hand in defense. “Please, spare me. I don’t need to have you quote the entire article for me. I assure you, I get the gist.” Lance paused, then added, “And, as a matter of fact, I quite agree.”

That stunned Mike. He couldn’t remember when he and the other man had agreed on anything.

“What I don’t agree with is your actually meeting with this so-called ‘fan.’ At least, not without taking some pepper spray with you. Did it occur to you that this woman might be deranged? Of course,” he added, “anyone who’s so rabid about sports has to be a little deranged as far as I’m concerned.”

That made up Mike’s mind for him. “Thanks for your concern, but I can take care of myself.”

The smirk on Lance’s lips widened and the theater critic shook his head as if to say, Poor fool. What he did say was, “I take it you never saw Misery.”

That would be the movie about the fanatical fan, Mike thought. “As a matter of fact, I have. If this Miranda comes into the bar carrying a hatchet, I’ll be sure to duck out the back.”

Lance’s eyes narrowed, but there was still evidence of contempt. “It might very well be too late by then.”

Mike shrugged. “I’ll take my chances,” he said, before getting back to his notes for his next day’s column.

And so, approximately five hours later, Mike found himself securely planted on a bar stool, nursing a warm glass of beer and watching the door. But every time it opened, someone other than this so-called Miranda— who called their kid Miranda, anyway?—entered.

His beer was almost gone.

He’d arrived ten minutes before six, preferring to be early so that he had the advantage of observing the woman when she crossed the floor. He wanted to size her up before they met face-to-face. No woman he knew—other than Kate—was ever anything but late.

He glanced at his watch. Six o’clock on the dot. Dollars to donuts, she wasn’t going to show, he thought, taking another sip of his beer. Setting the mug down, he ran a thumb over his lips to eliminate any residue suds. He’d give her fifteen minutes, then leave.

When an older woman walked in alone, Mike was sure he’d found his challenger. She looked at him for a long moment, her eyes traveling over the length of his body as if he were a tall, frosty glass of ice water and she were newly arrived from the desert. And then, after a slight hesitation that appeared to be tinged with regret, she continued walking right past him.

Damn, he didn’t have time for this. After draining his glass, he set it back down on the bar with finality. He really did need to get going. He hadn’t finished his article and there was still that packing to do. He never liked leaving things until the last minute. He never knew when he might need that minute for something else.

Preoccupied, he didn’t feel the hand on his arm, didn’t realize there was anyone standing beside him until he turned right into her. And bumped up against possibly the firmest soft body he’d ever encountered. Thrown off guard, Mike took a quick step back.

The apology was automatic, as were the manners ingrained in him from a very young age. “Sorry, didn’t see you standing there.” Wow, she was hot and he tried not to stare. It had been a while since he’d witnessed such a perfect combination of body and face. “My gorgeous woman radar must be down.”

“Right along with your common sense, I see,” the woman countered. A hint of a smile curved her lips. Or maybe that was just his imagination. “That line doesn’t really work, does it?”

“It’s not a line,” he assured her. Very few women took his breath away. After all, this was Southern California, where more than a preponderance of beautiful women existed, many of whom held down “other” jobs in Hollywood. But this one was definitely in a class by herself. “Just an honest observation.”

She looked at him for a long moment. He almost got the impression she was staring straight into his mind.

“Like all your other observations?” she finally asked.

Was that a smirk on her face? Why? They didn’t know each other. God knew he would have remembered meeting a woman who exuded what he could only term as barely harnessed sexuality. Her long blond hair was bound up with a few pins. He had a feeling if he pulled them out, like in one of those old, hokey, grade B movies, a storm of swirling blond curls would tumble down and all but overwhelm her face. He usually liked sleek hair, but on her, he would have bet his soul that curly would look damn good.

Almost as good as those curves beneath the sensible navy blue jacket and matching pencil skirt.

For some reason, he caught himself thinking of one of those fantasies, the ones that started out with a refined, scholarly looking woman who, with a little bit of coaxing, turned into a smoldering tigress.

He definitely needed to get out more.

The way she watched him made him feel they knew each other. But how? He would have remembered her, no question.

“Do I know you?” he finally asked. Although it was tempting, he didn’t add that he knew he wanted to know her because that, too, sounded like a line. A pitiful one.

Miranda deliberately took her time, enjoying that he obviously felt at a disadvantage. Her eyes slowly swept over the journalist. It was something she’d learned from observing her father. With every pitch, SOS had taken his time on the mound, sizing up the batter each and every time, unnerving him as he mentally selected just the right pitch to throw and bring the batter down.

Rather than saying no, or drawing the moment out, she ended his quandary and replied, “I’m Miranda.”

Like a drawbridge that had its chains severed, Mike’s mouth dropped open. His eyes widened as he stared at her in disbelief.

“You’re Miranda?” So much for intuition, Mike upbraided himself. Unless this woman had an amazing plastic surgeon on retainer, she wasn’t any older than about twenty-five.

Amusement highlighted her face. She enjoyed catching the man off guard, although she wasn’t exactly sure why he looked as surprised as he did.

“Yes, I am.” Her line of work had taught her to go straight to the heart of the matter when it came to getting answers. “Just what were you expecting?”

The image of a fanatical groupie chasing after Shaw in orthopedic sneakers instantly disintegrated. How had the man managed to attract someone so young into his camp? She was too young to have watched many of his games.

“Not you,” he replied honestly.

The words seemed to emerge out of his mouth in slow motion. Which happened to be the exact speed of his brain waves. This was an unusual predicament for him. Competition for jobs as a sportswriter was close to cutthroat. His lightning-fast brain—with a tongue to match—was what had landed him the position at the Times to begin with. So just how did one drop-dead gorgeous female negate all that without even trying?

At any other time, Miranda might have been flattered. It had been a long time since she’d found herself in a social position, a long time since she’d been on the receiving end of a compliment. Test tubes and analytical data tended to be silent. But this was the man who had seen fit to mount a crusade against her father. Which made him unlikable, no matter how pretty his blue eyes were.

“Baseball fans come in all sizes and shapes,” she informed him and then tried not to respond as she felt his eyes drift over her. His gaze couldn’t have been more intense if he were measuring her for a thong bikini.

“Obviously,” he murmured.

And they did, he’d be the first one to say that. It was just that he’d had a preconceived notion of what she, SOS’s champion, would look like. He’d met a few of SOS’s fans, the ones who continued to stick by him despite the betting scandal. This Miranda was far too young to be a fan. And yet, he thought back to the heated e-mail exchange. She was definitely a fan. But it made no sense to him. Most people Miranda’s age didn’t even know who—or what, for that matter—SOS was.

He realized suddenly that he had completely forgotten his manners. Kate wouldn’t have been happy with him. Rising to his feet, he gestured toward the other end of the room, where round tables and chairs were sprinkled about. “Would you like to sit at a table?”

Miranda gracefully planted her seat onto the stool beside his. “This is fine.”

Mike sat down again, acutely aware that as he took his seat, his body was captivatingly close to hers. And that the room had become several degrees warmer.

He began to raise his hand to signal the bartender. “What’ll you have?” he asked.

Miranda didn’t miss a beat. “An apology would be nice.”

Mike dropped his hand down again before the bartender looked his way. Turning on his stool, Mike studied the petite, intense woman beside him. It wasn’t only the reporter in him that was curious about her, but it made for a good start.

“Your dad an SOS fan?”

Miranda almost laughed then. If ever there was a man devoid of ego, it was her father. He wasn’t an easy man to know, keeping everything to himself, but she knew that much. In a world where people were eager to take credit for an accomplishment, her father had always tried to keep out of the limelight. He shunned publicity, both the good and then the bad, wanting only to play the game he loved.

“No, not exactly a fan,” she finally acknowledged. If he’d admired his own work—or more importantly, himself—she felt he would have at least attempted to speak up in his own defense rather than stoically accept the commission’s ruling that he be barred from baseball. “But he understands the man.” As well as anyone could, she added silently.

Her answer only raised more questions. He could see where his article would generate her terse response if her father was a diehard SOS fan and she’d been indoctrinated from the time she was a little girl, but obviously, that wasn’t the case.

Mike tried again. “He a gambler, too?”

The smile disappeared and her eyes, an incredible shade of sky-blue, darkened visibly.

“No, he’s not.”

As a matter of fact, except for that one incident that had brought him down, as far as she knew, her father never gambled. The one time she’d asked him about the details of the incident, he’d watched her for a long moment, then told her to leave it alone. She’d done as he’d asked, but that didn’t keep her from wondering.

Mike felt as if he was trying to find his way through an elaborate maze in the dark. “So you just decided to champion Shaw on your own.” He leaned forward, creating an intimate space for the two of them. “If you don’t mind my asking, why?”

That was why she was here, she reminded herself. “Because Steven Shaw doesn’t deserve to be remembered for one isolated moment of weakness, not when he had such an outstanding career from start to finish.”

She had a point, but that didn’t change the way things were. “Human nature,” he told her philosophically. “People tend to remember the bad rather than the good. Especially when they feel they’ve been betrayed.”

Miranda raised her chin defensively. He liked the way fire came into her eyes. “He didn’t betray anyone,” she protested.

Now, there she was wrong. “His fans felt differently. They believed in him.”

“And one transgression changes all that? What kind of fickle fans are they?” she demanded, passion growing in her voice. “For God’s sake, he didn’t kill anyone. He placed a stupid bet.”

Other men could place bets, but not a baseball player. She ought to understand that. “The man broke a cardinal rule.”

“I don’t remember ‘Thou shalt not bet’ being one of the Ten Commandments.”

“It is in baseball,” he pointed out. “If you’re a player.”

“And God forgives—but the baseball commissioner doesn’t, is that it?” she asked sarcastically. On the way over here, she’d promised herself that she’d keep her temper, but she’d had all these feelings bottled up inside for so long. It seemed to her that no one, no one had taken her father’s side in this.

“Something like that,” Mike answered. “If you don’t mind my saying so, you don’t look like the type to be a baseball groupie.”

She’d always hated that term, hated the connotation associated with it: mindless people who blindly followed a team or a player. There was far more to being a true fan of the game than that.

“I’m not,” she retorted. “I just love the game. And, I hate injustice.”

“So you think that Shaw got a raw deal.”

“I know he got a raw deal. The man played his heart out at every game. Nothing, but nothing came before baseball for him. The so-called ‘offense’ took place over ten years ago. The statute of limitations runs out in seven years for everything but murder. Don’t you think it’s only fair that it run out here, too?”

Maybe, if SOS had had this woman pleading his case, the commission might have been swayed, he mused. She certainly was passionate enough about her cause. “Like I said, baseball has different rules.”

Miranda shook her head. “Baseball is the all-American game and America stands for justice, or so we like to think.”

“Why are you so adamant about Shaw?” he asked. “From what I hear, the man’s almost a recluse.”

“He was,” she corrected. A hint of pride came into her voice. “Right after the car accident.”

It had been touch-and-go for a while. Her father had even been in a coma and some thought he’d never recover. But he did, or at least his body had. But even that was not entirely true. In the last ten years, five operations were needed to make him whole again. Fixing his spirit, however, took even more effort.

“But he’s set to start coaching a Little League team now and he’s finally coming out of his shell.”

Mike thought of all his failed attempts at getting an interview. The woman had really aroused his interest now. Maybe this would was the key to getting to the man. “Sounds as if you know a lot about him.”

For a moment, Miranda debated shrugging off his assumption, but that would be lying. And it would seem as if she was ashamed of being Shaw’s daughter and she wasn’t. She believed in her father, she always had. She was proud to be his daughter, proud of what the man had accomplished. His being banned from baseball didn’t change that. Just made her that much more protective of him.

More than anything in the world, she wanted to get her father inducted into the hall of fame. He’d earned the honor. He deserved it.

This sportswriter still waited for an answer. “I make it my business to,” she told him.

She saw interest flare in Mike Marlowe’s deep blue eyes.

Miranda didn’t often act on impulse. Something told her that she’d made a mistake coming here.

Chapter Three

“Do you know SOS personally?”

As he asked the question, Mike could feel his pulse accelerating. He tried to talk himself down. It was too much to hope for, stumbling across a private in with Shaw.

He caught himself hoping anyway. In all ways but one—maintaining lasting relationships—Mike thought of himself as an optimistic guy. And this whimsical meeting might just be the opportunity of his young career.

He glanced at the woman on the bar stool next to his and waited for an answer. He was more than a little convinced that she would affirm his hunch.

Miranda blew out a breath. No doubt about it, this was a mistake. She should have never agreed to this meeting, never mind that she had been the one to suggest it in the heat of the moment. It was a mistake, pure and simple.

Served her right for letting her emotions get the better of her. In that respect, she’d taken after her mother, not her father. Being stoic, like SOS, was simply not in her nature.

Although, God knew she tried. But any good intentions had died the second she’d read Marlowe’s column. Someone had to speak up for her father. And look where that had gotten her. Tap dancing madly around words in a sports bar, edging away from an overly eager, overly handsome sportswriter.

Time to retreat.

Miranda slid off the bar stool and slipped her purse strap onto her shoulder. “I have to go,” she told him with finality.

Mike read between the lines. Her evasive action told him what he wanted to know. God, but he was glad he’d answered her e-mail. “You do know him personally, don’t you?”

She hated lying, but she also understood the kind of floodgates that could be opened if she admitted knowing SOS, much less that the former pitcher was her father. She’d been through this more than once.

Still, the word No refused to form on her lips this time.

“And if I do?” Miranda hedged.

The excitement built within him. “Then I’d fall to my knees right here and start to beg.”

That wasn’t what she was expecting him to say. Amused, she asked, “That might be interesting, but why would you go to such lengths?”

He felt not unlike Aladdin holding the magic lamp in his hands, about to come in contact with the genie for the first time. “For you to use your influence with SOS so that I could land an interview with him.”

She knew without having to ask that no way in hell would her father go along with an interview. It had taken her a long time to get the man to communicate with her beyond a few precise words at a time. He wasn’t the kind of man to talk to strangers, much less bare his soul to a journalist. Her father was, at bottom, a very private, very shy man. He always had been. She couldn’t remember his ever having given an interview. Certainly not since Ariel’s death.

And with each devastating incident that occurred in his life—Ariel’s death, his divorce, her mother’s passing, the scandal and finally, the car accident—her father had just grown more reticent and distant. Even in the best of times, he wasn’t someone who liked listening to the sound of his own voice. He preferred doing to talking.

Looking at Mike, she shook her head. “I’m afraid you’re out of luck there—”

“On my own, yes,” he agreed, talking quickly, “but I’ve never met anyone who actually had access to the man before.”

Miranda had learned how to bob and weave with the best of them. “I didn’t say I did,” she reminded him.

“You didn’t say you didn’t.”

Fair enough, she thought. He had her there. But she could remedy that. It meant a small white lie about knowing her father. “Okay, I don’t know him.”

Mike smiled broadly. “Too late, Miranda. I don’t believe you.”

Her stomach tightened when he said her name, and she didn’t like it. She really needed to get going.

Miranda shook her head. “That has no bearing on the situation.”

As she began to leave, Mike stunned her by doing exactly as he’d proposed. He fell to his knees right in front of her, impeding her exit. He caught hold of her wrist—preventing her from just walking around him to the front door.

“Please.” The entreaty seemed to vibrate from every pore of his body.

She was acutely aware that people were watching them. Her father’s daughter when it came to drawing undue attention, she felt uncomfortable as the center attraction.

“Get up,” she blurted, trying unsuccessfully to disengage herself. “People are going to think you’re proposing.”

He’d rattled her, Mike thought. Good. Maybe he’d get her to see things his way after all. “If that’s what it takes to get an interview with SOS…” Mike’s voice trailed off.

Her eyes widened. Just her luck to champion her father’s cause with a man who was mentally deranged. “You’re crazy. You realize that, don’t you?”

Mike rose to his feet, still holding on to her wrist. “Look, I’ve tried to get an interview with SOS half a dozen times—if not more—and he won’t return any of my calls.”

She could well believe that. Not wanting confrontations or to get into a discussion as to why he wouldn’t do an interview, her father would simply just ignore the call altogether.

“He likes to keep to himself,” she told him.

“But he’s obviously opened up to you.” And where Shaw could do it once, Mike was positive the pitcher could do it again.

“I wouldn’t call it that.” And technically, she was telling the truth. Getting information out of her father— any kind of information—took a great deal of time, as well as patience.

Again, Mike saw it for what it was. He prided himself on being able to read people, a combination of body language and attitude. “Look, I get it. You’re trying to protect the man. That’s really commendable of you. But you also feel that Shaw’s gotten a raw deal—”

“He has,” she interjected. Then she looked down at her wrist, still caught in his grip. “Am I getting my hand back anytime soon?”

“That depends,” he answered.

“On what?”

“On whether you bolt and run the second I let go of it.”

Her eyes narrowed. She didn’t appreciate these kinds of games, but it was her own fault she was here in the first place. Marlowe certainly hadn’t sought her out, she’d come gunning for him.

“I won’t ‘bolt and run,’” she promised.

Slowly, he spread his fingers out from around her wrist, his eyes remaining on hers. When she continued to remain where she was, he went on.

“Okay, let’s say I’m willing to reexamine my position in print. You have to admit that I’d need to talk to the man to do that—which means an interview.” He looked at her pointedly. “Can you get me one?”

“And if I did—not saying that I can,” she qualified quickly, “how do I know you won’t use that to do a hatchet job on him?”

Part of Mike took offense, but he knew where she was coming from. From time to time, Shaw’s past transgression drew articles and speculation out of the woodwork. So, he decided to keep his defense simple. “You’ve read my columns?”

She’d read him faithfully for the last few years, ever since he began to write the column. But to say so might make him feel he had the advantage. “Yes.”

“Anything there—before the article on SOS—to make you think that I’m biased or that I have some kind of an ax to grind? Or that I’m laboring under some preset agenda that I’ve set up for myself?”

She blew out a breath, then shook her head. His columns had always been fair. “No.”

Miranda didn’t sound a hundred percent convinced. “Ask around if you want to. Anyone in the business’ll tell you that I call it the way I see it and I’m nobody’s lackey.” He’d laid his cards on the table and he held his breath. “Now, do I get an interview with the man?”

Even if she wanted him to have it, she couldn’t make that kind of promise. “That’s not up to me, that’s up to him.”

“So you do have some influence.”

She’d walked right into that one, hadn’t she? Miranda upbraided herself. Another mistake. But, try as she might, she couldn’t work up any anger against the sportswriter. “I wouldn’t exactly say that.”

“What are you, his assistant?”

The time for denying that she knew her father was obviously over. Inclining her head, she gave him a non-answer. “I’m whatever he needs me to be.”

The simply stated affirmation stopped Mike in his tracks for a second. What she said could be interpreted in a number of ways, some of which he found himself not exactly happy about. If she was saying what he thought she was saying, that made her out of bounds. If she was romantically involved with the former major-league pitcher, he wasn’t about to act on any of the impulses he’s been entertaining for the last few minutes.

In his opinion, Miranda whatever-her-last-name-was was far too young for Shaw, but then, this day and age, anything was possible. Besides, it really wasn’t any of his business.

“I see.” Mike focused on what was important. “So, you’ll ask him?”

“Do you promise if you do get to talk to him, you’ll write a fair article?”

“I promise.” Like a boy taking an oath, Mike swiped his index finger across his heart, making an X. An amused smile played on his lips. “Cross my heart and hope to die.”

In contrast, Miranda’s smile was sharp and devoid of humor. “You lie to me, and you will.”

This Shaw had to really be something else in private to arouse that kind of loyalty. He was going to get an interview, he thought, hardly able to believe his luck.

“So when can I meet him?”

“You’re getting ahead of yourself,” she pointed out. “I didn’t say I’d ask him—and even if I do ask him, there’s probably a very good chance that he’ll say no. He doesn’t like reporters,” she explained honestly. Reporters were like vultures, he’d once told her, except that they didn’t wait until the victim was dead before they started stripping off the flesh.

“I’m a journalist,” Mike corrected.

How was that different? “A rose by any other name…” Miranda let her voice trail off as she eyed him pointedly.

He needed leverage. Mike decided to share something with her.

“Would it further my case for you to know that when I was a kid, SOS was my hero? That I can remember exactly where I was and what I was doing the day I heard about the betting scandal and that he’d been banned from baseball for life?” He paused for a second, debating, then added, “I cried myself to sleep that night. Not even my brothers know that.”

Yes, it helped, she thought. If what he said was true. If so, then he’d be more likely to want to find a way to get the public to come around. And wasn’t this what she’d wanted all along, someone to champion her father’s case in print? Who better than an established sportswriter who’d once been a devoted fan?

Slowly, she nodded in response to his question. “I’m sorry you lost your hero.”

“Yeah, me, too. Who knows, maybe I’ll find him again.” If SOS told him why he’d placed the bets when he knew it went against the rules, maybe it would finally make sense to him. Mike tried to contain his eagerness—after all, nothing had been cast in stone yet. For all he knew, the woman might be pulling his leg. “So you’ll talk to him about giving me an interview?”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

“Great. Terrific.”

Damn, but he almost felt like a kid again, experiencing that exhilarating rush when he got to go to a ball game on picture day and was able to collect autographs of his favorite players. Kate always made sure he was in the front row when the players came out, maneuvering her way through the crowd and bringing him with her.

He felt like celebrating. “Sure I can’t buy you a drink?”

She shook her head. “I’m sure.” She’d suggested the sports bar because it was close, not because she liked beer. Her preference ran toward drinks that came with tiny colorful parasols—but she was driving and she didn’t have the time to spare, waiting for the drink to dissipate into her bloodstream. “I’ve got to be going,” she reminded him.

“Right. Oh, wait.” He’d gotten so excited, he’d almost forgotten the most important part. “How do I get in contact with you?”

He obviously wasn’t thinking because otherwise, Miranda decided, he would have remembered the e-mail. But because she didn’t want to embarrass him, she didn’t bother pointing that out.

“I’ll get in contact with you,” she replied. She liked it better that way. It put the ball in her court and gave her control. Control was important to her. So very little of life came under that heading. “Do you have a business card?”

“Yeah, sure.” Mike immediately felt for his wallet.

Once retrieved from his left rear pocket, he flipped it open. Aside from several torn bits of paper containing miscellaneous information, two credit cards, several twenties, his driver’s license, a press card and a photograph of his family taken at the last fourth of July celebration, there was nothing. He’d forgotten to replenish his supply of business cards.

“Just not with me,” he muttered, then looked up. “Sorry, I gave away my last one a few days ago,” he apologized. Pulling a napkin over from the bar, he took out a pen and began to write down every phone number he could think of where she could reach him. “This is my cell number, my office number and my landline at home.” He pointed to each. “Call me anytime, night or day.”

She took the napkin from him and folded it into her purse. Her attention was drawn to the photograph he’d shuffled through in his search for the business card.

“Is that your family?” They appeared to be a happy bunch of people, she thought, wondering what it felt like to have a large family. Now there was only her father and her.

“What?” His mind already on the interview he wanted to conduct, it took Mike a second to process her question. “Oh, yes, that’s my family. My brothers, my sister, my dad and my stepmother.”

Taking the photograph from him, she got a closer look. “My God, your brothers are absolutely identical,” she said in awe. Initially, when she’d glanced at the photograph, she’d thought her eyes were playing tricks on her.

“Not once you get to know them,” Mike assured her. Growing up, Mike had gotten so used to his brothers he hadn’t thought of them as triplets in years. He put the photograph back into his wallet, which he tucked into his pocket. “How about you?”

Miranda looked at him, slightly confused. “How about me what?”

“Do you have a business card?”

She did. It had her name, her position and Promise Pharmaceuticals’ very ornate logo stamped across it. But she didn’t really want Mike Marlowe having that much information on her, especially not her last name. She wanted to be the one who called the shots and could quietly disappear in case her father couldn’t be convinced to do this interview.

The more she thought about it, the more certain she was that Marlowe could redeem her father. The only way people were going to change their minds about him was if someone methodically—and passionately—laid out all the arguments to let the past go and reevaluate the man only in terms of his accomplishments.

She shook her head, spreading her hands wide. “I’m afraid I don’t have a card with me.”

Mike leaned over the bar and confiscated another napkin. Pulling it over, he held it out to her along with his pen. “That’s okay.” He grinned. “We can exchange napkins.”

She placed her hand over his and lightly pushed it back down to the bar. “I’d really rather just keep it this way if you don’t mind.”

He raised one eyebrow. “In other words, don’t call us, we’ll call you?” he asked.

“Not exactly. Something a little less daunting than that,” she promised, squaring her shoulders. There was something very sexy about a woman who knew her own mind. Damn, but that Shaw was a lucky man, he thought. “I’ll be in touch.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” Mike called after her.

Miranda didn’t turn around, but she did lift her hand above her head, giving him a half wave of acknowledgment.

Mike squelched the urge to sprint in order to walk out the door with the woman. He had a feeling she might equate that to come kind of a power play and he didn’t want anything jeopardizing the interview. So instead, he leaned back against his stool and watched her exit…and the way her hips subtly moved to some beat only she heard. The number of patrons at the bar had increased considerably since he’d arrived, Mike couldn’t help thinking.

Just as she disappeared through the door, whatever else might have comprised Shaw’s shortcomings, the man certainly knew how to pick his women.

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