Knowing the score...

Prima ballerina Noelle Nelson needs to recover from her injury and return to the stage. She won’t consider failure...or be distracted by baseball’s resident bad boy, Jace Monroe. His tattoos, wicked smile and deliciously athletic body might drive her crazy, but a media frenzy is the last thing this good girl needs.

Jace is sick with fear that his own injury will never heal, but he’s not about to let anyone notice, especially the gorgeous blonde dancer he loves to infuriate. He’s pushing himself past his physical capacity, putting his future at risk. Still, when it comes to making a play for Noelle, Jace is in scoring position—and he’s not going to back down!

Who says he has to be Mr. Right? What’s wrong with Mr. Right Now?

The world had narrowed to three things: Jace’s mouth, Noelle’s fingers and the half a cookie clutched between them.

His breath mingled with hers. “Are you ready?”

In a heartbeat, the cookie vanished from her hand and her index finger was drawn into the warm, wet vortex of his mouth. He worked his way down to her pinkie, tormenting each finger in turn with his lips, teeth and tongue until they were sucked clean.

Oh. My. God.

“I’m still hungry.”

She glanced at the tin in her lap. “There’re more cookies.”

“That’s not what I’m hungry for.”

Jace plucked the tin of cookies off her lap and set it down on the bench behind him.

“I think you know what I want...”

Dear Reader,

Finally! You met the baby of the Nelson family, ballerina Noelle, in Triple Threat. Now, three books later, she gets her own story in Triple Score.

Things aren’t all rosy for poor Noelle. She’s torn her ACL, a possible career-ending injury for a ballet dancer. So she’s holed up at an exclusive rehab center focused on one thing and one thing only—following her treatment plan and getting back onstage ASAP.

Enter bad-boy baseball player Jace Monroe. He’s ruptured the ligament in his elbow—again—and he needs to get better fast so he can rejoin his team, the Sacramento Storm, as shortstop. But unlike Noelle, Jace isn’t a by-the-books kind of guy. He’s willing to break the rules of rehab to get what he wants. And what he wants is to play baseball—and tear down the walls the elusive, alluring ballerina keeps putting up between them.

I’ve loved my time with the Nelson family, and I hope you have, too. Sadly, Triple Score is the last in The Art of Seduction series. But you’ll get the chance to catch up with all of the Nelson siblings in the epilogue. And you might get to see at least one Nelson pairing in one of my upcoming books for Harlequin Blaze. Remember Malcolm and Marisa from Triple Threat? Well, it looks as if they’ll be getting their own story, a Christmas book tentatively titled Six Pack Santa.

But first you’ll get to see more of Jace’s pals Cooper and Reid. So play ball!

Until next time,

Regina

Triple Score
Regina Kyle

www.millsandboon.co.uk

REGINA KYLE was destined to be an author when she won a story contest at age eight with a touching tale about a squirrel and a nut pie. By day, she composes dry legal briefs. At night, she writes steamy romance with heart and humor. A lover of all things theatrical, Regina lives with her husband, teenage daughter and two melodramatic cats. When she’s not writing, she’s usually singing, reading, cooking or watching bad reality television.

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For Diane. My only sister, my first friend. I hope you read this under the covers with a flashlight and no one catches you and tells you to go to sleep. And that you like it as much as you did Flat Stanley. W2T, 143.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

Dear Reader

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

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

Epilogue

Extract

Copyright

1

“THAT’S IT, JACE.” A female voice, thick and smoky, drifted through the closed door. “Perfect.”

A low, male moan followed. “Feels good.”

“Not too hard. Just a little more.”

“Oh, yeah.”

Noelle Nelson froze, one hand on the grip of her crutch and the other inches from the door marked “Physical Therapy.” The room was usually empty this time of night. But the couple in there clearly had a different kind of therapy session in mind.

Ewww.

She lowered her hand. Her nightly stretches would have to wait. She might not be able to do much with a torn knee ligament, but she’d be damned if she was going to let herself go. When her leg healed and she got the green light to dance again, she’d be ready. More than ready.

Noelle tightened her fists around the rubber crutch grips, fully intending to swing herself around and hobble back to her room. That was the right thing to do. Not lean in and press her ear to the door. But morbid curiosity wouldn’t let her leave without at least trying to figure out who the heck was in there. Maybe she could pick up a few pointers. It’d been a while since she’d gotten any action. Not that anyone at the rehab center had sparked her interest. No one had visions of mixing it up on the massage table dancing in her head.

“That’s far enough.” The woman’s voice pitched higher.

“Come on,” the man cajoled.

“Stop, Jace. I mean it.”

“Just a little further. I promise.”

“I said no.”

WTF? Noelle pressed closer to the door, straining to hear better. No more protests. No sounds of a struggle. Just clanking metal, like someone was using the free weights.

What in God’s green earth was going on in there?

She reached for the doorknob again. A little peek. That was all she needed to make sure the woman, whoever she was, was okay. Then she could walk—or limp—away with a clear conscience.

Noelle inched the knob to the right and pushed the door open a hair, then a bit more. Damn. Still not enough to see anything. She risked discovery and cracked the door open farther, leaning forward on her crutches to see far enough into the room to spot the mysterious Jace and his gal pal.

Finally, she caught a glimpse—two heads bent next to each other, one fair, one dark. She leaned in, holding her breath. One of her crutches wobbled. She grabbed at it, her pulse accelerating, but it slipped out from under her and clattered to the floor.

“Shit.” Teetering, she reached for the closest thing to her—the door—to steady herself. Instead, it swung open and she tumbled through the opening. Trying to muster as much dancer’s grace as she could, she threw down her other crutch and thrust out her hands. They met the scratchy indoor-outdoor carpet of the physical therapy room with a jolt, blessedly taking the brunt of the impact. She collapsed in a heap, her injured leg, in a brace from mid-thigh to just below her knee, extended out behind her.

“Shit,” she repeated, slowly raising her head and absorbing the scene in front of her. No strewn clothing. No naked bodies. No show of force. Nothing even remotely sexual or threatening. Just Sara, one of the therapists on staff, hovering over a man sitting on one of the exercise benches, all his energy focused on what looked to be a five-pound weight clutched in his fist.

And what a man.

Even with a brace from the middle of his upper arm to his wrist, Noelle could sense the power in his tattooed bicep. She’d spent her life being lifted and thrown by dancers toned and strong from intense, daily workouts. But they were more on the lean side. This guy was built like a linebacker, muscle on muscle on muscle. His tank top clung to his broad chest with well-defined pecs and his gym shorts hugged thighs he’d clearly spent hours bulking up with squats and lunges. Sweat beaded at the back of his bent head, dampening the thick, dark curls at the base of his neck, and he radiated a not-so-quiet determination.

“Ohmigod!” Sara’s shout broke Noelle out of her lust-induced stupor. The therapist rushed over to her, moving immediately to kneel beside her. With practiced hands, she manipulated Noelle’s injured leg, feeling up and down the brace. “Are you okay?”

“I think so.” Noelle struggled to sit up. “Nothing hurt except my pride.”

“Everything seems in place.” Sara nodded reassuringly. “You’re lucky.”

Right. She’d just fallen flat on her face in front of the only guy to get her hormones to wake up and do the cha-cha since Yannick had dumped her in front of the entire company six months ago. Six lonely, sex-starved months. Real lucky.

“Don’t move. Let me get an ice pack in case it starts to swell.”

“I’m fine, really,” Noelle insisted. “I don’t want to interrupt your session.”

“We’re through here.” Sara stood and shot Jace a warning look before crossing to the door. “Right?”

He shrugged and looked up, giving Noelle her first glimpse of eyes the color of fine, aged whiskey, tinged with what looked like concern. “If you say so.”

“I do. I only agreed to stay late so you could get acclimated to the facilities here, not work yourself to death on your first day.” Sara ducked into the hallway and Jace appeared in her place at Noelle’s side, all six-foot-something of him occupying the air above her in a way the tiny therapist never could.

“Lose something?” He held Noelle’s crutches out in front of him. Any concern she’d seen in those whiskey eyes had morphed into amusement.

“You could say that.”

“I just did.” He handed her crutches.

“Thanks.” She grabbed them and tried—unsuccessfully—to get to her feet. Normally, she wouldn’t disobey a direct order from her PT. And you didn’t get more direct than, “Don’t move.” But she had to get out of there and away from Mr. Tall, Dark and Dangerous. Fast. Well, as fast as she could in her present condition.

“Hang on.” The man in question reached down with his good arm and took hold of her elbow. Arousal zinged down her forearm to her fingertips. “Here. Lean on me.”

She shook him off, needing the tingles to stop. Six months celibate or not, she hadn’t flown across the country for a casual hookup, no matter how hot she found the hook-ee. She was there for one reason and one reason only—to get back on stage as soon as humanly possible. “I’m perfectly capable of managing by myself.”

“I’m sure you are.” His fingers curled around her elbow again and damned if the tingles didn’t start anew. “But why should you have to when you’ve got a strong, almost completely healthy male to help?”

Indeed.

“Fine.” She swallowed, moistening lips suddenly drier than Arizona in August. “But watch out for the leg.”

“Your wish is my command.” He gave a mock bow, wrapped his good arm around her waist and lifted her gently, pulling her flush against all those warm, hard, beautiful muscles as she inched upward. He smelled like sweat and soap and strong, healthy male, and she fought the nervous shudder building up inside her.

This was a bad idea. No, not bad. Monumentally stupid. Like trapeze-without-a-net stupid.

“I’ve got it from here, thanks.” She stuck a crutch under each arm and stood as tall as her injured leg would allow. “I’d shake your hand, but I’m not too steady on these things.”

“You don’t say.” He crossed his arms in front of his chest and eyed her up and down, not bothering to hide the glint of raw appreciation in his gaze. “Explains why you fell through the door, landed on your ass and interrupted my workout.”

More like on her face, but she wasn’t about to correct him. Not when she was too busy trying to control her cha-chaing hormones. “I didn’t think anyone would be in here this late. I was planning on doing some stretches, but then I heard voices...”

“Eavesdropping?” A playful grin teased the corners of his lips. “Hear anything interesting?”

She pursed her lips. “If you must know, it sounded like you two were getting...intimate. And then Sara said stop, and you wouldn’t, so I thought she might be...in trouble.”

“In trouble?” A burst of laughter escaped him. “Get this straight, Duchess. I don’t have to pressure women to be with me.”

“I don’t imagine you do,” she muttered.

“So you opened the door for a little lookie-loo?” He waggled his brows. “I wouldn’t have pegged you as a voyeur. Kinky. I like it.”

“That’s not how it was.” She wobbled on her crutches, not sure whether to stay and continue what was turning into verbal foreplay or flee in search of Sara and the ice. Before she could make up her mind, he strode over to the weight rack, grabbed a ten pounder in each hand and began doing squats.

“Hey.” She shuffled a couple of steps forward. “Sara said you were through for the night.”

“She said we were through. And we are. I’m just doing a little leg work before bedtime. I don’t care what those quacks in Sacramento think. I’m going to be back by the start of next season, better than ever.”

“Next season?” She studied him. The shock of blue-black hair falling across his forehead. The full sleeves of tattoos, partially hidden by his brace. The logo of Thor brandishing a lightning bolt in one hand and a baseball bat in the other on his sweat-stained shirt. All of it clicked into place. “You’re that baseball player. Jace Morgan. The one who hit for the cycle in last year’s All-Star game.”

Not that she had a clue what that meant. But the way her brother Gabe and his buddy Cade had gone on and on about it, it had to be pretty extraordinary.

“It’s Monroe.” He switched to lunges. “Want my autograph?”

“Dream on.” What she wanted was him gone. She’d picked the Spaulding Center for Rehabilitation and Research because of its reputation for being discreet. With a star athlete like him there, the press was sure to come sniffing around. And just like that—poof—there went any shot she had of keeping her recovery on the down-low. The whole dance world would know where Noelle Nelson, prima ballerina of the New York City Ballet, had gone to mend her ruptured ACL. A dancer’s worst nightmare.

She tightened her grip on her crutches and headed for the door.

“Leaving so soon?” Jace’s tone was almost taunting.

Noelle clumped around to look at him. He was still lunging, his fine, firm ass squeezed tight, the muscles in his legs bunching and flexing with exertion. It was a second before she could remember what she was going to say. “Not every woman is susceptible to your charms.”

Liar, liar, pointe shoes on fire.

He stopped lunging to smirk at her. “So you admit I have charms.”

“I admit no such thing.” She huffed a stray strand of long, blond hair off her face. The man was as annoying as he was attractive.

Jace shook his head and crossed to the weight rack, where he exchanged the two ten-pound dumbbells for one twenty pounder. “The lady doth protest too much, methinks.”

“I do not—” She stopped midsentence, the irony of her words not lost on her, and reached down to scratch an itch under her knee brace. “Shakespeare?”

“Not all jocks are dumb.” He sat on the edge of the bench and started in on hammer curls with his good arm. So much for a little leg work. “There’s more to me than meets the eye.”

That was what she was afraid of.

“I think I could use that ice pack, after all. I’d better go see what’s keeping Sara.” She hobbled to the door.

“Hold up, Duchess.” Jace set down the weight with a clank. “You know my name, but I don’t know yours.”

“Sucks for you,” Noelle called over her shoulder without stopping her snail’s-pace escape. He’d find out eventually. Bat his too-long eyelashes and worm it out of Sara or some unsuspecting nurse. Until then, he’d have to be satisfied with Duchess.

Because Noelle had a mission. And a plan. And neither one included a bad-boy ballplayer with a panty-melting smile and a working knowledge of the Bard.

* * *

JACE FROWNED AND concentrated on the barbell in his hand, his reps picking up speed. He didn’t want to think about Duchess What’s-Her-Name and her ridiculous assumption that he was getting it on with his new PT. Or her legs that seemed to go on forever. Or the way her sweet little ass swayed when she hobbled out of the room. Who knew crutches could be sexy?

He had enough to worry about. He hadn’t taken a three-and-a-half-hour flight—commercial, no less—to let himself be distracted by a pretty face and an even prettier body. He was going to be back in a Storm uniform by spring training, playing the best ball of his life.

He lowered the weight to the floor with a grimace and leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees and staring at his reflection in the mirror. The guy who looked back at him had never been afraid of a little hard work. Hell, it wasn’t the first time he’d torn a ligament in his throwing arm. Been there, done that and he had come back in record time. But this time he’d needed surgery, and he’d be lying if he said the man in the mirror didn’t look a little scared.

The pocket in his gym shorts buzzed and he pulled out his cell, glanced at the screen and swiped his finger across, grateful for the interruption. “Hey, dude. Tough loss.”

On the other end of the line, Cooper Morgan, Sacramento Storm second baseman, swore. “Yeah. The close ones really suck. How’s the rehab going?”

Slow. Painful. “Great. I’ll be back at short before you know it.”

“Not until next season.” A note of caution crept into Cooper’s voice. He and Jace were part of the trio the press dubbed “the most lethal double play combo in the major leagues,” and he’d always been the level-headed one. “The good, the bad and the ugly,” a reporter had called them. Cooper was the “good,” Jace the “bad” and first baseman Reid Montgomery, with a jagged scar across one cheek that made him look a modern-day pirate, the “ugly.”

“I know. I heard the damn doctors.”

“I’m sure you heard them. But are you actually going to listen for a change?”

“Who appointed you my goddamn keeper?”

“It was either me or Reid.” Jace could hear the smile in his friend’s voice. “And he’s got some new chick he’s into, so...”

Jace chuckled and reached down to grab the water bottle he’d stashed under the bench. “Say no more. Let me guess. Tall, blond and drop dead gorgeous, with an IQ only slightly higher than her waist measurement.”

Cooper’s answering chuckle echoed over the phone. “Bingo.”

Like the Duchess. Except for the IQ thing. Jace could tell from her quick barbs she had more going on upstairs than Reid’s usual companions.

Beauty and brains. A dangerous combination.

Jace took a gulp of water and swirled it around in his mouth before letting it trickle down his throat. “So what’s the deal? You still coming out here for the All Star break?”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world. Think they’ll let you out for a day or two?”

“I don’t see why not.” Jace sipped the water again and closed his eyes, letting his head fall back. “As long as I’m a good boy.”

“You?” Cooper scoffed. “Not likely.”

“I can be good,” Jace insisted. “When I want to be.”

“Which, unfortunately, isn’t often.”

“Did you call to harass me or was there something you wanted?” Jace chugged the last of his water and wiped his mouth on his good arm.

“To harass you.”

“Mission accomplished.” Jace stood and stretched. “I better go. Rumor has it they get pissed around here if you’re not in bed by ten.”

“Are you at rehab or summer camp?”

“Both.” Jace bent to pick up the weight. “I’ll call you in a few days. Kick some ass for me in St. Louis.”

“You bet.”

Jace ended the call, returned the weight to its place on the rack and headed back to his room. Once inside, he flipped on the light switch and stared, open-mouthed.

“What the hell?”

The bed had been empty when he left to meet Sara. Now one of those inflatable love dolls lay sprawled on top, her cherry-tipped breasts pointed straight up at the ceiling and her ruby red mouth in a permanent O. A cardboard box sat between her open legs. On one side, the words For Your Enjoyment: Handle With Care were printed in bold, bright blue marker. No return address, but the postmark was from Chicago, where the Storm had finished up a recent road trip.

Jace flicked open the utility knife on his key chain, sliced through the packing tape and began pulling out items one by one. A box of condoms. A tube of Astroglide. He kept digging. The damn thing was packed with enough sex toys to keep a rowdy bachelorette party whooping it up for hours.

Cooper and Reid’s warped idea of a care package. They’d probably paid some gullible orderly a fortune to do their dirty work. Or maybe offered him box seats the next time the Storm were in Phoenix.

“Very funny, assholes.”

The corners of Jace’s lips curled into a smile in spite of himself. It was funny. Though God only knew what the staff would think when they came to clean in the morning.

He started chucking stuff back in the box until all that was left was the doll. No way was she going to fit, not in her present state. And he sure as hell wasn’t leaving her like that. With a sigh, Jace opened the valve.

Nothing.

He picked up the doll and squeezed it. A long, slow whoosh of air escaped from the valve. He squeezed again. “Come on, baby. Give it to me.”

A shrill, female squeak from behind him made Jace turn toward the door, the doll still in his arms.

“Sorry.” Noelle leaned against the door jamb, almost as if her crutches weren’t enough to keep her vertical. Her porcelain cheeks tinted red. “Again.”

“Back for some more covert operations?” Jace loosened his hold on the doll. “Has anyone ever told you your timing sucks?”

“Maybe it’s not my timing.” Her eyes traveled from him to the doll and back again. “Maybe it’s your...libido.”

“Very funny.” He smiled in spite of himself. She was smart, sassy and not in the least bit intimidated by his tattoos or his attitude or his fame, like so many women. “You know there was nothing going on between me and Sara.”

“That doesn’t explain you and...” she wagged a finger at the doll “...her.”

“A practical joke from a couple of friends.”

“Some friends.”

He threw the doll onto the floor and stepped on it, squashing one plastic boob. The air came out in a hiss, and he continued to flatten the doll with his feet.

“You’re going to pop it.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Do I look like I care?”

“You never know. You might need her for...something.”

“Like I said, I’ve never been that hard up for female companionship. And I don’t plan to start now.”

“From the way things looked a minute ago, you could have fooled me.”

He stopped his rhythmic stomping to stare at her. “Was there a reason for this late-night visit? Couldn’t sleep? Lonely? Miss me, maybe?”

Her face flushed an ever deeper scarlet. “Sara said I should apologize for spying on you guys.”

He rolled his eyes. “Not much of an apology if she’s making you do it.”

“I’m here, aren’t I?” she huffed. “And no one’s holding a gun to my back.”

“Well?” He folded his arms across his chest.

“Well, what?”

“I’m waiting.” She narrowed her eyes at him, and he tilted his head. “For your apology.”

“You really are the most infuriating man.” Her lower lip jutted out into a pout that he shouldn’t have found so sexy.

“I’ve heard.” He shrugged. “Many times. But I’m not the one who has something to apologize for.”

“All right, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have listened in. And I shouldn’t have jumped to conclusions.” Her aqua eyes flashed with righteous indignation. “Are you satisfied?”

“Hardly.” He picked up the deflated doll, stuffed it into the box and closed the lid before she could get a glimpse of any of the other goodies inside. “But it’ll do. For now.”

“Forever,” she countered as she turned to leave. “I’m here to get back on my feet, not make friends.”

“We’ll see about that, Duchess.” He frowned, realizing he still didn’t know her damn name, and watched, transfixed by the swaying of her perfect ass as she disappeared out the door. The squeak of her crutches on the linoleum of the hallway echoed in her wake. “We’ll see.”

He tossed the box onto the floor and stretched out on his bed, the room strangely empty without her larger-than-life presence. He liked sparring with her. She was a worthy opponent and a certified babe to boot, with eyes a guy could get lost in, hair that begged to be mussed and a body built for sin. And she’d made him forget for a moment, had briefly lifted the tension that had gripped his chest since he went down on the field.

He smiled and reached for the TV remote. Maybe rehab didn’t have to be a total drag. All work and no play made Jace a dull boy.

And if there was one thing he wasn’t, it was dull.

2

THE CLOCK ON the wall read 11:15 when Jace sauntered into the PT room the next morning. A full 45 minutes before his session was scheduled. No one would mind if he did a little cardio first, right?

Wrong.

“What are you doing here?” Sara rushed over to him before he could even put down his water bottle. “Your appointment’s not until noon.”

“I wanted to get some time in on the treadmill.”

“No way.” Sara shook her head. “I don’t want you jarring that elbow until it’s more stable.”

“It’s in a brace, for Christ’s sake.” Jace looked at his arm, the joint in question almost immobile thanks to the range-of-motion splint, and scowled. “How much more stable can it get?”

“You just got here yesterday.” She pursed her lips. “I haven’t had a chance to fully assess it yet.”

He held up his arm. “Assess away.”

“I have other patients to deal with right now.” She waved a hand around the room. A handful of other residents were using the equipment. One in particular caught his attention—a very familiar one on a stationary bike in the far corner, her ponytail swinging as she pedaled.

He registered the empty treadmill beside her and grinned. Like Hannibal Smith, leader of the A-team, he loved it when a plan came together. “How come she gets to work out?”

“Because she’s been here for a few weeks already. Today’s her first day off crutches.” Sara looked from Jace to the blonde, then back again. “And she’s taking it easy. She follows instructions. Unlike some people.”

“Hey, I can follow instructions.” Never mind that he’d completely ignored them last night. “When I have to.”

She smirked. “You forget I have your records from the hospital in California.”

Yeah. He hadn’t exactly been a hit with the staff there. Noncompliant, they’d labeled him. Uncooperative. He preferred to think of himself as focused. Goal oriented. “What if I promise to go slow, like the Duchess?”

“The Duchess?” Sara’s brows knotted together.

Damn. He hadn’t meant to let that slip.

“Yeah. She seems kind of...prissy. What’s she in for? Fall off her high heels? Get trampled by crazed shoppers at the Macy’s one-day sale?”

“You don’t have any idea who she is, do you?” Sara jabbed a finger at his chest. “That’s Noelle Nelson.”

Finally. The Duchess had a name. “Is that supposed to mean something to me?”

“She’s only like the most famous ballerina in the country. Maybe even the world. Principal dancer with the New York City Ballet.”

Ballet? Jace knew as much about ballet as he did about nuclear physics. But he knew you needed two fully functioning knees. And from the look of the contraption on Noelle’s leg, she was in the same boat as him where her career was concerned. Without a paddle.

He watched her as she pedaled, her mouth set in a harsh line, a bead of sweat forming on her temple, her knuckles white on the handlebars. As slow as she was going, it still took an emotional toll. “Shit.”

“Yeah, shit.” Sara gave him a not-so-gentle shove toward the treadmill. “Go. Walk. But if I see you doing anything more than that, I’m hitting the emergency stop button.”

“Deal.” Jace started to offer his hand to her but pulled it back. “I’d shake on it, but I wouldn’t want to jar anything.”

“Ha-ha.” Sara picked up a physioball and headed across the room, where an older man with one ankle wrapped was sitting on a mat next to a set of low parallel bars. “I’ll come get you when it’s time for your session.”

Jace set off in the opposite direction.

“Morning, Duchess.” He plunked his water bottle into the holder on the treadmill console. “Fancy meeting you here.”

She stared out the window, not so much as glancing at him. “I thought we agreed to steer clear of each other.”

“You agreed. I just smiled.” He flashed her another of his never-fail-to-charm grins and hit the start button on the treadmill, setting the speed as high as he could without incurring the wrath of Sara.

“If you have to work out next to me, could you at least keep your mouth shut?”

“I thought we’d chit-chat. Get to know each other. Pass the time. Hell, at this speed, I could recite the Gettysburg Address.” He peeked over his shoulder for Sara. Her back to him, she was totally occupied with the guy in the ankle wrap. He edged the rate of the treadmill up a notch. “If I remembered it.”

Noelle swiveled her head to look at him. Finally. Too bad her baby blues flashed with annoyance and not a more...pleasurable emotion. Like desire. “What part of ‘I’m not here to make friends’ did you not get?”

“You can’t have too many friends. And you know what they say about all work and no play.”

“Well, I don’t want to play.” Her head snapped forward, her attention back on the window, or whatever lay outside it. “You’re not the only one with a job on the line and people counting on you.”

“Sara says you’re some big-time ballerina.”

“Sara’s new. She talks too much.”

“What’d you do?” He gestured toward her leg. “Torn ACL?”

“How did you guess?”

“I’ve seen a few in my time. Not on a dancer, though.”

“Dancers are just as much athletes as baseball players.” From the way the last two words dripped off her tongue, it was clear she considered his profession on par with used car salesmen and politicians. “More so, if you asked me. You don’t see us sitting on the bench, spitting tobacco. And the guys I work with throw around hundred-pound ballerinas, not a five ounce sphere.”

“Easy, Duchess.” He held up a palm. “I wasn’t trying to insult you.”

“You don’t have to try.” She tossed her ponytail. “You just do.”

“Like Yoda?”

“Minus the green skin and the pointy ears, obviously.”

“So you think dancers are better athletes than ballplayers?”

“Not better.” Wrinkles creased her forehead like she was deep in thought, searching for the right word to bridge the gap between her occupation and his. “Different. But we earn our living with our bodies, just like you do.”

“Finally.” He flashed another mega-watt smile, with as little effect as the last one. Damn. He hadn’t struck out this many times in a row since he’d faced Johan Santana at Shea his rookie season. “Something we have in common.”

“I seriously doubt there’s anything else.”

“Do you?” He raised an eyebrow.

“Let’s just say I’m not interested in finding out.” She slowed, then stopped pedaling.

“That’s disappointing.”

“I guess you’ll have to learn to live with disappointment.”

She eased herself off the bike and made her way over to the free weights. He shrugged off her pissy attitude, knowing from personal experience she was covering for something. Like the fear of losing a lifetime of hard work.

Besides, it was just as well. If their conversation had gone on any longer, he might have let slip just how well acquainted he was with disappointment.

“What the hell?”

He stumbled as the treadmill came to a stop. Sara stood next to the machine, her finger still on the e-stop button. “I warned you.”

“I was barely moving.”

“You were practically running.” She handed him a towel. “It’s time for your session. Wipe off your machine and let’s get going. You’re in my army now, hotshot.”

Great. Not even noon and he’d already managed to piss off two women. With a groan, he balled up the towel, tossed it into a nearby hamper and followed Sara.

It was gonna be a fan-freaking-tabulous day.

* * *

WHAT WAS IT about Jace Monroe that brought out her inner diva?

Noelle flopped onto her bed, if you could call gingerly lowering herself so as to avoid jolting her bum-knee flopping. She really should take a shower, but she didn’t have the energy after her workout. Half an hour on a stupid stationary bike, and she felt as spent as if she’d danced Aurora in Sleeping Beauty. Plus, she was supposed to Skype with Holly in—she glanced at the digital clock on her nightstand—ten minutes.

Fuming, she ran a brush through her hair in a futile attempt to look presentable and pulled her laptop out from under the bed. Why did she let him get to her? She’d dealt with plenty of macho morons who saw ballet as some sort of sissy thing. One fairly innocuous comment from Jace, and she’d flown off the handle.

The guy must think she was a lunatic. Not that she cared what he thought. Not one bit.

Now she just had to convince her brain, which seemed to be fixated on him. And her heart, which beat a little faster every time he looked at her with that maddeningly sexy, Patrick-Swayze-in-Dirty-Dancing smile.

She shrugged it off and booted up the computer. Nothing like a little time with her sister and niece to get her mind off bedroom eyes, sun-kissed skin and sculpted muscles, three things she didn’t need occupying valuable brain space. No, what she needed now was to be totally focused on her rehabilitation. Without that, her chances of dancing professionally again were next to nil.

She’d just logged onto Skype when an alert flashed showing an incoming call. She clicked on “answer with video,” and a live feed of Holly popped up, a squirming, curly-haired toddler in her arms.

“Hey, Hols.” Noelle settled in on the bed, adjusting the laptop across her knees so her own face showed in a box on the corner of the screen. “How’s my baby girl?”

“Fast.” Holly untangled a chubby fist from her hair and handed her daughter a ring of plastic keys, which she immediately began chewing on. “And sneaky. I’m exhausted. It’s like she started walking and hasn’t stopped. Yesterday, I turned my back for a second and she figured out how to open the sliding glass door. She was halfway to the lake before I caught her.”

Noelle’s gaze drifted to her brace then back to the computer. “Maybe she can give me a few pointers.”

“Rehab not going well?” Holly asked, bouncing the toddler on her own perfectly healthy knee.

“Rehab’s rehab. Two hours a day of torture to move an inch forward.” Noelle ran a hand through her still sweat-dampened hair. “I just want to be back on stage, as soon as possible.”

“Have the doctors given you any idea when that might be?”

“No.” What she didn’t want to admit—to Holly or herself—was that the question wasn’t so much when as it was if. “They’re telling me to take it one day at a time. Easy for them to say. It’s not their life on hold.”

“You’re more than your career, Noe.”

“I know.” And she did. Really. For her, ballet wasn’t about the bright lights, the elaborate costumes or the thundering applause. It was about the dancing, pure and simple. Something she’d done each day, every day since she was just a few years older than her niece. And if she didn’t have that...

She pasted on a smile. Things were treading dangerously close to The Turning Point territory. Accentuate the positive, her mother always said. “I’m off the crutches.”

“That’s a good sign, right?”

“So they say. I’m putting weight on it. Even rode the stationary bike today.” She conveniently left out the fact that she’d practically passed out afterward.

“If anyone can come back from this, you can,” Holly insisted. “I’ve never known anyone as fearless as you, especially when it comes to your dancing. Remember how you convinced Mom and Dad to let you take the subway into New York for lessons? Alone? At thirteen?”

“It helped that I was the baby. By the time I was a teenager, you, Gabe and Ivy had already broken them down.”

“Down.” A tiny toddler voice echoed through the computer’s tinny speakers. “Down.”

“Nick,” Holly called, struggling to hold on to her fidgety daughter. “Can you come and take Joy?”

A second later the handsome face of Holly’s movie-star husband appeared over her shoulder. “Hey, Noelle. Fighting the good fight?”

Noelle nodded. “Always.”

“Here.” Holly placed Joy into Nick’s waiting arms, her nose wrinkling. “I think she needs a fresh diaper.”

“I got this.” He hoisted Joy into the crook of one arm and looked straight into the camera. “Hang tough, sis. We’re all rooting for you.”

“Thanks, bro. See you at Thanksgiving?”

“If not before. Enjoy your girl chat.”

He bent to place a quick, tender kiss on Holly’s forehead, and not for the first time Noelle felt a pang of longing for all she’d sacrificed at the altar of ballet. Home. Husband. Kids. She couldn’t even have a pet, for Christopher’s sake. She’d tried once—a Yorkie she named Sous-Sus—and it had been a total disaster. Traveling with a dog, even a small one, had turned out to be a logistical nightmare. How Kelly Clarkson and Taylor Swift managed it was beyond her. She’d wound up giving Sous-Sus to her hairstylist, who was lucky enough to have a rent-controlled apartment within spitting distance of Central Park.

“Come on, pumpkin.” Nick’s voice brought her back to the present and the computer screen. He had shifted his attention to his daughter, tweaking her button nose. “We’ve got a diaper to change.”

They disappeared from view, leaving Holly alone on the screen. “Now that it’s just us gals over legal age, how about we talk about something more fun. Like boys.”

“You’re trying to take my mind off the fact that I’m basically an unemployed invalid for the next who-knows-how-many months.”

“Is it working?”

“Not really.” Noelle flexed her feet and grimaced, even that tiny motion straining her overtired knee. “Besides, there’s not much in the way of prime man meat around this place.”

“Liar.”

“I am not lying.”

“Are, too.” Holly crossed her arms in front of her chest. “You’ve got a tell.”

“What do you mean?”

“Every time you lie, you tilt your head to one side. Usually the right. How do you think Mom knew you were the one who borrowed—” she put the word in air quotes “—her cashmere sweater and put it back with a huge stain on the sleeve?”

“I figured you told her.”

“So who is he?” Holly asked, refusing to be diverted. “Is he hot? I need the dirty deets.”

“You’re married to People’s Sexiest Man Alive.”

“And we have a toddler who doesn’t like to sleep in her own bed. I have to live vicariously through you, at least until we get through the terrible twos.”

Noelle snickered. “Well, I hate to disappoint you, but he’s definitely not into me.”

Not after she’d humiliated herself not once but twice by bursting in on him. And then been a total biatch to him on the bike.

“Ah ha!” Holly snapped her fingers. “So there is a he.”

Oops. And people thought Gabe was the master of cross-examination. Poor Joy didn’t stand a chance of getting away with anything as a teenager.

“Don’t get excited. We’re more like squabbling siblings than star-crossed lovers.”

“Who is he?”

“Some hotshot baseball player. Jace something-or-another.”

“Jace Monroe?” Holly squealed. “Oh my God, he’s totally gorgeous, if you go for the whole tatted-up, boy-from-the-wrong-side-of-the-tracks thing. Which you do.”

“How do you even know who he is?” Noelle rolled her eyes. “You hate baseball.”

“Nick’s a huge Storm fan from his time in California. He watches all their games on the MLB network.” Holly reached out of the frame to grab a Diet Coke. “But this conversation isn’t about me and Nick. It’s about you and Jace. What makes you think he’s not into you?”

Noelle propped up the pillow behind her and leaned back against the headboard, juggling the computer on her lap so she stayed on camera. “You wouldn’t believe it.”

“Try me.”

While Holly sipped her soda, Noelle spilled the whole, sordid story, from interrupting what she thought was a sexual encounter to the love doll incident, ending with how she’d given him the cold shoulder in the gym that morning. When she finished, Holly clucked her tongue.

“You need a do-over. Apologize to him again. And get it right this time.”

“I had a feeling you’d say that.”

“So what are you waiting for? Hang up and say you’re sorry to that beautiful hunk of man.”

“I’m afraid of what I might walk in on.” Noelle laughed a little too loud, trying to hide the fact that her words had conjured images of Jace in all kinds of compromising—and mostly naked—positions. “I don’t exactly have the best track record where he’s concerned.”

“Aha,” Holly nodded and her lips curved knowingly. “Now I understand.”

“Understand what?”

“You’ll find out soon enough.”

“No, I won’t.” Noelle smacked a palm down on the bedside table. “I can’t afford to get sidetracked by some charmer in a muscle tee and athletic shorts. I’m fighting for my career here, Hols.”

“What good’s a career without someone to come home to?”

“I’m not looking for a life partner. I’ve got all I can handle right now.”

“Okay, then. Who says he has to be Mr. Right? What’s wrong with Mr. Right Now? You’re young. Let loose. Live a little.” A baby’s cry made Holly startle, and she sighed. “I’ve gotta go. Nick’s a magician with his hands, but give him a diaper and he falls apart.”

“TMI, big sis. TMI.”

Holly chuckled. “Think about what I said. And call me when you and Mr. MVP kiss and make up.”

“We’re not going to...”

But Holly’s smiling face had already disappeared from the computer screen. And Noelle wasn’t any closer to figuring out how she was going to coexist for the next few weeks with the sexiest shortstop in the southwest without making a total fool out of herself again.

Or jumping his oh-so-fine bones.

3

“IN BASEBALL, THE STORM trounced St. Louis 11–3 behind the red-hot bat of rookie phenom Dean Hafler. Hafler’s been on fire since taking over for injured starting shortstop Jace Monroe, hitting .327 with runners in scoring position. He’s settled down in the field, too, playing error-free defense in his last six games.”

“Effing Sportscenter.” Jace jabbed a finger at the power button on the remote, but the commentator droned on.

“Monroe reinjured his UCL in last month’s series against Philadelphia, and it’s uncertain when—or if—he’ll return. Sources close to the team say even with Monroe healthy, Hafler’s stats may put him in the running for the starting job next season.”

“Sources, my ass.” No doubt Hafler’s barracuda of an agent had floated that rumor, trying to up his client’s ante in the free-agent market in the off season. Jace threw the remote down, stalked over to the television and turned it off. “The only way that little pissant’s gonna steal my job is over my dead body.”

Jace snatched his cell off the nightstand. He needed some air and to have a good, long talk with his own worthless agent. He had a few questions that needed answering—like why the hell was he hearing this shit on ESPN and not from the guy he paid to protect his career.

He pulled open the door, already hitting his agent’s speed dial, and almost plowed into Noelle.

“Bad time?” She stood with her fist raised to knock on the door he’d flung open. He found himself hoping she’d drop her palm on his chest, let its heat scorch through the well-worn cotton of his favorite T-shirt, right over the word guy in I’m the Guy Your Mother Warned You About. Instead, it fell to her side, a smile playing around the corners of her mouth. “Again? I thought the third time was supposed to be the charm.”

He pressed the end-call button, stuck the phone in his back pocket and leaned against the door frame. “No PT. No sex toys. Just me, about to go for a walk.”

“Can I join you?” The way she moistened her lips told him she was nervous, although it didn’t shed any light on why. But that didn’t stop his dick from twitching as her tongue darted out again. “I’m not exactly up to warp speed, but the doctors say I need to start moving around more now that I’ve lost the crutches.”

He stuffed a hand in the pocket of his jeans, hoping to hide what was sure to be a monster erection if he didn’t get the damn thing under control, and fast. “I can’t guarantee I’ll be good company.”

“Bad company’s better than no company. And everybody else in this place is either still going through puberty or over sixty.”

“Meaning?” His eyes narrowed.

“Meaning I’m going stir-crazy, and I need someone to share these with.” She produced a tin from behind her back.

“What’s in there?”

She jiggled the tin and the contents rattled. “Contraband.”

He crossed his arms in front of his chest. “Drugs? Laundered money? An AK-47?”

“Better.” She cracked the lid and held the tin under his nose. He smelled almonds and something he thought was coconut. “My mom’s homemade macaroons. Strictly off-limits under the rehab diet. I was hoping they’d convince you to give me another shot at apologizing.”

“Apology accepted.” He pushed off the door frame, closing the door behind him. His agent could wait. He wasn’t about to turn down a beautiful blonde, especially one bearing baked goods. “Come on. I know the perfect spot to enjoy them undetected.”

She snapped the lid of the tin shut and followed him down the hall toward the reception area. He slowed, shortening his steps so she could keep up with him.

“Hold it right there.” The nurse manning the main desk abandoned her post and jumped in front of them, one hand outstretched like a traffic cop or a member of the Supremes. “Where do you two think you’re going?”

“Easy, Nurse Ratched.” Jace softened the jab with his never-fail-to-charm-their-pants-off smile—if you didn’t count Noelle—and snaked an arm around the ballerina’s waist. “We’re only going for a walk.”

Noelle not-so-subtly elbowed him in the ribs.

“It’s okay, Connie. Now that I’m off crutches, the doctors want me to work the kinks out of this thing.” She tapped the brace covering her knee. “I promise we won’t go far.”

“Stay on the grounds.” Connie let them pass.

“Thanks, doll,” Jace called over his shoulder as he steered Noelle to the exit. “Don’t wait up.”

“Nice try,” Connie hollered back. “But if you’re not back by curfew, I’m calling in the search dogs.”

“Great. I love dogs.” The automatic doors slid open, blasting Jace with a burst of Arizona air, still hot even with the sun low on the horizon.

“Where’s this so-called perfect spot?” Noelle asked after they’d walked a few feet.

“Don’t knock it until you see it.” He guided her onto a concrete path that ran alongside a man-made pond before disappearing down a hill into a strand of acacia. “And it’s just past those trees.”

At least it was two years ago.

“You weren’t very nice to Connie,” Noelle scolded.

“Connie’s okay.” His voice cracked on the last syllable. Damned if Noelle’s schoolmarm tone didn’t get him hotter than center field at Wrigley in July. He cleared his throat and started again. “We go way back. She’d be disappointed if I didn’t mess with her.”

“Old flame?” Noelle eyed him suspiciously.

“Not even close.” They rounded a corner at the bottom of the hill and he led her to a wooden bench on the other side of the trees. Just as he’d remembered it, down to the sun-faded, weather-worn slats still needing a fresh coat of paint. “She was here the last time I was in.”

He sat, patting the spot next to him. She followed suit, stretching her bad leg out in front of her. “The last time?”

He nodded, lifted his elbow, then let it fall. “This is my second stint with this thing. Tore it two years ago and got away without going under the knife. Not so lucky this time.”

Her eyes filled with a pity he didn’t deserve and sure as hell didn’t want, especially from her. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” He scuffed the ground in front of him with the toe of his Vans. “Odds are it’ll be stronger than ever.”

“Good.”

He liked that she didn’t ask questions or spout any of the bullshit he’d heard every day since his injury: “It could be worse,” or “You’ll be back out there sooner than you know it.” And his favorite, “A million guys would kill to have the career you’ve had.”

Assholes. Like he didn’t know how lucky he’d been. Like he was a greedy bastard for wanting more.

“So how about those cookies?” He gestured toward the tin. She popped the lid and they each took a macaroon. He bit through the crisp shell and was instantly rewarded with a burst of moist, coconutty goodness.

“Damn, your mom can bake,” he mumbled through a mouthful of cookie.

“She’s Italian,” Noelle said, as if that explained everything. And, in a way, it did. His mom’s idea of preparing a meal had involved a takeout menu and a cell phone. At least he hadn’t missed her cooking when she’d ditched him and his dad for greener pastures.

He reached for another and they ate in silence for a few minutes, the only sound their chewing, interrupted periodically by his moans of pleasure.

“Ballet did this, huh?” He nodded at her knee, extended in front of her.

She put the tin down on the bench between them. “We’re not going there again, are we?”

“I never went there in the first place.” He grabbed another cookie and stuffed it into his mouth. “I’m an athlete. But you—I watched you. You’re an athlete and an artist.”

“You...watched me?”

“You can find just about anything on YouTube these days.”

She winced. “Then I suppose you saw the video of my accident. It’s got over a million hits. Seems people enjoy watching the suffering of others. The Germans even have a word for it. Schadenfreude.”

“I don’t know about the Germans, but I don’t get my jollies by seeing folks in pain.” He tapped his brace. “I tore this in front of 40,000 people at Citizens Bank Park. Had to be escorted off the field.”

“Ouch.”

“You said it.”

“And I thought twenty-five hundred witnesses at Lincoln Center was bad. That calls for another cookie.”

She held up a macaroon, but instead of taking it from her he leaned forward and bit into it, his lips brushing her fingertips. The contact sent a buzz of lust through him, and he jerked back.

“No good?” she asked, her voice husky. Her tongue darted out to moisten her lips and his cock swelled.

“To the contrary.” His voice matched hers. “A little too good.”

“The cookie? Or...?” Her hand still hung midair, clutching the remains of the macaroon.

“Or.” He took hold of her wrist and brought her hand to his mouth. “If you don’t want me to eat that damn cookie right out of your pretty little fingers then suck them into my mouth one by one, licking off every last crumb, stop me now.”

Her eyes darkened to the navy blue of the Yankees logo. “And if I do?”

He nipped her fingertips. “Then sit back, relax and enjoy the ride.”

* * *

RELAX? HE WANTED her to relax? Who was he kidding?

If pressing against him as he’d helped her up in the gym had been trapeze-without-a-net stupid, then this was Russian-roulette reckless. But Holly’s words echoed in her head.

Let loose. Live a little. Who says he has to be Mr. Right? What’s wrong with Mr. Right Now?

Her lips parted and she had trouble focusing her gaze. Her palms itched with the need to grab his asinine I’m the Guy Your Mother Warned You About T-shirt and pull him to her, forcing his actions to speak louder than his deliciously dirty words. The world had narrowed to three things: his mouth, her fingers and the half a cookie between them.

“I’m going to count to three.” His breath mingled with hers. “Are you ready?”

She nodded.

“One.”

She swallowed hard.

“Two.”

She closed her eyes.

“Three.”

In a heartbeat, the cookie vanished from her hand and her index finger was drawn into the warm, wet vortex of his mouth. He worked his way down to her pinkie, tormenting each finger in turn with his lips, teeth and tongue until they were sucked clean.

“There.” With one last lick, Jace released her hand, and it flopped into her lap like a newborn kitten. “All gone.”

Zip-a-dee-doo-dah.

Noelle wasn’t promiscuous, but she wasn’t a sexual novice, either. How had she gone so long without experiencing...that? She shivered, picked up the tin of cookies and snapped the lid back on.

“Wait. You’ve got a few crumbs. Right—” he pointed to the corner of her mouth “—there.”

She lifted her hand to her lips, but he caught it, stopping her.

“What are you doing?” Every last one of her nerve endings hummed with anticipation.

“I’m still hungry.” He brought her hand down but didn’t relinquish it, instead stroking slow circles on the inside of her wrist with his thumb.

She glanced at the tin in her lap. “There are more cookies.”

“That’s not what I’m hungry for.” He plucked the tin off her lap and set it down on the bench behind him. “I think you know what I want.”

Yeah, she did. And she wanted it, too. Trouble was she knew exactly what path it was going to lead her down—and what would be waiting for her at the end.

Heartache.

Loneliness.

And, if she was really lucky, a big, steaming serving of humiliation.

Exactly what she’d been left with when Yannick called it quits. Unless she could somehow manage to engage her body without engaging her heart, something other women seemed to have mastered but she could never figure out how to accomplish.

Live a little, Holly’s voice echoed again. What’s wrong with Mr. Right Now?

“I repeat.” He raised his good hand and tangled his fingers in her hair. “If you don’t want this, stop me now.”

She couldn’t if she tried.

So she didn’t.

He pulled her in and he crushed his lips against hers. Not shy or tentative, this kiss was like the man himself—hot and hard, forcing the air from her lungs. It demanded a response that she gave willingly, opening her mouth so he could slide his tongue inside.

He tasted good. Like coconut and almond from the macaroons but somehow better, as if their sweetness was mixed with the spice of wild, hungry sex. Sex the likes of which she’d never experienced, that would leave her breathless and panting and begging for more.

Her tongue met his and she melted into him, wanting—needing—more. Her fingers clutched at the soft cotton of his shirt and she moaned into his mouth. She couldn’t recall ever feeling so wanton, so desperate. Whether it was due to the man or her six months of celibacy, she didn’t know.

Beneath her hand, the muscles of his chest tightened, making her breath hitch. Who was she kidding? She knew damn well. It was the man.

He broke off the kiss, leaving her momentarily bereft until he worked his lips over her chin, down her neck, to the hollow of her throat, leaving a warm, wet trail in his wake. She tilted her head, encouraging him to explore further, just in time to catch of glimpse of something moving in the trees past his shoulder.

“Wait.” She stiffened, listening, her eyes straining to see in the fading sunlight.

“Don’t tell me you’re having second thoughts now,” he groaned against her skin, his mouth pushing past the neckline of her peasant blouse to skim the top of her breast. “Just when it was getting good.”

She thought it was already pretty damn good, but there wasn’t time to argue. “There’s something—or someone—out there.”

“Probably an animal.” He moved to the other breast without missing a beat.

“You don’t understand.” The flutters in her stomach traveled lower even as she pushed him away. “What if it’s one of the nurses? Or another patient?”

He raised his head to pin her with a heavy-lidded stare. “Embarrassed to be seen with me, Duchess?”

“Ohmigod, what if it’s the paparazzi?” she asked in a whisper, ignoring his question. They’d had a field day with her and Yannick’s messy split, half of them painting her as a naive girl caught under the spell of her older, more experienced choreographer and the other half making it look like she was an opportunistic fame-seeker willing to screw anyone who could help her on her way up the ballet pyramid. And Yannick was a D-lister compared to Jace. If the press got wind of this...

A squirrel darted out from the trees, cocked its fuzzy little head at them and scampered off in the opposite direction from where Jace and Noelle had come.

“There’s your paparazzi.” Jace smirked. “Looks like your reputation is safe.”

“For now. That was too close for comfort.” She rose unsteadily and adjusted her blouse, struggling to tamp down the desire still thrumming through her veins. “We have to get out of here.”

“What’s the matter?” He joined her standing. “Never made out al fresco before?”

“Not usually, no.”

He made a show of bowing to her, bending low with a flourish of his good wrist. “Then I’m flattered to be the man who persuaded you to change that.”

“One kiss does not a habit break.” She pulled a hair tie out of the pocket of her jean shorts and tamed her lust-mussed locks into a ponytail. “It was a...”

“Don’t you dare say ‘mistake.’” His gaze slipped down to the obvious bulge under the zipper of his Lucky’s. “Whatever the hell that was, it was definitely not a mistake.”

“Fine.” She looked away from his erection, heat creeping up her cheeks, and ambled as fast as her bad leg would take her up the path to the relative safety and privacy of her room. Jace caught up to her after a few steps. “I won’t say it.”

But that didn’t mean it wasn’t true. The man was like her own personal Kryptonite. Powerful, dangerous, hypnotic. She’d have to try all the harder to stay away from him or be rendered completely and utterly helpless to resist his hard-bodied, tatted-up, bad-boy spell.

4

“GREAT JOB TODAY.” Sara took the barbell from Jace’s hand and replaced it with a towel. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Same bat time, same bat channel.”

He wiped his forehead and slung the towel around his neck. “What the hell. It’s not like I’ve got anything better to do.”

Wasn’t that the truth. He’d thought things were looking up after his cookie swap with Noelle. Sure, the lady protested. But her body hadn’t thought their kiss was a mistake.

Instead, he’d barely seen Noelle since the infamous macaroon incident. No pouty lips. No perky breasts. No...

“Earth to Jace.” Sara snapped her fingers in front of his face. “Scram. My next appointment’s due any minute. You can do a half hour of cardio on the treadmill or the elliptical if you want, but no more than that and not too fast. The idea’s to get your heart rate into the target zone, not keep going until you drop.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He stood and wiped down the utility bench he’d been using with the clean end of his towel. “Who’s up next?”

If the week’s pattern held, it wouldn’t be Noelle. He didn’t have any proof, but he had a strong suspicion she’d been scheduling her training sessions to avoid running into him.

“New kid. High school pitching sensation. Lost his arm to a downed power line.”

“That sucks.” Inadequate, Jace knew, but accurate.

Sara eyed him. “On second thought, maybe you should stick around. He could use a little cheering up. A bona fide sports hero might be just the thing.”

Jace scrunched the towel up in his hand. He’d never been comfortable with the whole hero-worship-role-model thing. Who the hell would want to emulate him? He wasn’t fit to be anyone’s hero. He drank too much, partied too hard. He was just a kid from a broken home on the wrong side of the tracks who’d been lucky enough to make it in the majors. End of story. “Some other time. I’ve got to hit the shower and make some phone calls.”

“I’m holding you to that,” Sara called after his retreating back.

“You do that.” With a wave of his good arm, he pushed through the door and surveyed the hallway. Empty. On the plus side, that meant no sign of Sara’s pitching phenom. On the negative, it meant no sign of Noelle, either.

Oh, well, he thought as he veered left toward his room. You had to take the good with the bad. Such was life.

The second his door latched behind him, he reached for the hem of his shirt. He had it half way up his torso when a flashing light on the nightstand caught his eye.

A message. On the room phone. The only people who even knew he was there were team management, his agent, his dad, Cooper and Reid, not necessarily in that order. Why hadn’t they tried his cell?

Shit. He’d turned it off before his therapy session. Sara’s number one rule. No phones. No interruptions.

He reached into the pocket of his gym shorts.

Nothing.

Double shit.

It must have slipped out during his workout. Hopefully someone had picked it up. He’d have to go back and get it, but not until he found out what was so important someone had tracked him down and left a message on his room phone.

He let his shirt fall and caught a whiff of sweat, reminding him that he’d better shower, too, before rejoining civilization.

But first the phone.

Jace sat down on his bed and hit the flashing button.

“Hey, pal,” his father’s voice greeted him over the speaker. “I tried your cell but it went straight to voice mail.”

Duh.

“Anyway,” his dad continued. “I, uh, need to talk to you. Nothing urgent, really. Just, uh, when you get a chance. Hope the arm’s feeling better. Don’t forget to ice it, and wear your brace even when you’re sleeping.”

The message ended, and Jace hit Delete. He loved his dad. How could he not? The guy had raised him solo when his mom ran off with a better prospect, one sure to make it to the show, not like his journeyman infielder father. But that didn’t mean his dad wasn’t downright annoying sometimes. Especially when it came to his favorite subject: baseball.

He stared at the phone a minute before picking up the handset and dialing his father’s number, bracing himself for the questions to come, questions he didn’t have any definitive answers to.

“Hi, Dad,” Jace said when his father finally answered on the fourth ring. “Sorry I missed your call. I had my cell off during PT.”

“How’s it going?” His dad sounded out of breath, and not for the first time Jace wondered if he shouldn’t be the one getting medical treatment.

“Good. My therapist says I’m ahead of schedule.” Jace crossed the fingers of his good hand behind his back. “How about you? You sound tired.”

“I’m fine. I ran in from the garage when I heard the phone.”

“Working on something special?” Jace leaned back against his pillow, stretched his legs out on the bed and smiled, imagining his father tinkering with an old Crosley radio or vintage Pioneer television. It had been a hobby when his dad played ball, but when his career on the field had ended in Double-A he’d turned it into a viable business, repairing all kinds of small electronics, new and old. If it had wires, Patrick Monroe could fix it.

“A jukebox.” His father’s voice radiated excitement for his new project, even over the phone. “Wurlitzer, mid-1940s.”

“That’s gotta be rare.” To Jace’s knowledge, his father hadn’t worked on one that old before. They’d restored a 1970s Seeburg together when Jace was in high school. “I can’t wait to see it.”

“Well, you’ll have to. I don’t want you rushing home on my account. Listen to your doctors and take your rehab one day at a time. Baseball’s not going anywhere. It’ll still be there when you’re ready to play. And the team needs you at full strength.”

Oh, goodie. Lecture time.

“I know, Dad. I’ll be a model patient and follow doctor’s orders to the letter. Promise.” Good thing his fingers were still crossed. “Now what was it you needed to talk to me about? You said in your message it wasn’t urgent, but it must be pretty important if it couldn’t wait until our Sunday call.”

It was a ritual, the Sunday call, one they’d never missed in the ten years since Jace was drafted into the minors straight out of high school. 6:00 p.m. on the button unless Jace was on the field or in the air, and then he’d call as soon as the game was over or he touched down.

“It’s nothing, really.”

“C’mon, Dad. Whatever it is, it’s not nothing or you wouldn’t have called.” Jace sat up and swung his feet over the side of the bed. “Are you hurt? Sick? Do you need me to come home?”

“No, no and no,” his father insisted. “I told you, I don’t want you cutting your rehab short for me. I’m just a little low on cash is all.”

Again? Jace wanted to scream. But this was his father, the man who’d made sure he was fed and clothed and got to school on time, who’d scrimped and saved so his son could attend baseball camp every summer. And Jace had more than enough disposable income. Who was he to deny his own flesh and blood?

“How low?” he asked.

“Well, the basement’s leaking and the refrigerator is on its last legs...”

Already? He’d bought a practically brand-new house for his dad eight years ago when he was called up to the majors.

“How low?” Jace repeated.

There was a long pause before his father answered, and when he did his voice was barely a whisper. “Ten grand.”

“For a leak and a fridge?” Jace spat out before he could stop himself.

“The leak’s pretty bad. The whole basement’s underwater when it rains. They want to install a drainage system and a sump pump.”

“They?”

“The waterproofing company.”

Jace sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “How soon do you need the cash?”

“As soon as you can get it to me. The contractors want to start before the next big rain.”

Jace glanced at the clock on the nightstand. 3:00 p.m. Still plenty of time to call the bank before it closed. “Okay. I’ll have the money transferred into your account this afternoon.”

“Thanks, son. You’re a lifesaver.”

“Love you, Dad. Talk to you Sunday.”

Jace ended the call and tossed the phone onto the bed next to him. He’d get to the bank in a few minutes.

But first he was taking that damn shower.

* * *

NOELLE CRACKED THE door of the physical therapy room open and peeked inside.

All clear. No Jace. It was crazy to hide from him like a scared rabbit. Her luck was bound to run out sooner or later. But she’d rather it be later. Much later.

With a sigh of relief, she pushed the door open the rest of the way and limped inside.

“Noelle.” Sara waved her over almost before she’d crossed the threshold. “Come meet our newest patient.”

A boy who looked to be in his late teens sat on an exercise mat next to the kneeling Sara. One of his arms was missing below the elbow, the stump wrapped in a compression bandage.

“This is Dylan,” Sara continued, sitting cross-legged in front of him and connecting a resistance band to a strap around his bicep. “We’re getting him ready for his prosthetic.”

Dylan looked up at Noelle through long, sandy bangs. “I’d shake your hand, but I’ve only got one and it’s occupied at the moment.”

“What have I told you about the amputee jokes?” Sara handed him the other end of the resistance band.

“The more the merrier?” Dylan suggested with a sarcastic grin.

“More like one is one too many,” Sara countered.

Dylan rolled his eyes. “Hey, I might have lost my arm, but I haven’t lost my sense of humor.”

“Good thing.” Noelle smiled in spite of herself. She liked this cocky kid. “You’re gonna need it in this place.”

“Everyone’s a comedian.” Sara shook her head. “Dylan, this is Noelle. She’s an athlete, too.”

“Oh, yeah?” He brushed his bangs out of his eyes to study her. “What’s your sport?”

“Ballet.” She watched for some sign of disdain, but instead, he nodded and continued to stare at her, his expression serious. “What’s yours?”

“Baseball.” His gaze shifted to his injured arm. “At least it was.”

“Baseball?” Noelle caught Sara’s eye, at once acutely aware of who Dylan reminded her of. “Has he met...?”

“Not yet,” Sara said, cutting her off with a warning glare. “But soon. I hope.”

“Met who?” Dylan asked.

“Never you mind. It’s a surprise for when you’re on your best behavior.” Sara stood and motioned for him to do the same. “Enough chit-chat. You’ve got your resistance bands, and you know how to use them. Get to work.”

“Aye, aye, captain.” He marched off toward the far corner of the room, where the cable and pulley machines were located.

“That’s what I like to hear.” Sara turned her attention to Noelle. “Let’s get you started on the stationary bike. Same speed as yesterday, but you can up the distance an extra half mile. Then we’ll do some range-of-motion exercises.”

“Sure.” Noelle pressed her lips together, trying to hide her disappointment. She’d been on the damn bike for a week. She was hoping to graduate to something a little more challenging, like maybe the elliptical or even the treadmill. Oh, well. Like Little Orphan Annie said—or sang—there was always tomorrow.

She started for the row of bikes but stopped when she saw a flash of silver under one of the benches. She bent and picked up a cell phone.

“I think someone dropped this,” she said, holding it up.

“Where did you find it?” Sara asked.

“Under that bench,” Noelle answered, pointing.

“Jace was there last. It must be his.” Sara looked around the busy room and frowned. “I hate to ask, but could you bring it to him?”

Noelle flipped the phone over. Any hope she had that Sara was wrong was dashed by the sticker on the back of the case. Thor, complete with lightning bolt and baseball bat.

The Storm logo.

Of all the patients in this joint, why did it have to be his?

“Now?” she asked.

“If I know Jace, he’s already hunting for it. He said he had some calls to make.”

Noelle swallowed hard, searching for an excuse—any excuse—to say no. She didn’t even care how ungracious she sounded. “What about my PT session?”

Sara consulted a chart on the wall. “Come back in an hour. I’ll squeeze you in then.”

“Isn’t there anyone else who can do it?” Christ, she sounded like a whiny five-year-old.

Sara waved an arm, gesturing around the room. “Everyone else is otherwise occupied. Besides, you know where his room is.”

“I...I do?” Noelle stammered. “I mean, I do, but how do you...?”

“He told me you took my advice and apologized for listening in on us and thinking the worst.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, oh.” Sara squinted at her. “You’re holding out on me.”

“I don’t know what you mean.” Noelle wiped her suddenly clammy palms on her shorts.

“Yes, you do.” Sara put her hands on her hips. “Something’s going on with you and Jace.”

“What... ?” Noelle lowered her voice. “What would make you think that?”

“First, you all but refuse to bring him his phone. Then you get squirrelly about being in his room. Seems pretty suspicious to me.”

“Well, it’s not.” Noelle stamped her good foot for emphasis. “There’s absolutely nothing going on between us. I barely know the man.”

“Good. Then it won’t be a problem for you to give him his phone.”

Trapped.

“Of course not,” Noelle said with forced lightness. “I’ll see you in sixty.”

Woman up, she told herself as she limped out the door and down the hall. You got this. Just knock on his door, hand him his phone and go. No smiles. No small talk. And definitely no steamy kisses.

The first part of her plan was no problem. She made her way to his room and knocked. And knocked. And knocked. She even tried calling out his name.

No answer. Too bad the darned phone wasn’t thin enough to slip under the door.

In a last-ditch move, she tried the knob. If she was lucky, she could leave the phone just inside the door and slip away unnoticed.

She was lucky.

The knob turned and she inched the door open. The sound of running water greeted her, explaining why Jace hadn’t answered the door.

He was in the shower.

Which, of course, conjured all sorts of X-rated images in her head. Like Jace naked. And wet. And best—or worst—of all, hard. Every naked, wet inch of him.

Noelle shook her head to clear her thoughts—fat lot of good that did—and stepped gingerly into the room. She was all set to drop off the phone and hightail it out of there as fast as she could with one good leg when she heard a thud, then a moan, from the bathroom.

“Jace?” She froze, the phone still in her hand. “Are you okay?”

Another moan, this one longer, more guttural, almost a growl.

She put the phone down on the nightstand and pressed her ear to the bathroom door. “Jace?”

Still no response.

Damn.

How did she get herself into these predicaments?

He was probably fine. Doing what guys did in the shower when they were horny or bored or whatever. She’d done what she promised, brought him his stupid phone. And now she could—should—leave.

But what if he wasn’t okay?

Double damn.

She eased the door open, telling herself her motives were noble, not naughty. She’d only look long enough to make sure he wasn’t crumpled in a heap at the bottom of the bathtub. And if she happened to get a glimpse of a bulging bicep or slick pec or—heaven forbid—stiff cock, she’d just look down and back away quickly.

Very quickly.

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