Back in the Game Read online

She put the scarf back in the box, put the box back in the trunk. Closed the lid. Read the other inscription.

  Treasures are housed within, heart’s desires granted, but be careful where wishes are cast, for reckless dreams dared dreamed in the heat of passion will surely come to pass.

  The impact of those words fully struck her. She had wished on the hope chest and her wish had come true. And, if the old woman who’d sold her the trunk could be believed, the wish could not be undone.

  The prophecy was a clear warning. Suggesting bad things could happen with unwise wishes. Her mind hopped to the obvious risk. She could so easily fall in love with him.

  And there was only one way that could end, with her nursing a broken heart. Had she indeed been reckless with her wish?

  CHAPTER 8

  The pitcher has to find out if the hitter is timid.

  And if the hitter is timid,

  he has to remind the hitter he’s timid.

  —DON DRYSDALE

  On the following Monday Breeanne drove to Rowdy’s place, her mind atwitter. She’d barely slept, kept awake by disturbingly hot thoughts of the blue-eyed pitcher who invaded her dreams.

  And her body, well, it was behaving quite badly. Warming up in all the wrong, or maybe all the right places, depending on how you looked at it. Wrong places, the good girl in her scolded. Getting all hot and melty over Rowdy Blanton was a stupid idea any way you sliced it.

  She had to keep this relationship on a professional keel. At least for the six months she needed to write the book and get the final draft turned in.

  Feeling like the queen of the manor, she hit the remote control and opened the front gate. Rowdy had given her the remote after she accepted the job. Pressing it into her hand the way he’d pressed the baseball into her palm more than a dozen years ago on the teen ward at the children’s hospital.

  She shook off the memory, tucked her notebook computer under her arm, marched to the front door, and rang the bell just before nine a.m.

  The door opened.

  She expected to see Warwick, and was caught off guard by a sleepy-eyed Rowdy rocking the bed-head look, snug Levi’s, a tight black T-shirt, and delectably bare feet.

  Air stalled in her lungs at the sight.

  Nut bunnies.

  She was going to have to get over this breathlessness whenever she was around him. Breathing was definitely a job requirement.

  A lazy smile crinkled the corners of his eyes, and his gaze zeroed in on her mouth. A slug of dark, moist desire latched on to that look, and pulled it straight down to her pelvic floor.

  It was all she could do not to lick her lips. Stop it. Stop it right now, Breeanne Bliss Carlyle.

  It didn’t matter how handsome he was or how much he fired her engines with those knowing eyes. Ignoring for the moment that she was writing his autobiography, and that she’d set strict ground rules regarding their working relationship, a girl like her could never hold on to a guy like him. Not for any length of time. He could have any woman he wanted. Yes, he might seem interested, but it was his default expression. She couldn’t bank on it.

  Not by a long shot.

  She read the tabloids. Heard the gossip around town. She knew well enough what he was like. If he was interested in her at all, it was only as a novelty. Someone completely removed from the polished, sleek women he usually dated.

  He was born to charm. He couldn’t help himself. It was in his DNA. His modus operandi. He could make any woman feel like she was the only person in the room. Until he got what he wanted, and then he would be on to the next conquest.

  Determinedly, she leashed her libido, and unleashed an energetic can-do smile. “Ready to get down to work?”

  “Are you always this chirpy in the morning?”

  “Always,” she assured him.

  “You’re a lark.”

  “What?”

  “You’re a meadowlark, like Warwick.” He yawned. “I’m a night owl.”

  “Nine o’clock isn’t all that early. I’ve been up since five.” She wasn’t about to tell him she’d been so excited that she couldn’t sleep. Let him feel guilty for being a lazybones.

  Yet part of her couldn’t help wondering what it would be like to stay up late into the night with him. She once read a study that said men who were night owls had more sexual stamina than men who were early risers. It was probably bunk, but she couldn’t help wanting to test the theory.

  With Rowdy.

  Dammit. She had to stop thinking like this.

  Nolan Ryan loped into the foyer. When the bloodhound saw her, his tail started wagging, and even though his hangdog expression didn’t change, he trotted over the threshold, settled onto her feet, and gazed up at her with pet-me eyes.

  “You have yourself quite an admirer,” Rowdy said.

  “It’s mutual.” She bent to scratch the dog behind the ears, and she could have sworn she heard Rowdy mumble, “I’m jealous.”

  But when she glanced up, he was walking away. Her gaze snapped onto his gravity-defying butt. High, tight, round, hard. Lord, but the man could fill out a pair of jeans.

  “I need coffee,” he said over his shoulder. “You want some?”

  “I don’t drink coffee,” she called after him.

  “You coming?”

  Coming. The word had several connotations, including a particularly naughty one. Good grief. She was acting like a silly sixteen-year-old.

  “There’s a dog on my shoes,” she explained.

  Rowdy chuckled, whistled. Nolan Ryan got up and moseyed along after him.

  Clutching her computer to her chest, Breeanne followed. In the kitchen, Rowdy waved her onto a bar stool. “Have a seat.”

  She eased down at the bar, taking in the state-of-the-art kitchen with sleek modern cabinetry and stainless steel appliances, so different from the homey Victorian kitchen of her parents’ house.

  For the first time Breeanne wondered how she might decorate a kitchen of her own. Maybe she’d start a Pinterest page and find out.

  Rowdy went over to the K-cup carousel, selected a coffee cartridge, and plugged it into the individual-serving coffeemaker. She couldn’t help noticing how his biceps stretched the seams of his T-shirt, and this time, mesmerized by the map of muscles, she did lick her lips.

  “We have tea. Do you want hot tea?” he asked.

  “Is it herbal?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  “A glass of water will do fine.”

  “You don’t drink caffeine?”

  “It’s not really all that good for you.”

  He lowered his lashes, slanted a naughty look at her with those bad-boy eyes. “Do you always do what’s good for you?”

  “Usually, yes. Except for dipped cones. My one weakness.”

  “That’s your only weakness?”

  Oh, that and good-looking left-handed pitchers with dark hair and sky blue eyes. “For the most part. What’s your one big weakness?”

  He laughed. “Sweetheart, I’ve got a whole lot more than one.”

  She should tell him not to call her sweetheart. It went against her ground rules for professional behavior, but it sounded so nice and she wasn’t feeling nearly as brave today as when she’d accepted the job.

  Instead, she propped her elbows on the bar and dropped her chin into her upturned palms. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  “Are you taking inventory of my sins for the book or is this for your own amusement?” he asked.

  “I’ve read about you in the tabloids. I can guess what your sins are.”

  “Don’t believe everything you read.” He laughed, and slid a glass of ice water in front of her. He slouched against the kitchen counter all hot and manly, sipping his coffee, watching her, and looking thoroughly entertained.

  By her? He was fascinated by her? How was that possible? Unnerved, she dropped her gaze and took a long sip of water as if it was the most delicious beverage she had ever tasted.

  Silence stretche
d long and wide and deep. Um . . . this was awkward. What should she say? What should she do? She shifted. Cleared her throat. Waited.

  He waited too, eyeing her over the rim of his coffee cup.

  Unable to bear the silence one second longer, she set down her glass and turned on her computer. “Shall we get started?”

  One maverick eyebrow shot up on his forehead. “Shall we?”

  She nodded, feeling out of place. “We shall.”

  “I’m teasing you, Jane Austen.”

  “Please don’t.” God, she sounded desperate.

  “I’m a teaser, Breezy. It’s what I do. I tease. If you’re gonna work for me, you’re gonna get teased. Accept it.”

  She starched her back against the twinge of excitement that fluttered through her at the thought of being teased by him. “This isn’t supposed to be fun and games. It’s work.”

  “To me work and play are one and the same. I love what I do for a living.” He paused, the light dying in his eyes. “Loved.”

  She studied his left arm, and that livid pink scar. Her stomach churned up mini-tornadoes of empathy, regret, and adoration. Poor guy. “There’s absolutely no chance of a comeback?”

  “Not if I write this book.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He waved a hand like he was shooing away a fly. “We’ll get to that later.”

  She wanted to press, but the regretful expression on his face stilled her tongue. She was reluctant to stir his pain, although surely he knew they’d have to go there sooner or later.

  “First off,” she said. “I’d like to start by confirming my preliminary research on you. If that’s all right.”

  He sauntered over, a six-foot bundle of testosterone, pulled out the bar stool next to her, and plunked down. A river of heat shot through her bloodstream like level six whitewater rapids. Even though he sat a foot away, his presence was so overpowering she felt engulfed.

  He leaned the stool back on two legs, balancing with the ease and grace of athletic perfection.

  Her pulse thundered a stormy jolt, since he was just as incredibly erotic as ever, and she categorically wished her body didn’t spontaneously react to him. But how could anyone with a millimeter of estrogen not respond to someone as flagrantly masculine as Rowdy Blanton?

  Restlessly, she tapped the keyboard, pulling up her research notes. “You were born right here in Stardust.”

  “That’s right.”

  “You were the third in birth order of four children, two boys, two girls. Your two sisters, Olivia and Yvette, are older. You have a younger brother, Zach, who is twenty-five.” Her age.

  “Uh-huh.” Leisurely, his gaze strolled over her.

  Between her breasts, she broke out in a cold sweat that she purposely ignored. “Your father had progressive multiple sclerosis and when you were fourteen, his health deteriorated to the point your mother could no longer hold down a job, be his nursemaid and be a mother, so she sent everyone but Zach to live with different relatives.”

  “I stayed with my uncle Mick.”

  She consulted her notes. “Mick Blanton is a bachelor geologist who lives in Houston and he let you run wild the two years you lived with him. You got into trouble with the law in Houston, but nothing major. You moved back to Stardust to live with your mom again when your dad died. You impressed a baseball scout your senior year in high school and you were on your way.”

  Breeanne paused, giving him a chance to refute her information, but he simply nodded that head of thick chestnut hair.

  “Your mother remarried. To an electrician she met on a cruise, and she’s now living in Portland, Oregon. Olivia is married to a government contractor, has two children, a boy and a girl and lives in D.C. Yvette is a first grade teacher and she lives in Midland with her oilman husband and their three boys.”

  “Wow, who gave you a shovel.”

  Bewildered, she wrinkled her forehead. “Excuse me?”

  “You’ve been digging deep.”

  “Well this is Stardust and people love to talk, especially about you.”

  “Are all those minute details going into the book?”

  “It doesn’t matter whether these details end up in the book or not, I need the information in order to understand the man.”

  He took a long pull on his coffee. “Good luck with that.”

  “Because you’re unknowable?”

  He set down his mug, angled his shoulders toward her. The feeling of being engulfed constricted her lungs again. “Because you haven’t done a lick of living in your . . . How old are you, by the way?”

  “Twenty-five, the same age as your brother.”

  “Hmm. I pegged you for much younger.”

  “I’m almost twenty-six and how do you know I haven’t done a lick of living?”

  “It’s written all over you.”

  She stiffened her back. “In what way?”

  “Straitlaced, blushes easily, inexperienced. Besides, I tasted it on you when I kissed you.”

  She reached up to finger her lips. Every word was true and she hated that she was so easy to read.

  “Tell me this, Breezy, are you still a virgin?”

  Heat bloomed like a rash across her chest and spread up her neck. Unable to believe he’d asked such a personal question, she swallowed the excess moisture in her mouth. “That is none of your business.”

  He nodded, more to himself than to her. “You answered my question. Just as I suspected, you’ve not been off the bench.”

  “What does my sexuality—”

  “Or lack thereof.”

  She ignored that. “—have to do with writing your autobiography?”

  “How can you possibly hope to understand me, when you don’t even understand you? And how can you understand yourself until you’ve lived a little?”

  “What are you saying? That I’m not capable of writing your life story because I haven’t debauched myself?”

  “Debauched. Good one.” He chortled. “See there. That Miss Prim expression on your face right now is what gives you away. Debauchery isn’t the issue.”

  “Then what is? Why are we getting sidetracked? Everything’s planned. I’ve got my questions all mapped out for today’s interview.”

  He snapped the front legs of the bar stool down so hard and fast that she jumped like a jackrabbit. “What are you so afraid of?”

  You.

  “I’m not afraid,” she lied.

  “You can’t run the bases if you never step up to the plate.”

  “My great-aunt Polly used to say that.”

  “I know. I read In Her Own League.”

  “You read my book?” Snoopy Dancer was back, gleefully bouncing up and down. He’d read her book!

  “Cover to cover. I read the other one too.”

  “You read my books,” she said, still unable to believe it. He told her he didn’t read, but even so he’d read her books.

  “You’re a good writer.”

  She pressed both palms to her lips to stop a helpless smile. He’d read her books.

  “See there,” he said. “I did something that made me uncomfortable in order to improve our working relationship. And in this case instead of it being painful, reading your book turned out to be a pleasant surprise. So now it’s your turn.”

  “My turn to do what?” she asked, wondering if he was going to kiss her again, secretly hoping that he was going to kiss her again despite her ground rules. Good grief, what was wrong with her?

  “To do something that makes you uncomfortable.”

  “Um.” She gulped. That sounded ominous. Was he talking about more than kissing? Snoopy Dancer was overjoyed by the idea, but Breeanne wasn’t ready for anything like that. Not with him. Nowhere close. “What do you have in mind?”

  Mischief turned his eyes wicked. “Have you ever been on a zipline?”

  CHAPTER 9

  If you’re going to play at all, you’re out to win.

  —DEREK JETER

&nbs
p; Rowdy stood on the zipline platform that marked the highest part of the property, Stardust Lake sparkling in the sunlight at the bottom of the hill. The lake lay just beyond his fence line. While the view was a beaut, it was the woman at his side who captivated his attention.

  Breeanne teetered on tiptoes trying to see how far down it was without stepping to the edge of the platform. She wore a pink T-shirt that was a size too big, a pair of white cropped pants that hid too much of those gorgeous legs, and her hair was pulled back into a short ponytail.

  The white cotton pants fit snugly, molding to her cute little fanny in a way that made him think—

  Stop it, he cautioned himself, and reluctantly raised his gaze to her face.

  She waffled between bravery and timidity, fearlessness and uncertainty. As if she was on some personal improvement mission she wasn’t quite sure she should be on. He wanted to help her tip the scales toward embracing life.

  Embracing and squeezing and—

  Christ, there you go again. Knock it off!

  She sank back to her heels. “I’m scared.”

  “Feel the fear and do it anyway.”

  “You sound like a fortune cookie.”

  “It’s still sound advice.”

  She shook her head, and backed up. “I don’t think I can.”

  “C’mon, what’s the worst that could happen?”

  “I could plunge to my death.”

  “Okay, let’s say that happens. Which it won’t. But for the sake of argument, how many people can say they went out having fun?”

  “Good point, but I doubt I’ll remember that during the plummet.”

  “This puppy is as safe as it gets.” Rowdy patted the metal post that supported the zipline. “I have it inspected by a licensed professional every year.”

  “Hmm.” She went up on her tiptoes again, stared down at the hill, gulped so forcefully the column of her throat moved visibly. “How do we get back?”

  “If you don’t feel like walking back, Warwick will come fetch us.”

  “I’m really nervous.”

  She shifted her weight from foot to foot, her modest breasts bouncing with the motion.

  He couldn’t help staring at them. They were so pert and cute. Plump little oranges just ripe for picking. His mouth watered.