Scoring

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you sure you’re done?”

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

“Are you sure?”

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

“Who are you working on?”

“Morelli.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What does one week matter?”

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

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

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

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

“Unlikely,” she said, sitting down reluctantly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Not if I see you first.”

4

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And Mace exploded into motion.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Moving? What the hell for?”

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

“Where’s the new place?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sure thing, chief.”

“How’s Sal’s ankle looking?”

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

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

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

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

“Thanks. Have a good night, Sammy.”

He waved and ducked out of the room.

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

“I’ll rub yours if you rub mine.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Huh?” she said blankly.

“You want me face up or face down?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mace turned his head to look at her inquiringly.

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

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

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

And found herself face to face with him.

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

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

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