Double Play, Page 6

  “I’m just thinking that maybe you’re not quite the jerk you want me to believe.”

  “Yes, I am,” he said. “A big jerk. An asshole.”

  “You run from stalkers rather than call the police. You play baseball with kids and bring them new gear. You help stupid reporters who catch with their foreheads. There’s a soft side to you, Pace Martin.”

  “Hell no, there’s not.”

  He looked so insulted, she laughed. “Oh yes, there is.” She put her hand on his chest. The hard, warm muscles there did not escape her notice, no sirree, they did not. “A big old softie, deep down inside.” Very deep, past all that delicious sinew.

  Shaking his head, he turned her toward the car. “Let’s go, Sherlock.”

  “Where to?”

  “To get your damn head checked. And probably I should have mine examined while we’re at it for even putting you in my car in the first place. Sorry guys,” he called out. “We’ve got to go.”

  Chipper just waggled his eyebrows and gave a thumbs-up. “Gotcha.”

  “Stop that. I have an away series, but I’ll be back in a few days.”

  “Phillies,” Chipper said. “You’re going to kick ass.”

  Pace narrowed his eyes. “Are you allowed to say ass?”

  “Not at home, but we’re not at home. Don’t forget to tell the flight attendant that you can’t have Dr Pepper. They make you feel like crap. Oh, and pack some spare uniform pants. He always busts his zippers,” he explained to Holly.

  “Sounds like a problem.” She thought it was adorable how the kids seemed to take as good care of him as he did of them.

  “Stay out of trouble,” Pace said to each of them and took Holly to his car, keeping his hand on her the whole walk back, which she found both disconcerting and unexpectedly sweet. It was a big hand, warm and calloused. Very male.

  Yeah, she really did need her head checked. She slid in his car, put on the seat belt and met his dark gaze. Poor baby, he looked so uncomfortable that he’d ended up with her again.

  “What’s so funny?” he asked when she couldn’t hold back her smile.

  “You. You’re afraid of me.”

  “What? I am not.”

  “You so are.”

  “Maybe a little.” He pulled out of the lot with more speed than required, and hit the highway. “Look,” he said, “I’m sorry about the hit to the head.”

  “Sorry enough to give me the interview?”

  He sighed. “I’ve already admitted that I’m an ass. You, however, neglected to mention that you’re a pain in the ass.”

  She laughed, but that hurt her head so she leaned back, enjoying the sparkling ocean, the ridge of the mountains so dramatic in the late sun, the warmth of it on her face, the speed of the car, not to mention the way he handled said car. “You’re right. I am a pain in the ass. I should have disclosed that up front. Disclosure is important to me.”

  “Why?”

  The question surprised her. “Childhood trauma,” she quipped. “Involves Santa. It’s not pretty.”

  She couldn’t hear his answer over the roar of the wind, but she did catch the quirk of his lips, and for a quick beat, she experienced that odd flutter low in her belly again.

  Probably just her brains being scrambled by the ball. But she wasn’t scrambled enough not to realize they were still going in the opposite direction of her car. “We’re going the wrong way.”

  “Uh-huh. Since you accused me of abducting you, I thought I’d make it for real.”

  They came into town. Holly knew Santa Barbara was sometimes called the American Riviera, but it never failed to surprise her how beautiful it was with its intriguing and charming mix of colorful Old West and Spanish cultures. Pace pulled off the highway and drove down a few tourist-filled streets before pulling into a parking lot behind a three-story glass and steel building that overlooked the ocean. He climbed out of the car and walked around to the passenger side. “Let’s go, Nosey Nose,” he said as he opened her door.

  “Where to?”

  “Just come on.”

  “How very passive-aggressive of you.”

  He just reached for her hand and pulled her toward the building. “It’s called pleading the fifth. And it’s a constitutional right.”

  “A kidnapper and a scholar.”

  He slid her a long look behind his shades. “Haven’t you ever heard the saying that you get more flies with honey than vinegar?”

  She might have answered, but then she read the sign on the door he held open for her: Santa Barbara Medical Group.

  “Don’t be silly,” she said, dragging her feet. “I don’t need to go in there. I’m good.”

  He shoved his sunglasses to the top of his head. His eyes were calm, and very amused. “Don’t be scared. I’ll hold your hand.”

  For some reason, that sounded incredibly intimate, and her brain went to a naughty place.

  Clueless, he tried to nudge her none too gently inside, his hand at the small of her back, but she stood on the threshold, a little overtaken by the odd and yet secretly thrilling beat that seemed to pass between them every time they touched.

  What was going on? She’d given up penises! “This is a waste of your apparently in-demand time, Pace. I’m fine.”

  “Okay. Let’s just prove it.” But in opposition to the amusement in his voice, he lightly squeezed her waist.

  Reassurance.

  He cared. Good to know. Because she cared back. And that . . . well, that wasn’t nearly as good to know. “I don’t want to waste your money.”

  “I’ll take it out of the grand I owe ya.”

  “Two. You owe me two grand.”

  They were still standing close, very close, and he was taking up a whole hell of a lot of space. Her space. He had one hand on her, the other above her head, holding the door open, and that felt intimate, too.

  And suggestive.

  His shirt was stretched taut across his shoulders, and with his arm raised she could see the delineation of the muscles along his forearm, which should have been no big deal, so why she looked, then kept looking, she had no clue.

  But God, he smelled good, and was still smiling in reassurance. And before she could register the thought process, she leaned in to give him a kiss on the cheek. A thank-you-for-caring kiss—except that he turned his head to look at her and . . .

  Their lips collided.

  Gently connected.

  Held . . .

  A beat of shock reverberated through her system. She waited for the awkwardness to hit, but that wasn’t what hit at all as he pulled back a fraction and stared at her, clearly as completely thrown as she.

  “In or out,” a woman behind them said, sounding irritated—until she got a look at Pace. “Hey. Hey, are you . . . Pace Martin? Ohmigod, you are! You’re him!” Irritation gone, she flashed a wide grin. “You had an amazing season last year, what was it? Twenty-four and six?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Twenty-four wins.” She sighed in pleasure. “With, what, almost two hundred strikeouts, right?”

  “Not quite that many,” he said modestly.

  “Well, it was a fantastic run, whatever it was!” She turned to Holly. “He led the National League in wins, ERA, and strikeouts on his way to the Cy Young Award!” She grinned at Pace. “And you had the NL’s record in strikeouts the year before, too, don’t think I forgot that! We’ve got a bet going that you’re good for at least 225 strikeouts this year. We love you in our house.”

  “Thank you.”

  She grinned, then gasped. “Ohmigod, you have to sign something for me.”

  Holly watched, head spinning, as the woman searched her pockets and came up with a pen but no paper. “It’s okay,” she gushed. “Just sign me.” With that, she tugged her tank top off her shoulder, low on her breast, which nearly, but not quite, popped out. “Here,” she demanded, tapping herself with her finger, flesh bouncing all over the place. “Right here.”

  Pa
ce didn’t even blink as he obligingly leaned in to sign the woman’s breast.

  “My husband is the hugest fan,” she said to the top of his head, beaming. “He’s going to go nuts when he sees this!”

  Pace handed her back her pen and held the door open for both women to precede him in.

  Inside, the happy fan rushed off.

  Holly looked at Pace. “She knew your stats. By memory.”

  “Some do.” He took her arm, but she dug in her heels.

  He looked at her from those dark brown eyes fringed by darker, thick lashes and waited.

  “You sign a lot of breasts?”

  “Body parts are a fairly common request,” he admitted.

  “It’s an interesting life you lead, Pace.”

  “So I’ve heard.”

  “I really don’t need a doctor.”

  “Humor me. And when the doc tells me you’re fine, I won’t feel bad dumping you back at your car and pretending this past hour never happened.”

  “Okay,” she agreed. “But only if you promise to sign a body part afterward.”

  Chapter 6

  There are three things in my life which I really love:

  God, family, and baseball. The only problem—once

  baseball season starts, I change the order around a

  bit.

  —Al Gallagher, 1971

  That night Pace skipped his usual five-mile run to give his body a rest. He also skipped the Dr Pepper he wanted more than his next breath and drank water as he packed for the three-game run in Philly.

  Since prepping for travel was as familiar as breathing, his mind wandered as he threw clothes into his bag. Holly was going to be fine. He’d made sure of it before driving her back to her car. He hoped—in spite of her having the most compelling eyes he’d ever had the discomfort of being leveled by, and in spite of that very intriguing hot kiss they’d shared—to never see her again.

  But he was fairly certain he wouldn’t get that lucky. She wanted his secrets, and given that her picture was probably in the dictionary next to tenacious, not to mention stubborn and ornery, she wouldn’t be discouraged by a ball to the forehead.

  She was going to be a pain in his ass, and he knew it. But she was also sharply funny and sharply smart, and damn if when she’d pitted her wits against his, he didn’t forget to feel sorry for himself—something he appeared to have down to a science tonight, thanks to the news from his doctor.

  When his cell phone rang, he considered ignoring it, but the display revealed it was Gage, and it was never smart to ignore the manager. Not if he wanted to play, and he was scheduled for tomorrow. “Hey, Skip.”

  “I hear you clocked a reporter in the head.”

  Pace dropped to his bed and stretched out, staring at the ceiling, picturing Holly and her pretty hair and amazing eyes, and how she’d felt in his arms when he’d scooped her off the grass after taking River’s pitch.

  And then there’d been that kiss . . . “Not exactly. Is she suing or something?”

  “Or something.” Gage was a hands-on TM. He loved the game, he loved the guys, and because of it there was little of the usual management-versus-the-players attitude on the Heat. At thirty-four years old, their “Skipper” as they called him was the youngest MLB team manager in the country and possibly the hardest working, a fact that everyone on the Heat wholeheartedly appreciated. Gage was loyal to a fault, calm at all times, and utterly infallible when it came to supporting the Heat in every possible way, including, apparently, helping one of his players get out of a mess created by his own stupidity. “What the hell happened, man?”

  “It was an accident,” Pace told him. “I took her to the doctor and she checked out. Is she not okay?”

  “You could ask Ty, Joe, and Henry, all of whom she met for dinner. Or better yet, ask her yourself.”

  The guys had probably charmed the hell out of her. And he’d been worried about Wade. “I don’t have her number.”

  “Well lucky for you, I do.”

  Shit. He took the number, then spent a few minutes procrastinating with his TV remote, but when the local anchor questioned Pace’s stats and said he was “getting up there” in age, it was drink a Dr Pepper from his private stash or call Holly. Up there his ass, he thought as he pounded in her number. He was thirty-one. A damn young thirty-one, too—

  Holly answered her phone in a soft, sleep-roughened voice, and he immediately went from pissed off to concerned. “Hey, you shouldn’t be sleeping after a bump to the head.” He shouldn’t have just dumped her off. He should’ve—

  “You paid the doctor bill, Pace,” she said calmly. “You know I’m not concussed. But that you’re worrying like a mother hen is very sweet. And interesting, as I’ve never seen sweet on any of your bios. I’ll have to make sure to put that in any article about you.”

  “I’m just afraid you’re going to sue. How’s that for sweet?”

  “Aw.” She laughed. “You’re so full of shit. I met your teammates tonight. They were great company, full of stories.”

  He just bet.

  “But oddly enough, when I tried to get the scoop on you from them, they all clammed up.”

  “It’s called friendship.”

  “Well, I have to admit, as a reporter, it’s annoying.” Her voice softened. “But as a person? Also incredibly sweet.”

  “So you’re saying the entire team is sweet.” Now he laughed. “Good luck with your credibility if you print that. We’re not exactly known for the sweetness, Holly.”

  “No,” she admitted with a smile in her voice. “You’re not, are you? I’m hoping to figure out what makes you guys tick.”

  “Why?”

  “Because that’s what I do. I like to furrow deep.”

  “And expose secrets.”

  “Yes, when they need to be exposed.” She was quiet a moment. “But to ease your mind, I haven’t found any yet. Oh, and the only reason I was sleeping is because we have an early flight. You can stop worrying about me, sweet or otherwise.”

  His gut tightened as a very bad feeling came over him. “We? We have an early flight?”

  “Didn’t anyone tell you? I’ll be traveling with the Heat.”

  Christ. “Seriously?”

  “Seriously. How’s your shoulder? And don’t bother trying to give me the standard line. This isn’t Holly the reporter asking but the friend who rescued you from your stalker.”

  He let out a low breath. “A little sore, that’s all.”

  “Okay, we’ll stick with that for now, since you don’t trust me.”

  “You’re still a reporter.”

  “Which is what, synonymous with bad guy?”

  “No, of course not.” He ran a hand through his hair and looked at his open duffel bag. Why had he called her? “I just don’t want it plastered all across the Internet that I’m in trouble.”