“TREVOR STARK! CRUSH wants you in his office.” The clubhouse attendant broke the news with an evil grin on his face. “Sounds pretty bad. Three F-bombs and a C-word.”
Oh, hell. Trevor shoved his gym bag into the open wooden cubby of his locker. He should never have called Duke to report the BB gun incident. His protective instincts had kicked in and he’d finally decided to call it in for the sake of his teammates. While he could handle an armed asshole, most of these guys hadn’t grown up the way he had. “Right this second?”
“Five minutes ago.”
The other Catfish, at varying points in their dressing process, perked up to listen.
“Thought you and Crush signed a mutual avoidance pact,” called Sonny Barnes from his locker.
Dwight chimed in as he wrapped an ace bandage around his wrist. “Heard it was signed with the blood of a virgin.” Trevor glared at him. The guy was supposed to be his friend.
“Isn’t being around Trevor automatically devirginating?” Ramirez wondered out loud as he pulled on his sliders.
“That’s not a word,” Trevor growled. He’d already changed into his jersey. He always put it on first to avoid showing his back any longer than absolutely necessary. But his legs were still bare, and he hadn’t put on his cleats yet.
“Riiiiight,” said Dwight, who had clearly gone over to the dark side. “I think they call it ‘Starkinating’ now. Saw it in the Urban Dictionary.”
Shaking his head, Trevor decided to book it to Crush’s office right away and get it over with. Pants or no pants. That would teach the domineering owner to call him in so close to game time. He strode past the gape-mouthed attendant, ignoring the hoots from the other players.
Crush’s office was located on the upper floor along with the rest of the management offices, except for Duke’s, which was the same level as the clubhouse. The management wing was filled with private, glass-door offices, cubicles and computer desks, and a blur of faces that all swiveled in his direction.
Crush’s door was open, so Trevor stalked right in. He’d never seen Crush actually sit at his desk like a normal person. The man usually propped his boots on it, leaned one hip against it, or ignored it completely. Today he leaned one shoulder against the plate-glass window that overlooked the field.
Crush Taylor inspired respect in every ballplayer with a sense of history. That included Trevor, who knew every detail of his record. The man was a legend. A living icon. And now Crush was staring at him as if he were an earthworm crawling across the infield grass.
“I came as soon as I got your message, sir,” Trevor said in his most mockingly subservient voice, the one he’d perfected in juvie after one too many infractions.
He could have sworn that he saw one corner of Crush’s mouth lift in a smile. “No pants, I see.”
As always, they launched into a sparring match that rivaled Ping-Pong for speed.
“It sounded urgent.”
“So are pants.”
“I’m decent.”
“That’s not what they say.”
“Listening to gossip?”
“Listening to my manager. Apparently someone went after you with a BB gun.”
“I handled it.”
“According to the security tape, someone in a white car handled it.”
That made Trevor pause. If the mysterious Paige was on tape, maybe he could locate her. By license plate or something.
“This isn’t a problem.”
“Videotape says your arm got nicked. Your five million dollar arm.”
“Just a bruise.”
“Bend your elbow.”
Trevor tried, but truth was, he had some swelling and it wouldn’t close all the way.
Crush cursed freely. “One of these days someone is going to hit a vital organ.”
“I wear a cup.”
Someone snorted from the corner of the room to his right. He wanted to see who but was too locked into his glare-down with Crush to turn away.
“Paige, stay out of this,” said Crush, not looking away either. “Observation only today. I didn’t think you’d be observing someone without pants, of course.”
Slowly, the words penetrated. Paige. Trevor swiveled to the right.
Paige.
She sat with her long, long legs crossed, her wild hair in a ponytail, her eyes bright with laughter. True blue, deep and sweet, like the petals of a delphinium. She wore tomato red shorts, a T-shirt with some Italian words on it, flip-flops, and electric blue polish on her toenails. A composition notebook was propped on her lap, as if she was taking notes on this conversation. She wore a charm bracelet around one ankle; crescent moons alternating with stars.
Not that he noticed every detail or anything.
“That’s my daughter, Paige.”
Ho-ly. Shit. She was Crush’s daughter? He had a daughter? No one had ever mentioned a daughter. Especially one so . . . so . . . He tried to drag his gaze away from her but couldn’t.
Crush kept talking. “She’s going to be working around here for a while. Remember her face so you can make sure to leave her alone.”
Eye roll from Paige. From his brief experience with her, Trevor figured the chances of Crush being able to control her were pretty much zero. Her gaze traveled down his body, stalling somewhere around his bare thighs.
Right. No pants.
Well, now she’d seen just about the whole package—no shirt last night, no pants today.
“It’s costing me good money to fix the fence and install extra security cameras around the parking lot,” Crush continued. “For some reason, none of that was necessary before you came to Kilby.”
“Safety first. A wise choice.”
Crush rubbed the skin of his forehead as if smoothing out five decades’ worth of wrinkles. “I ought to report this to the Friars.”
As always, mention of the Friars gave Trevor a rush of anxiety. He knew a call-up was inevitable, but for his sister’s sake he wanted it to take as long as possible. “That ought to be a fun conversation.”
Crush ground his teeth. “Do you have anything to say that isn’t a waste of my time?”
Trevor maintained his stony facade. He respected Crush, unlike most authority figures. But there was no way Crush would believe he hadn’t done anything to merit being chased with a BB gun. “Sorry.”
“Don’t go overboard.” Crush stopped him with an upraised hand. “I don’t need you to grovel.”
Grovel? Trevor felt a muscle jump in his jaw as he fought to keep it clamped shut.
Crush turned to Paige. “Yesterday I stood in front of the entire sports media and announced that I intend to win the Triple A national championship.”
She plucked a pen from behind her ear and made a note in her little book. “There’s a championship in Triple A?”
“Yes, but there’s a reason you’ve never heard of it. No one cares. This year, I do.”
He turned back to Trevor. “If there’s one thing I hate, it’s looking like an ass. If there’s another thing I hate, it’s losing.” He ticked the items off on the fingers of one hand. “And if there’s yet another thing I hate, it’s watching a talent like you fuck up his life.”
“I’m not—”
Crush stopped him with another gesture. “Something else I hate. Getting interrupted. Know what else I hate?”
Paige spoke up. “Is this open for anyone, because I’ve been compiling notes all my life.”
Trevor glanced over and their eyes met, the sparkling sapphire of hers filled with sexy mischief. Once again the fact slammed him in the face. Daughter. She was Crush’s daughter. And he’d come on to her outside his hotel about ten minutes after they met.
Crush snapped his fingers to regain their attention. Just the sort of thing Trevor hated. “Now, I didn’t report this fiasco to the Friars. So I figure you owe me. And I know exactly how you can pay me back.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Yes, sir, what?”
“Yes, sir, I’ll help you. Win the championship. That’s what you want, right?”
Crush gave a brisk nod. “It’s a win-win, really. You play well and help the team, the Friars will be calling.”
That wouldn’t be a win for him, but no need to reveal that. In the meantime, he’d be here in Kilby. He’d get another season of anonymity. Nina would be that much safer. That was a win-win.
He’d also get to torment Crush for another season. Win-win-win.
“It’s what I would do anyway.” He called on every ounce of shit-eating media experience he’d acquired. “I always give my best for my team. Every game. Every play. Every at-bat. Every pitch.” He could just imagine the blowjob gesture Sonny Barnes would be making right now.
Crush narrowed his eyes. “If you’re trying to impress my daughter, forget about it.”
“I never try to impress. It just happens.”
Paige rose to her feet, clearing her throat. She waved at the plate-glass window and the field beyond. “Um . . . not to interrupt, but it looks like the players are coming onto the field for the National Anthem.”
“Uh-oh, and me without my pants,” Trevor deadpanned.
He caught Paige’s suppressed giggle . . . and so did Crush. He pointed a finger at his daughter, then at Trevor.
“Paige, you and I are going to the owner’s box. Stark, take the next two games off. I want you to rest your elbow from that bruise. The championship is important to me, but the Friars own you. Your future comes first.”
Trevor’s heart plummeted. He needed that time on the field, time when he could block everything out and channel all his rage onto little cowhide-covered spheres of cork. “Duke has me in the lineup.”
“Not anymore.”
Trevor spun on his heel and stalked out of the office. Bullshit. There was absolutely no need to take him out of the game. Once again, every eyeball turned his way as he went marching past. Christ, it’s not like they could see anything—his jersey covered everything. Deploying his most intimidating, stony-faced look, he ignored the stares and headed for the clubhouse. He hated being out of the lineup. Damn Crush Taylor for being the most interfering team owner he’d ever seen. What was he supposed to do with himself now?
Footfalls raced after him. Paige. It had to be. Blood boiling, he stopped at the head of the stairs and intercepted her, grabbing her wrist and pulling her down the stairs after him.
“What are you doing?”
“Rescuing you,” he growled.
“From what? I’m perfectly fine.”
“I haven’t decided yet.”
“What . . . that makes no . . . sense . . .” She continued to squawk as he hauled her down the stairs into the clubhouse. He knew it would be completely empty during the National Anthem. Even the clubhouse attendant would be out on the field.
Once inside the smelly, towel-strewn locker room, he spun her against the wall and braced his hands on either side of her head. “This,” he ground out, “is a bad idea.”
She stared at him with a bewildered expression. He seized the opportunity to gaze his fill of her in the daylight, up close. Close enough to notice the outer rim of purple surrounding the sparkling blue of her eyes and the light spray of freckles across her cheekbones. A long strand of honey-brown hair clung to her neck. Fresh and alive, her apple fragrance lured him closer; he sensed the racing of her heart.
He eased off, in case it was fear causing her heart to beat so fast. “Why didn’t you tell me who you were?”
A crease appeared between her eyebrows. He clenched his hands to keep from smoothing it away. “I told you my name.”
“Part of your name.”
“We didn’t exactly meet at a formal tea party,” she said. “I don’t remember how I introduced myself.”
“I do. Paige, you said.”
“Well, it’s Paige Mattingly Austin Taylor, since you seem to require the whole thing.”
“The only part I’m worried about is the ‘Taylor.’ Your father despises me.”
She held his gaze. “He doesn’t like seeing talented players waste their gifts.”
As if she’d suddenly caught fire, he released her. He wasn’t wasting his gift, he was using it to protect his sister the best way he could. He paced away from her, rubbing his hand across the back of his neck.
“So you were in the parking lot waiting for Crush?”
“Yes. But I must have missed him, and then I saw you. And that man.”
“Does he know that was you on the security tape?”
Her eyes widened in alarm. “No. And please don’t tell him. He’d kill me. Or you. Maybe both.”
“I won’t tell him as long as you promise not to put yourself in danger like that again.”
She pushed away from the wall and sauntered toward him. “Um, I’m alone in an empty clubhouse with Big Bad Trevor Stark.” On that word, she tilted her head back and swept past him. “Apparently danger is my middle name.”
He followed her as she advanced farther into the clubhouse, peering curiously into the lockers. “I’ve never been in here before. It was always off-limits.”
“Is that why you turned me down? No sleeping with the players?”
Outside Ramirez’s locker, she turned to face him, folding her arms over her chest. With a mighty effort, he fought to keep his gaze away from the pretty curves of her breasts under her T-shirt. “I turned you down because our acquaintance consisted of about ten minutes of conversation while fleeing a man with a BB gun. Also because I was headed to see my father. Not only that, I’m not in the habit of sleeping with men I’ve only met once. I can probably come up with a few more good reasons. Is it really so strange?”
“In my life, it’s unusual,” he said simply. What the hell, it was the truth. Girls came on to him all the time.
A distant thumping sound told him the pregame ceremony had finished and the Catfish were taking the field. Normally, he’d be pissed as hell that he wasn’t out there with them. Not this time. Talking to Paige in the empty quiet of the clubhouse, he didn’t miss the baseball field. Strange.
Paige had scrunched up her face at his mention of his love life. “I think we can both agree that it’s a good thing I turned you down, given who my father is. I hope your feelings aren’t still wounded.”
He shot her a sharp glance. “You know, suddenly I see the Taylor family resemblance. Crush always irritates the hell out of me too.”
She bit her lip, amusement filling those big blue eyes. “I picked up on that.”
“My feelings don’t get wounded, so you can just put that worry out of your mind.”
“Just like that, huh?” She flicked her fingers in the air. “What are you, some kind of emotionless robot?”
“Not at all. I have emotions. I get horny.”
He used crudeness deliberately, to get a rise out of her. But it only made one corner of her wide mouth lift, as if he’d issued a challenge. “Could have fooled me. We’ve been alone all this time and you haven’t once made a move.”
Narrowing his eyes, he closed the space between them. “Your taunts won’t work. You rejected me, remember? That ship has sailed.”
“Really? Where’s the ship going?” She stepped forward. Olimpia Milano, that’s what her shirt said, and damn him for not being able to keep his eyes off her. Those curves made the palms of his hands twitch, so he closed them into fists.
“Nowhere,” he said firmly. This girl was trouble with a capital T—for Taylor.
“Are you afraid of the mighty Crush Taylor?” She took another step closer. “He’s not as bad as he seems, you know.”
“I’m not afraid of him.” He placed his hands on her shoulders to keep her from coming any closer. Her warmth carried into his skin, into his being, as if it was igniting him from within.
“And I’m not afraid of you.” She ducked underneath his hands in a quick move right out of the NBA. He took a step back and his calves hit the bench situated next to the lockers. She reached out in apology and suddenly they were right smack against each other, chest-to-chest.
Fire flashed down his spine, hot and urgent. He hauled her against him—oh, sweet Jesus, she felt good. Soft and firm and shapely and alive and fresh and . . . then her mouth was under his, her lips parting, her breath warm against his mouth, her flesh lush and sweet. It wasn’t a kiss so much as a head rush.
Her breasts pressed against him, soft and enticing. He growled and walked her backward, pinned her against a locker. Lifted her legs to wrap around his waist. Pressed his sudden, extreme erection into the warm space between her thighs. His lack of pants meant the bare skin of her legs slid against his, a smooth friction that sent more blood to his groin.
She trembled in his arms and grabbed the back of his jersey. “Touch me,” she whispered wildly. “Just touch me.”
Her urgency threw fuel on the fire driving him. He adjusted her on his thighs and slid his hands under the edge of her shorts, her skin like warm silk against his palms. She pushed against him, grinding her pelvis against his seeking fingers. Wild. Fierce. He reached for her heat, for wetness, for glory. Just as his fingers found the first outer petals of her intimate flesh, he froze.
Crush Taylor’s daughter.
He pulled his hand out of her shorts and released her so she slid to the floor. She would have stumbled if he hadn’t held her steady. Eyes huge, mouth moist from his kiss, she stared up at him.
“I shouldn’t have done that. I’m sorry.” Closing his eyes against the temptation of her, he swiped his arm across his forehead. His face was damp with sweat. Holy fuck. How had a simple kiss gotten him to this state?
“No, it was my fault,” she whispered. “I wanted you to. Oh God. I’m sorry. I guess it’s . . . I’m so embarrassed.” She covered her face with both hands. Her ponytail fell forward and he pushed it gently behind her shoulder.
“Embarrassed?”
“I’ve been going through a divorce, and it’s been awful, and sex became this loaded thing, it was never just fun or pleasurable. I guess I forgot what it felt like when . . . I shouldn’t have gotten carried away like that, and just so you know, I tend to babble during awkward situations. Can we mutually block this out? Make a pact of denial?”
“Pact of denial,” he repeated dumbly. He was still stuck on the divorce part. She looked much too young to be married.
“Yes. This never happened.” Her eyes clung to his, color flooding her face.
That didn’t sit well with him. He wasn’t about to forget something like this. Even now his hands pulsed with the memory of her touch. But if that’s how she wanted it . . .
“Do we have to shake on it? Because I’m not sure I can touch you without wanting to throw you down on the floor and—” He broke off as her eyes went the starry violet of a Texas twilight.
“That’s okay, we can make it a verbal agreement,” she said in a slightly choked voice.
He looked down at the still-hard erection distending the front of his jersey. “I’ll have to have a talk with my nonverbal side, straighten a few things out.”
She let out a bubble of laughter. “I’ll leave that in your hands,” she said, then turned scarlet. “I mean . . . I’d . . . uh . . . better get to the owner’s box before my father comes looking. Pact of denial?”
“Can we add in a pact of stay the hell away from each other?”
“That might be hard. I’m going to be working here. Mission ‘Win the Championship’ is now my life.”
Just his luck, to share the hottest kiss of his life with a woman he couldn’t go near. He ran his hand across the back of his neck. “You’d better go. There’s a cold shower calling my name.”
She hurried toward the exit. Damn those long legs. How would he ever forget the way they’d felt wrapped around his waist? “One question,” he called after her. “Going through a divorce. Does that mean . . . ?”
“It means I’m divorced.” Her face was the bright red of a St. Louis Cardinals cap. “I’ll see you around, Trevor Stark.”
“See you, Paige Mattingly Austin Taylor.”
With a fleeting smile, she whisked herself out of the clubhouse.