Sliding Into Home

1

SCRAPERS’ MONTERO NO STRANGER to New York’s Most Wanted List.

Lance Montero re-read the headline on a summary sheet from his publicist as he downed his morning espresso at the trendy new coffee shop across the street from his Manhattan apartment building.

His romantic eligibility status had landed him in some social column about the city’s bachelors. Which wasn’t a big deal on its own, but the piece had been picked up all over the country and generated a slew of personal articles about him.

That, in turn, made it look like his focus wasn’t on his game. The Scrapers’ manager had called him in for a meeting about it after the All-Star break, grilling him about his level of commitment to the team. To making the playoffs.

And damn, did that tick him off. If you ignored the press, you were labeled as inaccessible and not a “team player.” But if you attracted too much notice, you were a media hog.

“Can I get you anything else?”

The waitress returned to his end of the coffeehouse, her dark pantsuit a staple of the employees.

But she wasn’t the same waitress he’d had earlier. Her throaty voice wasn’t the same chipper soprano that had greeted him at five this morning and her perfume was subtle but distinct to a man who noticed that kind of thing. In fact, it was the appeal of her scent that pulled his nose out of the PR report he’d been reviewing.

Petite and brunette, the woman now holding the espresso carafe was drop-dead gorgeous if you were into the sexpot type. Which Lance wasn’t. Especially not when he planned to quit dating until after the postseason.

“No, thank you. That’ll do it.” He withdrew his wallet and dropped a few bills on the table, realizing the brew house had grown far more crowded since he’d entered. Maintaining a low profile wasn’t easy for a player in the city that never slept, but Lance worked hard to avoid heavy traffic times at establishments like this in order to stay out of the papers.

In order to live down his undeserved reputation as some kind of lothario and direct attention back to his career.

“You sure are cute,” the waitress observed, setting the espresso carafe on the table before looking over her shoulder. As if confident no one was close enough to overhear her, she leaned down to speak more softly. “How come there are never any good-looking, normal guys like you sitting alone in a coffee shop whenever I go out?”

Lance grinned because, even though he was swearing off dating, what guy didn’t enjoy open flirtation with an attractive woman? Especially one who viewed him as a “normal guy” and not a target on some enterprising woman’s list of most eligible bachelors. Her shoulder-length dark hair slid down to fall alongside them, curtaining them in privacy for a moment. He noticed her gold name tag read Jamie.

“I don’t know.” He folded his wallet and shoved it in his jacket pocket. “How come I never run into any nice girls who smell as good as you do when I’m in the market for a date?”

She nodded as if she understood completely. Her eyes betrayed no hint of recognition that he was a baseball player or anyone who looked vaguely familiar, and he couldn’t help but enjoy the anonymity of the encounter. Too often, women hit on him because of who he was.

The only reason he’d gotten a reputation as a playboy was because he sucked at recognizing the women who were only after his checkbook until he’d been out with them a few times. And why should he keep dating that kind of person just to clear his name in the press as someone who couldn’t maintain a relationship?

“I guess we’re victims of bad timing.” Her smile glittered with old-school lip gloss that looked good enough to eat, and underneath the sheen was a pair of lips that could have been an advertisement for collagen injections.

Women would pay big bucks for the pouty, bee-stung mouth she sported naturally. Not that he was mentally making plans for those lips or anything. Just a casual observation.

“My friends say it’s that I hit on all the wrong women.” Standing, he pulled on a cap with the name of an NFL team to throw off people who might recognize him.

The sexy server, Jamie, clutched her chest, her black V-neck blouse framing a soft swell of cleavage and a gold necklace with the initials JM.

“Are your friends in league with mine? My traitorous crew says I’m a magnet for man trouble.”

“Good thing I didn’t just hit on you, Jamie M, or I’d be mighty offended.” He meant to walk out on that note, but something about the brimming good humor in her big brown eyes kept him rooted to the spot.

She looked at him like they shared a secret and he looked at her like—he couldn’t stop. Damn, but he’d missed that feeling. That genuine spark that flared between two people for no discernable reason, the invisible electricity that crackled when your brain read a hundred pleasing signals in someone else and—though you haven’t had time to process them yet—your mind won’t let you walk away without more careful consideration.

Her hand went to her necklace as if she’d forgotten it was there, her eyes never leaving his while they stood together in the back room of the restaurant where a few tables surrounded a fireplace.

From the corner of his eye, Lance spied movement in the short hall that connected the room to the rest of the establishment and he figured he’d better hit the closest exit. It was past 7:00 a.m. and the commuter crowd was out in full force judging by the noise.

He nodded a goodbye that was probably unnecessary, but the movement in the hallway grew loud and bright before he took two steps back. A flood lamp on wheels drenched the room in light. A small camera crew followed shortly behind it.

For a moment, Lance wondered why the media would be hounding him around his home since he hadn’t done anything unusual lately to spark extra interest. Sure, maybe some chick magazine would stake out his place to see where he went at night and if the city’s eligible bachelor had a date, but why a TV camera at seven in the morning?

But then, he became aware of the hot waitress yelling at the cameraman, waving the espresso pot in a threatening gesture.

“Do you have to follow me everywhere?” She gripped the pole for the flood lamp and swiveled it away from them, effectively wrecking the footage. “I’m doing this for charity, pinheads, not to finance your next trip to Fiji. So you can take your little money-hungry selves and—”

“Hey, Jamie,” a guy shouted from behind the camera while Lance tried to blink the spots from his vision. “Are you seeing Lance Montero now?”

Uh-oh.

He’d been recognized. And if he was reading the signs correctly, apparently his waitress was no stranger to the media. In fact, judging by the relationship she seemed to have with the camera crew, he suspected she wasn’t just your average waitress, either.

“Who?” She turned on him, some of her spunky anger for the paparazzi coming at him now, her lips pursed in a tight frown.

Before Lance could answer, a coffee shop patron wearing a Scrapers hat stood up and waved a cell phone at the guy behind the camera.

“I’ve got the whole thing on my video phone. These two just met a minute ago.”

Lance’s jaw dropped at the string of bad luck. He’d wanted to quit dating to keep his romantic life on the down low, and in short order, he’d flirted with a woman who was some sort of media target, and he’d been caught on tape by a TV crew and some bozo who would probably post the video on YouTube before Lance got home.

The throng started firing questions at the waitress, and she arced her arm back like she was seriously considering firing the espresso carafe at one of the reporters’ heads.

Crap.

Knowing he was going to look like a damn deer in headlights on the highlight reel, Lance plotted damage control. Grabbing Jamie M by the hand, he pulled her toward the fire exit in the back and left the crowd behind.

“WHO THE HELL ARE YOU?”

Jamie had trotted out better lines than that one in the past when she’d met a cute guy, but she wasn’t terribly concerned about what this man thought of her since he’d just hijacked her from her latest goodwill publicity stunt intended to clean up her trashed reputation. Who was he?

Someone had blurted out the name Lance Montero at the diner, but it didn’t mean much to her.

“I might ask you the same question.”

The hottie who had been flirting with her moments ago now steered her down the street with his big, gorgeous body, never asking her where she’d like to go. He’d slung a possessive arm around her at some point, and navigated through the gross back alley that smelled like refuse to pause at the side door of some major high rise. He reached for the knob as if to escort her inside.

“I don’t think so.” She dug in the heels of her three-inch wedge espadrilles—metaphorically speaking, since the pavement didn’t come close to giving way under her feet.

“You don’t think I’m entitled to know who you are?” He hauled open the door with one hand and tugged a security card out of his wallet with the other one, as if he anticipated more doors to open.

“I think you’re not entitled to corral me into some unknown building just because I let you escort me out of the diner.”

The man was incredibly good-looking with his close-cropped dark hair and melted chocolate-brown eyes. He was tall and buff, a fact she knew from being sheltered under his arm when he’d rushed her out of the coffeehouse. He dressed like some kind of Wall Street executive with an expensive silk suit and a shirt she’d bet was custom made, but his tie was aquamarine and yellow—an artsy statement for a financial dude. Maybe Lance Montero was the new Donald Trump.

Not that she was in the market for a guy with big bucks. In her experience, men with money often came with an inflated sense that the world was theirs for the taking.

“I thought I was helping you out back there.” He relinquished the door and peered over his shoulder, as if he expected the camera crew to come chasing them down the narrow side street.

“Hardly. I’m trying to raise money for charity.” Who was this guy that he could be so oblivious? Maybe he’d had his nose buried in a newspaper when he walked in the coffee shop that morning. “Didn’t you see the signs all over the java place advertising the celebrity fundraiser?”

Ever since her divorce, she’d become one of the most recognizable women in the country thanks to her ex’s efforts to paint her as a spoiled socialite. And admittedly, a small bout of bad behavior on her part. But she’d been in an unhappy place during her divorce. She still found it difficult to scrounge up much regret for the catfight she’d landed in with her ex’s skanky chick on the side.

Of course, she’d regret it even less if it hadn’t been caught on video by someone in the crowd. And if that person hadn’t posted it online. And most especially, if her halter top had remained in place throughout the minibrawl. Her bare boobs had an embarrassingly high hit count.

Yet it seemed like the GQ-worthy stud in front of her had no clue who she was despite her notoriety. Then again, she’d only been famous because of her mega-bucks family prior to her marriage, despite her best attempts to distance herself from being billed as an oil heiress. Who wanted to be known for the environment-destroying wealth buried under your granddaddy’s corn field? It was ludicrous. Her attempts at launching a career as a folk singer often got lost in favor of her family name.

And because of her occasional lapses in good behavior.

Now she’d fallen into a brand-new drama with someone else whose celebrity would drag her into the spotlight for the wrong reasons.

He frowned.

“I went in through the back—the same way we left. I usually try to avoid the morning rush.” He smoothed his tie and adjusted the newspaper under his arm, the same one he’d been reading in the restaurant. The journal had been folded to the sports section, with a photo from a baseball game peeking out from behind his elbow.

“Well, I made a commitment to work at the event today and I can’t back out just because some of the more irritating members of the media hoped I would stir up trouble.” Did they really think she’d get into a knockdown, drag-out fight at a fundraising event?

She retreated a step, ignoring the vibrating cell phone in her back pocket. No doubt someone had ratted her out to her agent who would be ticked off about her hasty exit from the charity gig.

“The media thought you would stir up trouble,” he parroted back at her, his expression morphing to thinly veiled disapproval instead of the normal curiosity or interest that usually came when people found out they were speaking to a celebrity. “Jamie M. That must stand for—”

“McRae.” She thrust out a hand and shook his before he offered it. “Jamie McRae. Nice to meet you, Mr. Enigmatic.”

His expression shifted again, this time moving from the earlier disapproval to something she’d categorize as vague horror.

“You’re that big music producer’s wife. The one who got in the catfight and lost her top.”

“I didn’t lose it. It was forcefully yanked from my body by a woman who hates my guts. And I’m the music producer’s ex-wife, by the way.” She thought the whole world knew about her well-publicized split. But maybe some people had missed the details in favor of the more exciting headline that she’d exposed a nipple in a ritzy Hollywood bar.

Before Lance could explain why he was staring at her as if she was his worst nightmare, she heard the oncoming rush of feet and voices, a sure sign their alone time was over.

Whipping the newspaper out from under his arm, he handed it to her.

“Then we’re screwed.”

The page featured a face shot of the man in front of her along with a picture of him sliding into home plate, his fist raised in the air victoriously. It was no game in a men’s Over-Thirty League. This was big time. The majors. The guy was wearing a New York Scrapers uniform with the trademark Empire State Building silhouette and Manhattan skyline.

She had been caught on film flirting with one of New York’s favorite sons, the legendary playmaker Lance Montero.

A name anyone else in the city would have known immediately, but as a recent L.A. transplant, Jamie had been slow on the uptake. There had been a time when she wouldn’t have minded a little harmless flirtation to encourage her husband to pay attention to her. But that was before she learned he’d lavished all his attention on other women instead of work, as he’d claimed.

He yanked the paper back. “You’re about to have your past splashed all over the headlines and I’m—” He scowled. “I’ll be written off yet again as the playboy ladies’ man who spends more time playing the field than—er—playing the field.”

He didn’t need to explain it. The consequences were crystal clear to her. She was about to have a media nightmare reprised and she had no doubt that he’d be raked over the coals for dating someone like her—someone with a reputation for speaking her mind in the press.

“Take cover,” she warned him, shoving his big, sexy body toward his building. “I’ll deal with the fallout since I’ve got to resurface over there anyhow.”

Tucking the newspaper into her purse, she searched her brain for how to spin the encounter for the media as the first camera appeared around a corner. She’d developed a bit of a knack for this crap over the last six months.

“If you’re sure—” His chocolate-brown eyes shuttered at the arrival of the invading lenses and she knew a moment’s regret that they’d met under such crappy circumstances.

Then she remembered that he was definitely the wrong type of guy for her. Wealthy beyond imagining. A media favorite. And if memory served—a confirmed heartbreaker.

“Positive.” With one last push to his shoulder, she finally succeeded in budging him. Or maybe he simply acquiesced.

Either way, she was alone by the time the press arrived in full force to barrage her with questions. And withdrawing her favorite leopard-print umbrella from her purse, she popped it open and took cover behind the nylon. Then, cruising through the streets like a ship at full sail, she navigated her way through the worst of it the way she’d plowed through so much other garbage ever since she’d become a notorious woman.

Although her methods were slick and savvy, her public veneer as tough as ever, Jamie couldn’t help but mourn the loss of a private life. Especially on a day when she’d crossed paths with the most intriguing man she’d met in a long, long time.

2

WHAT A WOMAN.

Lance couldn’t get Jamie out of his mind that night as he reached for a fresh bat before his turn in the on-deck circle. He hadn’t been able to resist a glance out the tinted windows of his building at her after he’d left her to fend for herself with the media hounds. He’d half regretted leaving her there all alone even though she’d seemed desperate for him to get lost. But any worries he’d had about her had vanished when he’d seen that umbrella snap open, cocooning her in leopard-print privacy.

No doubt about it, she was a pro at dealing with the press.

As the crowd at Scrapers Stadium cheered for a hit by the lead-off batter, Lance grinned all over again at the memory of the way Jamie had run full tilt through the paparazzi before they could pen her in with microphones and questions. Her moves were sweeter than an NFL running back as she’d dodged hits from every side, finding the holes in the defense to make it up field. He’d been cheering her progress all the way back to the coffee shop.

Of course, he’d been less pleased when he returned to his penthouse apartment to already find an e-mail from his publicist with a link to the online video of his morning flirtation with Jamie. He’d watched the video and instead of being embarrassed by the encounter he’d been taken in by her sexy grin all over again. But that link had been accompanied by a slew of other video snippets. Some were amusing enough, like the time the Texas oil heiress hitchhiked across the Lone Star State with a camcorder and a mission to uncover more “green” energy options, much to the irritation of her father.

But the video with the most links and the most hype appeared to be the wrestling match with her ex-husband’s girlfriend—a recording he didn’t watch out of respect for her. Beyond that, there seemed to be a whole list of film bites alluding to impulsive behavior, but he could read between the lines enough to see they were amateur bits probably filmed by people trying to aggravate her into losing her cool. At the bottom of all that, he found a few videos for music she’d written to benefit a variety of environmental causes. He’d had to dig to find those, however, since her personal life seemed to overshadow the rest. She actually had a great voice.

Fingers snapping in front of his nose wrenched his thoughts away from Jamie.

“You got your head in the game, Montero?” a voice from the bench piped up as Lance climbed the steps to leave the dugout. “We need this one.”

They were playing the Boston Aces tonight, a rivalry that stretched back to when the league was in its infancy and tickets to a day game cost pocket change. Boston had beaten them out in the playoffs the previous year, but New York had spent big bucks on some rookie talent to improve their chances this year. One of whom just had a base hit with two outs in the bottom of the seventh. The Scrapers were down by two, so the runner on first could be the tying score.

“Is my head in the game?” Lance turned toward the lineup on the bench, staring down his teammates. He normally minded his own business with the other players, but in a youth-dominated sport, sometimes it paid to defend your territory and put the mouthy ones in their place. Narrowing in on the perpetrator, he leveled his bat in the guy’s direction. “Bobcat, you work on that hole in your glove and let the big guns take care of the hits.”

He grinned as he stalked off to the on-deck circle for a few warm up swings, keeping things on friendly footing. Of course, half the team hooted at the taunt while the other half smothered laughs. The right fielder had bobbled one early in the second inning that cost the Scrapers a run, and no doubt big Bob Cacciatore would be stinging from that error all week. But if he couldn’t handle the ribbing, he damn well shouldn’t dish it out.

In the meantime, the hitter walked, advancing the leadoff runner and bringing Lance up to bat. The crowd reaction was predictable—he’d been sent to the All-Star Game for five years straight. But he had die-hard detractors along with his fans. This was New York, after all. No major league city was more notorious for tough fans.

And tonight they seemed louder than ever. Or maybe that was because Boston’s supporters didn’t mind traveling to cheer on their team. Scrapers Stadium sported plenty of Boston blue and red this evening. And as Lance readjusted the Velcro straps on his batting gloves, he noticed a crowd of Boston fans featured on the overhead screen. That in itself wasn’t unusual.

What was out of the ordinary is that the whole row of guys wearing Aces T-shirts also held up paper copies of Jamie McRae’s gorgeous face in front of their own. The jumbotron broadcast ten identical smiling Jamies for the whole stadium to see.

One of the hecklers waved a sign that read “Boston’s Secret Weapon is the Catfight Queen.” The guy next to him flashed a piece of cardboard that said “Jamie McRae—the Ultimate Distraction” next to a cartoon of Lance with eyes the size of dinner plates and a head that looked like a bobble head doll.

Is your head in the game, Lance?

Bobcat’s question suddenly didn’t seem so off base as the noise in the stadium rose to a fever pitch.

Damn. It.

A hundred-mile-an-hour fastball suddenly seemed like the best place for him to take out his frustration. He’d been trying to polish up his womanizer image and he’d inadvertently flirted with a notorious divorcée in front of the whole world. But that was the nature of the media, wasn’t it? One mistake could alter the course of a career.

And the only defense Lance had against the hooting and hollering crowd was to send that fastball into the East River. A simple matter of physics and iron will.

Too bad the first ball got past him.

And the second.

Down in the count, he half regretted talking smack to Bobcat. How could he brag about getting hits when he watched two fastballs sail past him without getting the bat on a square millimeter of it?

Careers were made or broken at moments like this. And it wouldn’t have jack squat to do with a strikeout and everything to do with a sexy songbird who had taken up residence in his head—and in the public eye—at the worst possible time.

Seeing the potential career-defining moment in front of him, Lance realized Jamie McRae wasn’t going away simply because he ignored her. Like it or not, the two of them were forever linked by an unguarded moment caught on film.

Digging in at home plate, Lance tightened his grip on the bat and stared down the hard-ass pitcher with a left arm like a cannon. Lance kept his eye on the ball as it left the guy’s hand and swung for the fences.

When the splitter hit the bat, it wasn’t a crack that would send it to the East River, but Lance knew beyond a doubt it was a hit that would end up in the stands. The solid connection of his time-tested Louisville Slugger on the ball was the kind of beautiful moment a player never forgot. Even on his home field where he’d hit one out plenty of times.

There was magic playing under the lights for seventy-five thousand fans at one of the biggest baseball stadiums in the world. And something about having all those people there to witness it, driving the ball deep into the opposite field against one of the best pitchers in the majors, tattooed this particular three-run homer forever in his mind.

Jogging the bases, Lance noticed the jumbotron had stopped showing the hecklers with Jamie photos, swapping instead to fireworks and all kinds of home run graphics. But he didn’t need to see Jamie with his eyes to see her in his head because—even with a clutch at bat behind him—Lance knew his head had never been in the game tonight. He wouldn’t rest until he’d tracked down Jamie and explored the connection between them—because it wasn’t going away just by ignoring it.

HER PHONE WOULDN’T STOP ringing just because she ignored it.

Jamie knew this from experience since she’d ignored every call she’d received after the latest media maelstrom had blown through her life, aka Lance Montero. But she definitely couldn’t take any calls right now when the source of her latest problems might put in an appearance any moment.

She’d been waiting for him in the players’ parking lot for the last twenty minutes. It was easy enough to get into the area where the home team parked their cars, although there were loads of security guards around to make sure people passing through didn’t touch the sleek, high-end automobiles the athletes favored. A few members of the media milled around the door where the players would exit into the garage, but Jamie had avoided their notice by wearing a false nose she’d purchased for an old Halloween costume. It wasn’t the first time she’d used the fake schnoz. Between the prosthetic, a hat and some sunglasses, she was fairly safe as long as she didn’t mingle.

“Here he comes,” someone shouted near the doors.

An answering rustle of excitement surged through the throng as floodlights clicked on and last-minute audio feeds were tested. Jamie hung back, sticking close to Lance’s car in the hope she could ride out of here with him. As much as she wanted to put the kibosh on the media interest in their nonrelationship, she knew that couldn’t be done without some help from him. And she had a plan to make it happen that would serve them both well.

Still, an unexpected flutter of excitement went through her at the thought of seeing him again and she marveled at the surprising chemistry they’d experienced. Not that she could listen to her instincts when it came to men. Especially powerful men with a foot in the spotlight. She’d been dragged through that wringer before and didn’t plan to go back for seconds, no matter how enticing the baseball player looked in a suit.

The hubbub around the door increased and then she spotted him. Tall and commanding, he dwarfed most of the media members. He had to be all of six foot three, his shoulders easily wedging their way through pedestrian traffic toward the low-slung Viper that one of the security guards had confided belonged to him. The information hadn’t been difficult to come by as the security officer had been all of twenty years old and easily impressed by a suggestive glimpse of thigh.

Jamie could have upped the size of her nose times three and she’d still bet a tight skirt would have yielded information. It was one of those endearing quirks of the male species that they were hardwired to respond to a woman’s legs.

“I can’t right now,” the shortstop star was saying to one of the reporters, keeping his responses brief and his feet moving.

“Do you have a date with Jamie McRae?” one of the camera wielders shouted over the din of other questions. “Did you know about her infamous past before you met?”

“How long have you known each other?” someone else asked.

“Did you hit that three-run homer for her tonight?” another pressed.

“The hit was for the team,” he replied, calm and charming in the face of ten microphones aimed for his mouth.

His movement toward the car brought the throng with him like a swarm of bees, the noise level rising with their proximity. Jamie hoped she could find a way to slide into the car without much fuss, but the closer he came, the more difficult it seemed. She’d been proud of herself for slipping her own press. She hadn’t fully prepared for confronting his.

And it was formidable.

Panicked, she sidled closer to the passenger-side door as Lance noticed her. She could tell the instant he spotted her since she felt his eyes on her clear down to her toes like a physical caress. A man’s glance should never have that much power over a woman. But the butterflies in Jamie’s stomach picked up their jittery dance at one look from those melted chocolate eyes of his.

And damned if he didn’t see right past the fake nose, the sunglasses and the hat. The shift in his expression from coolly determined to surprised and curious was as plain as the oversize nose on her face.

At least, she hoped she was reading him correctly.

There might be hell to pay if she jumped into his car uninvited. Not that she hadn’t danced with the devil a time or two in her day.

“Get in,” he ordered, pressing a button on his key remote that sounded a click of the doors unlocking. The engine rumbled to life before he reached the vehicle, a trick of a remote starter.

Hurrying to do as he asked while all eyes in the parking garage turned to her, Jamie slid into the passenger seat and locked herself side. Slumping down in the seat to avoid the sea of camera lenses swinging in her direction, she admired Lance’s easy athleticism and economy of movement as he folded himself into the driver seat. He put the car in Reverse before the door was even shut.

“We meet again,” he observed lightly, flipping down her sun visor to help shield her face from the spectators beginning to recognize her.

“I had no idea you’d be so mobbed after a game or I would have found another way to get in touch with you.”

The garage’s security staff was already moving the crowd to one side, clearly accustomed to protecting the players from this kind of thing.

“You failed to notice what an uproar our first meeting created?” He whipped the car around as soon as he had enough room to maneuver.

Wasting no time, he jammed down on the gas pedal and steered them around to the upper levels where an attendant waved them through to an exit that would put them on the West Side Highway. They were as good as home free.

Jamie pulled off her nose and swiped away the thin film of stage makeup that had held it in place. Depositing it into her bag, she hit the ignore button on her cell phone for the umpteenth time that day.

“Actually, I’ve worked hard not to notice since I’ve had all the bad news I can handle this year.” Tipping her head back onto the seat rest, she allowed herself a moment to enjoy the speed of the luxury sports car, the motor humming with the smooth accent of superb foreign engineering. The scent of leather and a subtle bay rum aftershave soothed her.

The thought triggered a frisson of warning down her neck. How could she feel so calm in the presence of a powerful, moneyed man? Would she ever learn her lesson where these kinds of guys were concerned? Straightening, she shook off the sweet languor and resurrected a few protective barriers.

Well, she did place her oversize purse on the console between them.

“So you avoided the news all day, but you didn’t avoid me.” He turned to flash a quick wink before focusing once again on the road. “I like that.”

Her heart skipped a beat at his easy flirtation. He had a charm that drew her in without making her feel pressured or like he was giving her the hard sell. There was something warm and genuine about the man despite his fame and his millions.

“About that—”

“I wanted to see you again, too.”

Now her heart skipped more than a beat. It seemed to miss a whole sequence, freezing her in place for a moment while she tried to absorb what those words meant. How could such a simple statement carry so much impact?

And how could the city’s favorite son want to hang out with the country’s breast-baring scarlet woman?

“You did?” The vital organ that halted a moment ago now beat with renewed flurry, making her all jittery inside.

She shoved all thought of her plan for containing this mess aside to hear him out.

“Definitely.” He sounded resolved, his jaw locked in a determined jut as she stared at his profile. “I’ll admit it probably doesn’t make sense for either of us on paper. And I’m sorry your split from your ex put you through such a public ordeal. But I couldn’t get you out of my head today and I don’t think ignoring what happened between us is going to make it disappear.”

“It was nothing,” she insisted, more to herself than him. She’d replayed the handful of words exchanged in an everyday, ordinary conversation at the coffeehouse many times and couldn’t come up with any quantifiable reason she should be so attracted to Lance. “We didn’t even say anything marginally intelligent to one another. We just stared and ogled like a couple of teenagers, right?”

Although, she had to admit, that had been kind of nice. For months, guys had made lewd comments about the catfight. Even guys she’d known and had thought would be above making inappropriate comments had disappointed her, framing icky remarks in the context of a “joke.” It’d been a long time since a guy made her feel sweetly self-conscious the way Lance had today. For a few moments he’d had her wishing she could spend hours hanging out with him. Getting to know every little thing about him.

“You waited by my car in a fake nose to tell me what happened didn’t mean anything?” He peered into the rearview mirror and then changed lanes quickly, surprising her with a fast exit off the highway.

“I had a good reason for that.” She turned to look behind them and saw a second car swerve onto the exit ramp and nearly hit a city garbage truck. “Has that guy been following us?”

“Ever since the parking garage.” Lance navigated the city streets with the ease of a native, finding his way east toward midtown around buses and pedestrians. “I’m taking you to my place so we can talk in private.”

The words hung in the air between them like a dare, challenging her to contradict him. How could she get involved with another powerful man whose career would overshadow the fledgling singing venture she’d sidelined for too long even before her divorce?

Worse, how could she allow her crappy claim to fame taint his image and draw all kinds of negative press his way?

“Maybe we should use a run-in with the media to our advantage,” she suggested, knowing she’d never be able to articulate her plan once she was alone with him in his apartment. She’d already been dazzled speechless by him once today.

“How so?” He took a sharp left into the tunnel for an underground parking garage, casting them in darkness even though it wasn’t quite time for the sun to set yet.

Casting a spell of intimacy in the car that she wasn’t ready to feel.

Taking a deep breath, she blurted her idea before she fell captive to the potent attraction between them all over again.

“We need to stage a public breakup.”

3

“ISN’T IT A LITTLE PREMATURE for a breakup?” Lance steered the car into his parking spot in the subterranean garage and shut off the engine. “We haven’t even been to first base yet.”

Pocketing the keys, he turned to face her across the shadowy interior. She was incredibly sexy in a short cotton tank dress with a jean jacket thrown over her shoulders. A series of silver pins around the collar glittered even in the darkness, the metal reflecting a light from nearby. She twisted the handle of her leather purse strap between her fingers, her edgy nervousness surprising him. Her reputation painted her as a mouthy rebel. But right now, he never would have guessed she was the same woman who had plowed through the press with an umbrella earlier today.

“And I think it would be better for us if we forgot about first base and um—struck out instead.”

“If you had any idea what my on-base percentage is this season, you’d see how unlikely that is.” He’d had an epiphany tonight while he was launching that ball into the upper deck. He’d been in the game too long to play it safe. He was at a stage of his career—and his life—where he needed to swing for the fences.

Trying to run his life according to what the fans wanted wasn’t going to fly. With his kind of fame, the media could always find something to make him look like the bad guy. He might as well live life to the fullest and hope his good deeds would help show the world he wasn’t some shallow playboy racking up the millions for his own gratification.

Now he just hoped he could make Jamie see why that was a better plan. Sure he cared about his career—recognition like going to the All-Star Game and winning a Gold Glove was important. But he’d been playing long enough to know you couldn’t live your personal life according to popular opinion. If his fans didn’t approve of him dating a controversial socialite, he’d just hope he could provide them with game stats too valuable for the Scrapers to trade him away.

“I’m serious.” Her voice turned husky as she pressed the point and something about the smoky quality of it tripped down his spine like a lover’s caress. “If we have some kind of public tiff where the media can catch it on film, we can do fast damage control. By the end of the week, we’ll be a nonitem as far as the press is concerned.”

“Why should we turn our backs on something that might be really special just because it’s convenient for my publicist or yours?”

She had no answer for a long moment and he took the opportunity to still her fingers where she wrung the living daylights out of that purse strap. Her short nails had been painted pearly white, the pale glitter standing out against her tanned skin.

He captured one of her hands between both of his, pressing their palms together until he could feel the rapid-fire beat of her heart in the soft pad below her thumb.

“How do you know it could be special when we hardly know each other?” The naked worry in her tone reminded him not to push for too much too fast.

It also hinted at a vulnerability at odds with her brazen public persona.

“I’ll tell you exactly how I know, but will you come upstairs with me first?” He gestured to the dark parking garage. “It’s quiet in here now, but all it takes is one hungry journalist with a good cover story to get past the gate.”

Nodding, she reached for the passenger door handle before he could open it for her. He felt more than a little off his game with her, and he wasn’t quite sure why. Could it be because she was the first woman in a long time to interest him on more than just a physical level?

Locking the car, he escorted her to the elevator bay and up to the penthouse level where key access was required. The modest-size high rise overlooked Central Park, an older property he’d been lucky to snap up soon after he moved to the city.

“Wow.” Jamie breathed an appreciative sigh as he opened the door to his place, mirroring his own first reaction when he’d seen the view.

The Plaza Hotel capped off the dark expanse of park greenery in the twilight, the brightly lit landmark centered in his glimpse of the midtown skyline. A few hansom cabs worked the perimeter of the park, the colorful carriages a taste of old New York on one of the city’s historic thoroughfares.

“Make yourself comfortable.” He gestured toward the couch, but she ignored it in favor of a spot at the floor-to-ceiling bay window. “Can I get you a drink?”

“No, thanks.” She shook her head, her dark hair spilling over her shoulders to blanket the jean jacket. “But I’m anxious to hear why you think we have any business together when we hardly know each other.”

She shot him a rueful grin over one shoulder, her arms crossed in a defensive posture.

Setting his keys on a glass-topped table near the sofa, he joined her at the window overlooking the city. He guessed he didn’t have a lot of time to make his case with her. He’d read all about her messy divorce from the media mogul who’d pinned the fault on her in the press. The guy had blamed her partying lifestyle and implied she ran with a “fast” crowd. He’d stopped short of accusing her of cheating on him, but blogs devoted to celebrity-watching had a field day speculating if she’d been as unfaithful to him as he’d been to her.

“I don’t blame you for being careful.” He respected it, in fact. “From what I read, your ex sounds like he went out of his way to make your life hell.”

Though Lance hadn’t recognized her at first, he recalled seeing the video of her fight sometime in the past year. It had been in an e-mail a friend sent him, and he’d watched it, the way most of the rest of the country had.

He felt bad about that now, blindly adding to the popularity of a video she surely wished would die.

She gave a tight nod. He was curious why things had turned so bitter in her marriage, but he wasn’t about to push her for inside details, the real scoop behind the tabloid scandals. Not when he needed to make her see the past had no business in this discussion.

“And while you might not have any reason to trust that I’m not like that,” he forged ahead, “I’ll tell you why I trust that we could have something really special together.”

She eyed him with wary interest from her position in front of the window. With the skyline spread out behind her, the lights of the city glowing brighter as the sky faded from purple twilight to full darkness, she made for the best view he’d ever had from that balcony.

“Why?” Her crossed arms fell, her body language opening to him for the first time since their exchange in the coffeehouse.

“I make my living on snap judgments, Jamie.” With tentative fingers, he brushed a lock of hair from the shoulder of her denim jacket, smoothing it down her back and stirring the clean, floral scent of her shampoo. “I’ve got fractions of a second to stare down a baseball when it leaves the pitcher’s hand to decide if it’s a fastball or a changeup or any of the other junk in a pitcher’s arsenal. Fractions of a second to apply everything I know about hitting a baseball to determine whether or not I’ll swing and where I’m going to try and connect with the ball.”

She frowned. “You’ve made a career out of reading pitches. I don’t think you can say the same about women.”

His hand lingered on her back, his fingers unwilling to part with the feel of her through the jacket.

She wasn’t just beautiful. She was gutsy. Mouthy. Clever. And he wanted her with a keenness he would have never anticipated.

“When I’ve got a good feeling about something, I trust my gut all the way.” He wasn’t backing down. “I made up my mind about you.”

She shook her head, bemused. “That’s how people get hurt. They trust too much, too fast.”

He regretted the dark shadow that crossed her expression, the hurt she’d experienced firsthand.

“So don’t make a commitment. All I’m asking is for is a night. Just one night together to give it a try.” He molded her shoulders in his hands, wanting to haul her close, but wanting even more for her to come willingly. Eagerly. “What have you got to lose?”

A DAMN GOOD QUESTION.

Jamie’s knees grew weaker with each passing moment. Lance’s touch worked a keen magic on her senses while his crazy approach to having an affair sounded better and better. No doubt it was just because she’d fallen under his spell.

But like he said, what did she have to lose? She was the media’s Bad Girl of the moment, the woman most likely to cause a commotion whether she was brawling half-naked or buying her groceries. The media dogged her in the hope of another juicy tidbit. How could it possibly hurt her any more to be with Lance Montero when she was already inextricably linked to him since the video of their meet was posted online?

“I don’t have anything to lose,” she acknowledged, her eyelids falling half-shut under the weight of long-ignored desire. “Not one flipping thing.”

And with that realization, a million inhibitions fell away, discarded like yesterday’s news. She couldn’t come up with any reason why she shouldn’t throw herself at the most gorgeous, sexy, sweetly compelling zillionaire she’d ever met.

“One night,” she agreed, feeling like the bargain gave her permission to be uninhibited without worrying what tomorrow held. “An outrageous girl like me will try anything once.”

Arching up on her toes, she wrapped her arms around his neck and plastered herself—hip to breast—against Lance. It was a bold contact to initiate without so much as a kiss for a prelude and oh, my. Was it ever a brilliant idea. Her body sang with sweet awareness at the feel of all that broad, masculine muscle. From the rugged plane of his taut abs to the sinewy strength of the arms banded around her, he was all about coiled power.

“You’re not as outrageous as you pretend.” He whispered the words against her ear right before he kissed her just below there.

Delicious chills ran up her spine and she tipped her head back to better enjoy them. Him. This.

“No?” She would go along with anything he said at this point. She just wanted to remain exactly where she was—pressed up against him and on the receiving end of his lips beneath her ear.

“I have a theory that you’ve got a sweet spot.” He cupped her hips and held them to his own, giving her the full, unadulterated preview of what being with him was going to be like.

The hard length of him touched off a fire inside her and she couldn’t hold back a gasp.

“See?” He levered back from her to look her into her eyes. “I might have found it already.”

Her heart ratcheted up the pace, thundering in her chest with the need for more. She couldn’t begin to articulate what she wanted from him. She simply wanted.

With frantic fingers, she set to work on the buttons down his shirt. He hadn’t worn a tie, but he’d thrown on a jacket with his jeans and dress shirt after the game. She needed them off now.

In her head, she thought about explaining that it had been a long time for her. That her ex had quit caring about sex even before the marriage was over, choosing instead to cheat on her. But her brain couldn’t spare enough power to fuel the words past her lips. She was too overwhelmed by the sudden realization that she could have this one night—this one amazing man—for herself. He didn’t care about the bad press her behavior had stirred.

That alone made her heart melt.

But the sizzling way he seemed to really, really want her…Well, that had unleashed something primitive inside her that demanded an answer.

“Let me,” he told her, stilling her awkward fingers as she battled the last shirt button.

Even her hands hummed with the same fiery anticipation that flickered over her breasts and thighs and everything in between. She felt like an electric current had been turned on, and the effect was both exciting and numbing.

He’d pinned her against the glass window at some point, her back to the view of Central Park and the city so that she could only see the lights reflected in his eyes. She liked her view better.

She watched avidly as he shrugged out of his shirt, revealing a white tank top underneath. She only glimpsed the undershirt for a moment since he gripped the hem and yanked it up and off. Leaving her mouth dry at the sight of his well-honed arms and chiseled chest. A tattoo with his jersey number had been etched on his shoulder. Her gaze sank down the line bisecting his pecs and his abs to end at his belt. She reached for the leather, wanting to see more.

“I can’t let you get that far ahead of me.” He manacled her wrists with a gentle touch and steered her away from his belt. “First I want to see more of you.”

Her inclination was to shimmy out of her jacket and dress in two seconds flat, but he tipped her jaw up to look into her eyes and kissed her.

The warm, silken glide of his tongue over hers undid her. She relinquished control, giving more of her weight to the glass behind her so he could do whatever he wished. Clearly, his ideas for how to proceed were just…better.

The scent of his aftershave called to all her pheromones, the bay rum seducing her as much as the faint bristle of his freshly shaved jaw. Vaguely, she noticed when he peeled away her denim jacket and smoothed down the straps of her sundress. But mostly, she felt his kiss. He still cradled her jaw like a precious artifact, positioning her where he wanted her for maximum benefit. She’d never felt so treasured, not even by the man whose name she had once shared.

“Lance.” She breathed his name like a wish come true, breaking the kiss long enough to revel in the rightness of the moment.

“Come to my bed.” He held her dress around her, keeping her covered. “I don’t want anyone but me to see what I uncover next.”

The tenderness of that thought undid her. Half the world had seen her breasts, but he wanted to make them for his eyes only, here…Now.

Nodding, she took the fallen straps in her hands and held the dress in place while he led her through a high-tech kitchen into a small study and, finally, a palatial bedroom. A light flickered on at their arrival, treating her to a quick view of a crisp black-and-white domain dominated by an immense mahogany bed.

He dimmed the light with a switch on the wall, narrowing the world to the two of them again. Her feet sank into lush carpet as he tugged off her dress to pool at her feet.

She knew a moment’s hesitation since her body—her nakedness—had caused so much grief. Would Lance look at her now and think of her past mistakes? But like a balm to her soul, the sight of her in her sheer lace underthings only seemed to inflame Lance. He lifted her up off her feet and hauled her to the bed, depositing her into the thick feather ticking while he shucked his pants.

Excitement coursed through her to be splayed out in front of him in no more than a skimpy strapless bra and matching mauve lace panties, her pulse quickening along with her shallow breath. When he paused to reach into a nightstand—presumably for protection—she couldn’t resist touching the formidable bulge in his boxers. Tracing the heavy length of him with her fingertip, she paused at the head of his shaft and encircled it. The shudder that moved through him was visible even in the dim light and she smiled to think she possessed that kind of power over him. Heaven knew he had it over her in spades.

He pressed a condom into her hand, entrusting her to open it as he peeled down her panties. She hadn’t even broken the foil when he nipped her breast through the sheer lace of her bra.

“You’re beautiful.” He tugged the lace down with his teeth, exposing first one nipple and then the other.

She arched up, wanting more of his touch, needing his mouth and his hands everywhere at once. The condom lay forgotten in her fingers until he took it back from her, finishing the job she’d been too distracted to start.

At least, that’s what she assumed he did with it. She was too focused on the luscious spasms that seized her when he drew on the taut peak of her breast. The sensation bolted from her chest to circle her womb and clench it hard. Her skin trembled with longing.

He parted her thighs and stepped between them, his expression intense as he watched her with hooded eyes. With restless fingers, she reached up for him, needing to connect with him in some way until the deeper union that awaited them.

He gripped her wrist tight in one hand and guided her palm to his lips where he kissed it with a fervency that made her quiver. Then, as he kissed her, he aligned himself between her legs and pressed against the slick entrance.

A soft cry escaped her, the pleasure too sharp to contain. Her hips bucked and thrust beneath him, ready for more. Still, he kissed her palm, his tongue stroking an erotic circle along the sensitive center of her hand. The knowing caress could not have been any more effective if he had bestowed the same kiss between her thighs. Tension coiled tight inside, raising gooseflesh all over until she thought she would squeeze right out of her skin.

He never took his eyes off hers as he edged his way deeper inside her, stretching her impossibly while his tongue never ceased the maddening rhythm along her palm.

He seemed to know exactly what that ticklish caress did to her as he increased the speed of it. The touch was so unexpectedly wicked, so sweetly decadent, she had no defense against it.

She flew apart before he even entered her all the way. Her body convulsed around him, and she arched up off the bed in his arms, forcing him closer against her while she came. Release shuddered through her as he pushed his way deep inside her and she’d never felt anything so unbelievably good.

Pulling him down to the bed, she rolled on top of him, needing to have her way with him as she rode the climax through every last lush spasm. Pinning his hands over his head on the bed, she seated herself deep on his shaft. His breath rasped harshly in the soft quiet of the room and she seized on that sound to find the motion that pleased him most. More than anything, she wanted to repay him with the same toe-curling completion he’d given her.

Unhooking her bra with one hand, she tossed it aside and stretched out over him, brushing her breast against his cheek until he nipped her gently with his teeth. Her hair fell on either side of her, draping them in a silken cocoon as she met his every thrust.

She delighted in her power over him as his hips rose off the bed to meet hers. The sleek athleticism of his body gave her the impression that he could give this to her all night, an idea that sent shivers down her spine. Needing to ensure he reached the peak of pleasure at least a few times, she took up his hand and repaid the torment he’d given her in kind. Tugging one of his fingers into her mouth, she drew on the digit hard. His whole body stilled, and she could feel his pulse pounding between his legs, his shaft rock solid within her.

With light, teasing strokes, she licked along the inside of his finger, and as if she’d flipped a switch, his release roared through him. She sealed his hips to hers, absorbing every thrust.

Afterward, his chest rose and fell with the same panting effort she’d experienced. She lay beside him in the dim light, stroking a lazy finger along his shoulder and up his neck to cradle his cheek.

At first, his eyes remained closed, his expression neutral as he recovered from what they’d shared. But then he turned toward his, eyes opening to watch her. Only then did she understand how completely she’d opened herself to him.

One night?

She had damn well shared more than that with him. She’d might as well have handed him a piece of her heart and soul.

Still, it took several hours and several orgasms more for that reality to sink in. And then, in the quietest hour of the night, she started having a bonafide panic attack at the idea of dragging someone she cared about into her world full of tabloid guerilla warfare and cameras around every corner.

“Lance.”

When he didn’t answer right away, she shook his shoulder, hating to bother him, but unable to let the knowledge that she’d ruin his career fester longer than necessary.

“Again?” His hand moved on her hip, automatically reaching for her even when he was only half-awake.

Her body responded instantly, and for a fraction of a second, she actually considered the possibility.

“No.” Coming to her senses, she edged away from him, dragging a sheet with her as she sat up in his bed.

“What is it?”

“I have to go.” She started rooting around the bed for her underwear, thinking maybe she deserved her bad reputation if she would run out on a guy without even kissing him good morning when the sun rose, but damn it, this was for his own good.

“You can’t be serious.” He sat up, but didn’t move to help her find the underwear. Instead, he caught her in midsweep of the bed, pinning her arm to one of the pillows. “It’s the middle of the night.”

“It’s almost dawn,” she argued, certain she could see hints of the sunrise through his blinds. “And if I don’t get out of here before the sun comes up, the pictures of me doing the Walk of Shame back to my place are going to be all the more disastrous for you.”

“Why would I let you walk home?” He looked so appealing with his hair tousled from her fingers and his dark eyebrows pulled in genuine confusion.

Any other man would have seen in a heartbeat that dating her meant trouble.

“Lance, tonight was—” the most memorable night of her life “—a mistake.”

“Stop—”

“I mean it. Through no fault of your own, you’ve got a big, fat target on your chest as far as the press is concerned now that you and I have been seen together multiple times. They will make your life hell even now, but it will be even worse if we continue seeing each other.”

Freeing herself, she found her underwear and slid it on. She’d barely gotten into her bra when Lance lifted her off her feet and sat her on the bed again.

“You can’t live according to what people expect of you.”

“No. But I can make sure I don’t detract from what people expect of you.”

When he didn’t argue right away, she guessed he understood her point. She used the moment of silence to find her dress and slip it over her head.

“Jamie.”

“Don’t.” She laid a finger over his lips, quieting whatever he’d been about to say. “I messed up my life with an impulsive mistake. I won’t mess up yours with another.”

Picking up her jacket, she headed for the door before he could stop her.

“And don’t worry,” she assured him, trying hard to mold her mouth into an easy grin that didn’t feel quite right. “I’ll have the doorman call me a cab.”

With that, she stepped into the hallway and out of his life, telling herself she’d done the right thing. The best thing for Lance.

She just wished she could have found the courage to walk away from him before she’d fallen headfirst for the guy.

4

LANCE SHOULDN’T HAVE BEEN surprised to wake up alone that morning. But he’d gone to sleep with Jamie’s scent on his pillow and the memory of her body imprinted on his, so that when his alarm went off, he’d still been disoriented by the empty echo of his bedroom.

As he dressed for batting practice that afternoon, he reminded himself he’d known up front that winning over Jamie would be a long shot after what she’d been through with her ex. When a woman wanted to avoid headlines, the last thing she should do was hook up with a ballplayer. Especially in New York where baseball was more than a hallowed tradition—it was a city obsession when the Scrapers were in the running to make it to the playoffs.

Still, ten hours after waking up solo, Lance didn’t want to believe she could turn her back on what they’d shared so easily. The sex hadn’t just been recreational. It had been emotional.

Transcendent.

“You look a little misty-eyed, Montero,” the first baseman shouted as he tightened the laces on his cleats a few benches away in the locker room. “You’re not still reminiscing about that little hopper you hit over the right fielder’s head last night, are you? Because if that was as much power as you’ve got in that bat this season, you’ll never beat out a good fielder. Everybody knows Jason Morenz is a game away from going back down to the minors.”

The razzing came in fast and furious then. The second basemen took up the cause by reminding Lance he was probably only a year or two away from retirement with such a weak swing and the third basemen contributed run-of-the-mill smears on Lance’s all-around shortcomings that would probably knock him out of the running for the Gold Glove this year.

Basically, it was the kind of roast that normally got him going on a slow day, the solid camaraderie that could take a locker room from a bunch of random guys to a committed group that played like a team. Too bad Lance’s focus was still on his personal life and the way Jamie had shut down their future together without even giving them a real chance. No option for a dinner date or a movie. Geez, he didn’t even have her flipping phone number. Of course, he could find that out no problem—or people he knew could. But would she have a wall of bodyguards around her to keep him away? If so, they’d done a piss-poor job of protecting her from other people out to make trouble for her.

“Maybe Montero didn’t see this,” called another teammate—a relief pitcher that normally never joined in when the guys got wound up.

Pitchers in general lived on their own planet, coached by a different staff and contributing something totally different than the rest of the players. But when a team had pitchers who would hang with the rest of the guys—that was damn cool and another sign of an organization that could do special things.

“What’s that?” Lance hollered back, recognizing the importance of making the pitcher feel like one of them. The kid was all of twenty-two, weathering a rocky rookie year.

Lance peered through his teammates’ shoulders to where DeShea Bronson sat with a Blackberry in hand, his thumbs twitching over the keypad.

“It’s the new video your girlfriend posted on YouTube. She’s, like, really hot.”

Catching the dreamy stare on the kid’s face, Lance figured he would overlook the need for team-building if junior got out of line. His jaw flexed as he snagged the handheld device.

“If anyone posted questionable footage of her, I swear I’ll find a better use for my bat than—”

The words died on his lips as he pressed the play button.

With ten other guys pushing to get a view of the screen over his shoulder, Lance watched as Jamie lit up the frame with the confident grin he knew hid a more vulnerable woman inside. A woman who had subverted her talents for too long while she weathered one media storm after another.

But she wasn’t half-dressed in some grainy video obtained by subterfuge. Thank You, God. Instead, she sat in a seat at a half-empty baseball stadium, the sun streaming down all around her as she adjusted a ridiculous pair of oversize fan sunglasses with the Scrapers logo brightly painted on every conceivable square inch.

She also wore a Scrapers baseball jacket and a team T-shirt tied in a knot just beneath her breasts. Her denim miniskirt looked to have been stuck with team pins up the side seams.

“Greetings, New York!” she trilled out between the snapping of a piece of pink bubble gum. “This is a message to all of you who were kind enough to make my presence felt at Scrapers Stadium last night.” She lifted a beer in one hand. “Thank you for cheering Lance on to a three-run homer!”

Lance frowned, confused at what the heck she was doing. She’d made her own video and posted it to support him? How did she think this would throw the media off their scent? Yesterday they’d run from the press. Why would she engage them today unless—

His gut clenched with a new fear.

What if she was going through with her idea of a pubic breakup? She wouldn’t really dump him on YouTube. Holy crap, she’d picked a hell of a time to get her confidence back about appearing in public. Apparently just in time to give him the heave-ho like she’d threatened yesterday.

In the video, a small throng of baseball fans clapped in the background, and he could see there were a handful of people seated in the stadium around her only too glad to be a part of a celebrity entourage if just for the afternoon.

“But I want all his fans to know that further imitations of me will not be necessary as I am now a season ticket holder and can be here to support Lance in person.” Whoever was working the camera zoomed in on the number of the seat where Jamie was holding court. The camera panned back again, showing the seat’s position just above the first-base line.

What was she doing? She’d be mobbed every time she attended a game now that all of America knew where to look for her. Her tactics were a long way from the public breakup he’d been expecting.

“I’ve got to get out there.” He handed the Blackberry back to the pitcher, realizing that Jamie was no doubt sitting in her assigned seat right this very minute. With the Scrapers game not scheduled for another hour and a half, she must have come early for batting practice.

“There’s more,” the rookie called to him as he headed for the tunnel. “The video still has two minutes to go.”

Lance quickened his pace as he reached the passage from the players’ locker room to the field.

“That’s the problem with you kids today,” he shouted over his shoulder. “Too tied to your technology when you could be experiencing real life.”

He didn’t mind taking time to razz the new guy since his mood had improved ten-fold the moment Jamie said she was there to support him. Hell, she’d essentially announced to the whole world she wanted to be a part of his life. That had to count for something.

Knowing that she wanted to be there for him made his whole season in a way no three-run homer or Gold Glove nod ever could.

Levering open the door into the home team dugout, he stepped out in the sunshine to join the ground crew on the field. Fueled by eagerness to see Jamie, he climbed the rail where the players stood to watch the game and hauled himself up to the roof of the dugout. A small cry went up from a few early-bird fans scattered around the seats.

But his eye went straight to seat 65K, section 22.

Adrenaline pumped through him as his gaze scanned the stadium since he still half-expected her to have meant the video as a stepping stone to the big breakup. But any doubts he harbored fell away as he spotted the big, foam finger she waved that declared the Scrapers were number one.

Grinning ear to ear, he leapt a low concrete wall and sprinted to section 22 faster than he’d ever rounded the bases.

JAMIE HAD PLANNED A SPEECH.

She’d semirehearsed it as a follow-up to her YouTube video in case Lance was nice enough to forgive her for slinking away before dawn after they’d shared the most magical night of her life. That had been a mistake, a knee-jerk reaction to old fears of losing herself in a relationship and not being able to follow her own dreams. But when had Lance ever suggested she be anything but herself? He hadn’t seemed frustrated by her outrageousness. The fake nose hadn’t rattled him. Neither had her leopard-print umbrella.

In fact, he’d seemed fairly amused at her tactics. All of which helped her to realize she’d been a fool to run away from someone who knew all about her and liked her anyway.

But when she got an eyeful of him in his batting jersey, his number embroidered on the sleeve and the team name stitched across the shirt, all her planned words fell out of her head. The man wasn’t just a hot guy. He was a New York icon. And in the hour she’d been in the stadium, she’d been read the riot act four times by different fans who all warned her she’d better not distract “their” shortstop from his phenomenal hitting streak.

She rose from her seat, realizing they had an audience of early fans, but they seemed content to give them a little space. A few sections away, she saw some kids running toward them and guessed that wouldn’t last for long.

“So,” Lance began, apparently wise to her tongue-tied condition. “I hear you’ve become a fan of the team.”

He eyed her foam finger and she tucked it behind her.

“You saw the video?” She removed her sunglasses and drank in the sight of him without the barrier of lenses covered in trademarks.

“It’s been up for twenty minutes and my whole team has seen it. The hit count is already over one million.”

She couldn’t tell by that answer if he was charmed by her innovation or skeptical of a romantic declaration some might call tacky.

“I thought it was important to show you that I can deal with a high profile relationship.” She was grateful to see Lance’s teammates take the field for batting practice since their arrival re-routed the swarm of kids carrying balls to be autographed. “After the way I left this morning, I thought you deserved an apology that wasn’t just me spouting words—”

“What apology?” He frowned.

Fear tightened inside her. “I thought you said you saw the video?”

She’d worded it all just right in there.

“I left after the first minute or so because I wanted to see you.” He reached for her, his expression intent and somehow tender at the same time.

“You missed the apology and you still want to talk to me?” She couldn’t believe she would be so lucky to find a man who would let her make such a colossal mistake and not hold it against her.

Hope for a future together unfurled inside her.

“You apologized to me on YouTube.” He seemed to weigh the implications of that. “Were you, ah—specific about what you were sorry for?”

“That I snuck out before dawn after you were unselfish enough to give me my first multiple orgasm night?” She shook her head. “I wasn’t that explicit, but yes.”

At the chorus of gasps nearby, Jamie knew their conversation could be overheard by a smattering of folks in section 22 who possessed sharp ears. But she was past the point of worrying about a public image that had never been stellar anyhow. What mattered to her most was standing right here in front of her and she couldn’t risk losing him.

Lance shook his head while one of his teammates teed off on a practice pitch.

“Well, I missed that, but you don’t need to apologize for running out.” He looped his arm around her shoulders and drew her close. “You’d make me happiest if I could see you in private again, after the game.”

Her heart sped up and she felt like she’d just stepped into the sun after too many months of carrying the clouds around with her. Too many months of trying to please mysterious entertainment polls and a fickle public to get a respect that might never come. Being with Lance had helped her see she might as well simply be herself. She had more fun making her video today than she’d had—professionally speaking—in a long time. Being with Lance had opened up a creative door that had been blocked for a while.

“Um—actually, you missed more than just an apology.” She hoped he wouldn’t mind what she’d posted online. But she’d been following her heart and trying to show him she cared. “I did it out of affection for you.”

Possibly the beginnings of love. She could feel the sparkly joy of that emotion underneath all the other happiness, but she wouldn’t mind letting that grow as she got to know him. She planned to spend a lot of time in Scrapers Stadium this summer.

“You did what, precisely?” His eyes narrowed, but he still didn’t betray any hint of frustration at her quirky ways. Lance appeared curious more than anything. Amused.

“I created a montage of Lance Montero’s baseball highlights as a tribute to you, and to prove I’m serious about being a fan.” She thought it would entertain his public and show them that she had no intention of distracting their star from his game.

Besides, she was a lyricist. And the funky song had swelled up out of her with practically no effort, as though her music had been just waiting for the right moment to make a comeback.

From down on the field, a familiar tune drifted up to the seats. The voices of at least fifteen guys roused a few of the fans to join in.

“What are they singing?” Lance released her long enough to watch a woman a few seats away as she did a little spin move and hummed.

“I set the tribute to music,” she explained. “And actually, I created a dance, too. You know, lots of Super Bowl teams have had their own dances over the years.”

Lance clapped a hand over his eyes and groaned, although the sound wasn’t completely despairing.

“You know I’m not a contender for the Super Bowl as a baseball player, right?”

“Of course.” She’d been really proud of the song, her first stab at being entertaining in too many months. “But you can take a little of the magic that makes football fun to sort of liven up your sport, can’t you?”

Down on the field, Jamie noticed two of Lance’s teammates yukking it up and slapping their thighs over a shared joke.

“You realize I’m going to get harassed all season for this?”

“I figure you’re a big boy, you can handle it.” She winked at him and then her smile faded. “But I would feel worse if you didn’t accept my apology.” She twisted one of the pewter pins bearing the Scrapers logo that she’d used to outline her skirt pocket. “I understand if you can’t forgive me, but I did work hard on the montage.”

He wrapped her in a bear hug before she finished the sentence, her final word muffled in his shirt.

“Jamie, I want you to ride home with me and never leave.” He kissed the top of her head. “Remember? I knew yesterday I was crazy about you. I was just waiting for you to realize we should be together. If your apology means you’re going to try to be with me, that makes me the happiest man you can imagine.”

She felt the smile in her heart before it reached her lips. Her whole soul seemed to smile.

“Even if your fans think my song is silly?” She hadn’t fully thought through that part. She’d just wanted to show him she could handle the public scrutiny, but maybe she’d ended up bringing unwanted attention his way.

“They can sing it all the way to the World Series, sweetheart.” He pulled away from her and withdrew her sunglasses from her shirt pocket. “Just root for the home team, and we’ll finish this discussion after the game, okay?”

His fans were starting to swarm. The kids carrying clean white baseballs for autographs had returned, and more of the seats nearby were filling up. The ushers in charge of section 22 were starting to have their hands full keeping other ticket holders out of the area.

“Will I get another chance to go back to your place?” She wanted to rewrite the night before. To show him how much a second chance meant.

“Depends.” He tugged her down a few rows toward the rail he would have to hop to get back on the field. “You might have to do the umbrella trick to get past the media after the big splash your video made.”

She fished in her handbag and pulled out her brand-new Scrapers purse-size model still in the shrink-wrap. “I’ve got just the thing.”

“Then it’s a date.” He kissed her then, his mouth settling over hers with warm possession, a kiss that brought out every camera phone in the area and made Jamie’s thoughts scramble.

“I’m crazy about you, too,” she whispered, keeping the embrace PG out of respect for all the children’s charities his foundation helped. She’d studied up on him online and she’d been more than a little impressed. “Swing for the fences, big guy.”

His grin wrinkled the corners of his eyes and he backed away to take his place on the field.

“Always.”