flustered. “That’s bad karma, you know, not holding the elevator.”
“Thanks for not talking.”
“And trust me, bad karma comes back around like a boomerang. That one’s going to bite you right on your very nice ass, Sam.”
“He’ll get another elevator!” she exclaimed, tossing up her hands. “We needed privacy.”
God, he loved it when she lost her cool and revealed the real Sam lurking beneath that princess exterior. “You’re right. We need privacy. In fact, I should have done this in the limo and gotten it out of the way.” He reached for the top button on his Levi’s.
Her eyes nearly bugged right out of her head. “What are you doing?”
“Getting naked, which is how you wanted me the last time we were alone in an elevator.”
“Oh my God.” She pressed her hands to her head as if she couldn’t quite believe it, then slapped one of those hands to his chest and shoved him back another step.
That, too. He loved that, too, when she got physical. He’d never told her, but when she was in the stands during a game screaming for him, he loved it.
“For the last time,” she said urgently, almost desperately, as if trying to talk herself into believing it. “It’s never going to happen again. Never, Wade.”
“Never is a long time.”
“Never. Ever. Ever. Which is even longer than never!”
Her eyes were dilated, which was fascinating. And he’d swear that the pulse at the base of her neck was fluttering faster than a hummingbird’s wings, which was even more fascinating.
Yeah. This really was going to be fun.
Chapter 4
To have some idea what it’s like [to be a MLB catcher], stand in the outside lane of a motorway, get your mate to drive his car at you at ninety-five mph and wait until he’s twelve yards away before you decide which way to jump.
—Geoffrey Boycott
Samantha walked through the suite. It was beautiful and quiet, with a gorgeous view of the ocean.
It had only one bedroom.
And one bed.
Sure, it was a king and piled thick with luxurious bedding, and looked so comfortable that she could have lain on it forever, but the knowledge that when it came time to hit the sack later, she’d be hitting it with Wade sent butterflies straight to her stomach.
And other parts . . .
Her cell phone rang. It was Holly, Pace’s fiancée. “Pace is working out, so I had a few minutes.”
Holly and Sam had become good friends this past year, even more so now that Pace and Wade had become business partners as well as best friends, purchasing and renovating random parcels of land into parks for kids and creating sports clubs in those parks with coaching and organized league games.
Well, Pace had anyway.
Mostly Wade just wrote checks.
He was good at that, writing checks, Sam had noticed. He often solved problems by throwing money at them. She only wished this problem could be solved so easily.
“I’m eating popcorn and watching a Friends marathon,” Holly said in her ear. “I thought I’d call and see how it’s going.”
Well aware of Wade checking out the suite behind her, Sam kept her voice down. “I’d rather be eating popcorn and watching a Friends marathon.”
“Sam,” Holly said very gently. “You need professional help.”
“Why?”
“You’d actually pick Friends over one of the yummiest guys I’ve ever seen?”
“I’m going to tell Pace you said that.”
“Just think about how long it’s been since you’ve gotten laid,” Holly said. “And then do yourself a favor and turn off your phone and look at Wade. Just look at all his yumminess and do what comes naturally.”
“What comes naturally will get me twenty-five years to life.”
“Don’t kill him, honey. Do him.”
Sam rolled her eyes and hung up on Holly’s laugh, then turned and came face-to-face with the six-foot-tall, heart-stopping, annoying-as-hell catcher she’d arranged to “sleep” with.
Thanks to her job, the first thing that usually came to mind when she thought about any of the Heat players was their stats. And Wade had stats in spades. At the moment, he was the most celebrated catcher in the National League. His defensive prowess was more anecdotal than measured but his numbers were telling. Last year he’d picked twenty-eight runners off the bases, an astonishing fifty percent of the runners attempting to steal. He also had 32 HRs, a 120 RBI, a .355 BA, and had placed second in the MVP voting.
But that’s not what she thought of when she looked at him. Nope, she was thinking Holly was right about one thing, he was pretty damn yum.
He began unbuttoning his shirt and tossed his bag to the bed to rifle through it. He shrugged out of the shirt—holy cow—and while she concentrated on not dragging her tongue down his chest clear to his low-slung Levi’s, he replaced it with a light blue T-shirt advertising some surf shop in Mexico. He kicked off the clean running shoes he’d been wearing and pulled on a pair of battered Nikes instead.
“Casual wear for this kind of place,” she noted, voice shockingly even, given that she watched as he bent to tie the Nikes, his jeans stretched tight across his perfect ass.
“There’s a charity baseball game in thirty minutes,” he said, straightening. “And God willing, food as well.”
“You just ate. And there’s a game?”
“I ate two hours ago. And yeah, there’s a game. All the guys in the wedding party are playing. Thought you’d heard.”
No, she hadn’t, as he damn well knew. And since she’d had approximately fifteen minutes of advance warning about this whole weekend adventure, she’d grabbed only her usual daywear. Business suits, which she’d figured would cover both the wedding and any other parties they’d have to attend. “Good thing I’m not part of the wedding party then.”
His smile changed, went a little secretive. “Yes, it’s a good thing.”
She paused, eyes narrowed. “I’m not playing in this charity game.”
“No, unless you’ve grown a penis I don’t know about.”
“I mean it, Wade.” She’d been watching baseball since before she could walk, but as a girlie-girl from Rochester, New York, one who’d gone to Princeton before joining the family obsession with baseball, she’d actually never played.
She could golf, she could play ping-pong, and she could bowl when she had to, but she could not throw, catch, or hit a baseball to save her life.
Wade pulled out his phone and looked at the time. “We have five minutes. You might want to change.”
“I’m fine in this.”
“Suit yourself.” He grabbed his second duffle, an equipment bag, and opened it to check his glove and bat, then shouldered the bag. “Ready?”
Was she? She had no idea.
He opened the suite door and pushed Sam through ahead of him.
“So,” she said as they headed toward the elevators. “There’s only one bed.”
“I noticed. You’re the best girlfriend ever.”
She let out a low laugh. “I meant for there to be two.”
“Ah.”
“We should probably talk about it now.”
“Sure.”
“Want to flip for the couch?”
“Nope.” He smiled and slipped an arm around her. “Don’t worry. I only want the bed, not you.”
She looked up into his face. “Really?”
He grinned. “What do you think?”
She narrowed her eyes. “I think the couch has your name all over it.”
“I’m too big.”
Undoubtedly true. “I’ll call up for a roll-away mattress.”
He sighed. “I think I’m beginning to see why you have to be the pretend girlfriend. You’re not so good at the real thing.”
Ouch. And okay, so she wasn’t so good at the real thing; she tended to sabotage her own happiness for work, but hell if she’d admit that out loud.
/>
They came up to the elevator, and once again unwelcome memories smacked into her unbidden; Wade’s long, drugging kisses melting away her bones, how he’d looked at her from those sleepy, sexy eyes as he’d unbuttoned her jacket, his long, nimble fingers on her body. In her body . . .
Dammit. She got on elevators all the time. That she was having flashbacks now had to be his fault—
Wade crowded up behind her and reached around to push the button. “We don’t have time for a quickie right now,” he murmured soft and husky in her ear. “But if you behave, I’ll let you seduce me on the way back.”
She gritted her teeth. “Wade?”
“Yes, Princess?”
“Shut up.”
He grinned and grabbed her hand when the doors opened at the lobby level.
“What are you doing?” she asked, trying to pull free.
“Pretending. Join me, won’t you?”
He so messed with her head, she’d nearly forgotten. He was smiling, talking to her, looking perfectly at ease as they walked across the lobby, and her head was spinning, from his easy touch, his smile . . .
He tugged her closer. “My girlfriends think I’m adorable and sexy as hell, so you should be all over me. And smile at me a lot.”
She choked. “Adorable?”
He thought about that. “You’re right, adorable might be a stretch. Okay, we’ll stick with the sexy-as-hell part. Photo op, three o’clock.”
Oh, God. “This is such a bad idea.”
“A spectacularly bad one.” He turned her in the right direction. “But I’ve learned to always make the best of a situation.” With a grin, he leaned in and gave her one smacking kiss on the lips, and flashes went off all around them.
Her lips tingled as he pulled back. His hand was big and warm in hers, and rough with calluses. That should have turned her off, but instead, it sent a flicker of heat straight through her. Because she didn’t have to wonder how his palm would feel against her skin, not when the memory of it was imprinted in her mind, that hand gliding over her breasts, up her legs. Beneath her skirt.
Goose bumps broke out across her body as he pulled her out the fancy side doors of the resort, onto the lush grounds. There were gardens and a huge pool, beyond which was a big grassy field. And in the center of it, a baseball diamond had been set up, as well as spectator stands running from third base to home, a sight that made Sam relax.
She could easily spend a couple of hours watching a game anytime. It was like comfort food.
A sign told her that tickets were fifty bucks a pop and all proceeds were going to the Children’s Hospital, which made her happy. She herself ran the 4 The Kids charity for the Heat and loved that the game would raise money for kids.
“Meg—Mark’s fiancée—works at the Children’s Hospital,” Wade said. “You’ll like her.”
The press was there in force, of course, and Wade took her past them to the gate and pulled two tickets from his pocket.
On the field, Mark was talking to a guy who was pulling on catcher’s gear. “You’re not catching?” she asked Wade in surprise.
“They wouldn’t let me.” He flashed a grin. “No one liked the odds of playing against me.”
She could well imagine. No one in the MLB liked the odds of playing against him either. He was known for being a human vacuum behind the plate. Pitchers loved him because he caught whatever they threw.
He was still holding her hand, and at the bottom of the stands, in plain sight of anyone and everyone standing around, he pulled her to him.
For a minute she went still, discombobulated and shocked to find herself pressed up against his hard, warm chest. “Um . . .”
“Give me a kiss for good luck, Princess.”
She tilted her head to look up into his face, her mouth opening to tell him hell-to-the-no was she going to kiss him, but he had an oddly soft look in his eyes, and then his hand came up to cup her face, his thumb caressing her jaw.
Don’t. The word echoed between her ears. Don’t touch me like I mean something to you . . .
But his mouth took hers before she could get out a single syllable of protest, and then the only syllable that did escape was an inarticulate but undeniable sound of pleasure. She’d almost forgotten that kissing him was the equivalent of an entire fudge brownie with warm chocolate sauce poured over the top, and her hands stroked up his steel biceps before she could help herself because she needed an anchor and he was all she had.
Far before she was ready, he broke off the kiss, his mouth remaining a breath from hers for a long beat, as if maybe she wasn’t the only one knocked completely off guard.
Slowly his eyes opened, and when they did, the corners of his mouth hinted at a smile. “I’ll be listening for you to scream my name when I hit a homer.”
“I’ve never screamed your name.”
His smile let loose. “Sure, you have. There was that time we played Arizona last year in the playoffs and I hit that double. You screamed my name when I made it home.”
Oh, God. She had.
“And then when we played China in that exhibition game during spring training and I got slammed into at the plate and nearly cracked my rib.”
“You didn’t get right up,” she said in her defense, remembering clearly the terror she’d felt at seeing him crumpled on the ground, not moving. “You have to get right up or we all worry.”
His knowing smirk told her he knew exactly who’d worried herself sick from the stands. Then he lowered his voice to a soft whisper. “And then there was that other time.”
“No.” She shook her head. There’d been no third time, she was sure of it.
“In the elevator, when I—”
Oh, God. She shoved him, and laughing, he staggered back a step. “Aw. Love you, too, Princess.” With a wink, he turned and walked off, leaving her standing there remembering . . .
Remembering being sandwiched between the mirror in the elevator and his long, hard body, which had been completely supporting hers, her legs wrapped around his waist, his hands cupping her bottom as he effortlessly held her against the glass, holding her on the very edge until she’d begged softly, “Wade, please.”
He’d pleased all right, he’d flexed his hips and thrust into her one last time and she’d come.
With a little scream.
Heat flooded her face, and she was very glad he’d walked away, the ass. She climbed the stands, found a seat and plopped down, and only because several people were looking at her did she smooth the frown from her face and force a smile.
“So you’re the one,” said a pretty brunette.
Sam looked down at the woman sitting in front of her. “Excuse me?”
“I’m Tess. Mark’s sister.” The woman leaned up, offering her hand. “I take it you’re the new girlfriend.”
“Very new,” Sam said, and swallowed the irony.
“Wade doesn’t usually do the relationship thing.” Clearly fishing, Tess scooted up a row to sit right next to Sam. She was