“Possession is nine-tenths of the law.”
Triple bullshit to that logic.
She fought to sit up.
Strands of her wet hair slapped his cheek. Her peach scented shampoo tickled his nose. He sneezed.
Her shoulder knocked his collarbone.
Her nipples poked his chest.
Kason sucked air.
He jerked on her wrists, and she flattened back on the bed. Sweet mother, she was soft beneath him.
“How could you live here?” she demanded. “No drapes, worn furniture, scratched linoleum, little water pressure. I broomed out a bat and two rats.”
He curled his lip. “The electricity was left on.”
“And no doubt pirated,” she countered. “There's been no meter reader.”
Someone read the meter. An electric bill arrived every single month. “How'd you get inside?” he demanded.
“Unlatched the bathroom window—easy entrance.” She rolled her shoulders, again tried to rise. “You're smothering me, jerk. Get the hell off.”
He debated. He didn't want to go another round with this woman. “Truce?” he asked.
She muttered, “Until your back's turned.”
He'd keep one eye on her at all times.
He released both wrists and swung off her. “Get dressed. Living room—five minutes,” he ordered as he snatched up the tire iron, followed by the white plastic vibrator. Its size would shame most men. He lifted an eyebrow, tossed her the sex toy, the buzz now faint. “Needs new batteries.”
Her whole body blushed.
Kason soon learned she couldn't tell time. Ten minutes stretched to twenty before she came to him, hair tamed, body clothed. She lived up to his tomboy assessment in her baggy shirt and jeans.
He preferred her in a towel.
He'd left the tire iron visible on the kitchen counter, near where he was standing. There was caution in her eyes, as well as a hint of daring. She wanted her weapon back. The tool would stay with him. The lady had tried to bust his balls and crush his skull. He wasn't taking any chances.
Cimarron gave a low bark, drawing her attention.
Kason watched her expression shift from stubborn to soft. “What's his name?” she asked.
He hesitated to tell her. “Cimarron.”
She didn't ask Kason if the Dobie was friendly. She went straight to him and hit her knees, ready to win the big dog over.
“Hello, handsome.” She let Cimarron sniff her hand before she scratched his ear. Within seconds, man's best friend had rolled onto his back to have his belly rubbed. Kason swore he heard Cim sigh.
Well trained and highly protective, Cimarron always took his cues from Kason. But Kason had yet to call the female intruder “friend,” which was the dog's signal to back down.
The Doberman was already down, and so relaxed he looked asleep, with his eyes closed and tongue lolling from the corner of his mouth. Damned if he wasn't drooling.
Ticked that Cim was purring like a kitten under enemy hands, Kason gave a low whistle and the dog lurched to his feet, fully alert.
“Bed,” Kason instructed, and Cim immediately headed down the hall.
“Great dog,” the woman said as she stood up.
“Don't get attached,” Kason returned.
“I never do,” she replied softly with her chin down, the words said more to herself than to him.
His rumblings in the kitchen drew her notice as he raided the cupboards. Her disgust was obvious. “Trespassing, and now stealing my food. You are such an ass.”
A hungry ass, actually. He was about to feast.
While she'd dressed, he'd remembered a leftover can of tomato soup that was stuck high on the shelf. He was tired and hungry and not in the mood to be played.
He'd driven straight to Richmond from training camp. He'd stopped to feed Cimarron twice and to give the dog a run, then to hit a taco drive-through around noon the previous day. He hadn't eaten since.
What he found in his cupboards blew him away. The tomboy bought in bulk. She'd stored food for an army. Or a giant.
Sixty-four ounces of peanut butter and jelly spread a lot of sandwiches. Loaves of wheat, rye, and marble filled the bread box.
Family-size boxes of Hamburger Helper, macaroni and cheese, popcorn, and six types of cereal bowed the upper shelves. Cases of #10 cans of spaghetti sauce, tuna, mixed nuts, and peaches were stacked beneath the counter, along with an enormous tin of animal crackers that was as big as a small beer keg.
The refrigerator held eight tubs of butter, an enormous wheel of Swiss cheese, and a dozen cartons of eggs. Thirty pounds of hamburger wrapped in butcher paper jammed the freezer, along with fat bags of frozen vegetables. There was no sign of the ice-cube trays.
Kason hadn't seen this much food outside a grocery store or a restaurant. The items went on and on.
His intruder must have a tapeworm.
“Care to share?” he asked before he helped himself anyway. “Half my tomato soup for a grilled cheese sandwich?”
She glared at him. “Not an even trade.”
“That's all I have to bargain with at the moment.”
A second of sympathy passed with a blink. “Hard times?” she asked.
Not that hard. After a midseason trade the previous season, he'd signed a multimillion dollar contract with the Rogues. He was presently the highest paid outfielder in Major League Baseball.
His life was a work in progress. He'd chosen to live in the mobile home until he could build his house with his own bare hands. He considered the double-wide his construction trailer. It had all the basics.
He'd never pictured a woman living here.
Having the tomboy think he was poor had benefits. People treated him differently when they knew what he did. Strangely, he liked the fact she hadn't yet labeled him a Rogue.
“I'm in between jobs,” he told her, which was partially true. Five days separated spring training from Opening Day at James River Stadium. There'd be meetings and workouts, yet a few hours belonged solely to him.
She straightened her shoulders. “I work part-time at Frank's Food Warehouse on Route Eleven. I get a discount on bulk items.” She nodded toward the newspaper on the short breakfast bar, opened to the classifieds section. “I need more hours. I'm job hunting.”
More than Kason needed to know. He didn't do personal on any level. He turned away from her and preheated the toaster oven.