News she’d rather not have read.
Stryke was getting married.
The man who had proposed to her three years ago was marrying someone else. Which he had every right to do. Taylor had left him at the altar.
She’d always thought she’d have time to go home and heal their shattered relationship. Brek had been the only man she’d ever loved, yet settling down had scared the hell out of her. He’d wanted marriage within months of the plane crash that took her parents’ lives. He’d gone all concerned and protective, telling her to lean on him.
Taylor never leaned—on anyone at any time. She’d been taught by her parents to be strong. Independent. She’d needed her own space. Had needed time to grieve in her own way.
Everything that went into planning their wedding constricted her. Whether choosing the size of the church or going for the alterations on her satin and lace gown, she felt her life was no longer her own.
Without meaning to, Stryke had smothered her. Stable and sane, he’d nearly killed her with his understanding and his need to make everything better.
Thrill Seekers had kept her alive.
She took up where her parents had left off. Throughout the engagement, she continued to guide adrenaline junkies on the most dangerous adventures imaginable. She pushed the envelope, seeking out the remote and undiscovered.
On her wedding day, she’d done the unthinkable. The church had been booked and decorated for a one-o’clock ceremony. At high noon, Taylor had hopped a plane for the World Paragliding Championships in New South Wales.
She’d never forgiven herself for leaving Brek at the altar. She should have handled things differently.
She was long overdue in offering an apology.
Perhaps the time was now.
Before he married another woman.
CHAPTER ONE
“Rally Ball’s checking you out, Stryke.” Right fielder Psycho McMillan snapped his towel toward the corner of the locker room, where the Richmond Rogues’ mascot peered over the low partition separating them from the trainers’ tables. “Charlie Bradley wants you bad,” Psycho teased, referring to the man who performed as Rally.
Brek Stryker slowly turned. Psycho’s comments were as crazy as the man himself. Yet there was no hiding for the giant fuzz ball, nor any discreet peeking. The costume stuck out among the players, a big white baseball with red stitching. Leg- and armholes showcased long red-and-blue-striped sleeves and matching tights. The team mascot dipped and bobbed, drawing attention to itself.
Showered and shaved, relief pitcher Sloan McCaffrey toweled off his chest. “Charlie’s not himself today.”
“Definitely not himself.” Third baseman Romeo Bellisaro stepped into a pair of knife-creased khakis. “Man’s lost weight. His tights are baggy.”
“He grunts like a girl.” Psycho slipped on a black T-shirt scripted with Nude ’Tude. The man preferred to be naked.
Stryke stared at his teammates. “Bullshit.”
“No joke,” Sloan returned. “Charlie was all over the baseline today, tipping and tripping like he was drunk.”
“Man doesn’t drink.” Stryke knew that for a fact. Bradley was a seasoned mascot and a good friend.
“Does he wear nail polish? Perfume?” asked Sloan.
Stryke shook his head. “Never happen.”
Sloan lowered his voice and nodded toward their mascot. “You’re the team captain. Walk by Rally. Red nails and do-me perfume.”
Stryke didn’t have time for such nonsense. He had dinner plans with his fiancée and her parents. Punctuality was part of the program. He didn’t need to be held up by a team prank.
Bare chested, his black silk boxers low on his hips, he sauntered toward Rally Ball. The mascot froze, then began to back up—slowly at first, then much more quickly. Ten steps, and Rally bumped and bounced off a wall and banged into Stryke’s chest.
They both grew still as the red stitching pressed his pecs. A too-close-for-comfort brush between men. Stryke nudged the mascot back. Annoyance filled his growl. “What the hell, Charlie?”
Wiggle. Wiggle. Rally Ball squirmed, once again rubbing Stryke with fuzz and stitching. The mascot’s roundness now grazed his abdomen and groin.
Whoa, buddy. Way too familiar.
Stryke grabbed the mascot’s arms. Slender, toned arms, not burly, like those of Charlie Bradley.
He looked down at the fuzz ball’s hands. Clawa- man’s-back red tipped the nails on clenched fingers. Confused, he pulled back and openly stared at the mascot’s red-and-blue tights.
Baggy tights, all wrinkled at the knees and pooling at the ankles. The blue Converse high-tops looked big and clumsy, like clown shoes.
There was no scent of sweat on Charlie today. Only a heady sensual fragrance, all sunshine and warm-the-sheets sexy: Amber Nude, a scent he recognized from long ago. The cologne had once seduced and driven him crazy on the neck of . . .
His jaw locked, and his gaze narrowed on the eye slits of the costume. Wide, uncertain, sea green eyes replaced the brown of Bradley’s.
Taylor Hannah.
Stryke’s heart slammed and his body tightened. He swore he’d have a crippling charley horse or a full-blown coronary. Three years had passed since she’d left him at the altar. Instead of an ivory lace gown, she now faced him in a fuzz ball costume.
He shook his head disbelievingly. “No way in hell.”
He was a man who used his body competitively, but he couldn’t move a muscle. Time lengthened as he stood stunned and rigid. Not until Psycho yelled, “Need help?” did Stryke’s breath hiss through his teeth, releasing him to take action.
“I’m fine,” he shouted over his shoulder as he grabbed Taylor by the elbow, more roughly than he’d intended. He half walked, half dragged her down the hallway to the mascot lounge.
Once inside, he slammed the door so hard the glass shook. He jerked down the shade and turned the lock. Before him now, Taylor stood stiffly, her arms crooked over her rounded sides, her legs braced.
“Damn, woman, this has to be the stupidest stunt ever,” he snarled. “What are you doing here? And why are you dressed as Rally?”
Taylor had to agree with Brek Stryker—this was a stupid stunt. She hadn’t rallied well. The costume was big, bulky, and sauna hot. Despite her flexibility and coordination, she’d spent more time weaving and wobbling than rousing the fans. Had it not been for a bat boy coming to her rescue, she’d have rolled into the Rogues’ dugout.