With a disturbing slowness, he blotted perspiration from her brow, from beneath her eyes and upper lip. He then drew the towel along her neck, dabbed the V of her sports tank. His fingers tucked into her cleavage. His right palm curved to cup her breast.
His touch made Jen’s skin crawl. A most startling discovery, since she’d looked forward to meeting this man. Yet each stroke evoked only a need for space. She eased back a step.
Her move surprised him. Tossing the towel over his shoulder, he leaned against the passenger door. His gaze was now hooded. “We have heat, Jen. I knew the second you ran into me we’d have sex.”
The only thing she’d known was the strength of Chaser’s arm, solid and secure about her waist, supporting her against a fall.
Dane ran his finger from her shoulder to her wrist. His voice was as smooth and practiced as his touch. “Take me home tonight.”
“Tomorrow’s Opening Day. Shouldn’t you get some rest?”
“I sleep three hours a night.”
“I need six.”
“I want you, Jen.”
She wanted Chaser. Where was the man? How long did it take to sign four autographs? “I enjoyed our run, but I’m going to pass on the sleepover.”
She began to step around him, only to find her path blocked. Displeasure scored Dane’s features. He turned ugly. She had no time to fight him. His strength trapped her between fiberglass and the force of his body. “No one passes on me.”
His mouth clamped down on hers.
She clenched her jaw, refusing his tongue.
He jammed his thumb into her cheek, unrelenting in his determination to part her lips.
She pushed at his chest, shifted her hips, drew up her knee—
And was freed when Chaser’s fist missed her nose by a tenth of an inch and connected with Dane’s jaw. Dane’s head snapped back, and he staggered sideways.
The heated scent of Dune and raw-edged anger struck her as Chaser grabbed Dane by the front of his sweatshirt. “Get the hell off her.”
Dane’s head bobbed in a semblance of a nod. Tossing him aside, Chaser stepped back, allowing the younger man his escape. Jerking open his car door, Dane slid onto the bucket seat and pressed the locks. Cracking his window, he rubbed his jaw, got in the final word. “Jen’s a damn tease. She came onto me, then wouldn’t put out. I should have gone with the twins.”
He keyed the ignition and the Vette rumbled to life. Floored, the car fishtailed across the parking lot, the taillights dots of disdain.
In the ensuing silence, Jen slapped her palms against her thighs, stalling for time until she was forced to admit, “You were right. I was wrong. Dane Maxin’s a jerk.”
“Did he hurt you? You’re bruised.” Chaser’s tone was one of concern as he smoothed Dane’s thumbprint from her cheek.
“Mostly scared me.” She reached for his hand, ran her fingers over his skinned knuckles. “Major punch.” She’d never seen him so mad.
“I’d always protect you.”
“I’m glad you arrived when you did.”
“Me too.” He flexed his ink-stained fingers. “I signed autographs for the group of women, then got cornered by a Little League Team near the water fountains. I broke someone’s pen in my hurry to find you.”
“My choice of men is as poor as your choice in women.”
“Dane wasn’t the right man for you.” He turned thoughtful. “From now on, if you want to go out, I’ll line you up. We can double-date. I know a few decent guys.”
“As decent as you?”
“I’m as horny as the next guy, Legs. I don’t, however, force sex. It’s always mutual.”
Mutual. To be taken by a man who wanted her as badly as she wanted him. “I’ll leave the choice to you.”
“My sports agent’s one hell of a nice guy.”
She’d met Cal Winger. Balding, nervous eye twitch, winged eyebrows. His dealings with the Bat Pack had him working a sixty-hour week. Jen doubted he could fit her into his schedule. “A possibility,” she agreed.
“Maybe Dan Carpenter from the sports clinic.”
The physical therapist had worked on Chaser’s knee when he’d injured his meniscus, a minor cartilage tear between his femur and tibia. Dan was nice. Respectful. Close to her age. Yet there was no spark between them. “Someone to consider.”
“You’ve choices, Jen. Don’t sell yourself short.”
As they walked toward his GTO, she silently wondered if Chaser fell within her options. An outlandish thought, yet one that was oddly appealing. Their brief kiss had left her curious. Perhaps a second taste would satisfy her. Then she could move on to dating other men.
One long, deep, moist kiss.
With enough tongue to make a memory.
FOUR
The reporter for Jocks magazine arrived fifteen minutes early for Psycho McMillan’s interview. An interview set up by Rogues publicist Catherine Ambrose a month prior to his suspension. Running late himself, he answered the door wrapped in a navy blue bath towel. His hair was slicked back from his shower and water dripped at his feet. “You’ve got thirty minutes,” he stated at the onset. “What you see is what you get.”
“I’ll take it.” The redhead with the geometric haircut looked him over with hungry eyes. “Janelle Campbell.” She held out her hand and he gave it a quick shake. “Thanks for inviting me to your home.”
The invitation had been forced. He hadn’t wanted to sit at the clubhouse and answer her questions following the Rogues’ opening loss. The game had been lost by a wide margin. The hitting sucked. The fielding played like a six-pack Sunday softball league. Yet their suspension stuck. The Bat Pack sat on the bench.
The fans were fickle. Many hissed and jeered, while others wore black baseball caps in mourning.
The locker room vibrated with animosity. Moods had been dark and tempers barely in check. Psycho had punched a metal locker with his fist. He’d needed to get the hell out before he said or did something that would give Guy Powers a reason to extend his suspension.
“Let’s get started.” He motioned her toward the living room, offered her one of the two green lawn chairs. When he was seated, the towel parted over his splayed thighs.
Janelle stared at his groin. He wasn’t a modest man, yet Psycho overlapped the ends of his towel. And Janelle averted her gaze. Brushing dog hair from the vinyl chair, she slowly sat down. Sneezing, she confessed, “I’m allergic to fur.”