Psycho had bought a lock for the dogs’ fenced run. The pups wouldn’t make an appearance unless he or Keely set them free.
Keely…he’d seen her when he’d first come home, but not since he’d showered. She’d been standing in the entryway with a grizzled man, as old as the Colonial, tape measure stretched between them from the doorway to the stairs. She’d nodded to him as he’d dashed by, but she’d been concentrating on the figures she was jotting in her notebook. Dust had smeared her forehead and forearms. She had ashes from the fireplace smudged over the knees of her rolled-up jeans. Her flip-flops hadn’t matched. One was teal, the other one yellow.
“Questions, then a picture.” Janelle twisted low and retrieved a compact tape recorder from her Coach bag. The hem of her gray suede skirt slid up her thighs as she crossed her legs, then fingered the top button of her white silk blouse.
Psycho sank deeper into his lawn chair and groaned. The day was going downhill fast. The Rogues had lost to the Raptors, and he now faced a pantie-flashing reporter giving him the green light. He wasn’t interested in this woman. He needed to set her straight before she unfastened a second button. The lace on her bra was already visible with each breath.
“The article.” He drew Janelle’s gaze from his groin.
“The Top Ten Sexiest Men in Major League Baseball,” she informed him. “America voted, and you placed fourth.”
“Fourth?” He frowned, thought about demanding a recount. “Who beat me?”
“Romeo Bellisaro placed first.”
No surprise there. Romeo had looks and charm. A mere smile and women dropped their panties.
“Risk Kincaid came in second.”
Psycho understood the team captain’s popularity. Risk was a fan’s player. And a family man. Women found monogamy sexy. Psycho, however, equated monogamy with monotony. He bored easily.
“Chris Collier’s third,” Janelle told him.
Wimbledon? Had voters lost their minds? The pitcher was a prick. “Fourth sucks,” he grumbled.
Her gaze lit on his towel once again before she got down to business. Flicking on the tape recorder, she said, “You’ve been described as raw and rude. Undisciplined and unpredictable. You’re a known nudist and will do anything on a dare. Why would America find you sexy?”
He rolled his eyes. What a dumb-ass question. Nothing new. Nothing original. He could give a smart-ass answer—
Instead, he bit his tongue. A glimpse of Keely Douglas through the split in the brown bedsheets hanging at one window claimed his attention. Her dog obedience classes had begun. He found the class far more interesting than the interview.
Leaning forward in his chair, he watched as Keely walked the side lawn with Boris on a tight leash in an attempt to teach the Newfoundland to heel. Boris was a slow learner. He lunged, then tried to gnaw through the metal links. Soon he began jerking on the leash as if it were a tug toy. In a very short time he’d knocked Keely off balance and to her knees.
Kneeling, she took the big dog’s face in her hands and spoke directly to him. Boris cocked his head as if listening. Psycho knew that puppy dog look. Beyond the drooling innocence, Boris was conniving and played people. He was a handful.
Getting to her feet, Keely continued his training. Taking off at a rapid walk, she made a wide circle around a weeping willow. The branches swept the ground, and with each pass Boris grabbed a mouthful of leaves. Easily bored, the dog pulled harder. He flew Keely like a kite. Her feet left the ground several times as she tried to restrain his need to run.
After six laps around the tree, Keely stopped. She bent over, breathing hard. Psycho started to rise, ready to take Boris off her hands. Just then, Keely shook her head and broke out laughing. The pup repaid her patience with a sloppy lick to her cheek before she placed him in his pen.
“Psycho?” the reporter returned him to his chair and the interview. He sat down hard. “Why would America find you sexy?”
Who the hell knew why? Who the hell cared? He might have cooperated more if he’d placed first instead of fourth.
“Mr. McMillan says and does what he pleases,” Keely announced as she entered the living room. She balanced a sandwich on a paper plate with one hand, clutched a Mason jar of milk and a pen with the other. “He doesn’t give a damn. That fascinates people. He’s got the freedom to be himself.”
Psycho blinked. He couldn’t have answered better. Keely had known him a week, yet she’d already seen and accepted how difficult he could be. He snagged half her sandwich as she walked by. Took a big bite. Peanut butter stuck to the roof of his mouth. “What the hell?” He chewed long, swallowed hard.
“Peanut butter, cream cheese, and sliced banana on sourdough bread,” Keely told him as she took in his bare chest and parted towel, vinyl webbing on the chair. “You need better furniture,” she observed. “An inexpensive couch and chairs before the antiques arrive. I’ll shop tomorrow.” She clicked the pen and scribbled on her hand.
Psycho noticed there was more than one reminder written over her wrist and along her thumb. She looked like a walking sticky note. Reaching out, he caught her leg just above her knee. His hand tightened over the denim. Her jeans were worn white at the seams and threadbare beneath her butt cheeks. Her yellow T-shirt had seen brighter days.
He made a mental note to give her an advance on her salary. A substantial amount to keep her afloat during the restoration.
“My thigh…” Keely looked down at his hand, which had stroked higher. “What do you need?”
Need…the word was spoken so breathlessly soft, it sounded sexual. He grew hard. “I need milk.” He let her go, hoping she hadn’t noticed the twitch beneath his towel.
She handed him the Mason jar. It was half-full and iced. He’d never known anyone to ice milk. Nor to sandwich peanut butter with cream cheese.
He released her leg, and she stepped away from him. Clear across the room to the doublesashed windows. She tugged at the bedsheet, releasing late afternoon sunlight into the room. The amber glow played across the warped and splintered floor.
He continued to watch as she lifted one of the windows and a soft breeze swept the stale air from the room. When tightly closed up, the house smelled a little of mold and mildew.
Her shirt fluttered and sunlight shot through the thin cotton fabric, outlining small, firm breasts, the rippling of her ribs, and a concave abdomen. Keely was damn skinny. She’d missed a few meals.