Her strides purposeful, she walked directly toward him. He tracked her movements as she rounded his car. Disregarding his smile, she jabbed a finger from his Viper to the Beemer. “You’re blocking my car.”
So the hot little ride belonged to her. He’d have taken her for an Avalon or a Lumina, not red, sleek, and convertible. He wondered how often the woman went topless. If she let the wind muss her hair? Threw caution to the wind? “Didn’t know that was your car.”
“Now that you do, pull up so I can back out.” She retrieved her car keys from a cigar box purse.
She hadn’t given him a second look. Major putdown, he could hear Psycho and Chaser chuckle. A first for Romeo.
Swinging his car door wide, he unfolded himself from the driver’s seat. Emerson jumped back, frowned. He’d nearly taken her out a second time. She took him in, from his long-sleeved white shirt rolled up his forearms, down to his dark jeans and black Pumas. Her eyes narrowed and her lips pursed. The air between them cooled.
She didn’t like him. The thought struck him square between the eyes. Left him uneasy.
“Romeo Bellisaro.” He went with a formal introduction.
She was slow in taking his hand. A quick connection and release. “I know who you are, but not why you’re here.”
“I came to apologize for backing into you on the sidelines during Media Day.”
Her green gaze sharpened behind her red frames. “You slammed into me. Knocked me down.”
“I would have helped you up if the player I was fighting had backed off an inch.”
“Ryker Black was in your face.”
“Our fight went beyond the Psycho-Collier skirmish. It gave Black an opportunity to pound me for smiling at his girlfriend.”
“Must have been some smile.”
“Harmless, but Black read it as a sexual invitation.”
“Was that your motive?”
“I don’t mess with other men’s women.”
“I guess Black saw it differently.”
“He’s gone dumb and blind over some Hooters chic. He doesn’t trust other men near her. Black’s an ex-marine, served his country out of college before signing with the Rogues.” He ran his thumb over a split lip. “Man has a wicked hook. The fight should never have reached the sidelines.”
“You got in one good punch.”
“You saw?” The fact she’d noticed pleased him. “I blackened his eye.”
“You’re lucky he didn’t mess up your pretty face.”
His pretty face. The bane of his existence. “Black can be intimidating.”
“I’ve heard he chews pitchers up and spits them out.”
“Leaves only bones.”
She smiled then. And Romeo fell to her smile. He’d never been affected by the simple parting of a woman’s lips, yet Emerson Kent struck him harder than Ryker Black.
Her green eyes held humor. Her cheek a dimple. Her mouth was perfectly formed, he noticed. To him, the slight gap between her front teeth was a total turn on.
He stared so long, her smile faded. She tapped her watch. The band was fashioned with curved sterling silver spoons, and it sported a wide Roman numeral face. “It’s late.”
“You have plans?”
“Plans to eat dinner and work on an article for Sunday’s paper.”
“What’s the article about?”
“A column predicting the pennant races.”
Romeo hated reporters and their predictions. “Rogues are a safe bet.”
She shook her head. “Not this year. The Bat Pack’s out of the rotation for thirteen games. The Rogues have always banked on their power hitters.”
“Others will step up to the plate,” he said with more assurance than he actually felt. “Rhaden Dunn and James Lawless have power.”
“Both are hitting weak, .226 and .215 respectively for the spring. They need support. The only player with plate power is Risk Kincaid. He can’t carry the team.”
“Our bullpen—”
“Is lean,” she said, cutting him off. “Tendonitis in his elbow could sideline Cooper Smith. The stress fracture in Roan Ginachio’s back could end his career. Psycho took the only pitcher with promise out of the game. Chris Collier will be sitting the bench until his vision clears.”
“What about Jason Maseratti?”
“No speed. No command. Last season he walked eighty-six batters in one hundred fortytwo innings.”
Romeo shifted his stance. “Thought you wrote about players, their dates, and dining experiences. When did you start quoting stats?”
“I flew to Fort Myers and watched spring training.”
She’d been in Florida? “I didn’t see you with the media hounds.”
“I bought a ticket and sat in the stands.”
“How many games?”
“Six. No one played harder than the Bat Pack. You took preseason as the real deal. Set the standard for Opening Day, until Psycho took out his own teammate before God and the press.”
“Chris Collier threw to maim. Psycho had no other recourse.”
“Fists are always the answer.” She nodded toward her car, bent to open the door. “I need to leave.”
Kiss off. He could picture Psycho’s and Chaser’s wide grins. They’d be loving the fact that Emerson Kent wasn’t into him.
“I hoped to buy you dinner,” he said to her back.
She looked over her shoulder. There was a flicker of surprise in her green eyes. “Reason behind the invitation?”
“So I could take you shopping afterward and buy you a new suit. The one you wore on Media Day got torn and grass-stained.”
She turned slowly. “Guy Powers sent you to pacify me.”
Heat crept up Romeo’s neck. “He made the suggestion; I acted on it.”
She stared at him, openly assessing his offer. “What color was my ruined suit?”
Color? “What does it matter?”
“On the sidelines with other reporters, I’m one of the guys. I don’t expect to be treated any differently. If you’d knocked down Albert Timmons, would he have gotten a meal and a new pair of pants?”
Timmons…reporter for the Richmond Times. Emerson’s chief competitor covering Sports. And a thorn in every player’s side. Short and wiry, the man would elbow his grandmother in the gut to get a story. More than once, he’d shown up in the Rogues locker room, as excited over a loss as over a win. Albert rubbed the players’ noses in their mistakes. The man was mean-spirited. Took cheap shots.