She blushed and shifted on her chair. Zen did the same. He rolled his shoulders, rested his spine low, stretched his long legs. He looked damn uncomfortable.
A discomfort, she noted, born of a hard-on. There was a tent in his khakis. His sex jutted like her nipples.
Stevie stared, shaken. They'd turned each other on.
Zen was embarrassed when he realized Stevie was staring right at his erection. Desperate to focus on anything but her sexy freckles, he turned to a round of trivia. "Who pitched Yoo-Hoo? Who advertised Mr. Coffee?" he forced out.
Stevie mentally shook herself and focused on her answers. "Yogi Berra and Joe DiMaggio."
"Who modeled Jockey underwear?"
"Pitcher Jim Palmer."
"Viagra?" A product he'd never need around this woman.
"Rafael Palmiero."
"One more," he said as the tightness left his body. "Who endorsed Preparation-H?"
Her smile broke on a soft chuckle. "George Brett."
They both breathed easier, once again comfortable with each other. The sexual tension remained on the fringes of their minds, but was pushed out of play. For the moment. Until Stevie rolled her ankles and her bedroom slippers brushed his leather loafers. One soft, pink flamingo now pressed his bare ankle.
He was once again aware of their closeness. Sharply aware.
"How old were you when you first swung a bat?" she asked.
"Four, during my T-ball days. All good memories. My father coached. He insisted I move beyond the batting tee at five and start hitting actual pitches."
"Jacy coaches a T-ball team. The Bluebells."
"She doesn't look athletic."
"What Jacy lacks in coordination, she makes up for in enthusiasm," Stevie told him. "She's coach and cheerleader rolled into one. The Bluebells adore her."
"You've been friends a long time?"
"Best friends. She always has my back."
Jacy would take Stevie's heartbreak as her own. That same pain would snowball onto Risk Kincaid. Zen wondered how his teammate had weathered the storm. "I know you like sports," he said. "Are you more spectator than participant?"
She grew self-conscious. "I used to jog ten miles a day. Played tennis twice a week. Really pushed myself to stay fit."
"When you and Aaron lost contact, you turned to chocolate." He read her well. "Not quite as satisfying as your man, but it took the edge off. Am I right?"
Her cheeks heated. "Are you always so blunt?"
He nodded. "I believe if something needs to be said, people should say it. Blunt doesn't stab as deep as being cut by a secret."
He caught the flash of sadness in her hazel eyes. Her hands trembled as she ran them down her thighs. "I appreciate your honesty."
"With honesty, what hurts at the moment won't hurt for a lifetime."
She drew in a fortifying breath and asked, "During your time with Tampa Bay, did you ever meet Natalie Llewellyn?"
"Sizing up the competition?"
"I saw her on stage. She's perfect. Compared to her, I'm a blimp."
"Natalie isn't perfect."
"How would you know?"
Because I know Natalie. They'd once dated. For a very short time. In that time, he'd discovered her dark side. Natalie had a lust for public sex. A lust that provoked and taunted, drained a man of his sanity and suckered him into dropping his drawers before God and any passing stranger.
Her fear of getting caught worked like an aphrodisiac. She loved it fast and furious. And utterly dangerous. A tangle of clothes and exposed skin.
Zen had played her game. Twice. Once behind a velvet curtain at the opera during the final aria, and again in an elevator. They'd dropped fifty floors with his pants and boxers around his ankles. Natalie gave a whole new meaning to "going down."
He'd called it quits the day she hinted at marriage. Dating a woman for three months was not a commitment in his book. Natalie, however, felt otherwise. His retreat set her off. She turned ugly. Really, really ugly. She'd slapped, scratched, and screamed at him. Her inch-long nails had left scars on his chest. She'd wanted to tear out his heart.
Within a week he'd been traded to Richmond, all because her crocodile tears had worn on Walt Llewellyn. Her father caved. Tampa Bay lost their Gold Glove shortstop.
Natalie was not his favorite person. Not by a long shot.
"No one's perfect, Stevie," he finally stated. "Outer beauty attracts, but inner beauty captivates."
She scrunched her nose, shuffled her feet. The movement sent a long-necked flamingo up his pant leg. The soft flamingo felt as if she'd brushed her toes against his calf. A feeling of sexual intimacy closed in around him. Once again.
It was time for him to leave. He pushed to his feet. "No more chocolate tonight."
She rose slowly. "Promise."
"I need to call a cab."
"I'll drive you."
"No reason for you to be out this late," he replied. Locating the phone on the far wall, he dialed the number from memory. After requesting a pickup he hung up, then turned back to her. "Five minutes."
She approached him slowly, a hesitancy in her steps. "I've yet to thank you for"—her cheeks pinkened—"for giving me the answer to the trivia question at the auction. I knew one, but not both of the teams where Preacher Roe and Billy Cox were teammates."
Zen shrugged. "My pleasure."
She looked down on her flamingo slippers and scuffed one toe on the tiles. "You saved me a whole lot of embarrassment."
"I would never purposely embarrass you." He tipped up her chin with one finger, forced her to meet his gaze. "I'm sorry you suffered from Aaron's announcement. He should have told you privately before going public."
She moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue. A beautiful mouth, soft and cupid-pink. "Thanks, Einstein. I owe you a blow."
A blow. Silence fell between them, an embracing stillness filled with undercurrents of emotion. Tension arced, unrestrained and intensely… sexual.
She paled. And he swallowed hard.
Neither moved. The seconds drew out. His instincts told him if he kissed her, she'd respond. A part of him knew that would prove a mistake. She was lonely and vulnerable and still loved Aaron Grayson. Zen didn't do rebounds. Even for one night.