Risk was about to wipe that grin right off his face. Moving to a practice hole nearer the twosome, he gauged the distance from the green to Romeo's groin. He had no plans to take Romeo out of the tournament, he just wanted the third baseman's attention.
A nice easy stroke with just enough power…
"What the hell?" Romeo jumped back, clutching his right thigh. "Who—"
"Me," Risk said softly, just loud enough for Romeo to hear. He dropped a second ball on the green and pulled back his putter. Romeo quickly covered his groin with both hands.
"Didn't know golf was a contact sport." Psycho nudged up next to Risk. "Romeo's not wearing a cup."
"All the better." Risk's next ball bounced an inch off the man's zipper.
Hands in the air, Romeo took one giant step backward. "Message received."
"Take it to heart."
"Total retention," Romeo assured him.
Jacy Grayson's jaw dropped. A jealous Risk Kin-caid? Surely not. Yet the possessive sharpness of his stare was as potent as his touch. Her body responded, tingling as if stroked. She was so drawn into his eyes, she nearly jumped out of her skin when Stevie Cole bumped her shoulder.
"What's going on?" Stevie asked.
"One minute Romeo was teasing me, the next Risk was hitting golf balls off his groin."
"I saw him swing. Three balls aimed to scare, but not to slay."
Jacy nodded toward Romeo, now surrounded by golf groupies gushing sweet sympathy. "Romeo will survive."
"The man does bounce back fast," her friend agreed. She glanced down at the clipboard she held against her chest. "Risk, Zen, Aaron, and Romeo tee off at nine. I plan to tag along with the gallery. Care to join me?"
"Unless you're short a volunteer, I'd love to watch Risk golf," Jacy said.
"Presently, I have more volunteers than assignments," Stevie assured her. "Signs have been hammered into place and the concession stand's set up. Tournament marshals have stretched guard rope along the fairways and holes to separate the fans from the players. The only thing left is for the golfers to draw for their caddies."
The caddies would be selected from a group of teenage boys whose names had been placed in a glass bowl; they would be randomly drawn by the players. There were thirty-two golfers and two hundred boys vying to caddy. For those whose names weren't drawn, Stevie had arranged a barbecue following the tournament so the teenagers could rub shoulders with their heroes. No one would feel left out.
Within minutes, the country club president was gathering the golfers together at the first tee. Teenage boys stood three deep around the green, all hoping to walk the course with their favorite baseball player.
"Hey, Jacy." Tommy Mitchell wedged himself between Jacy and Stevie. "Have they drawn the names yet?"
Jacy smiled at Tommy, a lanky boy with sandy hair. "Is your name in the bowl?" she asked.
He shook his head. Disappointment was evident in his gray eyes. "I'm three days shy of turning thirteen."
Rules dictated that the caddies had to be teenagers. The golf bags were heavy. Stevie hadn't felt anyone younger than thirteen could endure the entire course.
Jacy stepped around Tommy and came up on the far side of Stevie. They exchanged whispers. Once given Stevie's approval, Jacy pressed through the crowd toward the first tee. Standing behind the roped-off area, she motioned to one of the marshals. "I need to speak with Risk Kincaid," she informed him.
"Now?" The marshal looked over his shoulder.
Risk had stepped before the country club president, ready to reach into the glass bowl and select the name of his caddy. A charged current of expectation circled the green.
"Please get his attention," Jacy pressed.
The marshal moved swiftly. Waving his arms over his head, he distracted Risk from the drawing long enough to point him in Jacy's direction.
Jacy crooked her finger.
Risk cocked his brow.
Her gaze pleaded with him to cross to her.
His eyes narrowed, dark and assessing.
"Give me a sec," Risk said to the club president. "I'm being paged. Zen can draw ahead of me. I'll be right back."
Risk crossed the green, ducked under the guard rope. Snagging Jacy's hand, he drew her through the crowd. Locating a dirt pathway that divided a tall hedge encircling the golf course, he pulled her behind the bougainvillea. They stood alone on a narrow sidewalk. The sun was hot on her face.
Releasing her hand, Risk jammed his hands in his pants pockets and said, "Talk fast, Jacy. The tournament's about to start."
Shielding her eyes with her hand against the sun, she looked up at him. "I have a way for you to set things right between us."
He glanced at his watch. "Thirty seconds, babe."
She drew in a deep breath, then quickly delivered her request.
Risk took it all in. "I'm back in your bed if I grant your request?"
She nodded. "You'll be hitting home runs off me the entire month of November."
His smile was slow and sexy. A total turn-on. "Love to round your bases."
On the sidewalk amid the rising heat of early morning, he took her hand and tugged her close. His arms encircled her waist; his palms flattened on her bottom. He rested his forehead against hers, so close, barely a flutter of an eyelash separated them. Then he claimed her mouth with a quick kiss.
A rustle of branches, and Psycho appeared on the narrow dirt path. He motioned to Risk. "Delay of game, old man. Move it or lose it."
Risk cast Psycho a dark look.
Jacy patted his chest. "Your public calls."
He released her. "If I don't get back on the green, Psycho will bat out of order. He's itching to tee off first."
Once back on the green, Risk made an announcement. "To honor his thirteenth birthday, Tommy Mitchell will caddy for me today."
Tommy hugged Jacy so hard, he stole her breath. He then jumped the protective rope that separated the gallery from the golfers, and strode toward Risk. The two shook hands, and in that instant, Jacy watched the excitement build in Tommy until she was sure he'd pop with pride and purpose.
Within minutes, the remaining caddies had been drawn and the golfers readied themselves for play. The crowd had grown expectantly silent.
"Cut the music," Jacy heard Risk pointedly say to Psycho, who was playing his driver like an air guitar.