Catching Hell: A Hot Contemporary Romance Page 11

  Her breath came short.

  She forced herself to look him in the eyes as she asked, “Can I get you something to drink? I’ve got, um, Coke.”

  He didn’t smile. Instead, he raised the pile of papers he’d been holding at his side. “Your idea, I presume?”

  She shrugged. “It was a group project. Gregory complained you weren’t paying attention. Gramps called you an ingrate, after everything he did to get you into this building. I kept my mouth shut. I didn’t think they needed to know you only come here when you can’t get out to the farm.”

  “So you thought you were helping me out?”

  “Wasn’t I?”

  He pushed his way past her, past the mountain of soft drinks. After he threw the papers on the coffee table, he crossed to the window and stared into the darkness. “They’re evicting me, Anna. Tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow?” That surprised her. “How can they move that fast?”

  “By paying me a one-month penalty and returning my goddamn security deposit.”

  She swallowed hard. This wasn’t working out the way she’d planned. She’d thought she could play both ends against the middle—raise the heat on Zach without causing him any real distress while making sure Gramps and the rest of the Rockets’ personnel knew she was on board.

  She did her best to sound flippant. “At least you make some money on the deal.”

  “I told you before. This isn’t about money.”

  Of course it wasn’t. The man was a major-league baseball player. He had money to keep the entire team fed in the clubhouse. He had money to spend on red-and-white practical jokes.

  “I need to get my furniture out, my clothes, everything, or they’ll stack it at the curb. You can bet the press will love that one—‘Deadbeat Ormond Sacked.’”

  “They sack quarterbacks,” she quipped. “Not catchers.”

  “So everything’s a joke to you?” he asked, a dangerous glint in his eyes.

  “Not everything.” She caught her breath as he crossed the room, as she braced herself to stand her ground. He’d showered after the game; she caught the scents of shampoo and soap. He hadn’t shaved, though. The bristles of his beard cast his jaw in shadow, made him look dangerous, like a pirate or a thief.

  His hands tangled in her hair before she’d truly seen him move. He backed her to the couch, half-carrying her, half-leading, and when she collapsed against the cushions, he covered her with his body. His legs splayed across hers, pinning her, making her arch in needy reflex. With one hand, he stroked her throat, murmuring her name before he found the hollow behind her ear. The teasing pressure of his tongue made her writhe.

  He slid one hand over her belly. His mouth followed as he edged up her shirt; he left a trail of throbbing kisses as he worked his way to the edge of her bra. She watched his eyes darken as he studied the black lace. “You wore that for me?”

  “Yes,” she whispered, answering his possessive smile with one of her own.

  His lips were hot on the lace, searing, and her nipples pearled to attention so fast they ached. Her response seemed to kindle his imagination because his thumb flicked over her right breast, just hard enough to make her breath come short. He slipped his other hand behind her, deftly finding the double hooks of her clasp. He edged the bra over her left breast and took her swollen nipple into his mouth, sucking hard. The bristles of his beard scraped against her, echoing the graze of his teeth.

  She shifted her back on the couch, eager to give him a better angle. He slid a hand down her side, dipping beneath the waistband of her shorts. Lace awaited him there as well, panties that matched her obviously inadequate bra. He slipped his fingers along the top, tracing the narrow triangle of damp cloth.

  Her thighs trembled at his touch, tightening more as he shifted his attention to her other breast. She imagined how that beard would feel against even softer flesh, and the rush of sensation in her clit almost made her cry out. Instead, she moaned his name.

  “Anna,” he answered, moving his lips to her ear. He caught the lobe between his teeth, pulling gently.

  She tried to think of what she was supposed to say, tried to put any two words together in the beginning of some coherent sentence. He edged his thumb along the top of her panties, embossing the lace into her overheated flesh. She arched against his palm, desperate for close contact, needing him to touch her, to fill her, to take her over the edge.

  He shook his head, just the slightest of motions. “Anna,” he said again. “I’ve been thinking.”

  “Thinking?” she gasped. “Now?”

  He eased back from her, taking more of his weight onto his left elbow. She shuddered, suddenly icy cold where his body had burned against hers. “I’ve been thinking I made a mistake,” he said.

  “What?” she panted. “What mistake?”

  He pulled her bra down, cupping the lace over her quivering breasts. His palm brushed across her nipples, enough to tantalize, enough to make her bite back a cry, but then he pulled her shirt down over her belly.

  “Baseball is a game of negotiation,” he said, his voice calm and reasonable. “I call for a pitch. The pitcher tells me he can’t throw it. I choose another pitch. Give…” He curled his fingers under the edge of her shirt. “And take.” He smoothed the fabric flat again.

  “I’ll give,” she said, trying her best seductive smile. “Right here. Right now.”

  His laughter was soft, private. Just between the two of them. “But the pitcher and I are actually on the same side. We’re working toward the same goal.” His hand was spread across her panties. He had to feel her heat, to know she was ready for him. She was throbbing for him.

  But he pulled away, slipping his hand free from the waistband of her shorts. Instead of fingering her lace, instead of ripping away her panties the way she wanted him to do, he traced the seam of her shorts, from her hip to the cuff across her thighs.

  “You and I,” he said, catching her gaze like a hypnotist. “We’re not working toward the same goal. You and I are opposed to each other.” He pulled away from her, sitting straighter on the couch. “I can’t give in to you, Anna. It’s time for me to deny you what you want. That’s only sound negotiation strategy.”

  “Screw your negotiation strategy,” she said. “In fact, screw…” She trailed off, trying to reach the zipper on his fly.

  He laughed and caught her wrists easily. “I gave you what you wanted, what we wanted, the last time I was here. And now I’m thrown out of my apartment. So this time, I’m going to try Plan B.”

  He held her then. Pinning her hands between them, he leaned down for one more kiss. His lips teased at hers, soft at first, gentle as a butterfly’s wing, then bruising with an intensity that made her heart pound, made her absolutely certain that he had changed his mind, that he was back for everything he had denied them just a moment before.

  But then he released her hands. He clambered to his feet beside the couch. He took a step away and ran his fingers through his hair, and if he seemed a little unsteady on his feet, her heart could only go out to him.

  “Good night, Anna.”

  “You aren’t leaving.”

  “I am.”

  “You said you wouldn’t hate me.”

  His smile was rueful. “I don’t hate you, Anna. This,” he gestured to himself, from head to toe, “is about the furthest thing from hate you’ll ever see. But I am leaving you tonight. Leaving you hot and bothered. Leaving you thinking about what it would take to keep me around for the rest of the night. For longer.” He scooped up the papers from the table, the eviction notice Gregory had served on him after the game. “Have a good night, sweetheart.”

  Her heart leaped at the endearment, even as he crossed to the door. She thought he’d look back, might even kiss her again, to prove his point if nothing else. She imagined what she’d do then, how she’d grab him hard and never let him go.

  But he flipped the dead bolt and slid the chain, opened the door and stepped out into the hall
. All without another word. All without another glance.

  She sank back on the couch and counted to ten. With every number, she cursed him for his devilish strategy. Even as she admired the man for finding such a perfect way to get her undivided attention in what she suspected was now an all-out war.

  * * *

  A week went by, and the closest Anna got to Zach was watching him on television. The team was on the road again—Atlanta, then Philadelphia. She watched him play, analyzed his pitch calls, studied his batting, absorbed his professional acumen.

  Every day, tension ratcheted higher in the office. St. Louis formalized its offer to Texas—a solid trade, with three key players in the balance for Tyler Brock.

  Gramps called a meeting. His office. Friday morning. Eight o’clock. Gregory Small and Anna, no one else.

  “Texas has given us till Monday,” he said, his voice thin and peevish. “A personal favor, or so the co— cocky bastards say. Personal favor, my a— left foot. They want Ormond. They’ve wanted him all along. Why is that so fu— fundamentally difficult for you two to understand?”

  “We understand,” Small said. “We’ve understood since this whole thing began. But the man has a contract, Marty. Our lawyers have gone over every word of it. We can’t force him to accept the trade if he’s determined not to.”

  Gramps muttered something he didn’t quite keep under his breath, a speculation about the parentage of the team’s lawyers, their likely destination in the afterlife, and the sexual acts they’d be doing down there. He turned his glare on Anna. “I give you one go— glorified thing to accomplish, one simple, go— godforsaken thing.”

  “Gramps—” Anna began, even though she knew it was better to let him go on when he was in one of these moods. Once he got all the anger out of his system, he might listen to reason.

  “Don’t pretend you’re working for the mo— mother-loving team on this.” He cut her off. “I’ve watched you this past month. You and that boy are carrying on.”

  Anna had to bite back a scorching reply. Carrying on? Thank God Gramps would never know the half of it. Of course, the notion of Zach being that boy was almost enough to make her laugh out loud. The catcher would be touched to know how youthful his team owner considered him to be.

  She made herself frame a temperate reply. “Gramps, I’m on your side. I’ve always been on your side. I’ve tried to get Zach to change his mind about the no-trade clause from the first second it was raised.”

  “Not tried very hard,” the old man grumbled. “You watch games with fu— full-force blinders on.” He shrank his voice into a parody of a little girl’s. “‘Look at the pitch Zach called. Look, Zach is swinging for the fences. Look, Zach got a double.’ Well, I’ve got news for you, Anna-cakes. We need a man who can get more than a fu—, more than a double. We need a man who can get the mo— moth-eaten ball out of the moth-eaten park. And if you can’t see that because he’s getting one over on you—”

  “Gramps!” Anna’s cheeks were flaming. She was all the more distressed because she never blushed. Blushing was for girls who didn’t know what they wanted and were astonished when it fell right into their laps.

  But this dressing down was more than she could take, especially with Gregory Small watching. Oh, he was pretending to be fascinated by his phone, by his pen, by anything but her, but she could see the smile toying with the corners of his lips, and she resented the general manager with all her heart. The general manager, and her grandfather too, for putting her in this position.

  “Gramps, my private life is just that—mine and private. You can’t tell me what to do.”

  “When your private life tears up my team, you can be goddamn sure I’ll tell you what to do!” He emphasized his oath by pounding on his desk, hard enough to make his coffee cup jump. He shouldn’t be drinking coffee. His doctor had told him it wasn’t good for him. But he claimed that decaf tasted like sh—Shinola, and he’d drink whatever he wanted to drink, so help him God. “You’re my granddaughter, Anna Elizabeth Benson. You might not always remember that. You might not think it’s convenient. But I’ve spent the best years of my life trying to build this team for you. Trying to leave something for you when I’m gone. Everything I’ve done, I’ve done to give you something I was never able to give your father! But if you’re going to stand there and lie to me and tell me that you and Zach Ormond, you and that—”

  Gramps stopped mid-rant.

  His lips twisted as he searched for a word. Anna assumed he was fumbling for yet another substitute for the profanity that was his true first language. But she quickly realized she wasn’t watching the sputter of a man reaching for a euphemism. His mouth contorted into a hideous lopsided grin. The entire left side of his face seemed to melt.

  “Gramps!” Anna cried, leaping out of her chair.

  “Don’t Gramps me,” he said. Or rather, that’s what he tried to say. The words slurred, as if he were speaking in slow motion.

  Gregory Small snapped out a command. “Raise your arms, Marty.”

  “Why—” That hideous, drooping voice continued, and he didn’t make even a tiny effort to comply.

  “Do it!” Small shouted. Gramps muttered something, a slurry of sounds that only faintly resembled words. He shoved his hands forward, like Frankenstein’s monster, but his right arm failed to rise from his desk.

  Small swore and dived for the office phone. “He’s having a stroke,” Small snapped when the emergency operator answered. He fired off the address. “Come quick.”

  Anna moved around the desk, her fingers automatically loosening her grandfather’s tie and freeing the top button on his starched white shirt. She took his withered hand between her own, smoothing the back as she tried to calm him. “You’re going to be fine,” she said. “The ambulance is on its way. Just calm down. You’ll be fine.”

  With every word, her spiky outrage evaporated, all of her frustration with Gramps’ impossible demands. Zach Ormond’s power games were nothing, compared to the health and well-being of the man in front of her.

  It seemed like hours, but a glance at the clock told her the ambulance arrived in less than five minutes. Gregory guided her out of the way while the technicians worked, while they called out a series of questions, testing Gramps’ orientation, his general well-being. They strapped him onto a gurney and glided down the hall with perfect efficiency. One said Anna could ride in the back of the ambulance, and she hoisted herself up the metal stairs, pretending a confidence she didn’t feel, for her grandfather’s benefit, for all the team personnel who were gawking.

  “I’ll follow along in my car,” Gregory said, just before the doors slammed closed.

  At the hospital, they cut through the chaos of the emergency room—octogenarian stroke patients had high priority. Anna recognized the doctor who had treated Cody Tucker; he lost no time ordering up tests, confirming what Anna and Gregory had observed, administering drugs.

  Through it all, Anna felt herself harden. She crystallized like a lump of coal caught in the earth’s vise, turning into a diamond under unbearable heat and pressure. When Cody had been treated, she had functioned like an automaton, solving everyone else’s problems, settling every issue with cool dispassion even as panic rose inside her. She had seemed one hundred percent calm to anyone watching from the outside, until that horrible moment when she had melted down in Zach’s arms.

  There would be no meltdown now. Gramps needed her. He needed her to be strong. He needed her to be the woman who could take over ownership of the Raleigh Rockets, who could show him that his lifetime of belief in the team, in her was not some terrible mistake.

  It was early afternoon before they settled Gramps on the neurology floor. The doctors had consulted with each other, tossing around medical jargon they ultimately translated into horrifying phrases. Unknown extent of damage. Medically-induced coma. Give his brain a chance to recover, if it was going to recover.

  They kept her out of the room while they administered their
drugs. She could only imagine the activity as nurses traipsed in and out, as a doctor called for an additional IV drip, as machines began to beep their constant measurement of respiration, heartbeat, life.

  At last, they allowed her to see him. He looked like he was asleep, hooked up to half a dozen monitors, pale and somehow shrunken against the crisp white sheets. Anna smoothed wisps of grey hair from his forehead, wishing she could see inside his skull and somehow make everything right.

  After an hour, the monotony drove her down to the waiting room. Gregory Small had set up shop, surrounded by a handful of staff members for the team. “How’s he doing?” Small asked, the moment she approached.

  “As well as can be expected. They don’t know how long they’ll have to keep him sedated.” She saw Gregory’s grim frown and offered the best reassurance she could. “The doctors say it could have been even worse, if we hadn’t gotten him here so quickly. Thank you.”

  But Small apologized. “I’m sorry. I know we were supposed to avoid stress. To keep him calm whenever possible.”

  She shrugged. “Calm isn’t part of Marty Benson’s life. He doesn’t like to lose. It will kill him if Tyler Brock goes to St. Louis.”

  Even as she said the words, she winced at the figure of speech. It couldn’t kill him. She wouldn’t let it.

  “I don’t know what else we can do,” Gregory said. “This nickel and dime stuff isn’t making a difference to Ormond’s bottom line.”

  “It’s easy,” Anna said. And as soon as she said those words, it was. “Bench him.”

  “What?”

  “Sit him down. Tell Conway not to put him in.”

  Gregory looked at her like she’d grown two heads. “We’re playing New York. We can’t win without Zach behind the plate. We learned that during his suspension.”

  “Gramps wants this trade done. And after we get Tyler Brock, we’ll be playing every game without Zach behind the plate. If you want to get Ormond’s attention, tell him he’s out of the game. For good.”