Perfect Pitch Read online

  “Your feelings weren’t hurt by his phrasing?”

  Sam found the camera with perfect accuracy. “I know I could throw a baseball across the plate. The question is, could DJ Thomas ever manage high heels, a long dress, and the runway at the Summer Fair?”

  Bill’s laugh was like balm to Sam’s wounded pride. Even Johnny snickered behind his camera. And Judith stood on the far side of the room, nodding her expertly-coiffed head in ferocious approval.

  Bill asked a few more questions, and Sam kept up her banter, but they both knew he already had the best clip for his Monday morning segment. In short order, the reporter wrapped up his interview and moved to confer with Johnny, making sure the footage was perfect.

  Sam allowed herself to sink back into the chair. Truth be told, this had gone better than she’d hoped. A lot better. She’d been able to get the word out about Musicall—and Judith should be thrilled about the mention of the pageant’s scholarships.

  In fact, the executive director was just starting to thread her way across the room, her sculpted lips curved into a frozen smile, when there was a frantic knocking at the door. Sam was startled enough that she jumped, then she hurried to her feet. Before she could answer the renewed frenzy of knocking, the door flew open, and Judith’s harried assistant tumbled into the room.

  “I’m so sorry, Ms. Burroughs,” the flustered young woman gasped. “I told him you were filming in here. I said he had to wait.”

  But he wasn’t about to be put off by a closed door and a struggling assistant. He pushed his way into the conference room, like a stallion barging into a barn.

  DJ Thomas, Sam’s mind supplied, even as she registered the face she’d first seen on her grainy video screen the night before. But that poor-quality picture hadn’t done justice to the man’s riveting lapis eyes. And it hadn’t adequately captured the determined line of his jaw. And it had not even begun to reveal the broad set of his shoulders, or the way his waist tapered to the extraordinarily well-fitting jeans that threatened to snag the last of Sam’s suddenly-scattered concentration.

  “Excuse me,” DJ said, and his voice was smoother than she expected, a rich baritone that flooded her senses like the aroma of fresh-brewed coffee. She felt herself pulled forward one step, two, then three, even though she hadn’t made a conscious decision to move. The man turned toward her. “Miss Winger?”

  She couldn’t have made a sound if the building were crashing down around her. All she could see was DJ Thomas. DJ Thomas and a massive bouquet of sweetheart roses, three dozen at least. The flowers cascaded over the ballplayer’s hands, yellow and peach and a pale pink that tugged at her heart, all cradled between lush ferns and wrapped with a bow.

  They weren’t the type of flowers a baseball player would ever choose to deliver. They were the flowers a marketing department would order—a public relations crew that was determined to redeem one of its players from his own faux pas.

  DJ took a step toward her, offering up the bouquet with all the charm of a small boy making amends for stealing from a cookie jar. She wouldn’t have been surprised to see the toe of his well-worn boots digging into the conference room floor.

  Then those amazing eyes locked on hers, and she knew she would never think of him as a little boy again. Electricity sizzled between them—a secret telegraph she had no way of translating. All she knew was that she never wanted to look away, never wanted to break that searing bond.

  Some tiny part of her brain continued to feed her information. Judith and Bill were frozen in place, halfway across the room. Johnny had braced himself against the conference table, his camera settled on his shoulder. She could see the red light on the front of the contraption; she knew she was being filmed.

  She and DJ Thomas were about to make another video. One that had the potential to erase the horrible clip that she had watched over and over and over again in the long, lonely hours of the night.

  But Johnny wasn’t going to be able to help her if she didn’t do something. If she didn’t say something. Now. “Mr. Thomas,” she finally managed.

  Her heart slammed against her ribs as he offered her the flowers. “I’ve made a terrible mistake, Miss Winger. And I hope you can see your way clear to forgive me.”

  At that moment, in that place, pinned by that incredible blue gaze, Sam was willing to forgive him just about anything. But Sam wasn’t just a woman, standing in front of a man. She was the Summer Queen. And the ball player who stood before her had embarrassed her and the Summer Fair.

  “Why, Mr. Thomas,” Sam somehow managed to say, forcing an arch smile to her lips. “We were just talking about you. How kind of you to stop by, after such an important night in your pitching career.”

  Behind her, Bill actually laughed. From the corner of her eye, she could make out Judith’s tight nod of approval. Johnny reached up and touched something on his camera, changing the angle of the lens, or the depth of its focus, or something else that was going to help enshrine this moment forever.

  DJ glanced at the cameraman, but then he blanched and looked away. Sam might be reveling in how this was all working out, but the pitcher seemed mortified. This time, when he spoke, he directed his words to the roses. “Miss Winger, I’m here to make my own apology. But I’m also here to represent Marty Benson, the owner of the Raleigh Rockets.”

  Of course he was. The same P.R. department that had hunted down the flowers would have formulated a careful message. Marty Benson, a long-time Raleigh philanthropist, wasn’t about to have his name sullied by one pitcher’s smartass comment. Not his name, and not the name of his team.

  That smartass pitcher might not be happy to be filmed, but he wasn’t a coward. He forced his eyes back to her face. There was that zap again, that instant connection that made her wonder if his heart was galloping at the same pace as hers. She had to say something. Had to respond. That’s what any Summer Queen would do. She kept her voice light, but her words sounded about an octave too high when she asked, “And what does Mr. Benson have to say about all this?” She gestured toward Johnny and the camera, silent symbols of the controversy DJ Thomas had created.

  “He’d be honored, Miss Winger, if you’d join us at the ballpark tomorrow afternoon. We’d love for you to sing the national anthem, and then you can watch the game in the owner’s suite.”

  Sing The Star Spangled Banner. At a major-league baseball game. On national television.

  A year ago, she would have quailed at the possibility. But after ten months of public appearances as the Summer Queen? And with a chance to let the public know about Musicall, after her fruitless hours trying to track down wealthy donors the day before? She was stunned by her change of fortune.

  But DJ Thomas apparently misunderstood her silence. “Please, Miss Winger. I’d take it as a personal favor if you could find a way to say yes.”

  The urgency of his plea drove him forward, closing the distance between them. She caught her breath in surprise, drawing in the perfume of the rose bouquet. But there was something spicier beneath that rich floral scent, something like cedar and sunshine. DJ thrust the flowers toward her, and she clutched them automatically.

  Her fingers brushed against his—long and lean and warm against the greenery. She had the sudden sensation that the room was tipping, that the conference table was rocking like a ship at sea. But she was standing steady. She was standing strong, with DJ before her, their hands still tangled in the roses.

  “Please,” he said. “Say yes.”

  And suddenly it didn’t matter if the roses had been purchased by the P.R. department. It didn’t matter if Marty Benson was extending an olive branch to make the Rockets look good. The only thing that mattered was the steady gaze and the warm hands and the determined jaw of the man who stood before her.

  “Yes,” she whispered.

  Judith Burroughs cleared her throat.

  It was a tiny sound, a minute note of exasperation. But it was enough to send awareness cascading over Sam. She and DJ weren�
��t having a private conversation. They weren’t wrapped in some secret mode of communication, sharing messages that only the two of them could comprehend.

  They were speaking to each other in the middle of a conference room, with a camera rolling, and one of Raleigh’s most-respected television journalists surveying their every move with an eagle eye. Sam took the flowers and edged back three safe steps. “Please,” she said. “Tell Mr. Benson I appreciate his offer. I very much look forward to the game.”

  “Thank you,” DJ said. He spoke loudly enough for the camera. But the way he held her gaze, she had no doubt the words were meant just for her.

  CHAPTER 2

  Sam stood in the shower, holding the detachable shower head like a microphone as she belted out The Star Spangled Banner for the third time. She knew the words, of course, and every note of the music. She’d first publicly sung the anthem in high school, at football games. She’d even sung it at a handful of college events.

  But there would be thirty thousand people in the stands at the Rockets game. And her performance would be televised, placing her in front of millions more. And the song spanned almost an octave and a half, forcing her to nail a high F.

  And she’d be singing in front of DJ Thomas.

  Sam shivered as she massaged her best conditioner into her hair. She wasn’t going to lie to herself. She’d known a lot of attractive men. Dated a lot of them, in fact.

  But she’d never felt that shock of recognition the way she had when DJ walked into the conference room. Closing her eyes, she remembered the exact moment he pushed his way over the threshold. Her feet had moved as if they knew she was destined to stand by his side. She hadn’t been aware of the motion, hadn’t been aware of anything except the simple magnetism that drew her toward him.

  And the heat of his fingers, when she finally took the roses from his hands…

  She could feel the warmth of his touch even now, the steady strength of his palms as he steadied her grasp on the flowers. Those were the hands that had gotten her into this mess in the first place, by pitching a perfect game.

  Of course, having felt his hands, she was left to imagine what the rest of him would be like. Strong forearms, the muscles tensed and ready for anything. Those shoulders, filling out his shirt in ways that left little to the imagination. She could see herself unbuttoning that shirt. Tracing the bands of muscle across his chest. Discovering the trail of sure-to-be-golden hair that led to the top of those perfect jeans…

  Sam shivered at the thought—a delicious tremor that started at the top of her spine and ended somewhere distinctly lower. The motion made her clench her fingers tighter around the shower head, and she was suddenly exquisitely aware of the countless jets of warm water playing over her body.

  Playing over her nipples, which couldn’t be tighter with desire if DJ Thomas were standing in the shower with her. She closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the tiled wall. DJ’s mouth would follow the stream of water… Those hands, those fingers, would tease at her flesh, flicking against her until she moaned with pleasure.

  The water shot against her breasts, hard, determined. Scarcely aware of her own motion, she moved the shower head lower. The spray lit sparks of excitement across her belly, melting her muscles, forcing her back against the solid wall.

  If DJ were there, his tongue would outline her body. His hands would grip around her waist, pulling her close, holding her fast. She would shift within his rigid embrace, edge her leg to one side, take strength and stability from his hold, even as she made herself vulnerable to his most intimate touch.

  The stream of water followed her imagination. It coursed down her body, wrapping her, enfolding her. Yielding to the image of DJ’s hot, demanding mouth, she twisted her wrist, exposing herself to the spray.

  The water began to melt her the instant she focused its stream. She was pulsing, swelling, rising to meet the throbbing drive of water. She saw the white-hot cliff, teetered on the brilliant line of release. She caught her breath, held it to stretch out the driving perfection of the moment.

  In that suspended instant, she saw DJ’s eyes, the incendiary gaze that had captured her in the conference room. She imagined him watching her now, spread before him like an unwrapped Christmas gift.

  And she tumbled over the edge. A cry ripped from her throat as her body folded in on itself over and over and over again. She tried to keep the shower head steady, tried to prolong the pleasure, tried to imagine DJ holding her, guiding her, but the sensation was simply too intense.

  She slumped against the wall and let her hands fall to her side. The water played off her calves, sprayed harmlessly against her toes. She realized she was panting, gasping, and she forced herself to take a long, deep breath. Another one. A third.

  Gradually, she straightened. Arms trembling, she slipped the shower head back into its holder. Heart pounding, she turned her back to the water, raised her hands to her hair, began to work the creamy softness of her conditioner from her hair.

  Her body still sang, long after she’d toweled dry and begun to dress for her appearance at Rockets Field.

  * * *

  DJ took a deep breath, inhaling the sights and sounds and scents of a day at the ballpark. He’d grown up in stadiums like this, dressed in the uniform of his father’s team, standing by the bats, ready to help his heroes as they strode like giants to the batting circle.

  There was a rhythm to the magic, a routine that beat in DJ’s blood. Arrive at the park three hours before the game. Check the batting line-up. Head out to the field to watch his teammates take batting practice. Listen to the crack of the bats, watch the soaring arcs of the home runs. Take a seat on the bench and shoot the shit with the other pitchers.

  These April games at the start of the season had a special feel. The air was still cool; everyone knew the ball wouldn’t carry. Pop had always called April games Pitchers’ Delights. The old man had thrown his first perfect game in April, ignoring the conventional wisdom that it took a few months at the start of the season to re-establish winning rhythms.

  One perfect game down. Finally. After seven years in the majors. This could be DJ’s year. This could be his chance to finally show Dan Thomas that the son was the equal to the man.

  If he could just focus on the goddamn game. Let the distraction of this Summer Queen bullshit burn out.

  Right. Like he was going to forget about Samantha Winger. Like the guys in the front office were ever going to let him forget that he’d made an idiot out of himself, out of the team. Pop would roar when he saw the footage on that pissant TV show, that ridiculous bouquet the suits in the front office had made him deliver.

  If DJ had been allowed to choose his own peace offering, he would have gone with something totally different. Wildflowers. Some color, maybe even one of those sunflowers his mother had loved so much.

  But he had to admit, the damn flowers had done their job. At least the TV guy had been impressed, and the dragon-lady who had glared from the back of the room. And Samantha seemed to have liked the flowers, too. At least, he hoped she did. He hoped that’s what it meant, when she’d looked up at him through those ridiculously long eyelashes, her green eyes glowing like he’d actually managed to pay her a compliment.

  He’d been such a jackass, making those comments on live TV It wasn’t like he’d meant anything by them. He’d thought he was being funny, making a joke, like Pop used to do after his best games. “Miss America” was just a symbol. “Summer Queen” could have been anyone.

  But she wasn’t just anyone. She was Samantha Winger. And now that he’d met the Summer Queen, he couldn’t imagine ever tossing off a derogatory comment about her again.

  “Okay, Loverboy. You’re on.”

  He looked up to find Braden Hart smirking at him. Even with that shit-eating grin on his face, the ailing pitcher still looked a little green around the gills. The flu was bad that way. Could keep you down for a week or more, before you were really back to full strength. H
art might miss his next start, too, and DJ was more than happy to stay in the lineup. “Hey, man,” he said to Hart. “You’re the one who got me into this.”

  “I got you to the mound. You put your foot in your mouth all by yourself.”

  DJ companionably called him a name that would never be repeated in the family-friendly newspapers that covered the Rockets.

  “Hey!” Hart called as DJ headed over to the steps that led out of the dugout. “Leave your jacket behind. The cameras love a guy in uniform.”

  DJ shot him the middle finger but shrugged out of his windbreaker. The batboy appeared from nowhere, eager to help in any way possible. DJ resisted the urge to ruffle the kid’s hair. That wasn’t Trey, after all. Trey wouldn’t be old enough to serve as a batboy for four more years. Candy-ass rule.

  “Mr. Thomas?” The question came from the top of the steps. He looked up to find one of the runners who helped coordinate the top of the game, getting guests on and off the field, helping coordinate the ceremonial first pitch, instructing the color guard where to take their mark.

  And guiding the singer of the national anthem.

  DJ fell in line beside the guy. The front office had commanded this dog and pony show, and who was DJ Thomas to refuse their demands?

  And just like that, he saw her. Samantha Winger. Summer Queen. She stood in the shadows of the tunnel that led to the warren of rooms beneath the field. Even in the dim light, her hair gleamed like polished copper. She was dressed a lot more casually than she had been in that godforsaken conference room—dark jeans and an official Rockets jersey.

  His breath caught as he realized someone had given her number 45. His number. His name would be arched across her back.

  Of course, he’d seen his name on T-shirts and jerseys before. He’d never given a second thought to the men and women who honored him, who expressed their support for the Rockets that way.