Authors: Mindy Klasky
Tags: #Romance, #Adult, #office, #wedding, #baseball, #workplace, #rich, #wealthy, #sport
Kyle Norton, summoned like a spirit from her research and the vicious envy that had kept her awake all night. He wore a white dress shirt and khakis, looking perfectly at ease, as comfortable in the law firm waiting room as he’d been in the Rockets’ outfield. He held a manila folder in his left hand, just like the one she’d tried to pass to Tracy McIlroy.
As she gaped, he extended his right hand toward her, a smile broad across his face. That made sense, because he had no idea what she’d pulled up on her computer, what she’d read and checked and double-checked, until there could by no shadow of a doubt.
She shook her head and cleared her throat, stepping forward as she pasted on a professional smile. “Mr. Norton,” she said, matching his hand with hers.
His fingers were warm. As they tightened around hers, the pressure jolted along a direct line to her belly. She swallowed hard against that soaring swoop, that feeling that she’d pumped a playground swing out of control, that the chains were slack and she was about to fall away into nothingness.
Harvey cleared his throat behind her. The sound was enough to bring her back to earth. That, and the memory that Kyle Norton was living a lie. She reclaimed her hand and introduced the two men as if she’d known the ballplayer forever. The social nicety gave her a moment to push down her thoughts, to smother her memories of what she’d read.
The men talked about yesterday’s game. Harvey complimented Norton on that home run, and Norton nodded politely, tossing off information about beating Milwaukee as if it were easy, as if it mattered.
“Well,” Harvey said after a couple of minutes. “I should let you two get back to… what exactly
does
bring you to our firm, Mr. Norton?”
Norton’s grin was relaxed, easy. “A business proposition.”
Harvey’s face brightened, and Amanda could hear the
ka-ching
of an old-fashioned cash register as the senior partner calculated the value of his newest client. “Well, then! Why don’t we just step into one of the conference rooms here—”
“I’m sorry,” Norton said. “I wasn’t clear. My proposal is for Ms. Carter.”
Harvey’s surprise was evident as he fumbled for a laugh. Amanda watched him run his options—pretend Norton was joking, make an argument that Harvey was the better lawyer for whatever job Norton could possibly bring to the firm, or let his new toy slip away.
Before he could settle on a response, Amanda decided to take control over her own fate. She might not be able to buy into the partnership, but if she could land one more client for the firm, tie one more case to her name before she had to hit the streets… Maybe that would be enough to get her an extension through October. Maybe that would keep her career alive.
She raised one hand to indicate a conference room door. “Mr. Norton, we can step right in here.”
And she shot a smile at Harvey, trying to convey that she had the situation under control, that he could trust her. Yeah. Right.
She took a steadying breath as she flipped on the conference room lights and closed the heavy door. It wasn’t fair that Kyle Norton was bringing his business to Link Oster now, just as she might be forced to leave the firm. But life wasn’t fair, was it? Otherwise, why would she be stuck with Warren in her past, dragged down by a man who had abused her love, destroyed her trust? Why was she ruined while people like Kyle Norton never had to pay a price for their mistakes?
She tightened the muscles in her jaw as she took the seat at the head of the table. Norton waited until she was settled before he pulled out his own chair, and then he pushed the manila folder toward her. “Ms. Carter,” he said.
“Amanda,” she corrected, reciting the new-client script she’d written long ago.
“Amanda,” he agreed readily enough. “I owe you an apology. I wanted to get a message to you before the end of yesterday’s game, but I couldn’t break away.” He glanced at the folder eagerly, and she narrowed her eyes, trying to figure out his angle.
“Please,” he said, nodding toward the table.
Cautiously, she slipped one fingernail beneath the manila edge and pulled out two pieces of paper. “What’s this?” she asked, picking up the first one.
“A check. For your glasses. I trust it’s enough?”
Three hundred dollars. Yeah, that was enough. Twice the price of the glasses on the open market, forgetting the fact that she’d gotten them as a gift.
She resisted the urge to look at her watch. If she deposited the check before two, it would clear overnight. She could buy groceries and pay off part of her overdue water bill.
Resenting the uptick in her heartbeat, she stared at the funds. That damn check made a huge difference to her. And it was chicken feed to Kyle Norton. Almost literally nothing to a man who’d built his multi-million dollar career on lies. Not trusting herself to speak civilly as she fought a fresh wave of envy, she put her fingertip on the other item in the folder. “And this ticket?” she asked.
“It’s for next Saturday’s game. We’re playing Washington.”
She didn’t have time for baseball. Not if she convinced the firm to let her stay on for UPA. “Thank you, Mr. Norton. But that’s really not necessary.”
“Actually, it is,” he contradicted. “I need you there.”
“Excuse me?”
“When you gave me your glasses, you changed my luck. I broke a twenty-seven game hitting slump because of you. You have to give me your glasses on Saturday, repeat everything just like yesterday, so that I keep hitting.”
She actually snorted in surprise. “That’s ridiculous!”
He shrugged and looked a little embarrassed. “I’m a superstitious guy. I need you there.”
Need
. She felt that connection again, the spark between them as she stepped to the fence at right field.
But Kyle Norton didn’t have the first idea what
need
meant. He didn’t understand
needing
to pay the rent,
needing
to support a parent,
needing
to cover the utilities, the phone bill, the partnership buy-in. He played games for a living, and she hadn’t had time for games since she was a child.
“Fine, Mr. Norton. My billing rate is three hundred dollars an hour.”
“I can’t pay you!” He looked horrified, like she’d asked him to sacrifice infants on an altar at dawn. “The superstition would be
jinxed
if I paid you.”
Sure it would. She rolled her eyes. “Look, Mr. Norton. I can’t work for free. I’m a busy attorney, with a case going to trial in just a couple of months. There are only twenty-four hours in a day, and I can’t waste three of them watching you throw a ball around for fun.”
He actually grinned, a bit sheepish, shrugging like this was all some elaborate joke. But he was serious. She could see that in his eyes, they way they darkened from cobalt—that color is ridiculous!—to navy. “Five,” he said. “Five hours. I’ll need you at batting practice before the game.”
“There’s no possible way I can give you five hours next weekend!”
“Fine,” he said, pushing back from the mahogany table. “Then I have no choice but to tell Harvey Link that you’re refusing to help the Rockets get to the post-season.”
Tell Harvey Link
. Tattle on her like they were kids on a playground. Run to her boss, to a guy who was obviously infatuated with baseball, with the Rockets.
This was all a game to Norton. Everything he’d ever done was a game—toss a ball around, collect a million dollars, do not pass Go.
Warren had played games, too, every single bet he’d placed, every single wager. Amanda hated games. She hated watching other people rake in their winnings, gloat over their success while she was left with nothing because she’d played by the rules.
It wasn’t fair. Nothing was fair.
“What’ll it be, Amanda?” Norton asked, his voice low, teasing. “Are you going to help me out? Or roll the dice and make me go to your boss?”
Dice.
What the hell did Amanda know about
dice
?
A red haze drifted across her vision, and her fingers curled into fists. “Fine, Mr. Norton. Don’t pay me for my time. But pay me for this: I know about Spring Valley Renewal Center.”
Kyle felt like someone had kicked him in the gut. The roof of his mouth went numb, and he couldn’t feel the tips of his fingers. Mosquitoes must have lodged against his eardrums—the only thing he could hear was a high-pitched hum, squealing above his heartbeat. He tried to lick his lips, but his tongue had turned to sandpaper.
He wondered whether those windows on the far wall opened. He wondered whether he wanted to throw himself out, or Amanda Carter.
Right. Like that would solve anything.
He’d spent the past ten years dreading that someone would dig up his time at Spring Valley. He hadn’t been a minor when he’d gone into rehab, a kid whose record could be scrubbed clean when he turned eighteen.
But he’d only been a year past that magic threshold. And there’d been extenuating circumstances. His doctor had
prescribed
oxycodone for the first month, told him it would get him past the pain of a fucked-up ankle. But surgery brought its own pain, and he could only manage the long recovery with more meds—the type he’d bought off fellow students, not the ones from a pharmacy. The little white pills took the edge off—smothering the pain in his foot, but also covering his doubt about whether he’d ever get back to playing fitness.
And then there were the steroids. He’d been terrified of getting hurt again, of going through more hospital stays, more agony. He’d started taking the ’roids because they helped his body to heal. He’d kept taking them because he was afraid to stop.
By the time he’d dropped twenty pounds he didn’t have to lose, he’d known he was in trouble. He’d broken down in Coach’s office, not sure if he felt like puking because of the secret he was finally sharing or because of the poison in those goddamn pills, in the shit he was shooting into his muscles. Coach called his parents while Kyle cried like a baby, and they’d all agreed he needed help, more help than the school infirmary could provide. Spring Valley was the ticket—near his hometown, discreet, and with a proven track record for cases like his.
Cases like his—where rehab was complicated by family shit, and a relapse or three thanks to smuggled pills, and the constant, grinding fear that he was throwing away the only thing he’d ever really wanted in life: baseball. It had taken ninety days—the longest three months of his life—but he’d left Spring Valley in time to start spring quarter of his freshman year.
He’d stayed clean ever since. And he’d kept Spring Valley secret—not even the guys on his college team knew the specifics about the “family emergency” that had kept him out of school. But Amanda Carter had found out now.
“What do you want?” he finally asked.
“Nothing you can’t afford to pay.”
“You’re blackmailing me?”
“Absolutely not!” But she wouldn’t meet his eyes. Instead, her gaze kept slipping past his shoulder, like there was something fascinating outside that goddamn window. “Blackmail would violate North Carolina General Statutes, Chapter 14, Section 118.”
Shit. She was actually citing him chapter and verse. “Then what the hell are we talking about here?”
“Me? I’m talking about you hiring me. I’m a lawyer, and I can advise you on ways to keep your story from coming out in the press.”
Right. And he was born yesterday. “You’re a
patent
lawyer. At least that’s what it says on your firm’s website.”
She did look at him then, a quick flash of green, a knife of interest that cut through the rest of the bullshit. She was smart; he’d figured that out the second he’d read her biography online. That’s what made her dangerous. He’d known it would be hard to convince her to do what he wanted. He just hadn’t expected the tables to turn quite as fast as they had.
She finally swallowed hard and said, “Let’s just say I have a lot of different skills.”
“And I’m supposed to pay for those skills. What are you worth?”
She blushed. Interesting. It was possible that Ms. Amanda Carter hadn’t quite thought through her career as a blackmailer. Her voice quavered, just a little, as she said, “One hundred thousand dollars.”
Christ
. That wasn’t pocket change, not even to a guy with a major league contract. But it wouldn’t come close to clearing him out.
And he could set some conditions if he paid. He could make her show up at the ballpark for Saturday’s game. “Let me guess,” he said, testing her. “You want it in small, unmarked bills.”
She shook her head, annoyed. “I want it in a dozen checks. Each for a random amount, each for less than ten thousand dollars. Payable to me.”
What the hell did she need a hundred grand for? She was a goddamn lawyer. Sure, she wasn’t earning major league baseball dollars, but she shouldn’t need to hold him over a barrel. Not like this.
But the crazy thing was, he was considering it.
Spring Valley could fuck up his life, big time. The League was tightening its drug checks all the time. If they found out he’d used back in college, he could resign himself to peeing in a cup every night for the rest of his life. Not to mention the effect his past would have on how he lived today. How could he go into a homeless shelter and tell kids to stay clean? How could he face all the questions about how weak he’d been, about how he’d lied and cheated, about all his mistakes?
Sure, it could have been noble and inspiring to say he’d overcome his past. But he’d thrown out that option when he decided to stay silent for ten long years. If Amanda spilled the beans now, he’d have to explain why he’d never said a word when the biggest guys in the game were busted for using, why he’d never staked out a position on whether users should be allowed in the Hall of Fame. If he’d really reformed, he should have been demanding that everyone toe the line.
His drug use had been shameful a decade ago. It would destroy him if it became public now.
Because the last thing the Rockets needed was that type of distraction. They were looking at the last two months of the regular season, their first real chance at the playoffs in ages. The team had been through hell the last couple of years, personally and professionally. And Kyle Norton would rather die than be the one to drag them down, to take their eyes off the prize.
He couldn’t believe he was thinking of going along with her demand, but he asked, “When do you need it?”
“A week from today.” She sounded unsure, like a kid bargaining for a new bedtime.
Bed? What the fuck was he doing, thinking of a bed, where Amanda Carter was concerned? She might have that whole sexy librarian thing going on—eyeglasses and her hair swept up off her neck, the V of her soft white blouse, prim and proper against that dark grey suit. But he knew the truth. She was a menace.
He nodded toward the ticket that still sat between them on the table. “You’ll come to the game?”
“You still want me to?” Her voice cracked on the question.
That was the damnedest thing. He
did
still want her at the game. He needed her there. He’d put on her sunglasses yesterday, and he’d gotten a hit for the first time in twenty-seven games. Everything else he’d done was exactly the same—his batting stance, the routine of adjusting his wrist guards, the way he tugged at his jersey.
Her glasses had given him a hit.
Sure, that was superstitious. But superstition didn’t mean he
wasn’t
right, that the glasses
hadn’t
made a difference. He had to keep the ball rolling. He had to get her back in the stands. And if that cost him a hundred thousand dollars, it would be worth it. It had to be. The team was counting on him.
“I want you there,” he said. “Wearing the same clothes you wore yesterday. With your hair the same way. Use that ticket, and come to the game, and I’ll think about paying your bribe.”
~~~
Saturday afternoon, Amanda stood outside Rockets Field, wondering if she really dared to go inside the park. She was holding the ticket Norton had brought to the office. She’d braided her hair, the same way she had the week before, and she was wearing the same shorts, the same bright green T-shirt.
She’d done her research. Norton
had
kept his hitting streak going for the entire week. It was a good thing she’d taught herself to read box scores when she was a kid, figured out how the math worked, learned how the numbers fell into perfect place.
But it was nuts, thinking that her presence in the stands had anything to do with his breaking out of his slump. It was as crazy as a little kid hopping over lines in the sidewalk—step on a crack, break your mother’s back. She winced, thinking of her own mother’s back, of the chronic pain that had driven Laura Carter from years of waiting tables. Superstitions were a waste of time.
It wasn’t Norton’s baseless beliefs that kept Amanda from entering the ballpark now. It was remorse for what she’d done.
Even in her scarlet fog of temporary insanity on Monday afternoon, she’d thought clearly enough to make her demands verbally. The North Carolina statute she’d cited to Norton only covered written communication. And she’d covered quickly, even though her pulse had skyrocketed, even though she’d been appalled by the words that had come out of her mouth. She’d told him he was paying for services she would render, for legal representation.
Of course, any competent attorney could make an easy case against her. Hell,
she
could make the case, and she was just a lousy patent lawyer.
No. She wasn’t a
lousy
patent lawyer. She was a damn good one. She’d just been trapped, betrayed by a temporary flash of emotion. She could put all this behind her—get her money, pay her partnership fee, and never again need to think about what she’d done to save herself.
She just had to go into the ballpark and pretend that her presence was enough to change a professional athlete’s abilities, to outweigh years of practice. Her being there mattered more than the countless times he’d stepped to the plate. Sure it did.
At least Norton’s insane faith in superstition meant she wasn’t likely to be arrested here at the park. He wouldn’t turn her in for extortion, not when he needed her. Besides, he could have sent the police after her at any point in the intervening week.
Amanda strode up to the turnstile and presented her ticket. On automatic pilot, she found her way to the right-field seats, to the same section where she’d watched the game a week before. The crowd was still sparse; batting practice had just gotten under way. Sure enough, there was her place, centered in the front row. Wedged between the folding seat and the back was a pasteboard box. She looked both ways as she picked it up, feeling like there should be spotlights focused on her, like every single fan should be staring at her.
That was ridiculous, though. The people who’d come early were watching batting practice. They were juggling hot dogs and popcorn, finding cup holders for their beer and soda. A couple of rows back, a kid begged for cotton candy.
No one was paying attention to one nervous lawyer. No one cared about Amanda at all.
She sank into the seat and pried open the box. A pair of sunglasses rested inside—titanium and plastic, the same polarized lenses she’d worn last Sunday, the same logo stamped into the earpiece.
Beneath the glasses were a dozen slips of paper. Blue paper, with black writing. Checks.
Amanda’s heart started pounding so hard she couldn’t draw a full breath. For a moment, she thought she was going to faint; she actually saw black clouds gather at the edges of her vision, closing in, cutting her off. She forced her lungs to fill, and she fought to quench the burning stones that filled her belly.
Finally, she was able to slip the sunglasses into the collar of her shirt, freeing up her hands so she could page through the checks. Each was completed with a loose, easy handwriting. The date on each was Monday, the deadline she’d given Norton, and his signature filled the lower right corner on every slip. The dollar amounts differed. She forced herself to do the math in her head, using the cold, hard familiarity of numbers to calm herself.
One hundred thousand, to the penny. Just as she’d demanded.
What the hell was she doing here? She looked to her right, but a family had filled those seats—mother and father and four rambunctious kids, all with backpacks blocking the walkway. Two elderly men sat to her left, bending over their scorecards as they shouted to each other about some last-minute substitution in the Washington batting order. One of them had a cane; Amanda couldn’t make a quick get-away there.
Then there was a shift behind the plate. A pitcher came out to stand behind the cage at the foot of the mound, and he reached into the bucket of balls at his feet. Players jogged toward the bases. A handful of men trotted into the outfield.
Sure enough, Kyle Norton was running toward her, like a missile homed in on the brilliant green of her T-shirt. She felt the
tug
of his gaze again, as if some rope stretched taut between them. His hair riffled in the breeze, looking more gold than chestnut. She realized he hadn’t shaved that morning, probably for a few days, and the scruff of beard looked good on him, made him seem a little dangerous, like a bad boy.
She folded the checks in half and slipped them into her right pocket, just in time to raise her chin defiantly as Norton came to a stop beneath her. “Hey, sweetheart,” he called up, just like she wasn’t stealing a hundred thousand dollars from him. “If you really want to thank me, let me wear your glasses!”
She recognized the words; she’d heard them just last Sunday. But then, they’d been something casual, a funny line tossed away for the price of a stray baseball, for nothing. Then, she’d tossed down her glasses without really thinking about them.
Now, she had a reason to pay attention to Kyle Norton. A hundred thousand reasons. Attentiveness poured off him, searing between them like a molten wire. His eyes blazed as hot as gas flames as he waited for her to move. Most people weren’t even looking their way; they didn’t realize there was a drama being played out at the right field fence. But the old guys at the end of her row stared, and the middle two kids from the family on the other side were poking each other and pointing at her.