Love on the Line (11 page)

His eyes clouded. “Then he’s a clever man.”

He pulled his arm away to hold the screen door open for her.

“Watch your step,” he said as he came up behind her and grabbed her arm, just in time to keep her from falling into a hole next to the stove. She danced around the hole, but he didn’t release his grip on her elbow. Firm. All encompassing. Warm. She rather liked the feeling.

“Sorry. I’d planned on having the kitchen finished up before I had guests.”

He caught her in his gaze. There was no way the flush she felt wasn’t obvious. She looked down to where he still held her arm.

He released her and stepped back. His slow smile built to a full-on grin. “But the wine cooler works and the grill fires up, so I can’t complain.”

He crossed the kitchen in two long strides. Maybe the pulse she felt was a one-way thing. She didn’t think so, but it’d been so long—no, it had been
never
—that she’d felt the surges of desire that she felt around Ryan.

He tapped coffee into the levered receptacle on the espresso machine. Its sleek stainless steel shape made it look more like a rocket ship for elves than a machine to make breakfast beverages. He fiddled with some knobs and stood back.

“That should do it.”

The machine hissed and hummed and sent a dark spatter of coffee across the room. They both jumped back, laughing.

“Maybe I should’ve read the directions,” he said as he dabbed at the coffee splayed across his shirt. “At least it missed you. The machine must have respect for guests.”

“I have some experience with these,” she said as she stepped closer.

He looked at her oddly.

Right
. Where would a bus driver get experience with an exquisite two-thousand-dollar espresso machine? Her dad had a fetish: he owned nearly every high-end espresso machine known to man. Next to collecting impressionist art, coffee and its accoutrements were his passion.

“I saw one demoed at a kitchen store,” she said, backpedaling. And it was true—she had seen the demo. And her dad had bought three of the machines, one for each of his houses. “Mind if I give it a go?”

He nodded, and she unplugged the machine. She took the towel from him and levered the filter off the machine. He’d put it on crooked, but she wasn’t about to tell him that. She emptied it, tamped in fresh coffee and snugged the filter back on.

Ryan handed her two large mugs. “I’ll need that much after all this. And you’ll need your strength for the back forty.”

She drew out two steaming half mugs of coffee.

“Milk?” She pointed to the steam wand.

“Way too dangerous.” He grinned. “Besides, I like mine black.”

She didn’t, but she decided not to fuss with the steamer. One cup of black coffee wasn’t going to kill her.

She handed him the mug, and her fingers brushed his. A brief touch like that shouldn’t send a ripple of want deep into her. But it did. If she didn’t get out of the kitchen and put some space between them, she just might throw her arms around his neck and kiss him. And probably make a total fool of herself.

“Let’s have that hike you promised.” She pulled her mug to her chest like a shield.

“Want to see the barns?” He said it like a kid wanting to show off a new toy. His enthusiasm for the ranch charmed her.

They walked across the gravel drive. Though they didn’t touch, she was aware of his every move beside her. An energy arced between them, an energy that she didn’t, couldn’t, trust. How could she when she’d never even known such power was possible? But already the fluttering in her chest warned that she might fall into the spell that filtered through her whenever he was near, and never come out again.

Suddenly the folly of accepting his invitation weighed on her. Allowing herself to be carried away would be the worst possible move she could make at a time like this. He was a star, a public figure. If word got out, the press would be all over them both.

She stopped and sipped her coffee. And tried to think. He stopped too. And smiled at her before sipping from his mug. His smile trumped her urge for self-protection; it was too late to turn back. But she’d be cautious as she moved ahead.

“You make a fine cup of coffee, Cara West.”

His voice caressed her, whether he’d intended it to or not.

She smiled her thanks, not trusting her voice.

He threw open the doors to the
smaller
barn, smaller being a matter of perspective. Inside, just beyond the gleaming Bugatti, was a pool table and beyond that a net cage suspended from steel pipes that stretched the length of the back wall.

“The pool table’s an antique from the eighteen hundreds. The guy who sold it to me said maybe it had been used in one of the gaming halls during the Gold Rush. The cue sticks are hand carved.”

This was the Ryan she’d expected. Though he wasn’t throwing dollar signs around, he was trying to impress her. The effort was wasted on her, but he couldn’t know that. She’d seen far too many people get caught up in the drive to acquire things, as if they could fill a gap that would make them feel whole, make them feel worthy, attractive and successful, make them feel that they’d arrived or that their lives had meaning. She’d watched Laci fight that battle and lose. And she’d nearly bottomed out in that world herself.

“And that’s a state-of-the-art batting cage,” he said with a touch of pride as he pointed to the massive structure at the back of the barn. “It’ll help me stay in shape during the off-season, but I’m hoping I can get the kids from the team in here over the winter. See if we can ramp up their game.”

And
that
was the Ryan who confounded her. The man who was genuinely interested in mentoring kids and helping abused donkeys, the man who in spite of his superstar status wanted to live in a small town and have a life. She could relate. Maybe too well.

He nodded to the cage. “Want to see how it works?”

Fascination blossomed in her. When would she have another chance to experience his world up close? She nodded back.

He took her mug from her hands and set both mugs on a low table. Then he opened the gate and motioned her inside.

“You’ll need a helmet.”

“Oh, no.” Instinctively she backed against the netting. “I was just hoping to see you demonstrate.”

“No way. Here.” He handed her a bat and a helmet. “That’s one of the helmets I got for the kids on the middle school team.”

She plopped the helmet on her head. He leaned in close to check the fit. His hands closed around the helmet and as he wriggled it, she felt his breath against her neck. Caught between his arms—her head held in his hands and weighted by the helmet, her heart thumping, erratic and excited, surrounded by the cage around her and over her head—she felt trapped. Maybe it was the sound of his breathing so close to her face and the heat from his body that had her feeling off kilter. She backed away.

“I don’t really think—”

“Don’t think. Just step into it. I’ll set it on the lowest speed. It’s an Iron Mike.”

He must’ve seen the puzzlement in her face.

“An arm-style machine is the only type of pitching machine that gives the same sense of timing as watching a pitcher. With each pitch you’ll see the machine’s arm wind up and release the ball. You’ll see the ball coming.”

He saw her hesitate.

“It won’t hurt you.”

The pitching machine was the least of her worries. She wiped her sweating palm against her hip and grasped the bat.

He crossed his arms and studied her for a moment. Then he shook his head and took the bat from her hands. “I’ll take a couple swings, show you the rhythm. Then you can try it.” He walked to the side of the cage. “And here’s the emergency switch. Big, red and effective. It stops everything.”

Everything but the pounding of her heart.

“Maybe I’ll just watch from outside the net.” She headed for the gate.

“You sure someone didn’t abduct the woman who reeled in a humongous salmon through wild waves and replace her with a body double?”

She laughed. And reconsidered. If the kids in middle school could handle Iron Mike, maybe she could.

“Okay, but you go first. And I didn’t reel that fish in by myself—Cain helped, or I would’ve lost it.”

“A stickler for the truth,” he said with a nod. “I like that.”

Her stomach lurched. He couldn’t know her secret, and she wished that she could tell him. Maybe someday she could. But the thought didn’t ease her conscience, nor did it stop the surges of desire flooding her as she watched him stride to the side of the cage and flick a switch. Or the tingling of unabashed lust that danced in her core as he took his stance beside the white home plate.

The machine spit the ball so fast she didn’t see it. But Ryan smacked it into the opposite end of the net.

She backed into the netting of the cage. “Now I’m
sure
I don’t want to stand in front of that thing.”

“I’ll set it on the lowest speed for you.” He handed her the bat and smiled when she took it. His smile coaxed warmth through her, but it was a warmth in no way soothing.

“Atta girl.”

She walked to stand beside the plate. She tried to focus, tried to mimic his stance.

“Hitting’s all about rhythm and timing,” he said as he joined her. He put his hands on his hips. “Trust me, you have plenty of both.”

She heard the flirtation in his voice; it called to a region of her brain that wouldn’t be governed by plans and pre-made decisions.

She lowered the bat and stepped away from the plate. Took a deep breath and tried to concentrate. It was even harder now.

He took the bat from her.

“Just hold it like this.” He wrapped his hands around the base of the bat and held it out in front of her. “Pretend you have rings on and that you’re lining them up. And keep your top hand loose.”

He held the bat back out to her. She nodded and tried to copy the handhold he showed her. Suddenly the bat felt heavy. And she felt heavy, as though some force of nature had swept into her and anchored her midmotion.

He tilted his head and swept a hand though his hair. She stared, seeing the full-on power of his maleness for the first time. Nothing in her knew how to react. When she didn’t move to swing, he took the bat from her again.

“Here, I’ll help you through a couple swings, give you the sense of the weight shift.”

He stepped behind her and reached around her hips to place his hands on hers and lifted the bat.

Her pulse flared, and she lost her balance. He steadied her with his arm and then, to her surprise, he dropped his hands.

“Maybe if you hold my hips while I swing, it’ll give you a better idea.” He turned and took the bat from her, stepped in front of her and took his stance. When she didn’t move, he looked over his shoulder. “Just put your hands on my hips.”

Maybe he knew he was torturing her. He must know. She wrapped her fingers tentatively around his waist.

“Lower,” he said. “You need to feel how my body moves.”

His voice had changed; there was nothing flirtatious in his words. He could have been teaching the kids for all the innuendo he put in his voice.

She inched her hands lower and gripped him at his hipbones.

“Perfect,” he said. “I’ll go through it slowly.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Wouldn’t want to bean you with the bat.”

Her body sizzled with sexual tension, but he was all earnest batting coach.

He stepped and pivoted his hips, and she felt the power of his body in her hands. She also swallowed down the flush of heat threatening to engulf her.

“It’s stance—which I’ll help you with in a minute,” he said over his shoulder, “then coil—that’s your weight shift or stride—and
then
swing.”

He demonstrated again and in spite of the flush of hormones revving through her, she began to get a sense of the rhythm he was talking about. Yet though she concentrated, she couldn’t ignore the desire that touching him ignited. It had been too long since she’d felt such a connection. Such a want. She wasn’t even sure she’d ever wanted a man as much as she wanted Ryan.

He pulled away from her hands and turned to face her. A smile lit his eyes, but she was pretty sure he was fighting to bite it back.

“You try it. Keep your hips in line with the pitcher. Well, in this case, with the machine.”

She adjusted her grip, lining up the imaginary rings, and raised the bat over her head. If he knew the effect he had on her and how difficult her rushing pulse made concentrating, he was a hard-hearted man. A very hard-hearted man.

She peeked back at him and saw the absorbed look on his face. He was focused on teaching her to swing a bat. Caught in the keen web of his attention, the tremor of want surged deeper into her. She bit at her bottom lip and called up what control she could muster.

“Keep your knees bent, your feet flat, and then step into it. Just pick up your front leg and shift forward, making a slight inward coil as you do.”

She picked up her leg and stepped forward, did everything she could remember.

The swing she took felt fabulous.

“Try it again.” He picked up a bat leaning against the net. “But this time let your elbow go up and back.”

She made the motion he demonstrated.

“No, not quite so far back; your thumb shouldn’t touch your shoulder.”

She swung again.

“Good.”

She felt more than good. At that moment the energy zipping in her could’ve burned down the barn.

“Now, this time as you swing, start driving your back shoulder and back elbow down toward your hip as you rotate.”

He demonstrated. Her eyes followed the movement of his body, but her mind was taking a ride in another realm. No one man should be allowed to have all the sensual, sexy, powerful attributes that he did.

But it was his earnestness that wiggled its way into her heart. He loved what he did, and seeing his sincere enthusiasm was like breathing mountain air on a spring day. She’d felt it that first evening as she’d watched him working with the boys, then again on their fishing adventure with Cain. And though he might have quirks and foibles—who didn’t?—he was a man with a good heart, the sort of man she’d never imagined meeting.