Perfect Pitch (2 page)

Sam saw Judith’s eyes narrow as the older woman waited for her answer. Truth be told, Sam was willing to let the whole thing go by without a single public word. Anything she said would just make the story last longer, keep it on the front page, when it would otherwise fade away to the sports section in a day or two and disappear completely after that.

But in the past ten months, Sam had learned a thing or two about Judith Burroughs. The woman was determined to spread good news about the Summer Fair. She was going to fight the beauty pageant stereotype with every last breath of her tobacco-stimulated body. Even if Summer Queens were denied the right to smoke their own cigarettes. Or drink their own alcoholic beverages in public. Or swear in any venue where they might be overheard. Or do anything else that might reflect less than perfectly the highest standards of the great state of North Carolina.

Fine. Sam understood what was important to Judith. And complying now might earn Judith’s assistance on Sam’s real goal—getting statewide funding for music classes. Sam smiled at Bill and said, “Of course I want everyone to know the truth. Let’s go.”

The journalist nodded his approval. Sam made an automatic swipe at her hair, making sure that one swath fell attractively over her right shoulder. She settled on the edge of her chair so that she wouldn’t look lazy, and she lowered her chin to give the camera her best angle. She wasted no time clipping on the microphone Johnny handed her; she’d already made sure to wear an unstructured dark blazer to best conceal the equipment. She automatically gave the cameraman a sound check.

“Ready when you are,” she said to Bill. She was gratified by the reporter’s quick smile. He clearly appreciated her professionalism. Even Judith seemed impressed. The executive director retreated to the far side of the room, picking her way through the booby trap of cords Johnny had left in his wake.

Waiting for Bill to present his first question, Sam thought back to the night before. She remembered how vulnerable she’d felt as she watched the horrible video, how embarrassed and ashamed. She hadn’t had a single person she could call at two in the morning, not one shoulder to cry on as the embarrassing clip made its online rounds faster than pirated concert footage.
 

Sam’s reign as Summer Queen had cost her a lot. She couldn’t be seen in bars or nightclubs, and the vast majority of her friends hadn’t been willing to relocate their get-togethers to more sedate locales. She knew now that those people hadn’t really
been
her friends, but the abandonment still stung, never more than in the middle of the night before.

But now, on a delightful spring morning, everything was better. Everything
had
to be better, or the past ten months had been a waste of time. So she took a deep breath, reminded herself to sit up straight, and let her carefully-honed instincts take over.

As Bill went through a quick introduction, Sam was gratified to realize he’d done his homework. He correctly summarized her history, how she’d grown up a military brat, embracing a new school every other year. She’d relished spending four consecutive years at the University of North Carolina in nearby Chapel Hill, where she’d double-majored in Education and Music, with an emphasis on vocal performance. Bill wrapped up with an easy shrug. “All of that makes you sound like a brainiac. A bit of a contrast with the past year you’ve spent, as Summer Queen.”

Sam laughed easily. “It’s not a contrast at all,” she said. “Education is the very heart of the Summer Fair Pageant. The Fair awards scholarships to the top five contestants each year, giving some of North Carolina’s hardest-working young women the chance to succeed in the academic fields of their dreams.”

“And your work was only beginning, the night the pageant ended.” Bill generously fed her another opening.

“Exactly! It was a highlight of my life, the first time I wore the Summer Queen crown. But the next morning, I was here in the office, working with our highly skilled staff to figure out how I could best use my knowledge and skills to help the people of North Carolina. After ten months, I’m pleased to say we’ve made major strides on our ‘Musicall’ campaign. I hope to see the program incorporated into every public school in the state before I pass on my crown in June.”

Hope. But Sam’s success was by no means certain. She’d never known the meaning of red tape until she’d tried to bring an arts program to school systems that were already overwhelmed by budget cuts and the constant need to prepare students for new rounds of official tests.
 

Bill played along. “Then it must be particularly galling for you to face the criticism of one of North Carolina’s greatest heroes. I’m speaking, of course, about the Rockets’ hottest pitcher, DJ Thomas, who threw a perfect game Friday night.” The journalist looked at his notes, even though Sam was certain he had the line memorized. “‘It’s sort of like thinking you’re going out on a date with Miss America and getting stuck with the Summer Queen instead.’ That had to sting.”

Sam let herself relax back in her chair, just a fraction of an inch. She focused on spreading her smile to the corners of her eyes. “I think Mr. Thomas was just a little overwhelmed by the excitement of the moment.”

“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.