Perfect Pitch (3 page)

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. Hart 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.

But there was something different about
this
jersey. Something different about this woman. And it wasn’t just that she filled out the shirt in the most appealing way he’d ever seen. It wasn’t the waterfall of shimmering hair down her back. It wasn’t the gigantic green eyes that looked up at him, tracking his every step as he approached.

The runner cleared his throat. “Miss Winger? Mr. Thomas will escort you—”

DJ cut the guy off. “I had you pegged for high heels and one of those skinny little skirts that would make it impossible for you to walk out to the mic.”

“For a baseball game?”

He was laughing with her before he even realized he’d moved to her side. The runner glanced back and forth between them, looking like they’d started babbling in some foreign language. DJ ignored the kid as he said to Samantha, “Seriously. Thank you for coming out today.”

“Seriously. I couldn’t have people thinking the Summer Queen would just curl up and die at a little friendly joshing.”

He was close enough now that he could smell her hair, or her perfume, or maybe it was just the sweet scent of her skin—like honey, with a hint of something deeper. Something spicier. He couldn’t help himself. He reached out and cupped his fingers around the bend of her elbow. “I know you didn’t have to do this. I appreciate it. Me. Not the Rockets. Not the guys upstairs.”

It was important that she understand the distinction. Important that he make himself clear.

Maybe she understood even more than he was saying, because a delicate flush whispered over her cheeks. Her professional smile wobbled just a little at the corners, and she glanced down at her feet. He tightened his grip, not wanting to see her off-balance.
 

Her quick catch of breath brought a wash of heat to his own face, and his cock twitched to attention. His fingers were close enough to her side that he could feel her breathing, and he imagined that her pulse was pounding fast.

Of course it was. She was about to sing the national anthem on television. And if he did anything to upset her now, he’d be an even greater asshole than the world already thought he was.

He dropped his hand to his side and squared his shoulders. “Ready?” he asked.

She swallowed hard and nodded once. “Ready.”

He offered her his arm. The motion was entirely a reflex, more suitable to a tuxedo and a bow-tie and some fancy party than to a ballpark. But he couldn’t deny the thrill that shot through him as she slipped her arm through his, as she settled her perfect pink-polished fingernails against his wrist.
 

He felt like he was back in high school, escorting his date to senior prom. He felt like he was a knight, guiding a lady to her throne. He felt like he was an international spy, ushering an heiress to the baccarat table.

Easy, boy
, he told himself.
Don’t screw this up, or she’ll
never
forgive you
.

As they stepped into the sunlight, people began to applaud. The crowd didn’t need the announcer to explain who they were, why they were there.
 

Beside him, Samantha beamed, waving with her free hand. She was relaxed and comfortable, full of sunny goodwill. He stood taller in her presence and tried to look contrite. He ordered himself not to look at the dugout, not to see the faces of his teammates who had to be giving him the razzing of a lifetime.

But he couldn’t keep himself from leaning down as Samantha slipped her arm from his. He couldn’t keep himself from breathing in her honey-and-cinnamon scent. He couldn’t keep himself from brushing a kiss against her lips, the chastest of gestures, the safest of promises.

And he couldn’t stop his heart from pounding as she smiled at him—one glorious grin before she stepped back, took a breath, and began to sing.

* * *

An hour later, Sam was sitting in the owner’s suite, watching the game and trying to figure out exactly what had happened down there, before the game began.

She’d arrived at the park early, putting into practice the most important lesson she’d learned during her ten months as Summer Queen. If things
could
go wrong, they would, and there was nothing like getting to a place early to settle the nerves and work out the details.

She’d traded in her navy-blue T-shirt for the Thomas jersey they’d given her. Someone on the Rockets staff had been paying attention. The shirt fit as if it had been sewn especially for her.

She’d warmed up in the private waiting room underneath the field, practicing scales and making sure her voice was ready for the challenge of
The Star Spangled Banner.
She’d brushed her hair one last time and checked her teeth for lipstick. She’d followed a runner down the tunnel, waiting at the edge of the sunlight for her moment to step into the stadium and sing.