Perfect Pitch (5 page)

Fortunately, Aunt Mary always welcomed helpers in the kitchen—that was another bonus that came with Artie’s hospitality. Mary even accepted ten-year-olds who packed away as many apple slices as they tucked beneath the lattice crust of a pie. Trey was squirming in his seat by the time DJ cut the second bite of his steak.

“Eat your broccoli,” he said to his son. “And then you can go back to the kitchen.”

“Two bites,” Trey bargained.

“Half of what’s there.”

“Dad!”

“All of what’s there. And half of mine.” The boy scowled as he picked up his fork. “Left hand,” DJ reminded him.

Trey switched and ate half his vegetables, grimacing as if every bite were pure vinegar. Samantha made a decent attempt at hiding her smile behind her napkin, and DJ’s blood quickened in conspiratorial amusement. Trey gave her a wounded look as he choked down the last hated forkful.

“Can I go now, Dad?”

“Drink your milk.” Trey grabbed for his glass. “Left hand,” DJ corrected again.

Three huge gulps later, Trey looked at his father with puppy dog eyes. “Now?”

“Go,” DJ said, laughing. “But if Mary says she’s too busy to have you underfoot, you come right back here.” Trey was through the curtains before DJ had finished his warning, leaving the pitcher to offer a silent prayer that, tonight of all nights, Mary would not be too busy.

Samantha sat back in her chair, openly laughing. “I take it you come here fairly often.”

DJ shrugged as he carved deeper into his rib-eye. “Artie puts up with the guys. Trey’s practically grown up in Mary’s kitchen.”

“Does his mother come here too?” She kept her smile perfect. Her eyes were clear. Only her voice offered a hint of criticism, freezing with precise politeness.

And he had to admit, she had a right to ask the question. Especially when he’d bulldozed over her candy-ass excuses about the Summer Fair forbidding her to eat dinner with the big bad wolf.

Time for the Poor DJ Story. Gritting his teeth, he balanced his steak knife and fork on the edge of his plate. “Trey’s mother isn’t in his life any more. She left when he was six months old.”
 

He watched defensive suspicion melt into pity. He knew the routine: Pity, then outrage on his behalf, maybe even a spluttered, “What kind of woman…” But
pity
definitely wasn’t the emotion he wanted to see in Samantha’s eyes. He shrugged and cut the old game short. “We were kids when Trey was born. I was nineteen when she left.”

There it was—the usual bit of surprise. More of that pity. He hurried on, speaking with the greatest earnestness he could muster. “Hooking up with Trey’s mother was the biggest mistake of my life. Getting Trey out of the deal was the biggest reward. It was rough at first, but I get a lot of help—from Anna Benson, when we have day games at home. She’s sort of like my sister. We both grew up in the Rockets’ clubhouse.” He picked up his serrated knife and gestured to Samantha’s salad. “But I didn’t ask you to dinner to talk about my misspent youth. Why aren’t you eating?”

“I’m eating!” she protested, and he felt a little tension ease from his shoulders. He’d successfully guided them away from the godforsaken topic of Trey’s mother. Samantha went on: “This salad could feed an army! There’s as much steak on this thing as you have on your plate.”

There wasn’t, of course, but he wasn’t going to argue. “I didn’t even know Artie
had
a salad on the menu.”
 

She raised an eyebrow and saluted him with a bite of tomato. “So, what’s the deal with Trey’s left hand?” she asked.

DJ shrugged and resumed eating his own dinner. “He’s right-handed. But he’ll be a lot more valuable to a baseball team if he bats and pitches left-handed. He just has to be reminded to practice.”

“That’s got to be really hard for him!”
 

“I made the same adjustment,” he pointed out. “And I didn’t end up too scarred.”

“Your father was a pitcher too, wasn’t he?”

DJ was so accustomed to the flash of tightness in his chest that he barely acknowledged it. “Hall of Famer. Played for the Rockets most of his career.”

“You’ve got a regular dynasty thing going on, don’t you?”

Yeah. Baseball royalty. That’s what he was. Not that Dan Thomas would ever see things that way. In Pop’s eyes, DJ was pretty much a complete failure—seven years into his pro career, and nothing to show for it but throwing long relief in the Rockets’ bullpen. Pop’s phone call on Friday night, congratulating him on his perfect game, was the first time they’d talked in what? Four months? Since Christmas, when DJ had forced Trey to call and thank his grandfather for his new aluminum bat.

And even then, Pop had said less than a dozen words. “Good game. Almost lost it there in the seventh.”

That was the problem with a little success. It only let DJ get his hopes up that Pop would give a damn. He didn’t begrudge his father that bronze plaque in the Hall of Fame. Why was it so damn hard for Dan Thomas to accept his own son? And why did DJ even care, after twenty-nine years of fighting the exact same battle?

* * *

Now it was Sam’s turn to balance her silverware against the monstrous bowl of steak salad. She could tell that her simple question had really gotten to DJ. She’d meant to say something light, to make a joke, really, but the shadows across his face were more dramatic than Daniel’s scowl when he’d been forced to eat his broccoli.

“Hey,” she said softly. “I was just making conversation. I didn’t mean anything by it.”

She saw him pull back from his unspoken dark thoughts. It was a conscious decision on his part. His shoulders squared, and he took a long pull of sweet tea.
 

“Enough about the messed-up life of a ballplayer,” he said. “Tell me more about this Summer Queen thing. Are you really supposed to have a chaperone wherever you go?”

She felt the heat rise in her cheeks, even as her throat tightened with defensiveness. “It’s not like they lock me in a chastity belt.”

Oh, crap. Why had she said
that
? The heat flaming her face leaped higher when he arched his eyebrows and asked, “They don’t?”

“Well, they do. I mean, there are certain standards I’m expected to meet. Morals I’m supposed to uphold…”
God, that wasn’t any better
. She sounded like some old-fashioned, uptight spinster.
 

“Now I know a lot of guys who would take a statement like that as a challenge.”

She shot back: “And why does it seem like you’re the type of guy who just loves a challenge?”

He laughed disarmingly. “All my cards are on the table, sweetheart. I shared everything I know about beauty queens on national TV, and look where that got me.”

Her heart leaped at the casual endearment, even though she knew he couldn’t mean anything by it. He was calling her
sweetheart
the way a man sweet-talked a pet cat. He didn’t feel that way about
her
. He didn’t know the first thing about her. She forced herself to shake her head, as if that would drive reason into all the places in her brain that had apparently been excavated by hormones and an ill-advised shower.
 

“I don’t get it,” she said. “You insult me in front of everyone I know, and millions of people I don’t, and I’m still sitting here eating dinner with you.”

That
wiped the smile off his face. He reached across the table and captured her hand in his. “I never meant to insult you,” he said. “I was just trying to make a joke. A stupid joke, I know. But I never meant to hurt you. You have to believe that.”

Her immediate reaction was to pull away from him. His fingers were branding the back of her hand, sending shivers up her spine—shivers that she couldn’t identify as hot or cold. All she knew was that touching him was like grabbing onto a live wire. She longed to back away from the danger. She knew she should protect herself. But she’d be damned if she’d do anything to pull away from the sensations he sent cascading through her.

“I believe you,” she said.
 

She hadn’t realized he was holding his breath until he exhaled. His fingers still held hers, but the line of urgency had been broken. The desperation was gone, replaced by…what? Curiosity? Intrigue?
 

She reclaimed her hand and settled back into her chair. By reflex, she ran her fingers through her hair, grateful that she’d left it down instead of confining it to a braid.

And she saw the effect her action had on him. Was it possible? Was he as attuned to her as she was to him?
 

Somehow, the possibility settled the sparks that filled her bloodstream. She reached for her glass, taking her time to close her lips around her scarlet straw. She drew up a single swallow of water, looking up at him through her eyelashes. And she had no doubt about the effect
that
had on him.

“About those standards you’re expected to meet,” he drawled.

She returned her glass to the table, widening her eyes in her best approximation of innocence. “Yes?”

“That only goes for what people see in public, right?”

“Of course.”

“So if you were only
thinking
about breaking the rules, then the Summer Fair could never get on your case.”

Her breath came faster. What did he know about her
thinking
? She made herself laugh as if she didn’t have a care in the world. But a tiny flame turned over deep inside her belly. “You make them sound like Big Brother.”

In a flash, he shifted over to the seat Daniel had vacated.

How had she ever thought she’d be safe in this curtained alcove? What had made her believe that the table was generous, that the private dining room was spacious?

His knees pressed against her legs, and she could feel the heat of his body through two layers of denim. She caught her breath, but she didn’t pull away. She
couldn’t
pull away as she drowned in the sharp cedar scent of him.
 

That was a soap, she told herself, trying to hold onto reason. Or shampoo. An aftershave, maybe. Any man could buy it in a store. Any man could wear it.

But DJ Thomas wasn’t any man.
 

He leaned closer to her. This was the man who had kissed her, just that afternoon. A chaste kiss, practically fraternal as millions watched. But there wasn’t anything fraternal in his face now.
 

She wanted to raise her palm to the harsh line of his jaw. She wanted to feel the stubble of his beard against her palm, the tiny hairs glinting gold in the soft light. She wanted to know if he would catch his breath again, if he would hold it against whatever possibility she spun out between them.

And so she did.

His eyes kindled as she moved. He’d thrown a challenge at her feet, and he was clearly thrilled with how she met his demand. His flesh was hot against her hand, softer than she expected, except where his beard scraped.

She heard a soft sound, a whisper between a sigh and a moan, and she was embarrassed to realize that it came from her own throat. His lips curved beside her fingers, and he caught her wrist. At the same time, he turned his head to the side, brushing his lips against her palm.

The flame flared inside her, surging from a tickle to a wave of pure heat. As if DJ could measure her reaction, his fingers tightened. She felt the whisper of his tongue against her palm, soft and secret. A promise.

Her breath stuttered in her throat. For just an instant, she pictured him swiping all the dishes from the table onto the floor. He could close his hands around her biceps, lift her as easily as he hefted a maple bat. He could ease her back onto the wooden surface, slide his knee between hers. He could support her back as she arched to meet him, cradle her neck as she threw back her head in surrender.

And Daniel could walk in at any second. Or Artie, or the as-yet-unseen Aunt Mary. Anyone could interrupt them. And if that
anyone
happened to have a camera, even a phone…

“I can’t,” she gasped, and pushed herself to the back of her chair.

He released her instantly, his fingertips falling away so quickly it seemed he’d dashed ice water against her wrist. His smile was disarming. As easily as he’d taken Daniel’s seat, he returned to his own and saluted her with his glass of sweet tea.

She saw the pulse pounding in his throat, the only sign that he wasn’t as calm as he pretended to be. “DJ,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” And there was that easy smile again. “You’re the one in control here. I’ve done enough to turn your life upside down.” He sawed off a bite of his steak, the action easy and casual enough that she might have imagined his hands on her only a heartbeat before.

“I didn’t mean—”

“Relax,” he said. “I’m a pitcher. I’m used to looking in for a sign, Samantha.”

“Sam,” she said. At his questioning look, she shrugged. “Samantha is for when I’m in trouble.”

But she
was
in trouble. She was in serious danger of compromising everything the Summer Fair valued, everything she’d spent the last year working so hard to create, and all the years leading up to her winning her title.

“Sam,” he said, and his eyes sparked with pleasure, as if she’d just delivered something far more intimate than her nickname.

She rested her wrist against her ice-filled glass, willing her raging pulse to slow down. When that exercise proved futile, she retreated to the automatic actions of eating and drinking, constructing careful bites of the best steak salad she’d ever consumed. “So,” she said, when she thought her voice would stay steady. “Today’s win against New York puts the team only three games back, doesn’t it?”

From his knowing glance, he understood that she was changing the topic, purposely reaching out for something steady and stable, the unemotional truth of statistics. “Three games,” he agreed. And then he launched into an easy discussion of the team’s prospects—their current homestand, the opposition’s pitching.
 

She nodded as she listened to him. She understood his words—she’d followed enough sports in her life to know the basics of baseball. But she wasn’t really paying attention to what he said. Instead, she was focusing on the timbre of his strong baritone.