The Devil in Denim (16 page)

“No. I’m sorry, Maggie, but the situation is too bad. You just don’t have the experience.”

“I—”

He held up a hand. “School isn’t experience, not the sort you need to ride this kind of thing out.”

“I’ve grown up with the Saints. I’ve helped you.”

“It’s not the same.”

“So, what, I was really just the team mascot all this time? Saint Maggie? Isn’t she cute, let’s wheel her out to look pretty when it’s helpful?”

“Sometimes. Not always. But sometimes. Sometimes that’s what’s needed. But not this time.”

“Why couldn’t you just trust me? God, Dad. You’ve just taken everything I ever wanted away from me.”

He shook his head. “No I haven’t. I did this for you.”

“For me?” The laugh that bubbled up in her throat tasted bitter. “How is this about anything but saving your ass?”

“Because it gives you a chance,” Tom said. “I can be the bad guy with the team but you can start to build something with Alex. You can still be involved.”

“I don’t want to do it with him. I wanted to do it with you.”

“And if I’d let you try and you’d failed? If we’d lost the Saints anyway? What do you think would have happened?”

“That wouldn’t have happened.”

“It might have. Probably would have. And what then? You think any other team is going to give you a chance after you screwed up a franchise? You’d be poison to them. It’s bad enough to most of them that you’re a woman but a woman and a failure? You’d be done, love. You know that. I couldn’t do that to you.”

She didn’t know what to say to that. Didn’t want to think about what he had said. Couldn’t think past the hurt and anger making her vision cloud and her throat tighten.

“So I’m supposed to believe this was all for me?”

“Ever since the day you were born, baby.”

“Don’t,” she said. “Don’t try and sweet-talk me, Dad. It won’t work.”

“Then you need to believe what I say. If you’d lost the Saints, no one would give you another chance. This way you still get a chance at your dream.”

Only it wasn’t her dream. Not exactly. She’d wanted to work with him at the Saints. Help run the team that was her family with her father. Not be some sort of glorified social chaperone for three relative strangers who wanted to trade off her name and her goodwill to get the jump start they needed.

To save the Saints.

Once upon a time, she’d been Saint Maggie. She would’ve done anything for the team and for her father. But now … now she wasn’t so sure who she was. Or what she wanted.

Chapter Nine

Thwock
.

Alex grinned as his bat connected with the ball and sent it rocketing out of the batting cage. He’d never be the slugger that Mal was, but damn, he loved the sound of a sweet hit. He set his stance again, waited for the ball machine to send the next ball his way. It was cold as the proverbial balls on a brass monkey, but the outdoor batting cages at the Saints’ training complex next to the field were somehow far more satisfying than the slick indoor one he’d had built on the lower levels of his Manhattan office building or the Saints’ indoor set of five. He liked the feel of the wind on his face and the smell of metal and netting and the oil of the machine.

Sure, batting in a ski jacket did little for his swing but it still beat being cooped up in the office. This week, the real work would start. Last week they’d had surprise on their side. Novelty. Now, they had to get to work and actually save the Saints. Deal with whatever achieving that goal might throw at them. So he’d woken up early and come down here to work off some of the anticipatory nerves. Not to mention to try to stop himself thinking about Maggie. And that kiss. Or when he’d get to kiss her again.

And how he was going to stop thinking about things like that so he could keep control of the situation.

And now he’d moved beyond that and he was just having fun. He thumped the next ball with enthusiasm. Then heard the gate of the cage creak open behind him.

Someone slapped the button that killed the ball machine.

“Hey, I was on a streak,” he said, turning, expecting to see Lucas or Mal standing there. Or even Gardner, herding him to his next meeting.

Instead what he got was something that looked vaguely like Maggie Jameson but also bore a strong resemblance to a thunderstorm. The wind stirred her long dark hair around her shoulders like a black cloud and her eyes snapped sparks.

Gorgeous. “Hello,” he said cautiously. Gorgeous but pissed.

“Your swing stinks,” she snarled.

“I’m out of practice.”

“Not sure there’s enough practice in the world to fix that swing.”

“Hey, I had pretty good stats back in the day.”

“Yeah, I’m sure you were the king of Little League.”

He cocked his head at her, figuring it wasn’t the time to tell her the truth about his baseball history. “You want to tell me who put the bug up your butt? No, let me guess. You finally managed to pin down dear old dad.”

The dangerous glitter in her eyes intensified. “What makes you say that?”

“You look exactly like you did that night in the bar.”

“And how is that, exactly?”

“Thwarted and pissed off.” He held out the bat. “Why don’t you hit a few and tell me all about it?” She definitely looked like she wanted to hit something. He’d rather it was a baseball than him.

Her fingers curled around the bat. It was too big for her but that didn’t seem to bother her. Her hands flexed on the grip and, for a long second he thought he’d made a tactical error and just given her something bigger to hit him with.

But then she stomped up to the plate. He stepped out of the way.

“Turn the damn machine on,” she snarled.

He hit the switch and automatically crouched behind her, picking up the glove he’d brought with him out of habit.

The position put him pretty much eye level with what he had to admit was a world-class butt. She wore slim-fitting black trousers and high-heeled boots that only added to the length of leg on display.

Thwock
.

He blinked, forcing himself to focus as Maggie connected with the ball. She was slightly off balance and the bat was awkward in her grip but the ball still shot back toward the machine like she’d fired it out of a gun. He blinked again.

Damn
. She could hit.

So he needed to pay attention or, on the off chance that she missed one of those fine swings, he’d wear a ball in the face. Not much fun without a mask. Not much fun even with one.

He let her thump a few more balls, waiting until she hit one with a bit less fury.

“You want to tell me what happened?” he said in the silence that followed as the ball soared away from them.

“Not particularly.”

“But you did speak to your dad?”

“Yes.”
Thwock
.

“What did he say?”

“What you said. That the Saints were in trouble. That your offer was too good to refuse.”

Somehow he didn’t think that was the whole story. Trouble was, he wasn’t sure whether it was a good idea to press her at this point. He didn’t know her well enough to know when to push and when to back off. He let her hit a few more balls.

“Anything else you want to talk about?” he asked.

“Should there be?”

“You tell me.”

“I—” She swung at the ball and missed. It thudded into Alex’s glove with a soft smack.

Maggie turned, mouth rounded in surprise. “What are you doing down there?”

“Catching.” He stood and hit the control on the machine so she didn’t get taken out by the next ball.

“It’s a cage, you’re meant to stand outside.”

“I don’t always do what I’m meant to do.”

“No kidding.” The bat swung loosely from her hand, the silver-colored aluminum glinting under the lights. She didn’t look as though her mood had improved much.

“Want to hit a few more? Or do you want to talk about it?”

She frowned at his glove. “That glove is pretty old. Did you take it from the practice room?”

“No, it’s mine.”

“You really play ball?”

“Used to,” he corrected. “A long time ago.”

“What level?”

And this was the conversation he didn’t want to have right now. Which meant he had to turn the topic back to the things
she
didn’t want to talk about right now.

“We were talking about you and your dad. Are things okay between you two?”

“Why do you care?”

“Honestly? Because I’d rather not be in the middle of a family feud. I need you functioning.”

“What makes you think I can’t function?”

“I didn’t say that I thought that. But that bat was getting quite a workout, and I don’t know you that well yet but I’m guessing that means you’re angry. No one makes good decisions when they’re mad.”

“Not even the great Alex Winters?”

“Especially me.” It wasn’t entirely true. One of the best decisions of his life had been made when he’d been enraged and grieving and wanting to tear the world a new one. But since then he’d tried to let his head rule most of the time. It had stood him in good stead for quite a long time. Until he’d been unable to convince his heart that he didn’t really want to buy a baseball team. Which only went to show that emotions only got you into trouble. He loved the Saints but they came with a whole bucketload of problems. Including the woman standing before him angrily twirling a baseball bat.

“If you want to keep hitting, we should get you another bat.”

“I was doing okay with this one. Though I prefer wood.”

He bit back a grin. “Me too. I have a collection of old bats. Maybe I can show you sometime.”

She cocked an eyebrow at him. “Is that the Alex Winters version of ‘come up and see my etchings’?”

“Nope. The bats are on display in the range at the Ice Inc. headquarters.”

“You have your own range?”

“The perks of being a mindless corporate raider,” he quipped. “And I promise, I’ve never seduced anyone in a batting cage.” As soon as he said it, images of doing just that flooded through his mind.

The air went still between them.

“Why are we talking about seduction?” Maggie asked in a raspy voice.

“You’re the one who brought up my etchings,” he said.

“It was a joke.”

They stared at each other some more. He could practically feel the air scorching between them as her pupils flared and her eyes darkened despite the intensity of the arc lights shining down on them.

“Maggie,” he said after a few seconds. “I don’t think this is a subject we can joke about. Not if we’re sticking to the too-complicated theory.” He swallowed, trying for that whole head-over-heart thing again. Difficult when he could remember so precisely what kissing her had felt like. “Now. It’s freezing out so you need to start hitting or we need to go inside. Pick one.”

She hesitated, free hand flexing as though she was debating something in her head. Then she curled her hands around the bat and he fought hard not to think about them curling around something more intimately connected with his body.

“Start the damn machine,” she said.

He obeyed but he was pretty sure the damn ball machine wasn’t the only thing that had started just now.

*   *   *

“So,” Alex said, as Maggie took up what was becoming a familiar seat in the chair opposite his desk. “Ready to work?”

She flipped open her iPad case ready to take notes. Between slugging balls and a quick shower, she felt calmer. Slightly. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You were pretty upset when you arrived.”

“I wasn’t upset. I was angry. There’s a difference.” She gritted her teeth, feeling her calm slide away, in no mood for another session of men telling poor little Maggie how she should feel or what to do.

“Angry, then,” Alex said. “Are you—”

“I’m allowed to be angry, you know. I got the shitty end of this deal.”

“I know,” Alex said. “That’s why I’m trying to ask if you’re okay. But apparently that’s just making you madder so I’ll stop.”

Maggie bit her lip. Damn. She was being a bitch again.

“Take that, Saint Maggie.”

The patient seems to be attempting to reframe her personality, to imagine a more assertive self. Patient might find it more useful to use a more positive image for said reframing.

“Shut up.”

Her inner psychologist was another thing that needed a makeover. She shifted in her chair and refocused on Alex, who was watching her patiently. He did too many things patiently. He hadn’t even brought up the kissing. All Mr. Nice Guy and Mr. Understanding and Mr. Trust Me. Well, that much nice was too good to be true. Her dad had spent his life being Mr. Nice Guy and look where believing in that had gotten her.

Gah.

Fury burned through her. She didn’t want to feel like this, didn’t want to be on this emotional roller coaster. Every time she thought she’d gotten a handle on things, gotten the ground back beneath her feet, it shifted again, opened up and tumbled her over and out into another confusing emotion. She needed to suck it up and get it under control.

Patient is in denial about ability to cope with emotional upheaval. Patient may have tendency to be a control freak.

“Shut the
fuck
up.”

“What were we talking about?” she asked Alex, who was still just watching her.

“You being angry.”

Points to him for not shying away from the topic at least. He might be doing Mr. Nice Guy but apparently that didn’t stop him from also doing Mr. Straight to the Point. She appreciated that much, that he had been honest with her.

“Do you think my dad made the right decision?” she blurted out.

He looked confused. “Pardon?”

“Selling you the Saints, was it the right thing to do?”

“I’m hardly in the position to give you an unbiased answer. I wanted to buy the team.”

“Pretend for a moment. Put yourself outside the situation. He’s gotten through tough spots before and he had an up-and-coming employee to start helping out. Would you have sold if you’d been him?” She held her breath, fighting the urge to squirm. Why had she asked this question? Was she so desperate for approval? And what would happen if Alex didn’t give it to her?