The Heart Of The Game (25 page)

“Yes.”

“You don’t look okay.”

What was it about him that made her want to bare her soul?

She leaned back against her pillows and traced the small scar along his jaw. “How’d you get such a scar?” she asked, striking out for something, anything, to beat back the tide of emotion washing through her.

“That’s a story for another time,” he said.

“It’s your only imperfection,” she said, conjuring a smile that she hoped would lighten her mood.

To her relief, he laughed lightly. “Hardly. Wait till you get to know me better.”

The thought of knowing him better stirred the fog inside her, and she felt the mist rise and engulf her heart. She really needed to get a grip.

He watched her face as she attempted to school her features. She wished Alex hadn’t told her about Cody’s remarkable ability to read people, about his almost unbelievable aptitude to anticipate the thoughts of hitters and then call for pitches that would confound them. She wanted to doubt that he knew the effect he had on her. But as he scooted across the bed and pulled her against his warm body, she knew that all the wishing in the world wouldn’t wish away such a core trait, such an unimaginable sensitivity.

Her cheek pressed against his chest, and the steady beat of his heart pulsed against her skin. He stroked his hand gently along her arm. And to her horror, she burst into tears, tears that she’d thought she’d cried, emptied out, months before.

He cradled her as she fought to control her sobs. But they rose in waves that wouldn’t be turned back. He rested his chin gently against the top of her head and rocked her as sobs racked her body.

And then he started to hum, the quiet, gentle, almost otherworldly melody he’d hummed to her horse that day in the barn. And to her surprise, her body quieted and her sobs slowed, dissolving as she drew in longer breaths.

“I’m so sorry.” She sniffed self-consciously. She pulled away from him and hugged her knees. And opened her mouth to say that she wasn’t a very good date, that bawling uncontrollably in his arms was a poor way of celebrating the bliss he’d shown her. But before she could, he put his finger to her lips.

“Don’t be.”

His voice was like a velvet cape she could snug around her and burrow into for comfort. He closed his hand around hers and lowered it from her knees. She stared at his fingers, feeling the warmth of his palm, the steady beat of his pulse against her. There was magic there, in his hands. With his other hand he tipped her face to his.

“Want to tell me?”

She shook her head. She’d learned early on that when most people asked how she was doing, they didn’t really want to know. They thought that after several months had passed since her mother’s death, she should be pulling herself up and getting on with daily life

He grasped a corner of the sheet and dabbed at her cheeks. She felt his strength, his concern. His patience.

“I’m a good listener,” he said with the gentlest, most honest smile she’d ever seen.

“It’s not a happy story.”

“Some of the best stories aren’t. Try me.”

“I don’t know. It’s just that no matter how I try, no matter how many times I tell myself that I should be grateful, that I should be strong, that I should be over it, I can never walk through to the other side. I can’t get through the deep grief and into the next stage of mourning.”

“You mean about your mother.”

He held her gaze. It was as if his presence, his witnessing of her feelings, had crafted a bridge out in front of her, a bridge she could step onto to find her way forward. God, how she wanted to take new steps. Steps that had the spring of exuberance for the life that she once knew.

The dammed-up feelings she’d held in for so long began to flow, this time in unstoppable words.

“Watching my mother die shook everything I’d ever known about life. In the months when she was so sick, I wanted to be there for her. She didn’t want to pretend that she wasn’t going to die. But it was almost impossible for me to give up my notion that if I just tried hard enough, she wouldn’t go.

“For months after her memorial I was so consumed with memories that they crowded out my thoughts. I was so submerged by my deep, intense longing for her that I thought I would go mad. I felt like I was drowning, slipping away from life. And I was afraid to talk about her death, to talk about her pain, perhaps afraid that the water would rise and sink the fragile boat I was trying so hard to row forward.

“So I clamped on to the familiar: the house and horses, my friends, Mama’s favorite shops. And when my father announced that he was moving all of us to California, I soldiered on. I couldn’t bear the thought of anything happening to Papa. You’ve seen him—he still hasn’t come up for air. He’s still in a deep, dark space, lighting matches as fast as he can. He still thinks he can direct outcomes, fix everything, keep all of us from ever facing the abyss.”

Cody’s eyes darkened as she spoke about her father.

“Sometimes action, a driven focus, keeps us from falling apart,” he said.

She thought about the gallery, about how working on it had begun to shift her out of her shock, had given her something to work for, something of value that connected her to her mother, a project that would return her to Rome, to the place that spoke to her heart, the only place that felt like home.

“I know these things take time,” he said softly, drawing her back from her still-forming thoughts. “And don’t get me wrong—I mean, this may not be the right thing to say—but I’m sure she wouldn’t want you to grieve forever.”

Zoe shuddered. And then her breath caught.

His brows drew together when he narrowed his eyes. “I may be a good listener, but I can see I’ve made a scrambled mess of this. I just thought that—”

“No, you’re right. You’re
so
right.” She shivered again, the sensation raising goose bumps on her arms. “And if you hadn’t just said what you did, I might not have ever recalled what I’m about to tell you. It’s as if the experience had slid back and away from me, out of my consciousness, and just now you brought the memory back. Thank God you brought it back.”

She rolled up to her knees, facing him, and grabbed his hand. “I’ll tell you if you promise you won’t think I’m crazy.”

“Cross my heart.”

“Does that mean you promise?”

He grinned. She loved his easy grin. There wasn’t a man in Italy who could grin like that. But he might not be grinning after he heard what she had to say. Promise or not, she was taking a risk. He might conclude she was actually crazy.

And maybe she was.
What she’d just remembered
...

He took her hand in his. “I promise.”

Her heart thundered in her chest as she struggled to call back the images, the moment, the unbelievable feelings she’d nearly buried. He stroked his thumb along the back of her hand, encouraging her. She lifted his hand to her lips. God how she loved his hands. On her. Around her.

He caressed her jaw with his other hand. “You were about to tell me something.”

She leaned into the curve of his palm and closed her eyes. If there was magic in the world, it was here in her room. Between them.

He pulled his hands away and sat back, resting his hands on her knees.

“About a week after I returned from Argentina and many weeks before I met you, I rode out in the hills to paint. As I stood at my easel, I felt an odd dizziness come over me, but I didn’t fall. And then light began to shimmer all around me—it was like it had wings and was flying and dancing and laughing. And I understood that she was out there—my mother—out of my reach, but enduring. And at that very moment, almost as if it was carried to me, borne on the light, I heard a voice, a voice so real that I turned to look for its source. The voice told me that she wouldn’t want me to grieve forever.”

Zoe took in a breath, watching his face. He didn’t blink, only nodded.

“It was
your
voice, Cody, I know that now. And I don’t even believe in such things. I... well...” She fought for the words. “Remembering that moment, letting myself understand what it meant, I feel that the dread that has cloaked me, weighing on me, is lifting. That the worst is behind me and that I can find my way.”

She fluttered her hand in the air.

“Meeting you warmed me, Cody, made me want to reenter life.”

“I like warming you.”

She rocked forward onto her knees and put her palm against his cheek. “You have no idea how much I like you warming me.”

He brushed a strand of hair from her face, then kissed her, gently, slowly, and as his hands roamed her body, luring pleasure as he stroked and kissed, she fell back across the bed and drifted in the wordless ecstasy of lovemaking, floating like a cloud—light, free and forever changed.

The sound of a door clicking shut snapped Cody out of his dream.

“I brought breakfast,” Zoe said as she eased down to sit on the edge of the bed and slide a tray between them. “You were so deep in sleep I didn’t want to wake you.” She gestured to the tray. “And I thought you might prefer to avoid the mayhem in our kitchen.”

Cody sat up and dragged a hand through his hair. Embarrassment slapped at him. Hours of the best sex of his life had sunk him into a deep, dream-filled sleep. Mighty deep if he hadn’t sensed Zoe wake and leave the room.

She was already fully dressed in riding pants and a sweater. No makeup. But there was no mistaking the glow lighting her features. At least he could feel good about that.

“There’s coffee.” She nodded toward the tray. “And toast.” The uncertain tone of her voice told him she was as unaccustomed to the situation as he was.

In the morning light, her eyes took on a deep green hue dappled with flecks of gold. He’d always thought the beautiful women portrayed in paintings by the old masters were composites, that no women like the ones in the paintings he had to study in college really existed. But Zoe was proof that they were real.

“Thank you.” Though he wanted coffee, he wanted her more. He lifted the tray and twisted around, placing it on the table beside the bed. “Although I was considering a different sort of breakfast.” He took her hand and drew her to him.

He’d intended a slow, easy beginning, but as his arms closed around her body and she opened to his kiss, slow wasn’t in the stars. He pressed her away and stripped the sweater over her head. She put a hand out. He didn’t want to read her sign to stop; his body already raced with hot want. But he sat back, honoring her signal. She stood and walked into her bathroom without a backward glance.

He eyed the coffee. Caffeine wouldn’t do anything to slow his racing pulse or the hard throbbing in his groin, but it would at least blast him back to reality. Yet before he could lift the cup, she was back, naked and smiling.

“I thought we might need this.” She brandished a condom packet with a sexy shimmy. “The standard breakfast tray here doesn’t come with such amenities.”

An hour later they lay breathless across the bed. When he reached for her again, she twisted away.

“Breakfast,” she said. “And then I want to show you something. And after, if you’d like to stay, you can cheer my team on in the pick-up match Parker has arranged for later this morning.” When he didn’t immediately answer, she added, “I promise you won’t have to ride.”

He circled his fingers around her wrist. “You make a lot of promises. But I already pointed that out.”

She stiffened and drew her hands away. Her eyes darkened. He’d meant to tease, but evidently he’d hit a nerve. He wondered what promises she’d made that she regretted. Or hadn’t been able to keep.

“I’d love to see you play.” He swung his legs over the side of the bed and reached for a coffee cup.

“It will be cold.”

“The ride?” He took a sip.

“The coffee.” She took the cup from his hands. “I’ll get more.” He reached again for the cup, but she didn’t release it to him.

“Italians never drink cold coffee. Both my hospitality and I would be remiss.”

He let her have the cup. “No one could question your hospitality, Zoe.”

The words were playful, yet he was aware of the tension that wound in him as she hurriedly dressed and left the room.

He’d never been so confounded by a woman in his life. Her story about hearing his voice—
his
voice
before
she’d ever met him—had shaken him. He’d heard stories about such experiences and never believed them. There were always explanations for such occurrences. But the explanation for hers had shocked him: him traveling through time to be with her before he met her, to comfort her before he even knew she existed—it just wasn’t possible. But in some deep part of himself, he was touched that he’d been a part of her crazy experience. The universe never spoke to him in such mysterious ways. Or maybe he’d just never been open to hearing. He dropped an arm over his head. Or maybe he was simply too sane.

His thoughts rumbled on as he lay in the quiet of her room. He’d never had a woman cry in his arms after making love. And he’d surprised himself. Tears weren’t anything he’d been very good at facing before. But Zoe’s tears had reached in and loosed an unknown strength, strength he wanted to wrap around her and use to comfort her.

He was still puzzling over the change as he rolled out of bed. Something sharp poked at the bottom of his foot. He reached down and picked up the delicate gold necklace he’d noticed her wearing when he’d stripped off her dress. The chain had broken but the tiny horse charm hadn’t been crushed. He coiled the chain and dropped the necklace onto her bedside table.

He dragged on his pants and dress shirt, and then lifted his jacket from where he’d tossed it to the floor the night before. As he slipped it on, her scent rose from the wool, firing a hot pulse of raw wanting, despite the hours of satisfying sex they’d enjoyed.

He’d done a damned poor job of keeping things light, of keeping his feelings in the realm of simple and straightforward. But nothing about Zoe Tavonesi was simple and straightforward. He’d better remember that and get a grip.

“This is the place.” Zoe eased her horse to a stop at the crest of a hill, and Cody rode up beside her. She glanced over at him. “I wish you’d let me borrow riding pants and boots from Adrian. You two are nearly the same size.”

He’d already pointed out that his khakis and cowboy boots were plenty functional for a leisurely ride in the Sonoma hills. He didn’t need perfect uniforms for any activity other than baseball, he’d told her as they’d left her stables. That had made her laugh, had broken the tension that had settled into the morning. Or maybe just getting out under the open sky had done it.

Montana was magnificent, but as they’d climbed the hills behind the Tavonesi compound, Cody hadn’t been able to find easy words to describe the rolling hills dotted with scattered outcrops of rock towers and stretches of oak groves. After the recent rain, grass had sprouted up, casting the hills in a patchy carpet of brilliant green.

Zoe spread her arms in a sweeping gesture.

“Right over there, on that rise. That’s where I was painting when I heard your voice.” She shaded her eyes with her hand. “See any wizards or fairies?”

Her accent made the word
wizard
sound like an incantation and made him smile.

“What?” she asked.

“Just haven’t thought about wizards in a while.” Decades probably.

Her sparkling laugh reached deep into him.

“I’ve almost finished the painting I began that day—I’ll show it to you. I’m planning on—”

She stopped talking. Whatever she was planning, she’d obviously decided to keep the thought to herself.

“When I first started painting up here, I was forceful with my brush, so determined to get down on canvas what my mind had already decided was here. But after a few afternoons, I started to see this place—
really
see it—and let the hills speak. I discovered surprising and marvelous beauty I wasn’t searching for.”

Her words seared deep. He knew the drive to make an experience into what one had determined it was supposed to be, the struggle to control an outcome as well as the path to it. And he hadn’t had much experience with letting go, letting the world talk back. Except with animals and nature. But never people.

“And then that one afternoon, I heard your voice.” She brushed at a strand of hair blown loose by the morning breeze. “I sound ridiculous.”

“No, not ridiculous.”

“Crazy, maybe?” she said, raising a brow. “It all sounds so much more
believable
in Italian,” she said with a light laugh.

With the sun beaming behind her, framing her hair and face in a golden glow, she could’ve been mistaken for a wood nymph. He laughed at his poetic imagery. Maybe he was the one touched in the head.

“We should head back.” She turned her horse in the direction they’d come. “Parker may be lax in many ways, but he is
very
particular about starting events on time. Even casual polo matches.”

Though Cody would rather scoop her from her horse and kiss her until words were impossible, he turned his mount and watched Zoe. She rode with strength and balance, grace and ease. And yet there was a wild energy in her movements too. A wildness that called to him loud and clear. He’d like to see her barrel race. Naked. In a private arena. Just the two of them.

His horse nearly ran into hers. She’d stopped, and he hadn’t even noticed.

“Those must be very deep thoughts you’re having,” she said with a light laugh.

Cody shifted on the gelding and hoped the effects of his fantasy weren’t too obvious.

He’d never imagined that he’d feel desire and admiration and near uncontrollable wanting all at the same time. He was beginning to have a taste of the stuff of country-music songs and Hollywood blockbusters. If he wasn’t careful, Zoe Tavonesi could make him crazy.

“Do you
think
in Italian?” he asked, hoping to divert her attention and his. “I’ve always wondered how people decide which language to use and when,” he added, hoping to draw her into conversation. If they didn’t talk on the way back, he just might drag her from the horse and into the soft green grass.

And he guessed Parker wouldn’t take that very well.

To his relief, she urged her horse forward. “It’s not always a decision. In fact, sometimes I’m not even aware what language is coursing through my head. But I’m most comfortable speaking Italian, of course. It’s the language of my home.”

Her home.

Last he’d seen a map, Italy was seven thousand miles away. And they sure as hell didn’t play baseball there.

And what the hell was he doing having such thoughts anyway? He slapped at his jeans, hoping to shake himself up.

Maybe there
were
wizards in the woods.

Watching Zoe play polo was torture. Her finesse and strategic moves, her amazing communication with and control of her mounts, and her blistering competitive drive was beyond what he had imagined. As she thundered down the field, the knotting in his belly was familiar but unwelcome. She knew her strengths and her limits, surely. Or did she?

In the sixth chukker the score was tied at three goals each with barely a minute to go. Parker rode in on the ball, and his mallet caught Zoe’s stirrup. Cody saw what was coming. His rodeo reflexes kicked into gear and he darted onto the field. He was halfway to her as she fell head first between her horse and Parker’s and into a storm of hooves.

“Don’t move,” he said when he reached her. The other riders had cleared the area and dismounted, and he waved at them to stay back.

“For goodness’ sake,” she said as she sat up. “I know you’ve seen plenty of riders fall off horses.”

“Not with seven other horses bearing down on them full speed. Polo is a dangerous sport.”

Head cocked and grinning, Zoe eyed him and gave a shaky laugh. “
This
from a man who rides half-wild broncs and squats in front of balls flying at him at a hundred miles an hour?”