Thrown By Love (2 page)

“I’m going for some of those hors d’oeuvres,” Gage said to Jackie. “Want a plate?”

“I’m beginning to think you men are plotting something,” Jackie said with a toss of her head. “Why is it that you’re always trying to feed me?”

“To lull you to sleep so I can take over the empire?”

Gage had a sweet grin, the kind you’d expect from a big brother. He headed off, leaving Scotty standing with Chloe and Jackie. The band in the next room started to play a cover rendition of “Live While We’re Young.”

“Like to dance?” Scotty said.

Chloe started backing away, to give him and Jackie room. Jackie followed and nudged her.

“He means you, Chloe. I’m due to make the rounds.” She waved toward the roomful of people crowding the foyer. “This is a work night for me; fundraising never sleeps.”

She strode off and left Chloe standing with Scotty.

Scotty held out his arm. “Shall we?”

Then he smiled. Oh no. Not
that
smile. Somehow, though she’d never seen it, she knew that the smile he was beaming at her was the kind that warned you that your world was about to be rocked. No wonder songs and books and movies and fairy tales went on about it. She never thought she’d see it, probably nobody did. And now that she had, she wasn’t sure what to do. Other than stand there feeling ridiculous.

“If you’d prefer not to dance,” he said, apparently not disturbed by the fact that she hadn’t answered, “we could get some food with Gage.”

Food was the last thing on her mind.

“No.” At her reply, his smile began to fade. She took a big sip of her wine, felt it melt into her. “I mean, I’m not hungry.” He looked puzzled. She nodded toward the dance floor as the wine warmed her from the inside out. “I would like to. Dance, that is.”

Like a sunrise on a cool midwinter morning, his smile returned. Maybe it wasn’t the wine warming her after all.

“I warn you,” he said with a laugh, “dancing is not my best sport.”

As she took his arm and felt the iron-hard muscles of his forearm beneath her hand, she wondered what his better sport might be.

They slipped between two couples and into the throng on the dance floor. He was right about his dancing skills; her toes might complain in the morning. But as he held her and moved her to the strains of a jazzy waltz, the fuzzy feeling in her chest warned her that it might not be just her toes at risk.

She started to say something to break the strange tension she felt, but the music was too loud for conversation. It always was at events like this.

He pulled her closer, swirling her with a flourish that nearly ran them into a couple attempting a serious foxtrot. His arm slid protectively around her waist, and he tugged her out of their path, mouthing a half-smiled apology. The hard planes of his chest pressed against her breasts and even through the jacket of the tux and the silk of her gown, she could feel his heat. How long had it been since she’d had a man’s arms around her? And not just any arms—he was remarkably strong, likely not a laptop-toting academic. The thought brought a smile to her lips. She glanced up. He was staring at her mouth.

The music stopped. He released her and stepped back. They stood unmoving in that awkward pause that ensues when the music stops on a dance floor.

“I wondered what I might do at this party,” he said, tracking his eyes from her mouth to meet her gaze. “Good thing you came along when you did. Five more minutes of shop talk and they’d have booted me out.”

She’d liked the timbre of his voice—it had a deep, smoky note to it, the sort of voice you could listen to and never tire of. She wondered what he meant by shop talk, but the band kicked into a rocking version of “You Belong With Me” before she could ask.

“One more?” He wiggled his eyebrows in an appealing invitation.

It was an up-tempo song. She did her best in the stiletto sandals and gown to move in the pattern that she and her girlfriends jokingly called
flash mob debutante
, did her best to be at one with the music and ease into the dance. Another three or four hours and she’d probably be back in the zone, back in the free-spirited dancing she’d loved when she was in college.

He took a couple steps back. Separated from her and unhindered by trying to follow a set pattern or match his steps to hers, he began to move. And oh my, the man could move. She’d never seen anyone dance quite like him—maybe an awkward version of Hugh Jackman, though detractors might not compare him so generously. But the raw power and sheer joy emanating from him as he danced was infectious.

He copied a move of hers and laughed.

She copied him back and to her amazement found that she was laughing too. His movements mesmerized her. She squinted and watched just his form. The fabric and cut of his tux followed the lines of his body as if it had been hand-tailored. Maybe it had been. Surely it had been. She doubted if rental places serviced men that tall and with shoulders that wide. He had the look of someone of privilege, but not the air of one. No, he had an almost heartland charm, and she liked it. There was nothing arrogant in his mannerisms or his speech, just a very real, very beguiling charm.

That charm shouldn’t make her feel wary, but it did.

She glanced over his shoulder and saw her dad standing in the doorway. He shot her an
okay
sign and then put his fingers to his ears, grinned and walked back out. For a man used to the roar of baseball stadiums, a loud band in a room with poor acoustics shouldn’t faze him. But he’d never been a fan of jazz. It was one of her passions he didn’t share.

Fingers touched her arm, and she jumped. Scotty leaned down to her, and his lips brushed her ear.

“Let’s get some air,” he said. He could’ve said
let’s run off into the forest
or something like it for the shiver the touch of his lips sent racing through her.

How many hundreds of these parties had she been to and how many times had she danced with handsome men? But she’d never felt like this. And besides, most of those men far too often had designs on her. They didn’t pursue her because of what she loved or what her dreams were. And they certainly didn’t pursue her because she was a scientist and they had some deep love for her as a professor of cosmology. No, they all knew that hooking her would set them up for life.

But Scotty appeared to be dancing and spending time with her for the sheer joy of it. She couldn’t resist his invitation.

“Food would actually be good,” she replied, even though that wasn’t what he’d suggested. The rigor of dancing had sent the alcohol straight to her head.

He nodded, and she followed him off the dance floor.

He hadn’t offered his arm to escort her. It would’ve felt too familiar, almost awkward, now that they were out of the ritual of the dance. He must’ve known. She liked that—his quick read of the situation too.

Chapter Two

Scotty settled Chloe at a table near an alcove. At the moment, he didn’t care that the woman who heated his blood was Peter McNalley’s daughter. They were just dancing, having fun. He didn’t know anyone at the gala and Alex, the one friend he’d expected to be there, hadn’t shown yet, although it was well past nine. He’d let Jackie beat Alex up for being late, something she needed to do often and did well, with that coolly raised British brow of hers. He’d rather spend his attention on Chloe, the most beautiful woman in the room.

And beautiful she was, though he could tell she didn’t know it.

She was unaffected and open, with eyes that kept calling to him. And her lips . . . well, those were calling too.

He asked her what she’d like from the appetizer buffet and stared into her sea-blue eyes as she rattled off a few items. When he reached the table spread with hors d’oeuvres, he couldn’t remember what she’d asked for. That wasn’t like him. Remembering details was one of his strengths. As a starting pitcher, not only did he have an arsenal of pitches, he’d watched hours of video and memorized the talents and weaknesses of the hitters he’d face during the season. Remembering details was his lifeline.

He stood in front of the table, scanning it. Women usually liked small, easy-to-eat foods that weren’t runny or crumbly. He scooped up a few potstickers from a huge bamboo steamer and some puffy pastry-looking things from the table next to it. On a whim he grabbed a handful of strawberries and piled them on top of the heap and then snagged two glasses of champagne from a passing waiter. He plunked the plate and one of the glasses onto the table in front of Chloe, knocking over a tent card as he did. Under it were two gift cards for Crossroads, an independent bookstore that he particularly liked. He could get lost in there and nobody bugged him.

“I hope you’re not waiting for me to ask you to sit down.” Chloe laughed. “Not after all that.”

He wasn’t sure what she meant by
all that
, but he did know that he had the unnerving urge to kiss her. As she dug into the plate of food and he saw how ravenously she ate, he figured she’d been hungrier than she’d let on.

“Dinner should start any minute,” he said.

“Umph,” she said, swallowing a mouthful. “I never count on liking these dinners. Great appetizers though.”

What a mouth. She had one of those little bows in her upper lip that, if he’d seen it on a sculpture, he’d have called it pretentious. But on her it was perfect. It made him want to kiss her all the more. It’d been only a week since he’d last had sex but from the way his body was responding to her, he’d have guessed it had been a year. He took a sip of his champagne and sat, scooting his chair close to hers. At least the tablecloth hid his arousal. She pushed the plate toward him.

“You’re not hungry?”

He was. In more ways than one.

He plucked a potsticker from the mess, wishing now that he’d grabbed a few of the meat bits the waiter had called lamb lollipops. Tiny appetizers never made much sense to him. He’d grown up on a farm; food came in portions large enough to fuel a hard day’s work.

“What do you do when you’re not dazzling men at balls?” he said to Chloe.

“I warn you, I’m allergic to flattery,” she said with a laugh. “I teach. Cosmology.” She took a bite of potsticker and tilted her head, watching for his reaction.

“Cosmology wasn’t a major when I was at UCLA,” he said. “I had to end around it by majoring in astrophysics.” He paused and basked for a moment in the surprise that lit her eyes. “But that route was disappointing,” he added. “Too many equations and not enough of the mystery.”

Her lips curved into a wry smile, and he felt he’d passed some sort of test. Most guys probably didn’t want to talk about the universe, though the topic no doubt held endless fascination for her.

“Nothing lights my students up more than when they realize that the powers that form the universe are alive in them.” She waved a strawberry with enthusiasm. “I love the look on their faces when they get a feel for the fact that they too are at the heart of a vast unfolding of creativity and promise.”

It’d been too long since he’d thought about the powers that fired the universe, even though they’d been his passion in college. The glow on Chloe’s face had him thinking that maybe it was time to get back to them. He'd signed up for an online master's degree in astrophysics but the idea of going broader, of seeking a degree in cosmology, was intriguing. He'd need something to fall back on after baseball, a pursuit he could pour his energies into. But right then the pursuit that most interested him was her. He wanted to know more about her world, and in his mind he’d already clicked off a plan to sit in on one of her classes.

“I’m not up on the latest news,” he said, wishing he was. “But I
can
calculate how many days it would take to send you to Mars.”

“And back, or would it be a one-way trip?” She bit into the strawberry and the juice colored her lips. He was determined to kiss them.

“Last I checked, still one way.”

“What do
you
do when you’re not discussing astrophysics at balls?” she asked as she nibbled at another strawberry.

He dreaded telling her he was a ballplayer; he’d been relieved when she hadn’t flinched when they’d been introduced. But telling the truth was something he prided himself on, even if it hurt.

“I pitch for the Giants.”

Her hand, reaching for another strawberry, stopped midreach. “I’m sorry,” she said, blushing. “I should know these things. I’ve been pretty buried in my work, so I’m not up to speed on the game this year.”

“Don’t apologize; it’s refreshing. Even I can get tired of talking about the game.”

That wasn’t quite true. In fact, he couldn’t remember ever tiring of talking about baseball, not with someone who knew it from the inside out.

But it
was
true that he liked that she hadn’t taken an interest in him just because he was a player. Two nights ago he’d excused himself from another near-disaster on the road. The woman he’d taken to his hotel room had practically asked him to sign her body, she was so caught up in being with a player. He'd reined in before things went too far. After she’d left, he’d made a vow to change his ways. His first couple of years in the majors he’d been thrilled with all the open smiles and invitations for sex. But in the past couple of months, he’d realized he’d begun to look for more than casual hook-ups with star-struck baseball groupies. A few of his friends had decided to settle down and start families and while he wasn’t ready for that, there had to be something more than what he did have.