Authors: Regina Kyle
4:00 p.m. Game time. Then Noelle would see what happened to bad girls who liked to spy on poor, unsuspecting, naked men.
And hopefully by the end of the night they’d
both
wind up naked. And satisfied.
* * *
“
A
RE
YOU
SURE
you’re okay?” Sara handed Noelle a water bottle. “You’re not your normal, take-no-prisoners self today. You seem—I don’t know—distracted.”
Duh.
Watching the hottest guy on either side of the Mississippi get himself off would do that to a girl. Not that she was admitting that to Sara.
“For the hundredth time, I’m fine.” Noelle popped the top on the bottle and took a sip before carefully climbing off the recumbent bike. “Now can we get to the range-of-motion exercises, or what?”
The more activity, the better. Maybe working herself past the point of exhaustion would help erase the image of Jace all naked and wet and hard, calling out her name as he came.
Not likely.
“In a minute.” Sara took a seat on one of the weight benches and motioned for Noelle to join her. “Take a breather. Have some more water.”
With a resigned shrug, Noelle complied, sitting and drinking. The water was cool and refreshing and totally ineffective in dampening her runaway libido.
“What now?” she asked when she’d finished. “Girl bonding time?”
“In a manner of speaking.” Sara sipped from her own water bottle. “So you and Jace...”
“I told you, there is no me and Jace.”
“That’s not what I heard.”
Noelle could almost feel her pale skin blanch even further. “Heard? From who?”
“The man himself. He texted to thank me for returning his phone.”
Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit, oh shit, oh shit.
“What did you say?”
“I set him straight. Told him it was you.”
Great.
Now he knew she’d been spying on him. Again.
“He said you got quite a show.” Sara snickered.
“He told you about that?” Noelle squeaked.
Gentlemen were not supposed to tattle. Of course, ladies weren’t supposed to snoop, either.
“Not in detail.” Sara eyed Noelle hopefully.
“Well, you’re not getting anything out of me.” Noelle pushed her shoulders back and lifted her chin.
“What happened?” Sara persisted, undaunted. “Did you walk in on him in the buff?”
It was amazing how close she’d come to hitting the nail on the head. So to speak.
“I plead the fifth,” Noelle said, trotting out a phrase her lawyer brother loved to use.
“Interesting.” Sara narrowed her eyes. “People who refuse to talk usually have something to hide.”
“Not this people.” Noelle took a long slug from her water bottle and stood. “Now if the Spanish Inquisition is over, can I pretty please get back to my workout? There’s an eighteen-year-old soloist in the company who’d give her favorite pair of legwarmers to take my principal spot.”
“We can’t have that, can we?” Sara rose and picked out a five-pound ankle cuff from a shelf against the wall. “Start with hamstring curls. Three sets of twelve, rest, then repeat.”
She handed Noelle the cuff and pointed in the direction of an empty mat. “But don’t think this discussion is over. I have ways of making you talk.”
“Over and above the daily physical torture?”
“You ain’t seen nothin’ yet.” Sara promised, giving her a gentle shove. “I haven’t even begun to torture you.”
She wasn’t kidding. Half an hour and what seemed like ten gallons of sweat later, Noelle lay drenched and panting on the mat, having been put through more curls, lifts, bends, raises and squats than she could count.
“Ready to throw in the towel?” Sara taunted.
Yes!
Noelle’s leg screamed.
“No way,” her mouth contradicted.
Sara checked the clock over the door. “Well, my next victim should be here any time now, so you’re off the hook. Go take a nice, hot shower. You worked hard. You deserve it.”
“Thanks.” Noelle ducked her head and made a beeline for the door so Sara wouldn’t see her blush at the word “shower.” Would she ever hear that word again without seeing Jace braced against the wall, his hand a blur as he stroked himself, his eyes closed and his head thrown back in ecstasy?
Her head was still down when she plowed through the door and ran smack into a broad, male—very familiar—chest.
“Hey there, Duchess.” Jace closed his fingers over her shoulders, catching her before she knocked them both over. “What’s your hurry?”
She shivered, his touch burning through the thin fabric of her tank top and sending waves of need low in her belly. “I wish you’d stop calling me that.”
“I’ll make you a deal.” He favored her with that panty-melting, bad-boy smile that made her common sense do a grand jeté out the window. “I’ll stop calling you Duchess if you quit the Peeping Tom stuff.”
She tensed, knowing he had her dead to rights. Still, denial seemed like the best defense. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t you?” He leaned in, his hot breath fanning the hair at the nape of her neck as he spoke. “You know, if you wanted to see me naked, all you had to do was ask.”
She jerked back. “I do not want to see you naked.”
“Again.” His fingers tightened around her arms. “You don’t want to see me naked again. Except your body says otherwise.”
“My body?”
“The flushed cheeks. Parted lips. Nipples as hard as bullets.” He bent impossibly closer so his lips brushed her ear. “They don’t lie, sweetness.”
She bit back her sharp retort when the door to the PT room bust open and Dylan came out.
“Dylan.” She shrank away from Jace. At least this time he had the courtesy to let her go. “I thought you left.”
“I did.” The teenager held up an iPod. “I came back for this. You were busy with Sara.”
His eyes moved to Jace, and the shock of recognition crossed his youthful face. “Holy crap. You’re Jace Monroe.”
“I’m aware of that.” Jace rocked back on his heels, an amused chuckle softening his words.
“You hit for the cycle in the All-Star game.”
“I’m aware of that, too.”
“You were on pace to break Barry Bonds’s single-season home run record.” Dylan eyed the shortstop’s brace. “I read about your injury. Tough break.”
“You, too.” Jace’s eyes flicked to the boy’s missing arm. “Sara says you’re quite a pitcher.”
“Was,” Dylan muttered, scuffing the linoleum with the toe of his cross-trainers.
“Ever hear of Jim Abbott?” Jace asked.
Dylan shook his head.
“Pete Gray?”
Another head shake, sandy hair flopping in every direction.
“Tell you what.” Jace clapped a hand on Dylan’s good shoulder. “Meet me tomorrow morning for breakfast and we can talk. Dining room, eight a.m. sharp.”
He offered his hand—his injured right one, Noelle noticed, so Dylan, who was missing his left, wouldn’t feel awkward. Dylan took it carefully and shook it.
“Sure thing, Mr. Monroe.”
“My friends call me Jace.”
“You bet, Mr....Jace.” Dylan practically bounced down the hall, his words floating after him. “See you at eight.”
Smiling, Noelle watched him go, grateful not just for the boy’s obvious delight but for his interruption, which had burst the bubble of sexual tension surrounding her and Jace.
“Another loyal fan?” she teased.
Jace shrugged. “Kid probably knows my stats better than I do.”
“You must get that a lot.” She leaned against the wall, her knee starting to feel the strain of standing for so long after her workout.
He shrugged again. “I could say the same to you.”
She reached up and took out her ponytail, shaking her hair free. God, that felt good. “Ballet fans aren’t quite so...enthusiastic. And I usually don’t offer to have breakfast with them.”
“Neither do I,” Jace’s voice sounded strained, and he stopped to clear his throat. “But the kid’s at a crossroads. How he deals with the next few weeks of rehab will determine whether he ever sets foot on the mound again.”
“You mean he could still pitch?” she asked.
“With the right prosthetic and a shit-ton of guts, sure.”
“And Jim Abbott and Pete Gray—whoever they are—can help him?”
“Maybe.”
She stared at Jace. The tattoos. The five-o’clock shadow. The cocky attitude.
She jabbed a finger at his chest. “And to think you had me fooled.”
He quirked a brow at her. “How so?”
“Under that tough-guy exterior, you’re just a big, old marshmallow with a heart of gold, aren’t you?”
“Because I’m having breakfast with a fan?”
“Because you reached out to a scared kid facing an uncertain future.”
Like we are.
He stuffed his hands in his pockets. “Whatever you say, Duchess. I’m a regular Mother Teresa. Just don’t tell the tabloids. I have a reputation to uphold.”
So much for Mr. Nice Guy. “I thought you agreed to stop calling me that.”
Noelle pushed off the wall and headed for her room.
“Only if you stop stalking me,” Jace said, following her. “And I haven’t seen any evidence of that yet.”
“I am not stalking you.” In fact, at the moment it seemed an awful lot like he was stalking her. But she didn’t think it was wise to bring that up since she
was
guilty of the whole Peeping Tom thing.
“What else do you call breaking into my room and...”
“Stop.” The word came out on a shriek so loud a geriatric patient going past them almost lost his grip on his walker. Noelle mumbled an apology and rounded the corner at the end of the hall, picking up the pace as best as she could with her bum knee. When she spoke again, it was practically a hiss. “I did not break into your room. And I did not spy on you. I returned your phone. I left.”
Eventually.
“Eventually,” he quipped, echoing her thoughts. What was he, a mind reader?
Thankfully, they’d reached her door. The peace and quiet of her Jace-free room was mere inches away. All she had to do was get the dang thing open and get rid of him and his bedroom eyes and his sexy smile and his hotter-than-hot body. She fumbled for her key, finally pulling it out of her pocket and slipping it into the lock.
“Well, this has been fun.”
Not.
“But it’s time for this girl to soak her tired muscles in a warm bath.”
Those damn bedroom eyes gleamed, and she cursed herself for giving him an opening as wide as the stage at the Palais Garnier. “Sure you don’t want company? I could watch. Maybe even scrub your back if you ask nicely. After all, turnabout is fair play.”
She pushed the door open, not bothering to deny—yet again—that she’d seen him. “Thanks, but no.”
Once inside, she spun around to close the door. Instead, she found him looming over her, one hand hanging on the top of the door frame. “If you change your mind, you know where to find me.”
His low, sexy drawl vibrated through her, making her wish that was an option. “Don’t hold your breath.”
“I won’t.” With his free hand, he brushed a stray lock of hair off her cheek, and the faint tremors his voice had started increased to near earthquake level. “Lock your door if you want any privacy. I hear this place has a problem with folks waltzing in to people’s rooms at the most inopportune moments.”
With a wink, he left.
6
D
OOR
FIRMLY
LATCHED
, Noelle eased herself down onto her bed, still trembling. Jace was like some sort of sexual Svengali, able to bring out all kinds of indecent, primal urges she’d suppressed since her breakup with Yannick. Like the urge to climb all over him as if he was her own personal jungle gym. She needed a few minutes for her traitorous body to recover.
She’d closed her eyes for maybe thirty seconds when her cell went off on the bedside table. Her screen told her it was Ivy, wanting to FaceTime. She sat up and ran a hand through her hair before answering.
“Well, if it isn’t the elusive, world-famous fashion photographer. Back from—where was it this time?”
“Bondi Beach.” Ivy unwrapped a Milky Way bar and bit into it. “And I’m not a fashion photographer anymore. I’m a simple, hometown shutterbug, taking pics of family and friends for fun and profit. This was a one-time favor.”
Noelle’s stomach grumbled. She hadn’t had chocolate in, like, forever. The macaroons had been an aberration, her lone indulgence in as far back as she could remember. And she’d wound up leaving them on that bench, too shaken by a simple kiss to think of food.
Simple kiss, my ass.
“Andre still pestering you to come back?” she asked, trying to get her mind back on task.
“No. He knows I’m happy doing what I’m doing. But he was double-booked and Cade had a few days off coming to him, so...”
A wistful look drifted across her sister’s face on the tiny screen, and Noelle could imagine how Ivy and her new hunk—who also happened to be their brother’s best friend—had used their unexpected vacation time. Not that she particularly wanted to. First Holly, now Ivy. One sexually satisfied sister was bad enough. Two was almost unbearable. And that wasn’t even counting her disgustingly happy third sibling and his fiancée. Love was spreading like wildfire in the Nelson family. Unless your name was Noelle.
She shook off the sudden feeling of melancholy.
“So it’s true.” Phone in hand, she walked to the mini-fridge in the cabinet under the television and pulled out a bottle of water. Staying hydrated was an important part of injury prevention and rehabilitation. And maybe filling up on H2O would kill her craving for chocolate. And sexy shortstops. “You really are giving it all up to stay in Stockton.”
“I’m not giving. I’m gaining.” Ivy took another, even bigger, bite of her candy bar. “Something you might consider someday—when the right guy comes along.”
She sounded strangely like...
“Have you been talking to Holly?” Noelle sank into the stuffed chair by the window, stretching her leg out in front of her.
Ivy licked a spot of chocolate off her upper lip. “She is my sister.”
“So am I.”