Always Right (8 page)

What the hell am I doing here?
That refrain kept going through Amanda’s head as she passed through the gates of Rockets Field, making her way through the sparse pre-game crowds to her seat in the right-field stands.

She’d spent the better part of the night debating what she should do. She had an obligation to UPA, and nothing could change that. They’d hired her. They’d paid good money—and would continue to pay a lot more—for her to fight the other side in a patent case that would determine whether they would continue to exist.

But Kyle had hired her too, in a manner of speaking.

She’d created the problem herself, first by demanding money for the partnership buy-in, then by staking a claim for her brother. She’d convinced herself that she had the upper hand, that the Spring Valley documents locked in her desk drawer were the very definition of power and control.

But in the deepest corners of her brain, she knew that wasn’t true at all. By blackmailing Kyle, she’d handed power over to him. Sure, there were criminal masterminds who could do what she had done—threaten to expose a man’s past for personal gain. But Amanda wasn’t that sort of person. She knew she’d never be able to live with herself if she exposed the truth about Kyle.

Nevertheless, he’d paid her. And she’d cashed the checks. So that meant she owed him something, owed him a hell of a lot. Because what value could she truly place on her career with Link Oster? What price could she attach to Hunter’s health?

One phone call—that’s all it had taken to make everything right. One call to opposing counsel, requesting that they postpone their meeting for a day. The other lawyer could have played hardball, but he didn’t. It was to his benefit to have Amanda in his debt. She had no delusions—she’d pay him back before the trial was over, probably a hundred fold. She’d accept a deadline that was inconvenient to her; she’d end up taking depositions in a place or at a time that made her life miserable.

But she was here, at Rockets Field. And a pasteboard box was waiting on her seat.

She opened it with savage little motions, tugging at the lid, shoving aside the tissue paper. Sure enough, her sunglasses were waiting for her, reflecting red in the noon glare. A note was tucked between the earpieces.

“I’ll make it up to you. I promise.”

He’d dashed off a K to sign the note. The easy familiarity sent a
ping
down her spine, and every nerve in her body started campaigning for how Kyle could fulfill his promise. She shook her head and slipped the note into her pocket.

Out on the field, the grounds crew was setting up batting practice. They’d already rolled out the giant cage that protected the pitcher, and they were placing the barriers at first and third base. Every man moved quickly, efficiently, like he knew his place in a complicated ballet. The routine was soothing, and Amanda relaxed in her seat.

One of the Rockets’ trainers came onto the field, working with a couple of the players to help them stretch their hamstrings. Two other guys started running wind sprints, loosening their bodies, preparing for the game that meant everything to them.

As Amanda watched, Kyle stepped to the top of the dugout. She could see him clearly; his white uniform shimmered against the shadowed benches behind him. Her breath caught as the sun highlighted the gold in his hair, sparking glints in his rough beard.

He looked at her.

Halfway across the stadium, she felt the iron link of his gaze. She watched their connection straighten his spine, roll his shoulders back. He grinned as he sprinted out to right field, and he flung his arms wide when he came to a stop below her. “Hey, sweetheart,” he called. “If you really want to thank me, let me wear your glasses!”

She wanted to say that she had no reason to thank him. She wanted to tell him
he
owed
her
. But she’d come to the park for a reason. She knew the role she was supposed to play. And so she plucked the glasses from the V of her blouse and extended them over the edge of the fence.

“Go ahead,” Kyle shouted, and he was laughing—not at her, but
with
her, because she really was amused. She really was laughing as he slipped off his glove. “I’ll catch them.”

“Sure,” she called, and she let the glasses fall.

Of course he caught them, easily. She expected that. But she didn’t expect him to raise the glasses to his lips. She didn’t expect him to kiss the frames. And she definitely didn’t expect to feel that kiss on her lips, to clutch the edge of fence as every inch of her traitorous flesh reminded her how his body had felt in the parking lot at Artie’s, how hard he’d been, how much she’d wanted to let his fingers continue their evil magic beneath her blouse.

And the worst thing was, he
knew
. From his slow smile and his sly nod, he could tell exactly what she was thinking. He could probably see the note he’d left her, his promise to make it up to her suddenly in danger of bursting into spontaneous flame.

“Norton!” She heard the shout from the center fielder. She watched Kyle slip on her glasses and turn away, immediately submerging himself in the game that was his life.

She’d done her part, assuaged his silly superstitions. Now she could settle back and watch the rest of batting practice, followed by the game. It was good for her to get away from her desk once in a while. Being out of the office cleared her head. Taking a break gave her a chance to think about the big picture for UPA, about strategy for the trial, about how all the little pieces fit together.

By the end of the game, her subconscious had stepped forward and presented her with a gift, another argument she could weave into the brief she was filing by the end of the week. That was a good thing, too. Because when she got back to the office, all hell broke loose, with a single phone call.

~~~

I shouldn’t be here
. That’s what Kyle told himself, as he parked his BMW under a street lamp. It was better to get a ticket for being too close to the crosswalk than to leave his car in the middle of the sketchy block.

What the hell was he doing?

That afternoon, sitting in the dugout before the game, he’d thought it was over between them. He’d been certain Amanda wouldn’t show—she’d made it perfectly clear that she didn’t value anything as much as her job.

But he’d left the sunglasses for her because he couldn’t walk away from that part of his ritual. And when he’d looked out into the blinding sunlight, she’d been there. In that suit, with her hair off her neck, and those sexy librarian glasses… She’d been waiting for him, and he’d gone running like a mutt chasing after a T-bone steak.

Everything had been perfect. She’d laughed. She’d thrown him the glasses. He’d caught them and put them on and everything had slipped into place.

Until he started playing the fucking game. Sure, his hitting streak had continued; at least he could say that.

But the Rockets had lost, six to four—a game they should have won against a crappy opponent, at home. Any idiot could argue the team was exhausted; they’d spent all of yesterday flying cross-country. Nevertheless, every game counted on the march to the post-season, travel days or no travel days, and this game had been shit.

Then he got the real kick to his balls. A text from Amanda, buzzing in just as he got to his car after the game.
50K by Monday.

What the fucking hell? Was he a goddamn bank? Did she think her leash was that tight—she could just yank his chain, and he’d show up, checkbook in hand?

He’d been a goddamn fool, thinking all those late-night conversations meant something. He’d been blind, thinking Amanda wanted to talk to him, wanted to flirt with him, wanted to
be
with him, after he finally got back from California.

He punched the button in the overheated elevator lobby that smelled like mildew, and he stepped into the car. Hell, she might not even open her door for him. He’d planned for that, though. He’d brought his goddamn wallet.

He stalked down the hall on the third floor, passing a dozen closed doors. He breathed in the stink of onions from one apartment, of cabbage from another. He knocked on her door, and he waited.

He thought he heard something shuffle on the other side. He knocked again, purposely making the sound sharp, loud. When that didn’t do the trick, he thought about curling his hand into a fist, about pounding hard.

He fished out his phone instead, pressing the button to dial her number. He heard it ring inside, a retro sound, just like the old phone that had hung in his family’s kitchen back in Kansas. Her voicemail picked up, and he ended the call, immediately pressing the button to dial again.

A chain slipped free on the other side of the door, and the rattle amped up his pulse. A deadbolt turned. The door opened.

And there was Amanda.

She wore sweatpants, bulky ones that swamped her body and looked like she’d stolen them from a giant. She had on a skimpy top, one of those T-shirt things with tiny little straps. Her feet were bare, except for bright red polish on her toenails. Her hair was pinned off her neck, with a pencil holding it in place, and she held a white carton, some sort of Chinese food, with two chopsticks standing at attention. A dollop of sauce was smudged beside her lips.

Christ, she was gorgeous.

Amanda in the flesh was a thousand times better than anything he’d pictured from those hotel rooms on the road. She was hotter than she’d been in those shorts she’d worn that first day, sexier than he’d ever imagined she could be when she was buckled into her suits, into her office straitjackets.

“Go away,” she said.

“What? You don’t want to be paid in person?”

“Hush!” She glanced past him, darting frantic glances at her neighbors’ doors. As if any of them would come running for anything short of a fire alarm—and probably not then. Amanda tightened her lips into a frown and stepped back, letting him bull past her into the apartment.

He wasn’t prepared for what he found inside. He was expecting her home to be sleek and spare, hard lines and bare surfaces, like some architect’s drawing of the perfect home.

Instead, he found a whirlwind of chaos. A quilt was tossed over the back of a beat-up old couch, bright colors fighting with each other to cover the mismatched cushions. Books and magazines were scattered across a coffee table,
People
fighting with college textbooks, with graph paper, with enough pencils to keep an entire elementary school in business for a year. A bright blue bowl held the remnants of soup—hot and sour, by the look of it—along with a tangle of Szechuan peppers that looked like they’d come out of the carton she was still holding. A can of PBR sweated onto some scary-looking legal document.

“So you
are
human,” he said, turning to face her.

“What do you want, Kyle?”

He laughed. “You mean, aside from seeing where my hard-earned money is going? What the fuck, Amanda? Another fifty grand? What are you doing, setting up a meth-distribution ring on the side?”

She crossed her arms over her chest, nearly sending the chopsticks toppling. “You don’t get to ask me that.”

“Why the hell not?” He took two steps forward, but stopped when she cringed. He held up his hands in exasperation, making a show of proving that he wasn’t a Neanderthal. “Fine. Let’s do this your way. Tell me your goddamn rules, so that I know what game we’re playing.”

“I’m not playing a game.”

“Right. That’s what you told me every night of the road trip. Or am I the only one who remembers those conversations? Maybe I’m the only one who got off on the sound of—”

“I remember them!”

“So, what’s the deal? Was that all some elaborate cock-tease? You wanted to see if you could make me want you, so you can twitch your little ass and walk away?”

She flushed, her cheeks flaming darker than the peppers in the bowl on the table. “I didn’t mean to tease.”

“Then help me out here, Amanda. Is this some sort of fucked-up role play? You’ve always had some fantasy about being a high-priced hooker? Because I’ve got to say, I’ve never paid for sex before, and I don’t plan on starting now.”

The sound of her slap echoed louder than his angry words.

He could have stopped her. He had the reflexes to clench his fingers around her wrist, to pin her arm to her side and force her back against the wall. But even in his anger, even in his rage, he knew he didn’t want to hurt her. Not physically.

And so he let her slap him. He sucked his breath between his teeth as his cheek burned, and he forced himself to take a long, steady exhale. He stepped back, and he twitched his open hands beside his legs.

~~~

“Jesus,” Amanda breathed. What the hell was she doing? As the imprint of her hand mottled Kyle’s cheek, she shook her head. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I shouldn’t have done that.” Belatedly, she nodded toward the couch. “Do you want to sit down? We can talk.”

For a moment, she thought he would refuse. He actually took a step toward the door, and she was surprised by the twist inside her, the knife-sharp disappointment when she realized she might not have a chance to make things right. But in the end, he sighed, and he rolled his shoulders. He stepped past her and collapsed into a corner of the couch.

“Do you want something to drink?” she asked. “I have beer and, um, water, and, um, beer.”

“I’m fine.”

She gestured absurdly with the Chinese food that, somehow, she still held in one hand. “I’ve got Hunan chicken. And there’s plenty of rice.”

“I didn’t come over here for dinner.”

Right. He came over here because she’d sent him another text demanding money. He came over here because she’d pushed him past any reasonable limits, because she’d let the mess of her own life overflow the boundaries
again
. Because she couldn’t afford to protect herself.

Her fellow partners at Link Oster had held an emergency meeting that morning, conducting a special confidential vote to establish a Washington DC office. As a new partner, she’d been astonished to discover the expansion was in the works. The enterprise had been completely hush-hush, and it would have to remain so for at least another two weeks. Link Oster couldn’t risk competitors finding out, couldn’t chance other firms trying to lure away the top lawyers in the deal, trying to interrupt the transaction.