Sliding Home (2 page)

He'd keep one eye on her at
all times.

He released both wrists and
swung off her. “Get dressed. Living room—five minutes,” he ordered as he
snatched up the tire iron, followed by the white plastic vibrator. Its size
would shame most men. He lifted an eyebrow, tossed her the sex toy, the buzz
now faint. “Needs new batteries.”

Her whole body blushed.

Kason soon learned she
couldn't tell time. Ten minutes stretched to twenty before she came to him,
hair tamed, body clothed. She lived up to his tomboy assessment in her baggy
shirt and jeans.

He preferred her in a
towel.

He'd left the tire iron
visible on the kitchen counter, near where he was standing. There was caution
in her eyes, as well as a hint of daring. She wanted her weapon back. The tool
would stay with him. The lady had tried to bust his balls and crush his skull.
He wasn't taking any chances.

Cimarron gave a low bark,
drawing her attention.

Kason watched her
expression shift from stubborn to soft. “What's his name?” she asked.

He hesitated to tell her. “Cimarron.”

She didn't ask Kason if the
Dobie was friendly. She went straight to him and hit her knees, ready to win
the big dog over.

“Hello, handsome.” She let
Cimarron sniff her hand before she scratched his ear. Within seconds, man's
best friend had rolled onto his back to have his belly rubbed. Kason swore he
heard Cim sigh.

Well trained and highly
protective, Cimarron always took his cues from Kason. But Kason had yet to call
the female intruder “friend,” which was the dog's signal to back down.

The Doberman was already
down, and so relaxed he looked asleep, with his eyes closed and tongue lolling
from the corner of his mouth. Damned if he wasn't drooling.

Ticked that Cim was purring
like a kitten under enemy hands, Kason gave a low whistle and the dog lurched
to his feet, fully alert.

“Bed,” Kason instructed,
and Cim immediately headed down the hall.

“Great dog,” the woman said
as she stood up.

“Don't get attached,” Kason
returned.

“I never do,” she replied
softly with her chin down, the words said more to herself than to him.

His rumblings in the
kitchen drew her notice as he raided the cupboards. Her disgust was obvious. “Trespassing,
and now stealing my food. You are such an ass.”

A hungry ass, actually. He
was about to feast.

While she'd dressed, he'd
remembered a leftover can of tomato soup that was stuck high on the shelf. He
was tired and hungry and not in the mood to be played.

He'd driven straight to
Richmond from training camp. He'd stopped to feed Cimarron twice and to give
the dog a run, then to hit a taco drive-through around noon the previous day.
He hadn't eaten since.

What he found in his
cupboards blew him away. The tomboy bought in bulk. She'd stored food for an
army. Or a giant.

Sixty-four ounces of peanut
butter and jelly spread a lot of sandwiches. Loaves of wheat, rye, and marble
filled the bread box.

Family-size boxes of
Hamburger Helper, macaroni and cheese, popcorn, and six types of cereal bowed
the upper shelves. Cases of #10 cans of spaghetti sauce, tuna, mixed nuts, and
peaches were stacked beneath the counter, along with an enormous tin of animal
crackers that was as big as a small beer keg.

The refrigerator held eight
tubs of butter, an enormous wheel of Swiss cheese, and a dozen cartons of eggs.
Thirty pounds of hamburger wrapped in butcher paper jammed the freezer, along
with fat bags of frozen vegetables. There was no sign of the ice-cube trays.

Kason hadn't seen this much
food outside a grocery store or a restaurant. The items went on and on.

His intruder must have a
tapeworm.

“Care to share?” he asked
before he helped himself anyway. “Half my tomato soup for a grilled cheese
sandwich?”

She glared at him. “Not an
even trade.”

“That's all I have to
bargain with at the moment.”

A second of sympathy passed
with a blink. “Hard times?” she asked.

Not that hard. After a
midseason trade the previous season, he'd signed a multimillion dollar contract
with the Rogues. He was presently the highest paid outfielder in Major League
Baseball.

His life was a work in
progress. He'd chosen to live in the mobile home until he could build his house
with his own bare hands. He considered the double-wide his construction
trailer. It had all the basics.

He'd never pictured a woman
living here.

Having the tomboy think he
was poor had benefits. People treated him differently when they knew what he
did. Strangely, he liked the fact she hadn't yet labeled him a Rogue.

“I'm in between jobs,” he
told her, which was partially true. Five days separated spring training from
Opening Day at James River Stadium. There'd be meetings and workouts, yet a few
hours belonged solely to him.

She straightened her
shoulders. “I work part-time at Frank's Food Warehouse on Route Eleven. I get a
discount on bulk items.” She nodded toward the newspaper on the short breakfast
bar, opened to the classifieds section. “I need more hours. I'm job hunting.”

More than Kason needed to
know. He didn't do personal on any level. He turned away from her and preheated
the toaster oven.

“You have a name?” her
question hit him between the shoulder blades.

“Kason.” Last names weren't
important. He planned to feed her, then release her. He'd never see her again.

“I’m Dayne.”

Introductions over, he
nodded without looking up.

Dayne Sheridan leaned a hip
against the counter, read Kason's expression. The man wanted her gone. A
grilled cheese sandwich and he'd show her the door.

To hell with him; she
wasn't leaving. The mobile home held her food. She wasn't about to walk away
from her groceries. They'd cost her her last dime.

Kason claimed the trailer
belonged to him, yet she'd seen no proof of purchase. She wanted to see the
deed.

She studied him as he took
a loaf of rye from the bread box and laid out eight slices. His hair was dark,
his brown eyes sharp. Cheekbones slashed to an aggressive chin. He had a
muscular build, wide shoulders, and thick thighs.

He wore a gray pullover and
a pair of Wranglers that rode low on his hips. She could see the black
waistband of his boxers when he bent to remove the wheel of Swiss cheese from
the refrigerator.

Dark, dangerous, fallen,
crossed her mind. And definitely a loner. She thought she'd seen his picture
somewhere, but couldn't pinpoint the time or place. Maybe on
America's Most Wanted.

The tire iron lay on the
counter, midway between them. The tool was her primary means of protection
should he show her the door. If she inched a little closer, she could swipe—

“Back it up,” Kason said,
cutting off her lunge. He moved the tool beyond her reach. “I like my head on
my shoulders.”

She held her spot at the
end of the breakfast bar. If she couldn't get to the tire iron, there were
always knives. The plastic ones available weren't a great defense, but she'd
feel safer with one in her pocket. Or maybe a fork— prongs could jab.

Silence separated them as
Kason made the sandwiches. He sliced thick wedges when she'd have conserved
with slivers. She hoped he wouldn't eat the entire wheel of Swiss cheese in one
sitting. She was on a very tight budget.

Her mother had taught her
to bargain shop. Buying in bulk saved her from regular trips to the grocery
store. Large quantities were cheaper and stretched over weeks. She could
survive on what she had here for a month.

She watched as Kason slid
the sandwiches into the toaster oven and set the timer for three minutes. He
then popped the lid on the tomato soup and poured it into a pan on the stove.

Dayne inhaled; there was
something comforting about soup and sandwiches. They said stable, homey,
family. She didn't let the feeling overtake her. A sense of home had eluded her
ever since her father had deserted her mother when Dayne was twelve.

“How'd you land here?”
Kason said, breaking into her past. He'd collected paper plates and bowls,
along with plastic silverware. The man was ready to eat.

There was no reason to tell
him about Mick Jakes, radio personality, ex-fiancé, and weasel among men. He
had dumped her on the air. Dayne had heard the broadcast along with his million
listeners.

Dayne had gone numb. She'd
worked at WBT 91.2 as Mick's assistant, promoting his talk show through
speaking engagements and live on-site remotes. They'd talked marriage in the
fall, and she'd hired a wedding planner.

With their breakup, she'd
lost her job. Mick had gone as far as to change the locks on the condo they'd
shared, then closed their joint checking account.

Humiliation had sent Dayne
packing. She'd had fifty dollars to her name and a full tank of gas when she'd
left Baltimore. Heartbreak, self-pity, and her wedding file accompanied her
south.

She'd changed the settings
on her car radio.
Mick in the Morning
was
dead to her. She'd sworn off men who lived in the public eye.

Dayne blinked away her
past. Her good luck sucked. She'd drifted in and out of small towns for a week.
Two flat tires, a lost wallet, and sleeping in her car had added insult to
injury. She'd never been more miserable.

Without a lot of back
story, she told Kason about the accident that had brought her to the trailer. “I
was on the interstate, headed south, when a snowstorm hit. Zero visibility, no
sense of direction—I got lost. The side roads proved slippery and I skidded
straight into a snow bank. My Camry died. Once the blizzard let up, I walked
until I came across this mobile home.”

“My
mobile home.” He sent her a dark look. “You're not
originally from Richmond, then?”

Baltimore, Maryland, no
longer existed for her. “Richmond is my home now.” Finding the trailer had
given her hope. She'd felt comfortable in the woods. She had no plans to leave.

“Where's your car?”

She sighed. “I had it
towed. The estimate on repairs would have cost more than the heap was worth. I
sold it for scrap.”

“How are you getting
around?”

“On a bicycle with a
basket. It beats walking.”

She'd walked six miles each
way her first week of employment at Frank's Food Warehouse. She'd formed
blisters on her feet, and her arms had ached from carting home groceries.

She'd humbly requested an
advance on her paycheck, and with cash in hand, purchased a used Schwinn. As
long as the bike didn't blow a tire, she was in good shape. She had pedal
power.

The timer dinged and Kason
slid the sandwiches from the toaster oven onto two plates. Three grilled
cheeses for him, one for her. He then split the soup into bowls. Dayne swore
she got the lesser portion.

“Kool-Aid or soda?” she
asked.

A hint of a smile as he
said, “I haven't had Kool-Aid since I was five.”

Neither had she. She'd
bought the Kool-Aid on impulse. Memories of her dad and her dipping their
fingers into the packets and sampling the sugary granules remained as sweet as
the drink. She could still see her father's purple tongue when he'd stuck it
out after tasting the grape flavor. Her own tongue had been bright green from
the lime food coloring. They'd both laughed so hard...

“Raspberry or fruit punch?”
Dayne offered.

“Fruit punch.”

She found a pitcher,
stirred up the Kool-Aid. No ice—they'd have to drink it warm. Two plastic
glasses in hand, she moved to a small oval table situated before the west-facing
living room window.

Kason made two trips to
deliver their dinner. He dropped a spoon beside her bowl, then took the chair
across
 
from her. The man could eat. He'd
inhaled two sandwiches before she'd finished her first half.