Sliding Home (4 page)

“I offered you a ride,” he
reminded her.

“Which I refused,
Prison Break.”

Her reference to his
baldness spiked his temper. When she tried to push past him, he curved one big
hand over the bike's basket and stopped her in her tracks.

He then took a step back
when she balled a fist, ready to flatten his nose.

“God, you're obnoxious.” He
blew out a breath, did a mental ten count. “You moved into my mobile home
without permission and are now riding your bike on my road. Let's wrap it up
and call it a day.”

“Not until I see the deed
to the trailer,” she huffed. “And unless your name's on the street sign, this
is a public access road.”

In actuality, the road was
private. He'd scored a county permit and paid out of pocket to have the dirt
road cut and graded to access the main highway when he'd bought the thousand
acres. It was listed with the county as Rhodes Street, though an official sign
had yet to be posted. His road formed a T with the highway, where a gas
station, family diner, and the wholesale warehouse attracted local traffic.

Kason wasn't about to tell
Dayne he owned acreage as far as her eye could see, and that he had legal
documentation to prove it. Unfortunately, when it came to the trailer, she had
him by the balls. There was no deed.

He'd picked up the
double-wide for the towing fee. Dale Crenshaw, the original owner, had been
older than God and on his way to a nursing home.

According to Crenshaw's
caregiver, the man had advanced Alzheimer's and was alone in the world. He
stared into space, eyes blank, shoulders slumped. Crenshaw couldn't remember
his own name, much less where he'd stored the deed.

Kason's gut had twisted
over the old man's memory loss. Kason understood
alone.
He'd been on his own since he was sixteen.

As much as he took to
anyone, Kason took to the elderly. He'd grown close to his great-uncle Dave
after his dad had kicked him out of the house. Dave had put a roof over Kason's
head so he could finish high school. Kason never took something for nothing.

Once Crenshaw's mobile home
had been towed to his land, Kason had compensated the man in his own way.
Throughout the last months of Crenshaw's life, Kason had visited him weekly at
the Sunrise Center. He'd hired a private full-time nurse and seen to Crenshaw's
comfort.

The week Crenshaw died, the
man had locked eyes with Kason for the first time in four months. In those
fleeting seconds, Kason had seen Crenshaw's gratitude. He was glad the old man
had finally found peace.

That didn't alter the fact
that he didn't have papers on the trailer. Though he could show Dayne the deed
for the land, he held back. There was no need to flash his bank account in her
face. He lived low-key and planned to keep it that way.

There were no autograph
seekers at the restaurants, grocery, and retail stores he frequented. People
knew him, yet respected his space.

Space he wasn't about to
share with the tomboy.

“If you're short on cash,
I'll spot you a hotel room while you relocate.” Kason thought his offer
generous.

Her chin shot up, sharp,
stubborn, and annoying. “You take the room. I'm happy at the trailer.”

“I'm not happy that you're
there.”

“Too bad—so sad.”

“Childish, Dayne.”

“Adults don't leave their
property unattended,” she stated. “The mobile home was empty when I took it
over.”

“I left town for six weeks.”
He was rapidly getting tired of explaining himself to this woman. “I had
business in Florida and have now officially returned. End of story.”

She wasn't giving up. “There
was no sign anyone inhabited the trailer. It smelled musty.”

“I left furniture,” he
ground out. “A couch, dining room table and chairs, and a bed.”

“You say it's yours, but
why should I believe you?” she asked. “There were no clothes, no personal
effects.”

“I live light.” All his
clothes had fit in his duffel bag. He carried no baggage. He'd never owned a
knickknack. They only collected dust.

“I live to work so I can
eat.” She glanced at the man's watch on her wrist, then hit him with a look of
disgust. “You've made me late. It's your fault if I get fired.”

My fault?
He wouldn't shoulder the blame.

“Take a hike, Kason.” She
pushed past him.

“Not so fast.” He grabbed
the bike seat, held fast. “I'll give you a ride.”

“I'd rather walk.” Lady was
stubborn to a fault.

Her shoulders stiff, she
inched the Schwinn forward.

He'd wasted enough time
arguing with her.

He jerked the bike back. He
was giving her a lift whether she wanted one or not.

Kason's tug threw Dayne off
balance. Her right arm flailed and her world tilted. She was an eyeblink from
landing facedown on the ground.

Kason had lightning-fast
reflexes. He twisted, grabbed her by the shoulders, and kept her on her feet.

The Schwinn tipped over,
and chips of rust and paint went flying as the bike bit the dust. The pedals
and wheels spun wildly. The white basket fell off and rolled into the ditch.

Kason turned her to face
him. His expression was fierce, his chest brick hard. With his shaved head, he
had “convict” written all over him. His intensity was both tangible and
frightening. Dayne was certain there'd been a probation officer in his past.

She fought off her fear.
She could take care of herself—always had, always would. She muscled an inch of
breathing room, balled her fists, and thumped his chest. Her aggravation and
frustration were at an all-time high.

No one
told her what to do. She hated being bullied, even
if taking his ride was to her advantage.

Like the men in her past,
Kason was a control freak. His grip held firm; she had no wiggle room. The
slight yet significant widening of his stance drew her snugly between his
thighs.

She felt the full impact of
his body.

Every nuance of muscle.

With a gentleness that
betrayed his size, he tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Calm down.”

Breath hissed through her
teeth and her chest expanded. She regained her balance.

Time swelled, stretched,
and her annoyance lost importance. She shifted toward his clean, raw
masculinity.

Without the softening frame
of hair, his features had a graphic harshness. He packed wide shoulders, a
thick chest, and long legs into six-plus feet. He was pure strength and
testosterone. And totally primed.

An unwanted heat streaked
her spine.

Awareness punched like a
heartbeat.

Attraction accelerated her
pulse.

Her body did the
unthinkable: it flirted with him.

Her breasts pressed his
chest and her hips lightly bumped his zipper. His warmth licked her belly and
skimmed like fingertips across her abdomen. Her V-zone tingled.

One heartbeat, and his big
hands made their move. They skimmed her spine, curved and cupped her bottom.
His fingers locked over the crease of her ass. He clutched her close.

For an insane instant, her
mind blanked and she allowed his touch. Full watts of electricity charged her
nerve endings. It would be so easy to lean into his palms, let him lift her so
she could wrap her legs about his hips.

She wondered how they'd
fit.

A sudden twitch between his
thighs and his hiss blew by her ear. Anger and annoyance clearly marked his
features. Aroused, he'd had a lapse in judgment. He was visibly mad at himself.

Dayne was equally furious
for going so deep in the moment. After Mick Jakes, she'd sworn off men. She
shoved against his chest and he released her.

“Go about your business and
let me go about mine,” she forced out.

He narrowed his eyes. “I
can't move on with you standing knee deep in my life.”

“I'm knee deep and staying,”
she stated. “I like living in the woods. It's quiet and peaceful.” The land
soothed her broken heart. The solitude pieced her soul back together.

Kason Rhodes also lived for
peace and privacy. Dayne's similar preferences weren't a strong enough bond to
make them roommates, though. Not now, not ever.

She scuffed the toe of her
tennis shoe in the dirt, confessed on a sigh, “I need time to heal.”

Heal?
Was the tomboy sick? He hadn't seen any medication
in the medicine cabinet. She looked healthy.

A dozen questions came to
mind, but Dayne ended their conversation by jumping into the ditch and
retrieving her crumpled white basket. Once reattached to her bike, the wicker
rode low, rubbing the front tire. She assessed the damage, concluded, “You owe
me a new chain.”

“Sweet mother.” He snatched
the bike, threw open the back door of his Hummer, and fitted it inside. “I'll
have it fixed and drop it off at the warehouse.”

“Can you afford it?”

Her concern surprised him.
She believed him unemployed and poor. He shrugged. “Shouldn't cost too much.”

“Maybe we should go halves.”
She didn't want to stick him with the entire bill. “I'll take care of it,” he
insisted. “When do you get off work?”

“Around four.”

He nodded toward his
vehicle. “Get in.”

Breath in; breath out; move
on.
She repeated the mantra six
times as she climbed into the Hummer. The remaining miles were completed in
silence.

Total pain in the ass,
Kason thought as he dropped Dayne off at Frank's
Food Warehouse. The tomboy was more trouble than she was worth.

A call to the sheriff's
office would evict her from his trailer. Yet a small part of him hated to go to
the law. He knew what it was like to survive on little money. Outside of her
bulk food items, Dayne didn't have much going for her.

Well, maybe
one
thing,
he quickly recanted. He
backtracked twenty minutes. Her body had left an imprint on his own, a very
memorable one.

They'd stood on the dirt
road, tempers high, and his only choice to avoid a power struggle had been to
pull her close.

Her body had fit his,
tight, compact, and sun-warmed sweet. Her temper could've set fires. Tomboy was
mercurial.

Kason shook his head. He
didn't have the time or inclination to figure her out. She was too damn
complicated. He located a bike repair shop on his way to James River Stadium.
He debated buying Dayne a brand-new ten-speed, but the expense would blow his
cover. Besides, he doubted she'd accept it. She had too much pride.

He requested a new chain,
two fresh tires, and a shot of spray paint. The rust had eaten away much of the
blue. The remaining letters of Schwinn now spelled
Sin.

A short time later, he took
the turnoff onto Rogues Parkway. He parked in the stadium lot, then entered
through the players' entrance.

The walls of the spacious
locker room had heard men joke, rejoice, cry, and swear in living color. The
lockers were large and constructed to give the players breathing room.

Dead silence greeted Kason
as the professional ballplayers in various stages of undress stared at his
shaved head. Total surprise crossed the men's faces.

Bald wasn't new to the game
of baseball.

Bald was, however, new on
Kason.

Until today, he'd worn his hair
longer than most.

“Hare Krishna.” A smile
tipped one corner of third baseman Romeo Bellisaro's mouth.

Romeo belonged to the Bat
Pack, made up of the three hottest batters in Major League Baseball. Psycho
McMillan and Chase Tallan rounded out the group of friends. The men bonded like
brothers.