Strike Zone (15 page)

He then turned toward the door and was gone.

She trembled at his leaving, so much so that her whole body shook. No matter their history, Stryke would be there if she needed him. Yet his closeness would cost her dearly. She couldn’t bear for him to come and go throughout her day, knowing he’d return to Hilary at night.

It was far better to go it alone.

The pain and misery would pass.

Or she’d learn to live with them.

CHAPTER EIGHT

“What time are you checking on Taylor today?” Brek Stryker entered the elevator behind Sloan McCaffrey.

The team meeting had broken up early. As the players split in twenty different directions, Brek had purposely tracked down Sloan. He now faced the reliever as they descended from the clubhouse to the ground-floor level.

Sloan looked at him strangely. “I’ve no plans to see Taylor. I called around nine; the floor nurse answered and said she was in therapy. I ordered flowers.”

“Taylor said you’d handle her aftercare.”

“She did, did she?” Sloan gave a cocky smile. “If the lady wants me, I’m there. I’m happy to handle her.”

Sloan was talking sex, not rehabilitation. Stryke had the sudden urge to slam him against the elevator wall. Instead he clenched his fists and expelled a sharp breath. “She said you’d be there for her.”

“She told you this when?”

“This morning.”

Sloan shook his head. “Sorry, pal, but Taylor’s low on my priority list. I’ve got a shitload of community-service hours today. I’m bouncing from Toys for Tots to Just Lose It, the new fitness club for overweight kids. After that, I’m picking up Addie, Eve, and seven seniors for an early-bird dinner and shopping. I won’t see Taylor until after our game tomorrow night.”

“Taylor can’t wait,” Brek insisted. “She’ll be coming out of therapy shortly and will need a friend.”

“I’m not interested in being her buddy.”

The man had sex on his brain. Stryke’s muscles went tight. The elevator opened on the ground floor, and both men stepped out. Few cars were left in the parking lot, the majority of players having scattered to enjoy their day off.

Sloan McCaffrey crossed to his Vincent Black Shadow and straddled the bike. His T-shirt read,
Ride It Like You
Stole It.
Stryke watched as Sloan put on his helmet. Sloan stared at Brek through the visor.

“Don’t have a meltdown.” Sloan keyed the engine. “If you’re so damn worried about Taylor, go check on her yourself.” He snapped his fingers. “Sorry, I forgot you’re engaged and no doubt have plans with your fiancée.”

He then gunned the bike, the deep rumble resonating between the men as Sloan edged the motorcycle around Stryke, then shot across the parking lot.

Frustration gripped Brek, immobilizing him. He stood staring out over the lot for several minutes. Addie and Eve would be with Taylor during much of her recovery. But neither woman could override Taylor’s determination and stubbornness. They’d feel sympathy for Taylor. And Taylor would ruin her rehabilitation by doing more than she was capable of doing.

He pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger and mentally planned out his day. He’d promised to meet Hilary at the Kiwanis luncheon. His loyalty should lie with his fiancée.

Then why did his body ache with a need to see Taylor? She’d pushed him from her hospital room with the assurance that McCaffrey would see to her care.

Yet Sloan had prior commitments.

And Taylor, left alone, would go crazy over her slow recovery. She needed a stabilizing force and a voice of reason.

He shook his head. He had no obligation to Taylor.

Yet he felt torn in two. He might be engaged, but he was still held in the past by another woman.

His feelings for Taylor were buried deep, but undeniable. She came with no guarantees. At the end of her rehabilitation, he’d only have made her strong enough to leave him once again.

Was that a chance he wanted to take?

And what about Hilary? Soft, shy, sweet Hilary. Breaking off their engagement would crush her. Stryke didn’t want to hurt her. He’d known the pain of being dumped. He’d never wanted to inflict such pain on anyone, ever.

He had choices to make. His mental debate was giving him a headache. He dragged his ass to his SUV.

He’d secured his seat belt when his cell phone rang. It was Mayor Talbott, looking for his daughter. Hilary was late for the luncheon, and Wayne was concerned. Stuart Tate should have picked her up an hour ago. Neither had made an appearance at the Kiwanis Club.

Stryke offered to swing by her condominium and see what had delayed her.

The drive was short and traffic was light. Stryke pulled into her driveway in under twenty minutes. He parked beside Stuart Tate’s new red Mustang. The muscle car struck him as being out of character with the wiry little man who drove it.

Stryke headed up the walkway. Salsa music reverberated through the front door, played so loud that whoever was inside couldn’t hear the doorbell. The curtains were drawn, no lights visible.

In contrast with his last visit, Hilary’s green thumb was no longer in evidence. Neglect had allowed weeds to sprout in the window planters, once bright with spring flowers. And the low bushes beneath the window needed trimming.

Stryke skirted the front and went to the side entrance. He looked through the narrow pane of glass beside the door. Ebony and ivory, her kitchen displayed white cupboards, black granite countertops, and checkerboard tiles.

Sunshine shot through the skylight, showcasing shelves of glass holding ceramic roosters. A prism suncatcher cast rainbows across the sink. The small appliances were neatly covered.

Two large suitcases had been shoved beneath the café-style table. Pamphlets and papers were strewn across the tabletop.

He tapped on the window, then pounded the wood of the door with his fist. No one came to answer.

Concern pushed him to try the door. It opened easily. He hated to trespass, but Hilary was his fiancée, and he was beginning to be concerned. He had every right to check on her.

He entered, listening. The music from the living room blared loud and obtrusive. He would have moved toward the noise had the passports and bank statements on the café table not caught his eye.

Curiosity slowed him, and he quickly flipped through the documents. What he saw made his eyes burn and his stomach turn. It didn’t take an accountant to certify that two sets of books had been kept during the mayoral campaign. Only one showed the actual disbursement of funds—to a foreign account.

A Costa Rican account with a whole lot of zeroes.

One entry remained to be filled in. Brek’s name appeared in the left column, a question mark beside the dollar sign. He’d been expected to make a further donation at the Kiwanis luncheon—a donation to be siphoned off to Central America.

Beneath the documents, a real estate portfolio held the paperwork on the closing of a luxury beachfront condo—a paid-in-full cash transaction.

“What the hell?” he muttered when he discovered Hilary’s engagement ring tucked between two one-way plane tickets and a set of passports. He flipped open the first passport and found it in Stuart Tate’s name. The second pictured Hilary Talbott as Hilary Talbott-Tate.

Talbott-Tate, as in hyphenated—and married.

A lot had happened in the two weeks he’d been on the road. He needed to locate Hilary. His fiancée owed him an explanation.

His anger grew as he moved down the hallway. His stomach twisted when he discovered a trail of discarded clothing. He kicked aside a pair of men’s dress slacks and a woman’s tailored blazer. He scuffed across a white pair of jockeys and stepped on a pink satin bra.

A hallway mirror across from the living room entrance reflected activity near the media center. Stryke leaned against the opposite wall, taking in the commentary from a Latin dance video being played on the television. It was so loud, his ears buzzed. The instructors on the DVD were vividly costumed and engaged in demonstrating the steps.

Across the room, the mirror captured Hilary and Stuart in nothing but skin. They were engaged in much more than dancing. Stu was gangly and dangly and fish-belly white. He was as hairy as Hilary was waxed. She looked like a store mannequin.

The sight jolted Stryke like a swift kick to his balls.

In their attempt to master the salsa, the couple had lost track of time. The Kiwanis would now be well into their luncheon.

Brek stood still and stared into the mirror, momentarily unnoticed as the hot, sultry music pounded in his ears. Half-hidden by a red leather recliner, Hilary swayed toward Stuart. Their bare bellies brushed, and Stu missed a step.

“My foot!” hissed an aggravated and unforgiving Hilary. “The salsa is seductive. You’re not seducing me, Stu. Pay better attention or be punished.” She spanked Stuart’s ass.

Brek blinked, as stunned as Tate. Hilary’s slap left a red imprint on the man’s butt cheek.

Stuart rubbed his buttock and whined, “The salsa’s not my dance.”

“Neither was the calypso or the merengue.” Hilary’s words cut sharply. “These are the dances of Central America. Learn one of the three, Stu.”

To Stuart’s credit, he tried. However, the man had two left feet. With each misstep, Hilary disciplined him further; she smacked him with the flat of her hand. The pop was as loud as the commentary on the DVD. Stu openly flinched.

Some men weren’t meant to dance.

No man was meant to dance naked.

It was not a pretty sight.

Utterly disgusted, Brek left the hallway and returned to the kitchen. He pocketed Hilary’s engagement ring, then quickly gathered up the documents and passports from the table. All evidence would be presented to Mayor Talbott.

He’d let Wayne sort it out. Stryke would request that his personal donations be used in a more productive manner than Hilary had planned. And that the Boys and Girls Clubs remain a valid issue on the mayor’s agenda. Otherwise he’d withdraw his support.

Folding a blank piece of paper in half, Stryke left Hilary a note:
The salsa is not Stuart
Tate’s
dance. Brek.

He then slipped through the side door.

Once in his SUV, Brek headed to the Kiwanis Club. His life had done a one-eighty in less than two weeks. He didn’t know if he should throw back his head and laugh with relief or let his temper rage.

In the end, he managed a smile. He’d escaped a woman he’d never really known or loved.

Hilary Talbott had used him. And in his own way, he’d used her as well. In his attempt to forget Taylor Hannah, he’d sought Taylor’s opposite. He’d believed Hilary sweet and stable. The joke was on him. The woman had a criminal mind and spanked like a dominatrix.

How blind could he have been?

Pretty damn blind, he had to admit.

He ran one hand down his face. His history with women sucked—big-time. One fiancée had left him at the altar. The second embezzled his money.

Hilary Talbott he could live without.

Taylor Hannah still lived in his heart.

He was a goner where Taylor was concerned.

Would he be twice the fool to return to his past love?

Yet if he didn’t go back, he’d never have his long-overdue talk with Taylor. She’d wanted to explain her reason for leaving him. Today she’d get her chance. Perhaps then he could move beyond the pain that kept them apart.

Stryke made two stops on his way to the hospital. The first took him to the Kiwanis Club, where he joined Mayor Talbott in a private meeting room. There, Brek handed over the documents and passports, and briefly explained the embezzlement.

As long as Brek lived, he would never forget the incumbent’s shocked expression when informed of Hilary and Stuart’s betrayal. Talbott had been unable to speak, and at moments unable to breathe. The man aged ten years in the thirty minutes he and Brek spent together.

Talbott’s gratitude to Stryke for bringing the misappropriation of funds to his attention prompted his guarantee that the Boys and Girls Clubs would remain a priority.

That was all Brek needed to hear. He’d left the mayor, knowing the hand of justice would soon slap Hilary and Stuart, and not on the ass.

Stryke’s second stop landed him at the Mercedes dealership. He traded in his family SUV for a sporty SLR McLaren. The showroom model was sleek and silver, and as sophisticated as a street-legal racer could be.

He requested that his Escalade be delivered to the Westside Boys and Girls Club, a donation to the dedicated administrator who kept law and order among the street kids.

It was after three by the time he reached the hospital. The main parking lot was full. Fortunately, the attendant recognized him. An autograph got Brek into the employees’ lot, a short walk from the entrance.

He stopped in the gift shop and purchased another box of gourmet jelly beans. Bribery was good. Jelly beans had always made Taylor talk. He wanted to hear her side of the story.

Taylor was not in her hospital room. Brek checked with the nurses’ station, only to be told she was still in physical therapy. His gut tightened. Eight hours in therapy was not what the doctor had ordered.

He wove through the maze of hallways until he reached the adult therapy rooms. The lights were off, no sign of Taylor. He heard voices and tracked them to the children’s area.

Pushing through the swinging doors, he located her across the room, balanced on a low-slung swing, clapping and encouraging three children through their exercises.

She’d acquired a pair of green hospital scrubs; her feet were bare. One pant leg had been ripped to her knee and revealed her brace.

She had her back to him, so he stood quietly inside the door. What he saw both enlightened him and did strange things to his heart. Before him now, two boys and one girl struggled and healed under Taylor’s coaching. She was a woman who couldn’t sit idly in her hospital bed and watch the day go by. She needed to be active.

Working along with the physical therapist, Taylor inspired hope, gently nudging the little girl through her exercises when she became tearful and wanted to sit down and feel sorry for herself.