Strike Zone (24 page)

“Rehab, Stryke.” She inhaled and her breasts lifted. “Release the front hook.”

Six tries and a grinding of teeth, and he freed her breasts. There was little dexterity in his fingers, but what there was, he used to undress her.

He wanted her naked.

In the soft evening light he took her in, his beautiful Taylor. Several new scars were visible to him—scars he found sexy.

“What happened?” He traced a thin white line on her breastbone.

“Deep-sea diving, Tasman Sea. Barracuda, black coral, my wet suit caught and ripped.” Her words were murmured against his chest.

“How about this one?” He skimmed his thumb across a red slash on her left hip bone.

“Rock climbing, Edinburgh, Scotland.”

“And here?” His fingers worked down her body, now at her inner thigh, where he skimmed just above her knee.

“Downhill at La Grave,” she told him. “I misjudged a turn.”

“The skiing accident that brought you home.”

“You brought me home, Stryke,” she admitted. “Eve sent me your wedding announcement. My mind was on you and not the dogleg when I went down.”

He gently kissed her forehead. “I’m sorry you got hurt.”

“I got to rehab with you.” She returned his hand to her breast and said, “Work your fingers; knead me.”

He kneaded until her knees gave out and her thoughts went horizontal.

“There’s a bed in the master suite.” Brek’s gaze was hot, knowing.

Taylor swallowed and looked at him. His hand was weak. No way could he lift her. She made a split-second decision and leaped into his arms. She clasped him around the neck; her legs wrapped around his waist. She clung with her inner thighs.

The rub of her bare breasts against his silk shirt aroused him with each of his steps. His good hand slipped between her thighs and found her sweet spot. She was so wet and aroused, she nearly came halfway up the staircase.

They reached his bedroom and found the bed freshly turned down, thanks to the cleaning ladies. One window was cracked, and the summer breeze sifted through, lingered, seduced.

He made it to the edge of the bed, and she slid down his body, a slow slide, where their planes and angles meshed together.

Taylor took her time with Brek—with this man who’d waited three years for her return. She used her tongue as much as her touch. Their scents mingled. Their desire was a mixture of memories and new sensations.

Flushed, her heart racing, she rolled Brek’s shirt off his shoulders. And he dropped his pants.

She removed his boxers.

He took her panties.

They were naked, hot, and starved for each other.

Time and tenderness gave way to lust.

“Protection.” His deep voice blew moist in her ear.

A condom, now, before they both went mindless.

His nightstand provided one, and she sheathed him.

They dropped onto the bed, rolled about, then faced each other. Taylor cupped his face, admiring the strength of his brow, the slate-blue heat in his eyes, the hard line of his mouth that softened in sex.

It was a face with character, she realized, and one she’d never tire of looking at over morning coffee or during midnight sex.

His body seemed larger than life, all muscled and cut, and sporting a major-league hard-on, an erection she began to pump in her palm.

Brek worked her as well. His hand stroked from her breast to the hollow of her hip, where his fingers fanned out over her pelvic bone. Two fingers dipped between her legs on his way to her toes. His touch was slow and reverent as he savored the contours of her thighs and the slope of her calves. He made her feel beautiful.

The return of his fingers sought her readiness. He found her wet and slick and open to him.

Their breathing changed, became deeper, rougher, and foreplay became total turn-on.

She bit his lip, and his dick bumped her belly.

He thumbed her nipple, and hot little currents shot straight to her groin.

Overheated, her pulse rampant, Taylor rocked against him. She needed him inside her—right now.

Brek understood
now
. Splaying her leg over his hip, he penetrated her. A slide all the way to his hilt, a torrent of pleasure.

Taylor sighed, the deep sigh of being taken.

He gave a preliminary roll of his hips, and she mirrored the rotation. He withdrew, thrust, then intensified the rhythm.

Their bodies rubbed in a slick, sparking friction.

They were breast-to-chest. The smooth and the hair-roughened. She was sleek, and he all rippling muscle.

Gasping, crazed, they climbed and climaxed.

Time spun away as their souls touched.

In the afterburn, they lay twined and content. Her shoulder was tucked into his chest; the swell of her hip fit against the narrowness of his waist.

She kissed his bare shoulder, smiling at him. “You look as satisfied as I feel.”

He nuzzled her neck. “Best therapy I’ve ever had.”

Eventually they paused for dinner, both wrapped in silk robes.

They ate barbecued ribs with their fingers, sipped a rich red wine, then agreed dessert was best served in bed.

They loved long into the night.

Brek Stryker woke early, Taylor still beside him. The morning sun hit her skin from her nipples to just below her navel. He watched her breathe, and peace settled in his soul. His heart warmed with her presence.

She hadn’t escaped to the guesthouse. She’d spent the entire night in his bed, a bed she was hogging with her diagonal position. The lady was a cover thief.

He reached over, running his hands over the sleek lines of her body. His hand curved beneath her, and he cupped her bottom. Squeezed.

His fingers dug into her tight little ass with significant pressure, enough to wake her.

“Copping a feel?” her husky voice teased him.

She felt warm. Her scent was all woman. “I like touching you.”

“Then touch me for the next hour before I go to work.”

He touched her all over—twice for good measure.

From that day on, pleasure and purpose claimed their lives. Their days separated them, yet the nights brought them together.

Thrill Seekers thrived, even with Taylor remaining in Richmond. Placed on the disabled list, Brek couldn’t travel with the team, but he attended every home game—games viewed with Taylor from the team owner’s box.

Through it all, they reminisced and made new memories. He loved this woman, yet hadn’t told her. The right opportunity had yet to arise.

As the days passed, he noticed that she’d begun to study the Weather Channel, watching for reports of fresh powder.

His heart clutched.

A collection of skiing magazines now stood on the living room coffee table. The European locations were dog-eared.

The magazines made his stomach hurt.

She spent a lot of time on her cell phone talking with Miles Pardeaux, her most recent hire in La Grave.

The delight in her voice left his throat tight.

She’d nearly healed, and a restlessness now claimed her. She wanted to test her knee. The slopes in France beckoned, a challenge as big and tall as the mountain of Le Meije.

Needing to distract her, Brek requested Taylor’s assistance in planning Dog Days of Summer. It was a yearly Rogues’ event, open to the public and always well attended. Held at the Carlton House, the silent art auction benefited Animal Rescue. Pets could be adopted at the event, too, and many found good homes.

All the while they worked together, she grew more distant. Her mind was often elsewhere, far away from him.

It killed him to think she might leave him again.

So he watched and awaited her decision.

And hoped her heart would remain with him.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Dog Days of Summer. Eve Hannah strolled the south lawn of the Carlton House. An outdoor art gallery welcomed the guests. Worked in both oils and pastels, the paintings were portraits, landscapes, abstracts, and all that was baseball.

A sunset palette tinted the wraparound veranda in pink and gold. Hollyhocks and wild roses scented the air.

Professional dog walkers circled among the guests, relaying information on each dog’s age, breed, and rescue history. Those wanting to adopt would fill out paperwork and be screened by a committee.

Eve shook her head, still chuckling over Psycho McMillan’s entrance. The Rogues’ right fielder already had two Newfoundlands, yet wanted to add a third pup to his family.

He’d stepped onto the veranda and howled, as if he’d been raised by wolves. A hair-raising silence had followed. Guests turned their heads and stared, and every dog’s ears flickered. Several canines hid behind their handlers.

The first animal to return Psycho’s howl would go home with him and his pretty wife, Keely.

Psycho didn’t want any sissified ’fraidy-cat. His howl told all those present that only a muscle dog would survive in his household. He’d looked at the Burmese and Saint Bernard nearby, certain one of the big boys would respond.

His call of the wild gained only one response. The return yip dropped Psycho’s jaw. It came shrill and excited from a miniature red dachshund named Gretchen, who nearly wiggled out of her skin to reach him.

Psycho picked Gretchen up and eyed her suspiciously. “You’re a stick of pepperoni. My Newfoundlands have tug toys bigger than you.” The dach licked his chin.

He and Keely began to argue over who should hold the pup. Gretchen seemed happiest in Psycho’s arms.

Eve had watched Jacy and Risk Kincaid pick out a dog as well. They went with a two-year-old golden retriever named Gunner. Jacy stood out in the crowd with her purple hair. She wore a violet knit dress and a wide red patent-leather belt slung low on her hips. She’d immediately collared her new pet in matching patent leather. Risk raised a brow, claiming the collar was too girlie. He preferred brown leather.

Jacy told Risk
she’d
wear a leather collar if he left patent leather on the dog. A wicked smile split his face, and Risk agreed.

Eve stood back from the crowd, enjoying the shade from a weeping willow. A faint breeze swayed her white linen skirt. She slapped at an ant that crossed over the peep toe on her cork wedgies, then secured a loose strand of hair in her ballerina bun.

Off to her right, a fancy lemonade-and-iced-tea stand was set up beside a buffet of decadent desserts. She’d sampled a slice of mint cherry cheesecake earlier and now debated going back for a deep-dish hot-fudge brownie.

She was nervous about seeing Sloan McCaffrey. Taylor had warned her that he’d be attending Dog Days. Eve hoped eating would distract her from noticing his arrival.

“You look like a Pekingese or poodle person.”

The deep male voice startled her. She turned slightly and found a tall man in a brown button-down and khakis, sipping a Coke. He had a hard face, and his gaze hit her with an intensity that made her jump.

“You look like the type to own a Doberman,” she returned.

“I had two as a kid.”

Eve took a second glance and couldn’t imagine him as a child. The man looked as if he’d been born grown-up. He packed an edginess that steered people clear of him.

“You hiding?” he asked.

Eve shook her head. “Merely people watching.”

“More like avoiding someone.”

She clutched her hands before her. “I don’t want a confrontation.”

He nodded his head as if he understood.

“Eve Hannah,” she said politely, introducing herself.

“Kason Rhodes.”

Taylor had told her about Rhodes. She’d described him as tough and antisocial. Eve looked him over with an artist’s eye. Dangerous. Fallen. Alone. Beyond his sharp features and athletic build, she sensed a depth to the man that she wished neither to explore nor analyze, yet instinctively knew was there.

He’d be a difficult man to paint. She’d have to peel away layers of his past to get to his soul. She was certain he’d be wounded.

“Who’s your adversary?” Rhodes scanned the crowd.

She hesitated. She didn’t know Rhodes, yet he stood solidly beside her, as if protecting her.

“A man whose apology I refuse to accept,” she finally told him.

“He must have done something pretty damn bad to upset you.”

“He treated me like a groupie.”

He looked down and shook his head. “There’s nothing groupie about you, sweetheart.”

“I’m not ready to talk to him. Not yet, anyway.”

Rhodes rubbed his jaw. “He’ll go white-hot if he sees us talking and thinks I’m hitting on you.”

“You’re not hitting on me, are you?”

“No, Eve Hannah, I’m not.” One corner of his mouth tipped a fraction. “You’re too sweet for my tastes.”

Rhodes preferred women on the darker side of midnight. Women who partied late, slept over, and never sought commitment. He and Sloan traveled a similar path.

A dog walker approached them with a Jack Russell leashed at her side. The animal was shy, skittish, and rib-skinny. “Her name is Juliet,” the handler told them. “She’s three, sweet tempered, and has a slight overbite.”

“Here comes her Romeo,” Kason noted as an English bulldog tugged his walker toward Juliet. Two good sniffs, and the bowlegged boy sat on command beside the Jack Russell.

“His name is Dozier,” the handler said. “He’s five, and prefers a harness over a choke chain.”

Kason went down on one knee and scratched Dozier’s ears. Eve followed suit, letting Juliet lick her hand.

“Juliet likes you,” Kason said as the Jack Russell tried to wedge herself between Eve’s knees.

“Dozier likes Juliet,” she noted. The bulldog butted close, wanting to clean the Jack Russell’s ears.

“Who do you like, Eve?”

Sloan McCaffrey’s voice hit her like a clip to the chin. Her head jerked back, and her gaze skimmed up his gray slacks to the collar on his cobalt blue knit shirt. His eyes were narrowed and sharp as he studied her crouched beside Rhodes. A hint of uncertainty creased his brow.

“I don’t like you,” she said, and hated the fact that her voice broke. “Go away.”

“The face-off.” Rhodes got to his feet, then drew Eve up beside him. He stood close enough that their hips brushed.

“Get lost, Rhodes.” Sloan’s hands were now fisted, his stance threateningly wide.