Thrown By Love (6 page)

“That’s great news,” she said, wishing her voice hadn’t wavered.

“Yup, and I’m going to keep him. He’s not chipped. Any jerk who would neglect a dog doesn’t deserve to have him.”

“I’ll drive you home.”

As soon as she said it, butterflies started tumbling in her stomach. But what danger was there in driving him home? After all, she knew her mind. And while she didn’t exactly trust her body anywhere near him, surely her mind and will could force it to behave. She
hoped
they could, even though from the first time he’d touched her she’d wanted to push further, explore the emotions he’d stirred. He’d opened untraveled territory, and she’d loved it. Had wanted more.

The feel of his hands and the strength of his kiss had called her to taste life in a way she never had. And why shouldn’t she? Didn’t she deserve passion?

But he was a ballplayer. Thus the dilemma.

Right instincts, wrong guy. Right desires, wrong time.

It was as though she had an angel on one shoulder and a demon on the other, both whispering to her at the same time so she couldn’t decipher the
no
from the
yes
.

But all that was concern for another time; she simply couldn’t let him take a taxi. In San Francisco you could wait ages for a taxi.

At least that’s how she rationalized her offer.

The whispering voice that rejoiced in spending thirty more minutes with him in the close confines of her car, out sang the voice trying to tell her it was a bad idea.

Chapter Five

Scotty managed to talk Chloe into stopping for Indian takeout and coming up to his place for a bite. She’d resisted; he expected it, maybe liked her better for it. Most women threw themselves at him, not that he’d ever complained. But though he knew he shouldn’t, he wanted more time with her and might not get another chance anytime soon; the team was headed out on a three-day road trip after the game that night.

“Make yourself at home,” he said as he rummaged through his cabinets for plates and forks. He didn’t have much in the way of kitchen items, but he did have four great plates his grandmother had given him.

“We could eat in the living room,” she suggested. “You have a great view of the bridge.”

“I love that bridge.” He stood for a moment admiring the orange towers and the arching cables of the Golden Gate Bridge. “I love everything about San Francisco.”

He put the plates on the redwood burl coffee table and pulled the food out of the bag. He watched her scan the bookshelves that lined the back wall of the living room. She stopped in front of a shelf that held photos of his family, picked up a framed photo and smiled. He’d have to do some serious concentrating to ignore his desire to kiss that beautiful mouth of hers.

“Are
all
these people related to you?”

He glanced at the photo she held. “That’s the Donovan family reunion. My dad insists on hosting one every summer. I miss most of them now, but if the schedule allows, I try to make it.”

He hoped she wouldn’t pick up the next photo, but of course she did. He shouldn’t have put that one out. It was a fuzzy shot of him at ten, standing with a bat in a cornfield.

“You got started at the game early, I see.” There was no derision in her voice.

“Most guys do. But I don’t hit any better now than I did then.” It was his pitching that landed him in the major leagues; hitting was a skill he struggled to master. It hadn’t happened yet.

“Sure it’s not Photoshopped for PR? ‘All-American Boy in a Cornfield’?”

He liked her playful tone. “Afraid it’s real. That field is where I learned to pitch. My dad should have a medal for the hours he spent chasing wild balls.” He scooped steaming rice and curry onto their plates.

She replaced the photo, turning it just so. She ran her fingers along the shelf and pulled out a book.

“
Gravitational Physics and the Powers of the Universe
—not a breezy read.” She looked over at him, still smiling. He suddenly felt weak, as if he had no bones. Except for one. He shifted, hoping his hard-on didn’t show. Hell, he felt like a thirteen-year-old with his first crush.

Chloe put the book back in its place on the shelf. What a puzzle he was, a combination of heartland charm and physical prowess and yet curious too, with the brain to go with it. But it wasn’t his brain that was making her pulse jump.

“Your food’s getting cold,” he said, handing her a plate as she sat on the couch in front of the window. She was hungry and dug into the curry and rice. The hospital food earlier in the week hadn’t appealed, and she’d been dying for something with flavor.

After several delicious forkfuls, she looked up. Scotty was watching her.

“Anyone ever tell you that you eat like a Midwesterner?” he said as a grin curved along his lips. “Too many women in this town act like they’re afraid of food.”

“Might be my best quality,” she said between bites.

“I doubt that.”

She lowered her fork. She heard the invitation in his voice. If she made any move to open that door, she knew he’d be right there. But if she walked through it, she’d surely pay later.

She pushed what was left of her rice aside and laid her fork on the plate. It was a lovely dish, hand-painted and ringed with color, a strange plate for a man to own. There were so many strange things about him, odd pairings she wouldn’t imagine the universe would conjure and put side by side.

When she looked up, he was still watching her with an expression she’d seen only in movies or her dreams. It nailed her.

Paying later suddenly didn’t seem so very important.

She slid closer to him on the couch, watched the look in his eyes shift, saw the ripple of his throat as he swallowed. She lifted her hand to his face. She hadn’t known she needed to touch him, feel his skin, register the heat and life in him, but as her fingers traced along his jaw, she recognized the need. No thoughts distracted her as she touched her lips to his. He slid his arms around her, and the worries that had kept her on edge for so many days and nights dissolved in the power of his kiss.

Just when she was sure she couldn’t, wouldn’t, stop with just kissing, her phone rang with the insistent tone she’d assigned to her father.

Hands on his shoulders, she pressed away from Scotty. “I have to take this.” Her heart pounded hard and her hand shook as she rummaged in her purse.

When she heard the nurse’s voice, her stomach did a dive to her knees. She didn’t have to hear the words to understand the message. All she knew was that she’d be breaking every traffic law to get to her dad’s apartment. As she dropped her phone into her purse and felt around for her keys, she tried to control her face, her voice and her hands. She didn’t know Scotty well enough to share this news with him and didn’t want to.

“I’m sorry. I have to go.”

“Can I drive you? That didn’t look like good news.” He stood when she did.

“I’ll be fine, thank you.” She hadn’t meant to sound frosty, but she couldn’t worry about how she was coming across.

“Can I help?”

If only he could.

When Chloe reached the apartment, her dad was squabbling with the nurse he’d hired.

“I am
not
going back to the hospital,” she heard him say as she ran down the hall.

“Indeed you are, McNalley,” Chloe said as she entered the room.

The nurse waved her hands, revealing her frustration. “Miss McNalley, I think we should call the paramedics. I tried, but he said he’d fire me.”

That her dad could stop a nurse from calling for help was just another reminder of his power. “He can’t fire
me
.” Chloe grabbed the phone from beside the bed and dialed.

“Chloe, wait.” Her dad tried to push himself up in the bed.

“No.”

“I’ve raised a stubborn girl,” he said to the nurse as he sank back against the pillows.

Chloe sat beside his bed for three days in the hospital. Only three days and yet he changed almost beyond recognition. But on the afternoon of the third day he insisted that she drive down to Stanford and teach her class. It was important to him, he argued. It’d make him feel better, he insisted. He’d be there when she got back, he said.

When her phone rang in the middle of class, she knew she’d made the wrong decision. Again. When would she learn to stop letting him talk her into things? But that was who he was, maybe even part of what she loved so much about him. Peter McNalley was a hard man to argue with.

When Chloe reached the ICU, the nurse in the bear and bunny lab coat waved her into her dad’s room. Other than an IV, he didn’t have any tubes or machines hooked up to him.

“Dad.”

He opened his eyes. His arms were swollen, and he struggled to lift one to wrap it around her neck, lifted himself off the pillow to kiss her cheek.

“Spitfire.”

“Dad, why aren’t any of the machines hooked up?”

He dropped his head back on the pillow. “It’s too late for all that, honey.”

She wanted to scream, but she swallowed the impulse. She wanted to rage at the heavens. He was only fifty-six years old. He was all she had. He couldn’t die. Not ever.

“No. Tell them to hook them up.
Tell
them.”

He shook his head.

A nurse came in with a syringe.

“No.” He pushed the nurse’s hand away. “I want to talk to my daughter.” He turned his head to Chloe. “That stuff puts me out.”

“Maybe you should let them give it to you.”

“I’d rather have the pain and be able to talk to you.”

She turned to the nurse. “Can’t you
do
something? Can’t you hook him up? He’ll pull through, he’s tough.”

“Leave us, please,” her dad said to the nurse. But the nurse crooked a finger and called Chloe to the door.

“He’s going.”

Chloe didn’t want to believe what the woman’s tone said all too clearly, but she knew it was true.

“Talk to him,” the nurse said. “Just talk to him. And if he needs to talk to anyone else, get them on the phone.”

Chloe walked back to the bed and took her dad’s hand. Tears welled and she couldn’t hold them back. “Dad.”

With a groan he reached toward her and wiped at her cheek. His own eyes pooled with tears.

“I’m glad you made it,” he said with great effort. “I love you, Spitfire.” He patted her cheek. “Everything will be okay.” A slight smile curved into his lips. “You’ll see.”

She twined her fingers in his swollen ones. “I love you too, Dad.”

She wanted to say
don’t leave me
, but she didn’t want to make him feel rotten. It wasn’t like he could do anything about dying. He certainly didn’t want to go.

As if he read her mind, he slowly stroked his fingers over her hand. “I’ll be watching over you.” His head fell back on the pillow. “We all will.”