Slow Heat Read online

  flustered. “That’s bad karma, you know, not holding the elevator.”

  “Thanks for not talking.”

  “And trust me, bad karma comes back around like a boomerang. That one’s going to bite you right on your very nice ass, Sam.”

  “He’ll get another elevator!” she exclaimed, tossing up her hands. “We needed privacy.”

  God, he loved it when she lost her cool and revealed the real Sam lurking beneath that princess exterior. “You’re right. We need privacy. In fact, I should have done this in the limo and gotten it out of the way.” He reached for the top button on his Levi’s.

  Her eyes nearly bugged right out of her head. “What are you doing?”

  “Getting naked, which is how you wanted me the last time we were alone in an elevator.”

  “Oh my God.” She pressed her hands to her head as if she couldn’t quite believe it, then slapped one of those hands to his chest and shoved him back another step.

  That, too. He loved that, too, when she got physical. He’d never told her, but when she was in the stands during a game screaming for him, he loved it.

  “For the last time,” she said urgently, almost desperately, as if trying to talk herself into believing it. “It’s never going to happen again. Never, Wade.”

  “Never is a long time.”

  “Never. Ever. Ever. Which is even longer than never!”

  Her eyes were dilated, which was fascinating. And he’d swear that the pulse at the base of her neck was fluttering faster than a hummingbird’s wings, which was even more fascinating.

  Yeah. This really was going to be fun.

  Chapter 4

  To have some idea what it’s like [to be a MLB catcher], stand in the outside lane of a motorway, get your mate to drive his car at you at ninety-five mph and wait until he’s twelve yards away before you decide which way to jump.

  —Geoffrey Boycott

  Samantha walked through the suite. It was beautiful and quiet, with a gorgeous view of the ocean.

  It had only one bedroom.

  And one bed.

  Sure, it was a king and piled thick with luxurious bedding, and looked so comfortable that she could have lain on it forever, but the knowledge that when it came time to hit the sack later, she’d be hitting it with Wade sent butterflies straight to her stomach.

  And other parts . . .

  Her cell phone rang. It was Holly, Pace’s fiancée. “Pace is working out, so I had a few minutes.”

  Holly and Sam had become good friends this past year, even more so now that Pace and Wade had become business partners as well as best friends, purchasing and renovating random parcels of land into parks for kids and creating sports clubs in those parks with coaching and organized league games.

  Well, Pace had anyway.

  Mostly Wade just wrote checks.

  He was good at that, writing checks, Sam had noticed. He often solved problems by throwing money at them. She only wished this problem could be solved so easily.

  “I’m eating popcorn and watching a Friends marathon,” Holly said in her ear. “I thought I’d call and see how it’s going.”

  Well aware of Wade checking out the suite behind her, Sam kept her voice down. “I’d rather be eating popcorn and watching a Friends marathon.”

  “Sam,” Holly said very gently. “You need professional help.”

  “Why?”

  “You’d actually pick Friends over one of the yummiest guys I’ve ever seen?”

  “I’m going to tell Pace you said that.”

  “Just think about how long it’s been since you’ve gotten laid,” Holly said. “And then do yourself a favor and turn off your phone and look at Wade. Just look at all his yumminess and do what comes naturally.”

  “What comes naturally will get me twenty-five years to life.”

  “Don’t kill him, honey. Do him.”

  Sam rolled her eyes and hung up on Holly’s laugh, then turned and came face-to-face with the six-foot-tall, heart-stopping, annoying-as-hell catcher she’d arranged to “sleep” with.

  Thanks to her job, the first thing that usually came to mind when she thought about any of the Heat players was their stats. And Wade had stats in spades. At the moment, he was the most celebrated catcher in the National League. His defensive prowess was more anecdotal than measured but his numbers were telling. Last year he’d picked twenty-eight runners off the bases, an astonishing fifty percent of the runners attempting to steal. He also had 32 HRs, a 120 RBI, a .355 BA, and had placed second in the MVP voting.

  But that’s not what she thought of when she looked at him. Nope, she was thinking Holly was right about one thing, he was pretty damn yum.

  He began unbuttoning his shirt and tossed his bag to the bed to rifle through it. He shrugged out of the shirt—holy cow—and while she concentrated on not dragging her tongue down his chest clear to his low-slung Levi’s, he replaced it with a light blue T-shirt advertising some surf shop in Mexico. He kicked off the clean running shoes he’d been wearing and pulled on a pair of battered Nikes instead.

  “Casual wear for this kind of place,” she noted, voice shockingly even, given that she watched as he bent to tie the Nikes, his jeans stretched tight across his perfect ass.

  “There’s a charity baseball game in thirty minutes,” he said, straightening. “And God willing, food as well.”

  “You just ate. And there’s a game?”

  “I ate two hours ago. And yeah, there’s a game. All the guys in the wedding party are playing. Thought you’d heard.”

  No, she hadn’t, as he damn well knew. And since she’d had approximately fifteen minutes of advance warning about this whole weekend adventure, she’d grabbed only her usual daywear. Business suits, which she’d figured would cover both the wedding and any other parties they’d have to attend. “Good thing I’m not part of the wedding party then.”

  His smile changed, went a little secretive. “Yes, it’s a good thing.”

  She paused, eyes narrowed. “I’m not playing in this charity game.”

  “No, unless you’ve grown a penis I don’t know about.”

  “I mean it, Wade.” She’d been watching baseball since before she could walk, but as a girlie-girl from Rochester, New York, one who’d gone to Princeton before joining the family obsession with baseball, she’d actually never played.

  She could golf, she could play ping-pong, and she could bowl when she had to, but she could not throw, catch, or hit a baseball to save her life.

  Wade pulled out his phone and looked at the time. “We have five minutes. You might want to change.”

  “I’m fine in this.”

  “Suit yourself.” He grabbed his second duffle, an equipment bag, and opened it to check his glove and bat, then shouldered the bag. “Ready?”

  Was she? She had no idea.

  He opened the suite door and pushed Sam through ahead of him.

  “So,” she said as they headed toward the elevators. “There’s only one bed.”

  “I noticed. You’re the best girlfriend ever.”

  She let out a low laugh. “I meant for there to be two.”

  “Ah.”

  “We should probably talk about it now.”

  “Sure.”

  “Want to flip for the couch?”

  “Nope.” He smiled and slipped an arm around her. “Don’t worry. I only want the bed, not you.”

  She looked up into his face. “Really?”

  He grinned. “What do you think?”

  She narrowed her eyes. “I think the couch has your name all over it.”

  “I’m too big.”

  Undoubtedly true. “I’ll call up for a roll-away mattress.”

  He sighed. “I think I’m beginning to see why you have to be the pretend girlfriend. You’re not so good at the real thing.”

  Ouch. And okay, so she wasn’t so good at the real thing; she tended to sabotage her own happiness for work, but hell if she’d admit that out loud.