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  “You better not take all his time, Morelli, ya motor-mouth,” Chico threw back as he stepped out of the dugout. “Give the rest of us a chance.”

  Next, they were going to start arm wrestling over who got to have the locker next to “him,” Becka thought exasperatedly as Sal Lopes moved into position at first and got prepared to run. They might have been old enough to vote, most of them, but they were all as starstruck by the great Mace Duvall as any Little Leaguers would be.

  Becka watched the hitting coach knock a ball into the outfield, with Sal Lopes rounding second and heading for third in a feet-first slide. She couldn’t have said whether it was luck or premonition that had her watching Sal intently as he slid into the base, but she saw the exact moment his ankle folded against the bag at an angle that made her cringe. In seconds she was sprinting out to the field.

  “I can’t believe I’m such an idiot,” Lopes groaned as Becka helped the pitching coach carry the player into the training room and lay him on the massage table. “Of all the stupid things to do, the day before Duvall gets here.”

  “It’ll be okay,” Becka soothed, fitting a cold pack around the ankle, which was already swelling alarmingly. “Now you just sit and keep it elevated. Once the swelling eases a little, I’ll tape it for you.” She rummaged around the meds cabinet for ibuprofen. “Swallow a couple of these and lie back for a bit.” The phone rang and she turned to her desk.

  “Landon,” she said briefly.

  “Hey, sis.”

  Becka blinked. “Nellie? What are you doing there? I thought you and Joe were still on your honeymoon.”

  “We got back on Sunday. Joe wanted to have plenty of time to get me moved. Speaking of which, Mom said you wanted some help moving?”

  “Not exactly. I was just trying to find that buddy of Joe’s who carries loads for hire. I can’t stay on the phone, though, I’ve got a hurt player here to deal with.”

  “Oh, you don’t need to hire Charlie to move you,” Nellie said airily, ignoring her. “Joe will do it.”

  “Nellie, give the poor guy a break. You just got back two days ago. You can’t just sign him up for duty.”

  “Sure I can,” Nellie laughed. “I got my permission slip three weeks ago when he said ‘I do.’ You were there.”

  “You’ve been watching Mom too much,” Becka muttered. “Joe might have something to say about that.”

  “I know how to take care of Joe, don’t you worry.”

  Actually, it was probably true, Becka thought. Her baby sister had always had her fiancé—now husband—wrapped around her little finger, and used the fact mercilessly. Becka glanced over at Sal and tapped her fingers restlessly.

  Nellie chuckled again. “Joe’s asking if it can wait until the weekend.”

  “I have to be out by Friday morning,” Becka said. “Let me just hire his friend. It’s not that big a deal. Look, Nellie, can I call—”

  “What about tomorrow?”

  “Nellie, you guys took that time so you’d be able to get your stuff moved into Joe’s place. You don’t need to spend it moving me. I just want Charlie’s number.”

  “No way. Joe and I will help. How much do you have?”

  “Five or six pieces,” Becka said, giving up. Somehow, in a way she never figured out how to resist, this always happened when Nellie and her mother were concerned. It was like playing Pin The Tail On The Donkey. One minute she knew exactly what direction she was going, and the next she was spun around until she didn’t know which way was up and let herself get pushed wherever they would push her. And the worst part was, they always meant well, which was what made it all but impossible to fight without being utterly ungracious. Becka sighed. “A couch, the table and chairs. My dresser. Oh, and we have to stop by Ryan’s. She’s giving me her bed. Now, please, I’ve really got to go.”

  “Ryan’s not getting married for weeks, is she? Where’s she planning on sleeping?”

  “With Cade, I assume. If you’re dead set on the moving thing, it’ll have to be early. I work tomorrow.”

  “How early?”

  Becka considered. “It’ll probably take a couple of trips, even with Joe’s truck. Could you guys do nine o’clock?”

  “How about eight?”

  Becka shrugged. “The earlier the better as far as I’m concerned.”

  “We’ll see you then.”

  “Great. Thanks for calling.”

  “You want to talk to Mom?”

  “I’ve got to get back to work,” Becka said rapidly. “Bye.”

  “Hey, you didn’t have to rush on my account,” Lopes put in as she put the receiver in the cradle.

  Becka rolled her eyes. “Believe me, it wasn’t on your account.”

  2

  MACE WALKED through the door to the administrative offices of the Lowell Weavers. The stadium was new, but its weathered brick and iron blended with the turn-of-the-century factory buildings that surrounded the ballpark, reminders of Lowell’s heyday as a textile center. Though the mill buildings now housed upscale housewares stores and trendy boutiques instead of steam-powered looms, the town still held the faded dignity of a bygone era.

  Turning back into the locker room area, Mace heard Sammy Albonado before he saw him.

  “Just give me another coupla weeks to straighten him out, Rick. Don’t jump the gun on this.”

  Mace knocked on the open door. Albonado waved him in, nodding vigorously to the unseen caller on the phone.

  “I really think he’s got what it takes, we’ve just got to get him focused.” Mace took a seat, looking around the cramped office with its battered metal desk and file cabinet. An insurance company calendar dangled from the putty-colored wall, next to faded schedules from seasons long gone. Tacked to a beat-up corkboard on the door was that night’s lineup.

  Sammy paused to listen, nodding again. “Okay. Have a good one.” He hung up the phone and grinned, sticking out his hand. “Well, glory be, it’s Mace Duvall.”

  “In the flesh.” Mace gripped Sammy’s hand.

  “You know, I was at that game a couple of years ago where you hit for the cycle. Single, double, triple, and homer in the same game. What a night.” Sammy shook his head in admiration, standing up to shut the door that led into the locker room. “Want a drink? Got Gatorade, Coke, water, you name it.” He dropped back in his chair and rolled back to flip open the door of the mini-refrigerator that sat behind his desk.

  “Water?”

  “Sure.” Sammy passed Mace a bottle and cracked open a Coke, leaning back until his chair creaked in protest. “I gotta say, I’m happy to see you here. If you can get a tenth of what you know about hitting into these kids’ heads, we’ll be way ahead of the game.” He took a drink, sighing in satisfaction at the first taste. “I can teach ’em fielding, but we really need someone like you to help them understand how to look at the ball.”

  Mace twisted the cap off the bottle of water and took a swallow. “Well, I’ll do what I can, but I’m not making any guarantees.” He stared into the clear plastic bottle. What the hell was he doing here? And what was he hoping to accomplish?

  Sammy examined him shrewdly, then gave a smile that Mace didn’t trust. “Of course you can’t,” he said jovially, “but you know hitting and that’s what counts. Watch the game tonight and you and I can talk over breakfast tomorrow morning. Practice starts at 1:00 p.m.” The phone rang and Sammy gave it a baleful glare. “Okay, take a look around while I get this. I’ll be out in a minute.”

  Mace opened the door to step into the empty locker room. Then he heard a throaty female laugh.

  “TIME TO TAPE UP that ankle, Sal.” Becka turned to where Lopes lay on the training table. Trying to be gentle, she pulled off the cold pack. The sight underneath made her wince. Though the swelling wasn’t as bad as it could have been, angry red and purple streaks overlaid a hard-looking knot just over the joint.

  Lopes raised himself up on his elbows. “How’s it look?”

  Becka lifted his
ankle gently, moving it slightly to test range of motion. His breath hissed in. “Hurts, huh?” she asked softly.

  “Not too bad,” he managed in a strained voice. “I’ll be okay tomorrow.”

  Becka took another look. “I’m thinking you’ll be lucky if you’re actually walking tomorrow. We need to get this X-rayed,” she said decisively and checked her watch.

  “I got to get playing tomorrow,” Sal protested. “Duvall’s only here a week.”

  “He’s an ex-ballplayer, not a god,” she said impatiently, pulling a tensor bandage from the supply cabinet. “You rest this and let it recover now, or it’ll just keep giving out on you. Even if it’s just fractured, you’re going to need to take it easy for at least several weeks.”

  “They’ll put me on the disabled list,” Sal groaned.

  “Two weeks or so on the DL isn’t going to ruin your career,” Becka chided him. “It’s not broken, that’s something at least. Let me tape it up and I’ll drive you to the E.R.” With gentle, competent hands she wound the tape around his ankle until the ankle was supported and restrained. “Okay, big guy, sit up and let’s get you on your feet.” She turned to rummage in the supplies closet, digging back toward the rear. “I have some crutches here somewhere that you can use….” She emerged with them just as Lopes tried to slide off the table.

  As soon as the injured foot touched the floor, he yelped and lost his balance.

  “Dammit, Sal!” Becka dropped the crutches and leaped to catch him. He slumped against her, face screwed up in pain, one arm hooked over her shoulder. The locker room rang with post-practice silence.

  “Okay, let’s get you on the table first.” Becka puffed with exertion as she struggled to hold him. Even for someone in her shape, moving him was a job. “Let’s move back toward the table a bit at a time. Just let me carry your weight when you need to put your bad foot down, and take little steps. Okay?” She took his grunt for assent and moved him slightly, first one step, then two.

  It was like the clumsy, shuffling slow dances she’d done in junior high, Becka thought, or maybe like a pair of dancing bears. They made progress, though, until Lopes began laughing. Caught in the ridiculous clinch, Becka couldn’t keep from joining him.

  His shoulders shook. “Hey baby, I got some moves for you.”

  Becka smothered another giggle. “Stop it or I won’t be able to hold you up,” she ordered as she propped him against the table. She took a breath of relief before leaning in to wrap her arms around him for the final push. Then laughed again.

  “You know, in ten years in the majors I can’t say I’ve ever seen physical therapy like that.” The voice was like warm molasses, with just a hint of a drawl. Becka jerked her head up to see Mace Duvall in the doorway, watching them.

  Her mind stuttered to a stop.

  He was lean and tawny like a jungle cat, with the same sense of coiled energy waiting to spring. The face that had merely been good-looking on television was taut and honed down, almost predatory in person, made more so by the thin scar that ran along his left cheekbone. He looked at her like he wanted to snap her up. In some indefinable sense, he was more present in his body than any man she’d ever seen. The blood thundered in her ears.

  Sal, meanwhile, was hyperventilating with excitement. “Oh wow, man, you’re Mace Duvall. It is truly a pleasure to meet you.” Sal’s words snapped Becka out of her daze, and she finished helping him up onto the table. Sal grinned. “Hope you don’t mind if I don’t get up.”

  Mace stepped over to shake hands with the young ballplayer, but he never took his eyes off Becka. “What happened?”

  “Bad slide. Just a sprain, though. How long you here for?”

  “A week.”

  “Florence Nightingale here said I’d be back up tomorrow,” Sal said, hooking a thumb at Becka as she leaned over to pick up the crutches.

  “I think I said we should go get it X-rayed, Sal.” Becka slapped the crutches into Lopes’ hands.

  He ducked his head in embarrassment. “Oh. Well. Yeah,” he mumbled, “but I gotta make a pit stop.”

  “Okay,” she said with a glance at Mace. “Then I’ll drive you to the E.R.”

  “Right. Gimme five minutes.” He swung out of the room, still grinning. Oddly, the space seemed smaller with just her and Mace, Becka thought, struggling to banish the uneasiness. Maybe it had to do with those mocking eyes. Maybe it had to do with the unexpected edge of desire that suddenly sliced through her.

  She struggled to breathe deeply and slow her system down. So she was attracted to him. Big deal. She’d been attracted to plenty of guys in her life. No way was she going to pat his ego and fall at his feet like every other woman he met. This was her territory and her job. She wasn’t about to let some pretty boy make her uncomfortable.

  His mouth curved up in a slow smile as though he knew what she was thinking. It brought out the temper in her.

  You’re a professional, Becka reminded herself. Act like it. “I take it you’re the infamous Mace Duvall.” She stuck her hand out. “I’m Becka Landon, the infamous trainer.”

  “SO WAS THAT your version of bedside manner?” Mace asked, shaking her hand, intrigued to feel her pulse jump unsteadily under his fingers. He’d always been partial to redheads, and this one had the glowing, luminous skin that was a combination of good fortune and complete, utter fitness. Deep, dark red without a hint of orange, her hair feathered down to end just above her shoulders, framing exotic cheekbones and slanted green cat eyes that stared out at him from under a fringe of bangs. Her lush mouth looked soft and sulky.

  He didn’t blame the player for trying to grope her or whatever had been going on. She obviously took her own medicine when it came to working out. Even camouflaged in a polo shirt and long walking shorts, her taut, curvy body made him wonder just what kind of things she could get up to in bed.

  Becka raised her chin belligerently. “He was hurt, I was doing my job. You have a problem with that?”

  He might just have a problem with her, he thought, wondering how those full lips tasted. “Only when it means distracting players in the clubhouse.”

  “Oh, get over it,” she said impatiently, turning to jerk the cover off the table. “His foot wouldn’t hold his weight and it was either catch him or scrape him up off the floor.”

  Something about the way her eyes snapped at him tempted him to push her a bit, just to see how she’d react. “Happens a lot that way?”

  She flushed. “Now you’re being insulting. These kids like to play tough guy when they’re hurt. I was just trying to keep him from making things worse.”

  “Looks like you distracted him from his pain just fine.”

  Her cat eyes narrowed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I don’t usually see trainers in a clinch with players.”

  She laughed then. “Are you kidding? To these kids I’m like their old Aunt Edna. Sal’s thinking about the games he’s going to miss, not me. His mind doesn’t work that way.”

  Just for a heartbeat, his gaze flicked down to the buttons on her polo shirt. “Sugar, every eighteen-year-old’s mind works that way.”

  She wanted to be annoyed. She wanted to be offended. She didn’t want to feel this flush of heat. Then she saw amusement flicker in his eyes and irritation rescued her.

  “Gee, Duvall, are you always such a charmer or did you cook up the sexist routine just for me?”

  Oh, belligerence suited her, he thought. She had herself a temper, Miss Becka Landon did, and she wore it well. And if she looked this good in shorts and a polo shirt and mad, he couldn’t help wondering what she looked like in nothing at all. “No offense intended, just a friendly warning. You don’t want to underestimate these boys. Half of them just got out of high school two months ago. Their hormones are still kicking in. Something you think is harmless might have them daydreaming about you when they’re on the field.”

  “Oh stop, Duvall, you’re flattering me.”

  He steppe
d closer to her, and her heart jumped in response.

  “You don’t want to underestimate me, either,” he said softly, staring at her throat where the pulse beat madly under translucent skin. Flattery didn’t even come close to what he wanted to do with her.

  She should haul off and put him in his place, Becka thought, but her mind kept focusing on the flecks of copper in his golden eyes, and the heat she could feel radiating from him. Seconds stretched out, until she heard Sal’s voice as he crutched back toward the training room.

  “I’m ready, Florence.”

  Becka turned and got her keys and purse. She glanced at Mace.

  “Well, this has been fun, Duvall, but I’ve got to run. Guess I’ll see you tonight when the game starts.”

  The corners of his mouth curved in a slow grin and his eyes flickered with a heat she felt down to the pit of her stomach. “Funny, I thought it had started already.”

  3

  EARLY-MORNING SUN SLANTED across Becka as she helped Joe tie the last of her kitchen chairs onto his pickup. The final amalgamation looked a lot like something out of the Beverly Hillbillies, but it all fit, even the bed picked up that morning from her girlfriend Ryan’s house.

  “We’re ready to roll,” Joe called, dusting off his hands as he walked over to stand with his wife. “Everybody in.” Blunt-featured and stocky, he seemed to adore Nellie beyond reason. And like Becka’s father, he was endlessly patient. Maybe patient enough to be in a relationship in which his sweetheart always knew best—or at least thought she did.

  As for Becka, she’d go down kicking and screaming before she’d let someone control her, particularly a lover, she thought, squeezing next to Nellie in the cab. She wasn’t, however, always as quick to notice if they were so self-absorbed like her ex-boyfriend Scott had been. Having a boyfriend was a relatively small part of her life, all things considered. Except for the sex, of course. Still, no one she knew had died from doing without, she thought, trying not to count how long it had been. The image of Mace Duvall popped into her head and she pushed it away with baffled irritation. One thing was for sure, next time she had a lover, he wasn’t going to be a playboy.