It was always mildly disconcerting being so close to him. For one, he projected himself to be way taller than he really was. She was five-ten and he had maybe an inch on her. That put them eye-to-eye. And the expression in his face was always clever, watchful like a coyote’s. It could be way unnerving.
For two, his energy was intense. And it wasn’t always controlled. There was a whole lot of Peter packed into one very fit, very hard package.
An image of that night back in Miami flashed across her brain. She knew what it felt like to have that hard agile body on top of her. Unbidden, her gaze dropped from his black stubble to the flat planes of his abdomen. Before it could roam lower she yanked it back to his eyes and caught undisguised humor in the crystalline depths.
“See anything you like?” He reached out a hand, scooped up a dollop of sour cream with a finger, and plopped it into his mouth.
She jerked her box away. “Hey, that’s mine!”
He sucked the condiment off and said around his finger, “You know, I’ve been thinking about that night in Miami a lot lately.”
Suddenly uncomfortable with the direction of the conversation, Leslie retorted, “Why, are you having problems again?”
Peter took a step forward and she took one in retreat. It effectively pushed her up against the center island. “That was an anomaly, Leslie, and you know it.”
His body was so close she could feel the heat coming off his thighs. It reached out and caressed the skin of her bare ones. “I don’t know anything of the sort.”
He reached out a hand and cupped her chin. His blue eyes were piercing. “You do know that we have chemistry; that there’s this thing that’s lingering between us. I know you like to pretend it doesn’t exist, but facts are facts. It’s been amusing, but it’s run its course and I’m ready to get it out of my system.”
The warmth of his hand was almost scalding. “Just what do you suggest then?” she asked, pretending that she wasn’t standing in her underwear holding a box of cold leftovers. With Peter it was best to never back down or show any weakness. He’d exploit it if you did. “Nice hair, by the way.” It was extra messy tonight, the short black strands a tangled, wavy mess.
“I fell asleep on the flight, but don’t change the subject.” He pushed closer into her until his energy washed over her.
Heat flared low in her belly and went straight to her groin. Damn her body for reacting to him. “What do you want?”
Her gut told her she already knew.
Leaning in, Peter nipped the skin just below her ear, making her shiver, and whispered, “I propose a bet.”
There’s a shocker. The man was full of them. “Why would I agree to one?” She sounded breathless. She wasn’t supposed to sound breathless. He’d rejected her. Didn’t her body remember? Her pride sure as hell did. Why was it betraying her?
Firm lips nibbled her earlobe and she went wet. Damn it. “Because I have something you want.” What could that possibly be?
“What’s that?” Now she didn’t just sound breathless. Her voice was quivering some too. Stop it, body.
The hand on her chin slipped down to caress her shoulder gently before it slid further down to the indentation of her waist. “You get me. Performing with my guitar at your club after the season is over. You can do as much PR about it as you want. And since I know you want to buy the club from Mark but don’t have the money—”
“How do you know that?” she interjected, surprised.
“Because he told me.” His hand squeezed her waist. “Let me finish. As added incentive since you want Hotbox, not only will I play for you, but I’ll pony up the cash you need for a down payment.”
Her eyes flew wide. “You would do that?”
He nodded, eyes hot with challenge.
Boo-yah! God, that was exactly the coup she needed to get her feet underneath her again! She could buy the club and put it on the map in one fell swoop. It was a dream come true. But she’d been trying for two years to get him to play at the club. No manner of coaxing, prodding, or begging had worked. For a guy who lived out loud like he did, it was surprising just how against it he really was. So why the sudden change of heart?
Wait a minute.
Her eyes narrowed. “What’s the whole bet? What’s in it for you?”
Peter gently tangled his fingers in her hair and held her head captive. An unholy gleam came into his eyes, and he grinned wickedly and nipped her chin. “You. I bet that I can get you to sleep with me by the end of the last day of the World Series, or I’ll play in your club and give you your down payment.”
Surprise shook her. “Wait. You want a do-over?”
“You bet your ass I do.”
“But it went so badly for you the last time.”
He looked her in the eyes, his blazing like blue fire. “Then you have nothing to worry about, princess. C’mon, scratch this itch with me. Do us both a favor.”
The man knew how to play her, knew what she wanted most. And he was right—she had nothing to worry about. But she had everything to gain. Peter playing in the club would bring the kind of attention she needed to take the business to the next level. And if she could actually buy it with the money she’d earn by keeping her hands to herself? Well, then life would be perfect.
Sure they had a history. And she’d admit it. Yes, they had chemistry. But it’s not like she was in any real trouble of sleeping with him. Right?
Her stomach quivered. “You’re on.”
Chapter Three
PETER DUG HIS cleat into the pitcher’s mound and signaled to Mark Cutter, who crouched behind home plate. Winding up for a slider, he pulled back his elbow and zeroed in on the catcher’s mitt. Tension coiled inside him, ready to unwind like an overtightened spring. Blood coursed through his veins, making him feel alive and hyper-focused.
Pitching in the Major Leagues was such a rush. Pure adrenaline all the way.
Peter was all about the rush.
It was his life. From his team’s name to the way he threw himself into everything full throttle, balls blazing. That was just how he was built. And it had given him a life of few regrets.
His only one was currently in the process of getting a do-over.
Leslie had no idea what she was in for. But she would, starting just as soon as he finished this game. With the little plan he’d put in place about her apartment, the next few weeks were stacked in his favor. A sly smile crept over his face at that. He was so going to win this bet.
No matter what it took. Snapping back to the present moment, Peter took a deep breath, blinked hard as his left eye went temporarily fuzzy, and mentally swore.
He blinked again and his vision cleared enough to continue. Relieved, he inhaled deep and let the ball fly. His arm slung forward like a rocket and the ball flew toward home plate, breaking over and down as it confused the New York Mets batter. The player swung and missed the ball as it slipped under his bat by a good six inches.
Cursing a blue streak, the player slammed his bat into the dirt as the umpire pumped a fist and yelled, “Strike!”
Yes.
The batter stomped off, and Peter earned the last out of the inning for his team. The cheering from the crowd only grew with the guy’s agitation. It was one of the best aspects of playing at Coors Field. The fans were involved and rowdy. They were his kind of people.
Tossing them a salute and a grin, Peter loped off the field with the rest of his team toward the dugout as the Jumbotron followed his movement. He glanced up to see himself on the big screen in his green and yellow jersey and white pants, feeling the joy of it all. Even after all these years it was still one helluva thrill.