Triple Score. Regina Kyle
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shirt. All of it clicked into place. “You’re that baseball player. Jace Morgan. The one who hit for the cycle in last year’s All-Star game.”
Not that she had a clue what that meant. But the way her brother Gabe and his buddy Cade had gone on and on about it, it had to be pretty extraordinary.
“It’s Monroe.” He switched to lunges. “Want my autograph?”
“Dream on.” What she wanted was him gone. She’d picked the Spaulding Center for Rehabilitation and Research because of its reputation for being discreet. With a star athlete like him there, the press was sure to come sniffing around. And just like that—poof—there went any shot she had of keeping her recovery on the down-low. The whole dance world would know where Noelle Nelson, prima ballerina of the New York City Ballet, had gone to mend her ruptured ACL. A dancer’s worst nightmare.
She tightened her grip on her crutches and headed for the door.
“Leaving so soon?” Jace’s tone was almost taunting.
Noelle clumped around to look at him. He was still lunging, his fine, firm ass squeezed tight, the muscles in his legs bunching and flexing with exertion. It was a second before she could remember what she was going to say. “Not every woman is susceptible to your charms.”
Liar, liar, pointe shoes on fire.
He stopped lunging to smirk at her. “So you admit I have charms.”
“I admit no such thing.” She huffed a stray strand of long, blond hair off her face. The man was as annoying as he was attractive.
Jace shook his head and crossed to the weight rack, where he exchanged the two ten-pound dumbbells for one twenty pounder. “The lady doth protest too much, methinks.”
“I do not—” She stopped midsentence, the irony of her words not lost on her, and reached down to scratch an itch under her knee brace. “Shakespeare?”
“Not all jocks are dumb.” He sat on the edge of the bench and started in on hammer curls with his good arm. So much for a little leg work. “There’s more to me than meets the eye.”
That was what she was afraid of.
“I think I could use that ice pack, after all. I’d better go see what’s keeping Sara.” She hobbled to the door.
“Hold up, Duchess.” Jace set down the weight with a clank. “You know my name, but I don’t know yours.”
“Sucks for you,” Noelle called over her shoulder without stopping her snail’s-pace escape. He’d find out eventually. Bat his too-long eyelashes and worm it out of Sara or some unsuspecting nurse. Until then, he’d have to be satisfied with Duchess.
Because Noelle had a mission. And a plan. And neither one included a bad-boy ballplayer with a panty-melting smile and a working knowledge of the Bard.
* * *
JACE FROWNED AND concentrated on the barbell in his hand, his reps picking up speed. He didn’t want to think about Duchess What’s-Her-Name and her ridiculous assumption that he was getting it on with his new PT. Or her legs that seemed to go on forever. Or the way her sweet little ass swayed when she hobbled out of the room. Who knew crutches could be sexy?
He had enough to worry about. He hadn’t taken a three-and-a-half-hour flight—commercial, no less—to let himself be distracted by a pretty face and an even prettier body. He was going to be back in a Storm uniform by spring training, playing the best ball of his life.
He lowered the weight to the floor with a grimace and leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees and staring at his reflection in the mirror. The guy who looked back at him had never been afraid of a little hard work. Hell, it wasn’t the first time he’d torn a ligament in his throwing arm. Been there, done that and he had come back in record time. But this time he’d needed surgery, and he’d be lying if he said the man in the mirror didn’t look a little scared.
The pocket in his gym shorts buzzed and he pulled out his cell, glanced at the screen and swiped his finger across, grateful for the interruption. “Hey, dude. Tough loss.”
On the other end of the line, Cooper Morgan, Sacramento Storm second baseman, swore. “Yeah. The close ones really suck. How’s the rehab going?”
Slow. Painful. “Great. I’ll be back at short before you know it.”
“Not until next season.” A note of caution crept into Cooper’s voice. He and Jace were part of the trio the press dubbed “the most lethal double play combo in the major leagues,” and he’d always been the level-headed one. “The good, the bad and the ugly,” a reporter had called them. Cooper was the “good,” Jace the “bad” and first baseman Reid Montgomery, with a jagged scar across one cheek that made him look a modern-day pirate, the “ugly.”
“I know. I heard the damn doctors.”
“I’m sure you heard them. But are you actually going to listen for a change?”
“Who appointed you my goddamn keeper?”
“It was either me or Reid.” Jace could hear the smile in his friend’s voice. “And he’s got some new chick he’s into, so...”
Jace chuckled and reached down to grab the water bottle he’d stashed under the bench. “Say no more. Let me guess. Tall, blond and drop dead gorgeous, with an IQ only slightly higher than her waist measurement.”
Cooper’s answering chuckle echoed over the phone. “Bingo.”
Like the Duchess. Except for the IQ thing. Jace could tell from her quick barbs she had more going on upstairs than Reid’s usual companions.
Beauty and brains. A dangerous combination.
Jace took a gulp of water and swirled it around in his mouth before letting it trickle down his throat. “So what’s the deal? You still coming out here for the All Star break?”
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world. Think they’ll let you out for a day or two?”
“I don’t see why not.” Jace sipped the water again and closed his eyes, letting his head fall back. “As long as I’m a good boy.”
“You?” Cooper scoffed. “Not likely.”
“I can be good,” Jace insisted. “When I want to be.”
“Which, unfortunately, isn’t often.”
“Did you call to harass me or was there something you wanted?” Jace chugged the last of his water and wiped his mouth on his good arm.
“To harass you.”
“Mission accomplished.” Jace stood and stretched. “I better go. Rumor has it they get pissed around here if you’re not in bed by ten.”
“Are you at rehab or summer camp?”
“Both.” Jace bent to pick up the weight. “I’ll call you in a few days. Kick some ass for me in St. Louis.”
“You bet.”
Jace ended the call, returned the weight to its place on the rack and headed back to his room. Once inside, he flipped on the light switch and stared, open-mouthed.
“What the hell?”
The bed had been empty when he left to meet Sara. Now one of those inflatable love dolls lay sprawled on top, her cherry-tipped breasts pointed straight up at the ceiling and her ruby red mouth in a permanent O. A cardboard box sat between her open legs. On one side, the words For Your Enjoyment: Handle With Care were printed in bold, bright blue marker. No return address, but the postmark was from Chicago, where the Storm had finished up a recent road trip.
Jace flicked open the utility knife on his key chain, sliced through the packing tape and began pulling out items one by one. A box of condoms. A tube of Astroglide. He kept digging. The damn thing was packed with enough sex toys