Holm, Stef Ann Page 4

  Christ. It's her.

  Alex slowly relaxed his stance. "Who wants to know?"

  She took a few steps forward, her walk assured. He liked the way she held herself, the way her hair looked soft tucked beneath her hat.

  Then she did something that surprised him. She extended her hand.

  He didn't readily take it. Merely stared at the white silk of her gloves. The slenderness of her fingers. The tiny pearl buttons that ran up the inside of her wrist. He swore he could almost see her pulse point, that muted beat of her heart beneath her delicate skin and glove.

  The awkward moment dragged on until he grasped her outstretched hand. A jolt of heat shot up his arm from her touch.

  "Mr. Cordova, I'm Camille Kennison. And I've got a proposition for you."

  Chapter 3

  Alex arched a brow that had as much suggestion in it as his smile did. "I'm always interested in a proposition from a beautiful woman."

  The forthrightness in her handshake weakened, but her confidence didn't diminish as she slid her hand from his fingers. "Not that kind of proposition. You see, my father owns the hardware store—"

  "I guessed as much. You have the same last name."

  Turning away, Alex began to work on the chest again. He sat on the overturned crate and ignored her as best as he could. He had no trouble guessing the nature of her proposal. What got his back up was that he hadn't though Kennison would stoop so low as to have his daughter do his bidding.

  "Mr. Cordova." She moved closer to him. The sheer layer of lace on her skirt nearly brushed his elbow. "I'm sorry about yesterday."

  "Forget about it."

  "Is Captain feeling better?" When he didn't reply, she went on. "He felt very strongly about not having his beard shaved."

  Alex never talked about Captain's confusion. It was a private matter between him and Cap. "Go home, Miss Kennison."

  "I can't. Not until you hear me out." She laced her fingers in front of her. Dammit. Even knowing what she'd say before she said it, a cold sweat broke out on his brow. "The Harmony Keystones would like to contract you to play baseball."

  "Not interested."

  "I know my father's asked you before, but this is different. I'm asking now, and I—"

  "Not interested." His glare warned her not to push him.

  Her pale blue eyes didn't flicker in alarm. Or fear. Or show any other kind of emotion but set determination. Because it came at the expense of wearing him down, he grudgingly admired her fortitude.

  "I can understand your reluctance to talk with me, but I can assure you that I don't have my father's temperament. Or that I don't use his tactics to make my point."

  A light draft of air stirred the fine curls of wood shavings littered over the dirt floor. He watched them as they tumbled over one another, skittering across the tips of Camille's tan shoes. The fragrance of her perfume intruded into his male sanctuary. Lavender. Sweet lavender.

  "There is no point to make." Alex quit using the jack plane and rubbed his thumb over a small nub in the grain. He liked it. He'd leave it.

  "Oh, but you're wrong," she said.

  The conviction in her voice had him looking at her once more. A skein of golden blond hair touched her ear, and he grew mesmerized by it as she spoke.

  "I have a substantial offer for you to consider. One I'm sure my father has never brought you."

  Snapping out of the fog that held him, Alex gave her a hard stare. "I don't play baseball."

  "So you've said. But as you know, the Keystones have lost their first thirteen games this season—"

  "No, I don't know. I don't follow the game anymore."

  "Then you aren't aware of the American League."

  He said nothing.

  "They're newly formed this year. Clean ball is their main platform. No profanity on the playing field, and the umpires are legitimate agents of the league. Even your old club, the Orioles, are now in the American League. Things are quite different from the National League. The motto is 'a fair game and a good time.' "

  "I don't give a bag of peanuts, honey."

  That got her. She seemed to stand a little taller—as if to show him she wasn't weak. The soft-spoken Camille Kennison might not raise her voice, but she had a thread of stubbornness that lay hidden beneath the cool white surface.

  "I do think you'll give a bag of peanuts when you hear the details." The edginess vanished, replaced by calm. "We're prepared to pay you two thousand five hundred for this season. We can't legally offer any more. The American League has imposed a salary cap."

  The amount didn't stick in his brain because he didn't want to remotely consider it. But he did slant his gaze over her shapely breasts and curvy hips. He'd never run across a woman who had the body of Venus and could walk and pin her hat on at the same time. "How do you know so much about it?"

  "My father eats baseball, breathes baseball, thinks baseball, dreams baseball, and incorporates baseball into every meal in our house." She gave him a glib look. "I'd have to be deaf not to know."

  Well, hell. So maybe there was more to her pretty head than just a place to put her hat.

  "We may not be able to pay more than twenty-five hundred," she repeated. She was wasting her breath. He couldn't play baseball. Not for her father. Not for anyone. "But we can give you a bonus of three thousand five hundred for the exclusive use of your photograph and signature."

  He went still, his throat tightening. Swallowing, he asked, "What was that?"

  "A bonus of three thousand five hundred dollars."

  The computation in his head was lightning quick. Six thousand. Two thousand more than he needed.

  She had to be screwing with him. He pinned her with a dark frown, but those rosebud lips of hers didn't twitch. They remained as lush and full as when she spoke those his-problem-was-solved figures.

  "Let me assure you," she continued, "this is on the up-and-up."

  For an instant, he let himself think about getting all that money. Then his mind flashed on what he'd have to do for it. He couldn't. Not for six thousand. Not for sixty thousand.

  "Did you know Cy Young has only given up two home runs so far this season? Pitch against him and you could shake up the statistics, Mr. Cordova."

  Trying to sweeten the deal by appealing to his ego wouldn't work. But his pulse picked up a notch. Cy Young. The last time Alex had pitched against the right-hander, Young had been playing for the Cleveland Spiders. And beat him and the Orioles.

  Six grand. Hell.

  He rose from the crate. "Young's in the National League—I couldn't very well play against him now, could I?"

  "He left the National League for a better offer," she quickly replied. She kept her distance, but she was close enough for her perfume to encompass his senses like a lover's embrace. "This year, Mr. Young is with the Boston Somersets. American League."

  Conflict raged in Alex, twisted in his belly. It would be fun to go after Cy, but that's not what this was about. She'd put the offer on the table. Big money. But how could he take it without going back on a promise he'd made to himself?

  She waited, expectantly. She showed no signs of relenting. He cursed. She'd hit him up on a day where he couldn't say no. He needed the money. He had no choice.

  Straight white teeth snagged her bottom lip. She hastily added, "I can also offer you your own hotel room on road games and—"

  "You had me with the six thou, Miss Kennison." It was with a clenched jaw that he said, "I'll do it."

  "You will?"

  He quipped, "You want me to change my mind?"

  "No!"

  "Then you'd better close your mouth and get that contract written up before I do."

  He'd only play out the season. A bonus for advertising rights was usually paid up front but covered a long period of time. The extra money now would give him living expenses while he had to cut back on carpentry jobs. And as soon as September was a page off the calendar, he'd be on a train to Buffalo with Captain.

  "
Oh... oh, well!" She extended her hand for him to shake.

  He did so. Only this time he didn't let himself feel the softness of her skin—just the grip of her fingers. This was a business transaction. Cut and dried.

  "Welcome aboard, Mr. Cordova," she said eagerly. "The Keystones are happy to have you."

  "Yeah. Sure."

  "My father's lawyer will draw up the contract. He can meet with you in Mr. Stykem's office—shall we say eleven o'clock?"

  Alex nodded.

  "Eleven o'clock, then." She walked backward while she said it, as if she felt she had to make a quick getaway or else he would back out in spite of what he said.

  He let her go with a warning not to set him up in the future. "I can be bought, honey, but I can't be had. Cy Young's given up only one home run this year. To Roscoe Miller of the Detroit Tigers."

  Her cheeks paled; then she turned in a swirl of skirts and left the wood shop.

  Camille attempted to walk away as gracefully as she could, but it was an effort to keep one foot in front of the other. She could feel his gaze on her back, hot and steady. Observant. As if he could see right through her skirt to the frilly petticoat beneath.

  She never should have fibbed about Cy Young. But just how had Alex known about Cy when he claimed not to follow baseball? The embellishment had been meant to entice Alex into taking her offer.

  But it had been she who'd been enticed by him.

  From the moment he'd taken her hand in his, an unfamiliar thrill had swept through her. She'd felt breathless and warm. Almost unable to move. Although she'd been taken by him, she'd done her best to hide her emotions. And was fairly certain she had succeeded.

  But it hadn't been easy.

  His eyes were dark and fathomless—keepers of the enigma that was Alex Cordova. And for a reckless moment, when he smoothed the wood with a caressing hand, she'd imagined what it would be like for those large hands to skim over her body.

  As he worked, black hair fell in a part down the middle of his head; the ends were just shy of being long enough to tuck behind his ears. He probably thought the wild, untamed image suited him. Kept people at bay.

  Well, it hadn't kept Camille Kennison at bay.

  She'd gotten him.

  Oh my goodness!

  Rounding the corner of Elm and heading down Hackberry Way, she was able to relax. But her mind continued to whirl. As she walked, she went from laughing to keeping a hand over her heart to still its thumping beats. She couldn't wait to share her news. She felt like dancing on air.

  But then she hurtled back to earth as reality struck.

  Her father had decreed that whoever got Alex Cordova could be the manger of the Keystones. Of course he would never hold her to that.

  She wanted no part of the job. She liked baseball quite a lot, but for the most part, the players were crude. All that spitting and adjusting their athletic supporters. Most of them cursed and few of them apologized for it. They carried on with women in saloons. Drank beer. They thrived on fistfights and arguments with the umpires.

  Manage baseball players? No thank you.

  She'd be happy to sit and enjoy the games now that the Keystones had a chance. Seeing Alex Cordova play would be wonderfully exciting.

  Who was she kidding? When she told her father whom she'd payed a call on before Alex, whom she'd asked for thirty-five hundred dollars, she wouldn't be around to watch Alex pitch in his first game.

  Because her father was going to kill her.

  * * * * *

  The slam of the front door announced James Kennison's arrival home. Camille and her mother sat in the parlor when he came in and went to the liquor cabinet straightaway. Without a word, he poured a himself a short tumbler of sipping whiskey.

  As he sank into his favorite lounging chair, he moaned and stared into space with a blank and beaten expression on his face. "We lost again."

  Camille waited several seconds before speaking.

  "Then my news will be just the thing to cheer you up," she said in a bright tone though her insides were quaking.

  "Nothing could cheer me up."

  Looking up from the needlework in her lap, her mother said, "Maybe you should hear her news, James. I know I'm interested."

  "Very well, what is it, Camille sugar?"

  "I went to see Alex Cordova today," she divulged without preamble.

  Surprise registered on both her parents' faces at the same time.

  "Camille, you didn't," her mother admonished.

  Blustering, her father said, "I told you not to go out on Elm Street."

  "Yes, I know. But I went out there on Keystones business for you, so I didn't think you'd mind."

  "I do mind. I said that it wasn't respectable for a young lady to—What kind of Keystones business?" A questioning expression crossed his face. "You didn't approach Cordova to play baseball, did you? I told you nobody—"

  She cut in with a rush. "As a matter of fact, I did. I offered him the standard American League salary. Twenty-five hundred dollars."

  "Camille"—her mother leaned forward—"did you really make him an offer?"

  She nodded.

  "And?" Her father eyed her with the dubious scrutiny he'd give a new hardware catalog with prices lower than his.

  "And," she echoed, "he accepted."

  Her words hovered in the air and his eyes grew large. "You're not serious."

  "I am serious."

  "Twenty-five hundred? You asked him? He said yes?"

  "Yes."

  "My God." The mustache on his lip curved—actually, more like twitched. "I can't believe it." Then his eyes narrowed. "What did you do to make the difference?"

  The front bell cranked, chiming through the parlor like a shriek. Her father jumped. So did Camille, but for different reasons. She still had that other matter to mention and she wanted to get it over with.

  The caller cranked the bell once more, a long and deliberate spin of the chime key that ground out the monotone note for a full five seconds.

  "Leda!" His brows shot into an angry frown. "Answer the door before whoever's out there breaks the bell!"

  "Hold your shirttail. I'm on my way," Leda snipped, walking across the parlor rug. She entered the foyer and swung the door open. "Yes?"

  A man's voice drifted to the parlor. "Good evening. Bertram Nops to see the rusty hinge who calls himself a merchant."

  Camille sucked in a sharp breath and was certain the color drained from her face.

  "Nops!" her father spat. "I don't want to talk to that lug nut. Leda, tell him to get his carcass off my veranda."

  In spite of his directive, the housemaid appeared beneath the grillwork that led into the parlor. She wasn't alone. "Mr. Nops is here."

  Jerking out of his chair, Camille's father blared, "Nops, I want you out of my house."

  Mr. Nops didn't heed him. Instead, he held out his hat for Leda, who took it, then proceeded into the room as if he were an honored guest.

  "Kennison," he greeted his rival in a well-pleased tone. "Mrs. Kennison. And Miss Kennison, a pleasure to see you again."

  She forced a smile. Mr. Nops had no upper lip, a fact that was brought to attention when he smiled and his mouth grew wide. A brown hairpiece swooped far down on his forehead, making what would have been obvious more so. His eyebrows were a bit too pointy in the middle—as if they'd been drawn by Old Scratch.

  What had she been thinking?

  "So," he said, rubbing his hands together and clearly relishing the moment. She knew full well why. "I gave Alastair Stykem a bank note for the thirty-five hundred. Everything is neat as a pin. All set for tomorrow."

  Her father's stare traveled between her and Mr. Nops. "What's all set for tomorrow? And what in the blue blazes does thirty-five hundred dollars have to do with it?"

  Mr. Nops chuckled, then chortled when he apparently realized her father was in the dark. "She hasn't told you?"

  "Told me what?"

  It was impossible to steady her pulse,
so she might as well say what she had to. "You see, Daddy, I needed a bonus to convince Mr. Cordova to play for you. Without an added incentive, I knew I couldn't have gotten him to sign. After all, he has turned you down for the same amount. So I asked Mr. Nops to go into partnership with us on this one small thing."

  "Good God, Camille. Why did you do that?"

  "Because I needed three thousand five hundred dollars."

  "So you went to the biggest double-talker in Harmony?" Because her father stood nearly on top of his competitor, his irate voice practically blew Mr. Nops's toupee up his forehead. "Nops, you could argue a gopher into buying a tree."

  Mr. Nops snorted with laughter. "That's a good one, Kennison. And quite true."

  Bertram Nops wasn't Harmony's most trusted businessman. But he'd been a sure thing when it came to supplying the money Camille needed. For nearly a decade, Mr. Nops had been envious that her father owned his own baseball team. And recently, with the Keystones going professional, Mr. Nops had turned a full shade of green.

  The look on his face when Camille had presented him her idea... well, he'd gotten so excited he'd had to flip the open sign on the door to closed so no customers would intrude when he made her repeat herself just to be sure he'd heard her correctly.

  Her father acted as if she'd schemed up something foolhardy. She'd put a lot of thought into her plan. "Daddy, my intentions were to bring an end to the ridiculous hardware store war you two have been engaged in for the past ten years. This way you both have a vested interest in Alex Cordova and can work together."

  Her father yelled, "Nops owns more of him than I do by one thousand dollars!"

  "But you still own the whole team, Kennison!" Mr. Nops yelled back.

  Her mother interrupted. "Gentlemen, I think there's validity to what Camille did, and if you'd both stop shouting at one another, you'd see that this could be a very beneficial arrangement."

  Her father braced his hands on his waist. "A beneficial arrangement? I fail to see the benefit in it." Turning to Camille, he lashed out. "How could you promise this flathead screw a part of the Keystones without asking me? It was stupid of you, Camille." He drew in a deep breath and exhaled, "It was beyond stupid!"