Page 39 of Angel In Armani

Ignore the sea-blue eyes and the mouth that curved so nicely when she was putting him in his place. Ignore the quick wit and the determination that made him want to keep her talking so he could work out what made her tick.

She wasn’t interested.

Correction. She said she wasn’t interested.

Her mouth said it. But he’d seen the way she stole glances at him and the pink stealing over her skin when he looked at her. He’d heard her voice go loose and turned on when he talked about that night in the hotel room. And he knew damn well the way that mouth tasted.

So he didn’t entirely believe her, no. Only question was: How he was supposed to get inside the wall of responsibility and whatever the hell it was that she’d erected around herself and get back to the woman who’d seduced him in the Hamptons?

Without making an idiot of himself or behaving like a complete and utter jerk in the process.

There might not be enough caffeine in the world for that.

He frowned, thinking about it. He couldn’t quite figure her out. And he couldn’t quite figure out what about her made him want to figure her out.

“Lucas, are you coming?”

He jerked back to reality, and coffee—thankfully cooling by now—slopped down his hand. He scowled at it anyway.

“Whoa. Looks like you’ve had too many of those already.” Dan Ellis grinned down at him. He looked annoyingly wide awake in a white Saints polo shirt and jeans with a well-worn blue Saints cap pulled low over his eyes.

“I didn’t get much sleep,” Lucas said. He squinted at the watch on the un-coffee-splashed wrist. Nine thirty. He felt like he’d been awake for a day already but apparently not.

The coffee provided at the stadium where the team had their temporary digs was nowhere near good enough to kick-start his brain the way it needed to be kick-started. Each sip had left him wishing desperately that he was home with his very expensive, very good espresso machine waiting for him on his kitchen counter.

But no, he was here in Florida, where the day was far too sunny for his current mood.

He’d hidden away from the sunshine in one of the offices, trying to get some surgery-related calls and emails out of the way first thing before he had to switch to baseball. But apparently he hadn’t hidden well enough. Dan had found him.

“We’re about to start the pitching drills if you want to come and watch,” Dan said. “There’s one kid in this batch who’s looking good. Sam Basara.”

Lucas nodded and shut down his laptop. “He’s the one you’ve been telling me about.” Dan had had his eye on Sam for a while, apparently. The kid was only in his first year of college ball. Getting called up to the majors at this stage would be a dream come true. Lucas knew that dream.

And also knew how that dream could chew people up and spit them up. MLB was unforgiving.

But the cold hard fact was that they’d lost their best pitchers—other than Brett—and needed to build that capability back up ASAP. Combine that with pockets that were far shallower than most of the other teams and their only option was to go for the underrated players that Dan and his team were picking out. Including kids still in college.

“Yup,” Dan said. “Kid’s got an arm on him.” He took a file folder from the pile he held and passed it to Lucas. “So let’s go.”

Lucas yawned. “Do I have time for another cup of coffee?”

“If you’re quick. But get used to it. None of us sleeps much in spring training.”

“Yeah, but you’re not sleeping in just one place for the most part. I’m doing it in two,” Lucas said.

“Cry me a river,” Dan said. “We’ve got a team to build.”

Couldn’t argue with that. He grabbed another cup of average coffee and followed Dan out to the field. It was, at least, warmer here in Vero Beach than in New York. He pulled out his sunglasses and put them on as he gazed out over the small park. Small but newer and in better condition than Deacon Field. But a ballpark was a ballpark, and the familiar white diamond and bleachers and scoreboard made him smile despite his bad mood.

Down on the field, a bunch of players in the silver and blue and yellow Saints colors were gathered around the lanky form of Stuart Kelso, the Saints pitching coach, watching intently as he gestured with a bat and made wild arm motions.

Hopefully it was a rousing pep talk and the players would be inspired to do what they did best so Lucas and the coaching team could make some decisions and he could get the hell back to New York.

More likely, half of them were standing down there wishing they could find a discreet place to puke their guts up through sheer nerves.

He’d never actually tried out for an MLB team, but he remembered what it had felt like being scouted at his high school games. The sheer terror that he wouldn’t get chosen. Wouldn’t be offered the money that would mean he could do what his parents didn’t want him to do and go to the school of his choice and play baseball.

“Poor bastards,” he muttered.

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