Книга - Kiss Me, I’m Irish: The Sins of His Past / Tangling With Ty / Whatever Reilly Wants…

Kiss Me, I'm Irish: The Sins of His Past / Tangling With Ty / Whatever Reilly Wants...
Jill Shalvis

Maureen Child

Roxanne St. Claire


Bestselling authors Roxanne St. Claire, Jill Shalvis and Maureen Child bring you three classic stories of sexy Irishmen and the women who love them… The Sins of His Past by Roxanne St. ClaireFor one incredible night, Kendra Locke gave Deuce Monroe everything she had. Then he walked away without a backward glance to chase his big-league dreams. Now after one too many daredevil stunts, he's back in his hometown ready to pick up where they left off— but Kendra has no intention of giving in so easily….Tangling with Ty by Jill Shalvis Dr. Nicole Mann, a child prodigy who graduated high school at the age of thirteen, has no room in her mind or her schedule for romance. But when the architect renovating her apartment turns out to have a charming Irish accent, all bets are off—and Ty Patrick O'Grady plans to use every trick in his book to stay in her life for good. Whatever Reilly Wants by Maureen ChildConnor Reilly only has a few weeks to go in his "no sex for ninety days" bet with his brothers—and he figures no woman is safer to be around than his best friend, Emma Jacobsen. Until Emma shows up at a bar in a short skirt and high heels, and suddenly seems anything but safe!







Bestselling authors Roxanne St. Claire, Jill Shalvis and Maureen Child bring you three classic stories of sexy Irishmen and the women who love them…

The Sins of His Past by Roxanne St. Claire

For one incredible night, Kendra Locke gave Deuce Monroe everything she had. Then he walked away without a backward glance to chase his big-league dreams. Now after one too many daredevil stunts, he’s back in his hometown ready to pick up where they left off—but Kendra has no intention of giving in so easily….

Tangling with Ty by Jill Shalvis

Dr. Nicole Mann, a child prodigy who graduated high school at the age of thirteen, has no room in her mind or her schedule for romance. But when the architect renovating her apartment turns out to have a charming Irish accent, all bets are off—and Ty Patrick O’Grady plans to use every trick in his book to stay in her life for good.

Whatever Reilly Wants... by Maureen Child

Connor Reilly only has a few weeks to go in his “no sex for ninety days” bet with his brothers—and he figures no woman is safer to be around than his best friend, Emma Jacobsen. Until Emma shows up at a bar in a short skirt and high heels, and suddenly seems anything but safe!


Praise for New York Times and USA TODAY

bestselling author Roxanne St. Claire

“Consistent excellence is a mark of a St. Claire novel.”

—RT Book Reviews

“It’s safe to say I will try any novel with St. Claire’s name

on it. Her writing is taut, funny, tense and

sparking-wire-on-wet-pavement sharp.”

—SmartBitchesTrashyBooks.com

“On the fast track to making her name a household one.”

—Publishers Weekly

“With Roxanne St. Claire, you are guaranteed

a powerful, sexy and provocative read.”

—New York Times bestselling author Carly Phillips

Praise for New York Times and USA TODAY

bestselling author Jill Shalvis

“Shalvis thoroughly engages readers.”

—Publishers Weekly

“Hot, sweet, fun, and romantic! Pure pleasure!”

—New York Times bestselling author Robyn Carr

“Witty, fun and sexy—the perfect romance!”

—New York Times bestselling author Lori Foster

“Shalvis’ writing is a perfect trifecta of win:

hilarious dialogue, evocative and real characters, and settings that are as much a part of the story as the hero and heroine. I’ve never been disappointed by a Shalvis book.”

—SmartBitchesTrashyBooks.com

Praise for USA TODAY bestselling author

Maureen Child

“Ms. Child’s fresh and appealing romance sparkles

with pleasing characterization and impeccable timing.”

—RT Book Reviews

“[Child’s] unique, endearing characters grab hold

of your heartstrings and never let go.”

—Rendezvous

“I have found an author who writes about

all my favorite things.... [Child’s] stories are always

focused on the joy of falling in love for the first time.”

—Under the Covers Book Reviews

“The ever entertaining Maureen Child

warms the cockles of our hearts.”

—RT Book Reviews





KISS ME, I’M IRISH

The Sins of His Past


Roxanne St. Claire




Tangling with Ty


Jill Shalvis




Whatever Reilly Wants’


Maureen Child










www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


The Sins of His Past

Roxanne St. Claire


Dear Reader,

The Sins of His Past is centered around Monroe’s, an old-fashioned Irish pub undergoing a twenty-first-century transformation. When Deuce Monroe’s professional baseball career comes to an untimely end, he returns to his hometown with the intention of taking over his father’s bar. But nothing at Monroe’s is what he expects. Vying for the ownership of the neighborhood watering hole is a sexy and daunting opponent, more threatening than any Deuce ever faced on the pitcher’s mound.

When The Sins of His Past was originally released, my son was playing Little League and inspiring me to write baseball heroes. Now I’m celebrating the book’s reissue in this anthology…just as that little ballplayer heads to college. Talk about twenty-first-century transformations! My writing has changed over the years, too. These days, my books usually include one villain and a few dead bodies, but in re-reading this novel, I remembered how much I enjoyed writing a sensual story with a conflict-rich romance driving every scene. Oh, and a baseball-playing hero.

Seamus “Deuce” Monroe is that endearing Irish mix of a wild card with a good heart and lost soul. He’s hot, he’s funny, he’s vulnerable, and he’s facing a few transformations of his own. So, I invite you to step into Monroe’s, raise a glass (or cup of coffee, depending on which team you’re rooting for) and enjoy this story about two people who have some sins in their past and love in their future.

Roxanne St. Claire


This book is dedicated to the gang

who gathers at our field of dreams every weekend.

From my side of the chain-link fence, I’m often reminded that it’s not whether you win or lose, but how incredibly cute you look playing the game. Special love to the coach

I married, the shortstop who takes my breath away

and the littlest cheerleader by my side.


Contents

CHAPTER ONE (#uef4ac01d-bb1d-562f-96c7-d6963183825b)

CHAPTER TWO (#u9590c908-b74c-5c24-9fdf-fbcafad6ce3c)

CHAPTER THREE (#ud97de127-1b63-58e1-a578-cc4c0eff0ec3)

CHAPTER FOUR (#u5626664f-5da2-549e-9747-04230753c712)

CHAPTER FIVE (#uecad9a2d-4d6c-5aeb-900d-86168fea72e2)

CHAPTER SIX (#u8e764e0c-f352-50c7-8c3f-0d89b7d04f2c)

CHAPTER SEVEN (#u94bf781b-a68c-5f35-893d-a004a1e23f74)

CHAPTER EIGHT (#u2e26b450-1efb-524b-9657-9aa0af12f8aa)

CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)


CHAPTER ONE

ONLY ONCE BEFORE could Deuce Monroe remember being speechless. When he’d met Yaz. He’d shaken the great man’s hand and tried to utter a word, but he’d been rendered mute in the presence of his hero, Carl Yastrzemski.

But standing in the warm April sunshine on the main drag in Rockingham, Massachusetts, staring at a building that had once been as familiar to him as his home field pitcher’s mound, he was damn near dumbstruck.

Where was Monroe’s?

He peered at the sign over the door. Well, it said Monroe’s. With no capital M and a sketch of a laptop computer and a coffee mug next to it. But the whole place just seemed like Monroe’s on steroids. In addition to taking up way more space than he remembered, the clapboard had been replaced by a layer of exposed brick covered in ivy, and three bay windows now jutted into the sidewalk.

At least the old mahogany door hadn’t changed. He gripped the familiar brass handle, yanked it toward him and stepped inside.

Where he froze and swallowed a curse. Instead of the familiar comfort of a neighborhood bar, there was a wide-open area full of sofas and sunlight and…computers?

Where the hell was Monroe’s?

The real Monroe’s—not this…this cyber salon.

He scanned the space, aching for something familiar, some memory, some scent that would embrace him like his long-lost best friend.

But all he could smell was…coffee.

They didn’t serve coffee at his parents’ bar. Ice-cold Bud on tap, sure. Plenty of whiskey, rum and even tequila, but not coffee. Not here, where the locals gathered after the Rock High games to replay every one of Deuce’s unpredictable but deadly knuckleballs. Not here, where all available wall space was filled with action shots from big games, framed team jerseys and newspaper clippings touting his accomplishments and talent. Not here, where—

“Can I help you, sir?”

Deuce blinked, still adjusting to the streaming sunlight where there shouldn’t be any, and focused on a young woman standing in front of him.

“Would you like a computer station?” she asked.

What he’d like is a Stoli on the rocks. He glanced at the bar. At least that was still there. But the only person sitting at it was drinking something out of a cup. With a saucer.

“Is Seamus Monroe here?” Not that he expected his father to be anywhere near the bar on a Tuesday morning, but he’d already tried the house and it was empty. Deserted-looking, actually. A little wave of guilt threatened, but he shook it off.

“Mr. Monroe isn’t here today,” the young lady beamed at him. “Are you the new software vendor?”

As if.

He sneaked a glimpse at the wall where Mom had hung his first autographed Nevada Snake Eyes jersey at the end of his rookie season. Instead of the familiar red number two, a black and white photograph of a snow-covered mountain hung in a silver frame.

“Do you have a phone number where I can reach him?”

She shook her head. “I couldn’t give you that, I’m sorry. Our manager is in the back. Would you like me to get her?”

Her? Dad had hired a female manager?

Then a little of the tension he’d felt for the past few weeks subsided. This was the right thing to do. It took a career-ending injury caused by monumental stupidity, but coming home to take over the bar was definitely the right thing to do.

Obviously, someone had already exploited his father’s loss of interest in the place and made one too many changes. Deuce would set it all straight in no time.

“Yeah, I’ll talk to her,” he agreed.

She indicated the near-empty bar with a sweep of her hand. “Feel free to have a cup of coffee while I get Ms. Locke.”

Locke?

That was the first familiar sound since he’d arrived in Rockingham. He knew every Locke who had ever lived in this town.

In fact, Deuce had just had an email from Jackson Locke, his old high-school buddy. A typical what-a-jerk-you-are missive laced with just enough sympathy to know Jack felt Deuce’s pain for ending a stellar baseball career at only thirty-three years old. Jack’s parents had moved to Florida years ago…so that left Jack’s sister, Kendra.

Deuce swallowed hard. The last time he’d seen Kendra was the week he’d come home for his mother’s funeral, about nine years ago. Jack’s baby sister had been…well, she’d been no baby then.

And Deuce had been a total chicken scumbag and never called her, not once, afterwards. Even though he’d wanted to. Really wanted to.

But it couldn’t be Kendra, he decided as the hostess scooted away. Back then Kendra was weeks away from starting her junior year at Harvard. Surely the Hahvahd girl with a titanium-trap brain and a slightly smartass mouth hadn’t ended up managing Monroe’s. She’d been on fire with ambition.

And on fire with a few other things, too. His whole body tightened at the memory, oddly vivid for having taken place a long time and a lot of women ago.

This Locke must be a cousin, or a coincidence.

He leaned against the hostess stand—another unwelcome addition to Monroe’s—and studied the semi-circle of computers residing precisely where the pool table used to be.

Someone had sure as hell messed with this place.

“Excuse me, I understand you need to speak with me?”

Turning, the first thing he saw was a pair of almond-shaped eyes exactly the color of his favorite Levi’s, and just as inviting.

“Deuce?” The eyes flashed with shock and recognition.

He had to make an effort to keep from registering the same reaction.

Was it possible he’d slept with this gorgeous woman, kissed that sexy mouth that now opened into a perfect O and raked his fingers through that cornsilk-blond hair—and then left without ever calling her again?

Idiot took on a whole new meaning.

“Kendra.” He had absolutely no willpower over his gaze, which took a long, slow trip over alabaster skin, straight down to the scoop neck of a tight white T-shirt and the rolling letters of Monroe’s across her chest. All lower-case.

The letters, that was. The chest was definitely upper-case.

A rosy tone deepened her pale complexion. Her chin tilted upward, and those blue eyes turned icy with distrust. “What are you doing here?”

“I came home,” he said. The words must have sounded unbelievable to her, too, based on the slanted eyebrow of incredulity he got in response. He took another quick trip over the logo, and this time let his gaze continue down to a tiny waist and skin-tight jeans hugging some seriously sweet hips.

He gave her his most dazzling smile. Maybe she’d forgiven him for not calling. Maybe she’d stay on and work for him after he took over the bar. Maybe she’d…

But, first things first. “I’m looking for my dad.”

She tucked a strand of sunny blond hair behind her ear. “Why don’t you try Diana Lynn’s house?”

Diana Lynn’s house? What the hell was that? Had he gone to assisted living or something? “Is she taking care of Dad?”

That earned him a caustic laugh. “I’ll say. Diana Lynn Turner is your father’s fiancée.”

“His what?” Men who’d had pacemakers put in a year ago didn’t have fiancées. Widowed men with pacemakers, especially.

“His fiancée. It’s French for bride-to-be, Deuce.” She put a hand on her hip like a little punctuation mark to underscore her sarcasm. “Your dad spends most of his days—and all of his nights—at her house. But they’re leaving tomorrow morning for a trip, so if you want to see him, you better hustle over there.”

Deuce had been scarce for a lot of years, no doubt about it. But would his father really get engaged and not tell him?

Of course he would. He’d think Deuce would hate the idea of Seamus Monroe remarrying. And he’d be right.

“So, where does this Diana Lynn live?”

She waved her hand to the left. “At the old Swain mansion.”

He frowned. “That run-down dump on the beach?”

“Not so run-down since Diana Lynn worked her magic.” She reached into the hostess stand and pulled out some plastic menus, tapping them on the wood to line them up. “She has a way of livening everything up.”

Oh, so that’s what was going down; some kind of gold digger had got her teeth into the old man. Deuce hadn’t gotten home a moment too soon.

“Don’t tell me,” he said with a quick glance toward the pit of computers to his right. “She’s the mastermind behind the extreme makeover of the bar.”

“The bar?” Kendra slid the menus back into their slot and looked in the opposite direction—toward the bar that lined one whole wall. “Well, we haven’t been able to close long enough to rip the bar out yet.”

He didn’t know what word to seize. We or rip or yet.

“Why would you do that?”

She shrugged and appeared to study the bank of cherry-wood that had been in Deuce’s life as long as he’d lived. He’d bet any amount of money that the notches that marked his height as a toddler were still carved into the wood under the keg station. “The bar’s not really a money-maker for us.”

Us, was it? “That’s funny,” he said, purposely giving her the stare he saved for scared rookies at the plate. “Most times the bar is the most profitable part of a bar.”

His intimidating glare didn’t seem to work. In fact, he could have sworn he saw that spark of true grit he’d come to recognize right before some jerk slammed his curve ball into another county.

“I’m sure that’s true in other business models,” she said slowly, a bemused frown somehow just making her prettier. “But the fact is, the bar’s not the most profitable part of an Internet café.”

He choked a laugh of disbelief. “Since when is Monroe’s an Internet café?”

“Since I bought it.”

He could practically hear the ball zing straight over the left-field fence, followed by a way-too familiar sinking sensation in his gut.



“SINCE YOU what?”

He didn’t know. Kendra realized by the genuine shock in those espresso-colored eyes that Deuce had no idea that she and his father shared a two-year-old business arrangement. She’d never had the nerve to ask Seamus if he’d told his son. In fact, she and Seamus Senior had politely danced around the subject of Seamus Junior for a long, long time.

But it looked like the dance was about to end.

“I bought Monroe’s a while ago. Well, half of it. And I run it, although your dad still owns fifty percent.” All right, fifty-one. Did Deuce need to know that little detail?

“Really,” he said, thoughtfully rubbing a cheek that hadn’t seen a razor in, oh, maybe twenty-nine hours. Giving him the ideal amount of Hollywood stubble on his chiseled, handsome features. It even formed the most alluring little shadow in the cleft on his chin.

She’d dipped her tongue into that shadow. Once.

“Yes, really.” She pulled the menus out again just to keep her hands busy. Otherwise, they might betray her and reach out for a quick feel of that nice Hollywood stubble.

“And you turned it into—” He sent a disdainful glare toward the main floor “—the Twilight Zone.”

She couldn’t help laughing. He’d always made her laugh. Even when she was eleven and he’d teased her. He’d made her giggle, and then she’d run upstairs and throw herself on her bed and cry for the sheer love of him. “We call it the twenty-first century, Deuce, and you’re welcome to log on anytime.”

“No, thanks.” He took a step backward, sweeping her with one of those appraising looks that made her feel as if she’d just licked her finger and stuck it in the nearest electrical outlet.

When his gaze finally meandered back up to her face, she forced herself to look into his dark-brown eyes. They were still surrounded by long, black lashes and topped with those seriously brash eyebrows. The cynicism, the daring, the I-don’t-give-a-rat’s-ass-what-anyone-thinks look still burned in his eyes. It was that look, along with a well-known penchant for fun and games, and the occasional out-of-control pitch, that had earned him the most memorable yearbook caption in Rockingham High School history: Deuce Is Wild. And her brother was on the page to the left with his own epigram: Jacks Are Better.

Their gaze stayed locked a little too long and she felt a wave of heat singe her cheeks. How much did he remember? That she’d admitted a lifelong crush on her big brother’s best friend and biggest rival?

Did he remember that she’d never once used the word no during their passionate night together? That she’d whispered “I love you” when her body had melted into his and a childhood of fantasizing about one boy finally came true?

Sophie hustled toward the hostess stand, holding out a manila envelope, and blessedly breaking the silence.

“The kid from Kinko’s dropped this off,” she said, giving Deuce a quick glance as though to apologize for the interruption. Or to steal another look.

Kendra took the envelope. “Are you sure they sent over everything, Soph?”

The young woman nodded. “And the disk is in there, too. For backup.”

Kendra gripped the package a little tighter. This was it. Seamus and Diana Lynn were on their way to Boston, New York and San Francisco to nail down the financing that would allow her to finish the transformation of Monroe’s into the premier Internet café and artists’ space in all of Cape Cod. Two years of research and planning—and what seemed like a lifetime of agonizingly slow higher education—all came down to this presentation.

“Seamus just called,” Sophie added. “He’s anxious to see it today, so he has time to go over any fine points with you before they leave.”

She glanced at Deuce, who managed to take up too much space and breathe too much air just by being there. He’d always be larger than life in her wretched, idolizing eyes, regardless of the fact that he was responsible for putting an end to all of her dreams.

Then a sickening thought seized her. Everyone knew that Deuce’s baseball career was over. Was he back for good? If so, then he had the ability to wreck her plans once again. Not because she would fall into his bed like a lovesick schoolgirl—she’d never make that mistake again—but because he had the power to change his father’s mind.

If he wanted Monroe’s, Seamus would give it to him. If Deuce wanted the moon and stars and a couple of meteors for good measure, Seamus would surely book a seat on the next rocket launch to go get them.

The prodigal son had returned, and the surrogate daughter might just be left out in the cold.

Kendra squared her shoulders and studied the face she’d once loved so much it hurt her heart just to look at him. Deuce Monroe could not waltz back into Rockingham and wreck her life…again.

But she’d never give him the satisfaction of knowing he had any power—then or now.

“You can follow me over there,” she said with such believable indifference that she had to mentally pat herself on the back.

“You can ride with me,” he replied.

“No thanks.” How far could she push indifference? Didn’t he remember what had happened the last time they’d been in a car together?

“You can trust me.” He winked at her. “I’ve only been banned from race tracks, not the street.”

Of course, he was referring to his well-publicized car crash, not their past.

“I just meant that I saw your father yesterday. You haven’t seen him in years. No doubt you’ll want to stay longer than I do.”

“Depends on how I’m received.” He turned toward the door, but shot her a cocky grin. “It’s been a while.”

“No kidding.”

The grin widened as he added another one of those endless full-body eye exams that tested her ability to stand without sinking into the knees that had turned to water. “Is that your way of saying you missed me, Kendra?”

If any cells in her body had remained at rest, they woke up now and went to work making her flush and ache and tingle.

She managed to clear her throat. “I’m sure this is impossible for you to comprehend, Deuce, but somehow, some way, without formal therapy or controlled substances, every single resident in the town of Rockingham, Massachusetts, has managed to survive your long absence. Every. Single. One.”

He just laughed softly and gave her a non-verbal touché with those delicious brown eyes. “Come on, Ken-doll. I’ll drive. Do you have everything you need?”

No. She needed blinders to keep from staring at him, and a box of tissue to wipe the drool. Throw in some steel armor for her heart and a fail-safe chastity belt, and then she’d be good to go.

But he didn’t need to know that. Any more than he needed to know why she’d dropped out of Harvard in the middle of her junior year.

“I have everything I need.” She held the envelope in front of her chest and gave him her brightest smile. “This is all that matters.”

She couldn’t forget that.



“SO WHAT THE HELL happened to this place?” Deuce threw a glance to his right, ostensibly at the cutesy antique stores and art galleries that lined High Castle Boulevard, but he couldn’t resist a quick glimpse at the passenger in his rented Mustang.

Because she looked a lot better than the changes in his hometown. Her jeans-clad legs were crossed and she leaned her elbow out the open window, her head casually tipped against her knuckles as the spring breeze lifted strands of her shoulder-length blond hair.

“What happened? Diana Lynn Turner happened,” she answered.

The famous Diana Lynn again. “Don’t tell me she erected the long pink walls and endless acres of housing developments I saw on the way into town. Everything’s got a name. Rocky Shores. Point Place. Shoreline Estates. Since when did we have estates in Rockingham?”

“Since Diana Lynn arrived,” she said, with a note of impatience at the fact that he didn’t quite get the Power Of Diana thing.

“What is she? A one-man construction company?”

Kendra laughed softly, a sound so damn girly that it caused an unexpected twist in his gut. “She didn’t build the walls or houses, but she brought in the builders, convinced the Board of Selectmen to influence the Planning Commission, then started her own real estate company and marketed the daylights out of Rockingham, Mass.”

“Why?”

“For a number of reasons.” She held up her index finger. “One, because Cape Cod is booming as a Hamptons-type destination and we want Rockingham to get a piece of the action instead of just being a stop en route to more interesting places.” She raised a second finger. “Two, because the town coffers were almost empty and the schools were using outdated books and the stoplights needed to be computerized and the one policeman in town was about to retire and we had no money to attract a new force.” Before point number three, he closed his fist around her fingers and gently pushed her hand down.

“I get the idea. Progress.” He reluctantly let go of her silky-smooth skin. “So Diana Lynn isn’t a gold digger.”

She let out a quick laugh. “She’s a gold digger all right. She’s dug the gold right out of Rockingham and put it back in those empty coffers.”

He was silent for a minute as he turned onto Beachline Road and caught the reflection of April sunshine on the deep, blue waters of Nantucket Sound. Instead of the unbroken vista he remembered, the waterfront now featured an enclave of shops, which had to be brand-new even though they sported that salt-weathered look of New England. Fake salt-weathered, he realized. Like when they banged nicks into perfectly good furniture and called it “distressed.”

He didn’t like Diana Lynn Turner. Period. “So, just how far into him are her claws?”

“Her claws?” Kendra’s voice rose in an amused question. “She doesn’t have claws, Deuce. And if you’d bothered to come home once in a while to see your father in the past few years, you’d know that.”

He tapped the brakes at a light he could have sworn was not on the road when he was learning to drive. “That didn’t take long.”

“What?”

“The guilt trip.”

She blew out a little breath. “You’ll get no guilt from me, Deuce.”

Not even for not calling after a marathon of unforgettable sex? He didn’t believe her. “No guilt? What would you call that last comment?”

As she shifted in her seat, he noticed her back had straightened and the body language of detachment she was trying so hard to project was rapidly disappearing. “Just a fact, Deuce. You haven’t seen your dad for a long, long—”

“Correction. I haven’t been in Rockingham for a long, long time. Dad came to every game the Snakes played in Boston. And he came out to Vegas a few times, too.”

“And you barely had time to have dinner with him.”

This time he exhaled, long and slow. He didn’t expect her to understand. He didn’t expect anyone to understand. Especially the man he was about to go see. Dinner with Dad was about all the motivational speaking he could stand. The endless coaching, the pushing, the drive. Deuce liked to do things his way. And that was rarely the way his father wanted them done.

Staying away was just easier.

“I talk to your brother Jack every once in a while,” he said, as though that connection to Rockingham showed he wasn’t quite the Missing Person she was making him out to be.

“Really?” She seemed surprised. “He never mentions that.”

“He seems to like his job.” It was the first thing he could think of to prove he really did talk to Jack.

She nodded. “He was born to be in advertising, that’s for sure. He’s married to that company, I swear.”

How could he resist that opening? Besides, he was dying to know. “What about you?” He remembered the hostess calling her Ms. Locke. But these days, that didn’t mean anything. “Got a husband, house and two-point-five kids yet, Ken-doll?”

Her silence was just a beat too long. Did she still hate the nickname he’d bestowed on her when she was a skinny little ten-year-old spying on the big boys in the basement?

“No, I don’t, Seamus.”

He grinned at the comeback. “So why aren’t you in New York or Boston? Don’t tell me that Hahvahd education landed you right back in the old Rockeroo.”

He saw her swallow. “Actually, I never graduated from Harvard.”

He glanced at her, noticing the firm set of her jaw. “No kidding? You were halfway through last time…” He let his voice drift a little. “When my mother passed away.”

A whisper of color darkened her cheeks as she was no doubt wondering what else he recalled about his last visit to Rockingham. Surprisingly, everything. Every little detail remained sharp in his memory.

“I got very involved in business here,” she said curtly.

Something in her voice said “don’t go there” so he sucked in the salty air through the open windows of his rental car, immediately punched with memories.

“Smells like baseball,” he said, almost to himself.

“Excuse me?”

“April in New England. It smells like spring, and spring means baseball.” At least, it had for the past twenty-seven years of his life. Since he’d first picked up a bat and his father had started Rockingham’s Little League just so Deuce could play T-ball, spring had meant “hit the field.”

“You miss it?” she asked, her gentle tone actually more painful than the question.

“Nah,” he said quickly. “I was about to retire anyway.” A total lie. He was thirty-three and threw knuckleballs half the time. His elbow might be aching, but he could still pitch. But his taste for fast cars had lured him to a race track just for fun.

Fun that was most definitely not welcomed by the owners of the Nevada Snake Eyes, or the lawyers who wrote the fine print in his contract. He rubbed his right elbow, a move that he’d made so many times in his life, it was like breathing.

“You had a good year last year,” she noted.

He couldn’t help smiling, thinking of her little speech back at the bar. “You think anybody in Rockingham slowed down from all that surviving long enough to notice?”

Her return smile revealed a hint of dimples against creamy skin. “Yeah. We noticed.”

The Swain mansion was around the corner. Instinctively, he slowed the car, unwilling to face his father, and wanting to extend the encounter with Kendra a little longer.

“I see my great season didn’t stop someone from redecorating the walls of Monroe’s.” With mountains, instead of…memories.

Her smile grew wistful. “Things change, Deuce.”

Evidently, they did. But if he had his way, he could change things right back again. Maybe not the pink houses and antique shops. But he sure as hell could make Monroe’s a happening bar and recapture some of his celebrated youth in the meantime.

And while he was at it, maybe he could recapture some of those vivid memories of one night with Kendra. “Then I’ll need someone to help me get reacquainted with the new Rockingham,” he said, his voice rich with invitation.

She folded her hands on top of the envelope she’d been clinging to and stared straight ahead. “I’m sure you’ll find someone.”

His gaze drifted over her again. He’d found someone. “I’m sure I will.”


CHAPTER TWO

DEUCE DID A CLASSIC double take as they rounded the last corner to where a rambling, dilapidated mansion built by the heir to a sausage-casing fortune once stood.

“Whoa.” He blew out a surprised breath. “I bet old Elizabeth Swain would roll over in her grave.”

Kendra tried to see the place through his eyes. Instead of the missing shingles, broken windows and overgrown foliage he must remember, there stood a rambling three-story New England cape home with gray shake siding and a black roof, trimmed with decks and columns and walls of glass that overlooked Nantucket Sound. The driveway was lined with stately maples sprouting spring-green leaves. The carpet of grass in the front looked ready for one of Diana’s lively games of croquet.

“Dad lives here?” Before she could, he corrected himself. “I mean, his…his friend does?”

Kendra laughed softly. “He almost lives here. But he’s old-fashioned, you know. He won’t officially move in until they get married.”

Deuce tore his gaze from the house to give her a look of horror. “Which will be…?”

As soon as the expansion of Monroe’s was financed and finalized. “They’re not in a hurry, really. They’re both busy with their careers and—”

“Careers?” He sounded as though he didn’t think owning Monroe’s was a career. Well too bad for that misconception. It was her career. “Not that I think they should rush into anything,” he added.

He pulled into the driveway that no longer kicked up gravel since Diana had repaved it in gray-and-white brick. As he stopped the car, he rubbed his elbow again and peered up at the impressive structure.

“I can’t believe this is the old Swain place. We used to break in and have keg parties in there.”

Oh, yes. She remembered hearing about those. At three years younger than Jack and his Rock High friends, Kendra had never participated in a “Swain Brain Drain,” but she’d certainly heard the details the next day.

Her information had come courtesy of the heating duct between her bedroom and the basement in the Locke home. When the heat was off, Kendra could lie on her bedroom floor, her ear pressed against the metal grate, and listen to boy talk, punctuated by much laughter and the crack of billiard balls.

It was her special secret. She knew more about Deuce than all the girls who adored him at Rock High. Jackson Locke’s little sister knew everything. At least, as long as the heat wasn’t turned on.

“You won’t recognize the inside of this house,” she told him. “Diana’s got a magical touch with decor. And she’s an amazing photographer. All the art in Monroe’s is her work. And look at this place. She’s never met a fixer-upper she couldn’t—”

He jerked the car door open. “Let’s go.”

She sat still for a moment, the rest of her sentence still in her mouth. What did he have against this woman he’d never even bothered to meet? It was almost ten years since his mother had died. Didn’t he think Seamus deserved some happiness?

She hustled out of the car to catch up with him as he walked toward the front door. “We can just go in through the kitchen,” she told him.

He paused in mid step, then redirected himself to where she pointed. “You’re a regular here, huh?”

A regular? She lived in the unattached guest house a hundred yards away on the beach. “I come over with the sales reports every day.” She jiggled the handle of a sliding glass door and opened it. “Diana! Seamus? Anybody home?”

In the distance a dog barked.

“I have a surprise for you,” she called. Did she ever.

“We’re upstairs, Kennie!” A woman’s voice called. “Get some coffee, hon. We’ll be down as soon as we get dressed.”

She felt Deuce stiffen next to her.

A smile tugged at the corners of her lips. “They’re always…well, they’re in love.” She didn’t have to look at him to get his reaction. She could feel the distaste rolling off him. As if he’d never spent the night at a woman’s house.

“Have a seat.” She touched one of the high-back chairs at the table under a bay window. “Want a cup of coffee?”

“No, thanks.” He folded his long frame into a chair, his gaze moving around the large country kitchen, to the cozy Wedgewood-blue family room on the other side of a long granite counter, and the formal dining room across the hall. “You’re right. I can’t believe this is the same old wreck.”

She decided not to sing Diana’s praises again. Taking a seat across from him, she set a mug of steaming coffee on the table, and carefully placed the envelope in front of her.

With one long look at Deuce, she took a deep breath. Before Diana swooped in here and charmed him, before Seamus barreled in and coached him, before the rest of Rockingham discovered him, she had to know. She just had to know for herself.

“Why did you come back?”

He leaned the chair on two legs and folded his arms across the breadth of his powerful chest, the sleeves of his polo shirt tightening over his muscular arms. She willed her gaze to stay on his face and not devour every heart-stopping ripple and cut.

“Well, I’m retired now, as you know.”

The whole world knew he wasn’t retired. His contract had been terminated after he blatantly disregarded the fine print and took to a race track—and wrecked a car—with a couple of famous NASCAR drivers. But, she let it go.

“Are you planning to…” Oh, God. Ask it. “…live here?” Please say no. Please say no. Could her heart and head take it if he said yes?

“Yes.”

She sipped her coffee with remarkable nonchalance.

“I’m sick of living in Vegas,” he added, coming down hard on the front two legs of the delicate chair.

“I thought you lived outside of Las Vegas.”

He lifted one shoulder. “Same difference. I have no reason to stay there if I’m not playing ball for the Snake Eyes.”

“What about coaching? Don’t a lot of major leaguers do that after they…after they quit?”

He massaged his right arm again, a gesture she knew so well she could close her eyes and see it. But this time, his features tightened with a grimace.

“I don’t know. We’ll see. I’ll need to find a good PT. You know any?”

A physical therapist who worked on professional athletes? On Cape Cod? “You’ll have to go to Boston.”

“That’s over an hour from here.”

Then go live there. “Two, now, with traffic.” She sipped the coffee again and tried for the most noncommittal voice she could find. “So, what are you going to do here?”

Instead of answering, he snagged the envelope. She lunged for it, but he was too fast. “What is this?”

She wasn’t ready to reveal her plans to Deuce. His dad would probably tell him all about their grandiose scheme, but she didn’t want to. She’d shared her dreams with him a long time ago, and here she was, nine years later, and she still hadn’t realized them. And he was the reason why.

“Just some paperwork on the café.”

“It’s a bar,” he corrected, dropping the packet back on the table. “Not a café.”

“Not anymore.”

“Oh my God.” Diana Lynn’s gravelly tone seized their attention.

They both turned to where she stood in the kitchen doorway, a vision in white from head to toe, her precious Newman in her arms. “I recognize you from your pictures, Deuce.” At the sight of a stranger, Newman yelped and squiggled for freedom.

Deuce stared at Diana for a moment, then stood. “That’s what they call me,” he said.

Diana breezed in, releasing the jittery little spaniel who leaped on Kendra’s lap and barked at Deuce.

“I’m Diana Lynn Turner.” She held out her hand to him. “And thank God for that pacemaker, because otherwise your father would have a heart attack when he comes downstairs.”

Diana beamed at him as they shook hands, sweeping him up and down with the look of keen appraisal she was known to give a smart investment property. Her mouth widened into an appreciative smile that she directed to Kendra.

“No wonder you’ve had a crush on him your whole life. He is simply delicious.”

Diana was nothing if not blunt. Kendra willed her color not to rise as she conjured up a look of utter disinterest and a shrug. “Guess that depends on how you define delicious.”



DEUCE FILED THE lifelong crush comment for later, and turned his attention back to the most unlikely maternal replacement he could imagine.

Her smile was as blinding as the sun in his eyes when he squinted for a pop fly. Jet-black hair pulled straight back offset wide, copper-brown eyes, and she had so few wrinkles she’d either been born with magnificent genes or had her own personal plastic surgeon. While she was certainly not his father’s age of seventy-one, something about her bearing told him she’d passed through her fifties already. And enjoyed every minute of the journey.

He released her power grip. “You’ve done quite a number on this house.”

She arched one shapely eyebrow and toyed with a strand of pearls that hung around her neck. “That’s what I do. Numbers. What on earth made you decide to finally come home?”

No bush-beating for this one, he noted. “I retired.”

She choked out a quick laugh. “Hardly. But your father will be over the moon to see you. How long are you staying?”

He casually scratched his face. He’d already admitted his plans. “A while.”

“How long is a while?” Diana asked.

“For good.”

“Good?” Her bronze eyes widened. “You’re staying here in Rockingham for good?”

“Who is staying for good?” The booming voice of Seamus Monroe accompanied his heavy footsteps on a staircase. He came around the corner and stopped dead in his tracks.

“Good God in Heaven,” he muttered, putting one of his mighty hands over his chest. For a moment Deuce’s gut tightened, thinking he had given his father a heart attack. He barely had time to take in the fact that Dad’s classic black-Irish dark hair had now fully transformed to a distinguished gray, but his eyebrows hadn’t seemed to catch up yet. Then the older man lunged toward him with both arms open and squeezed until neither man could breathe.

Deuce thought his own chest would explode with relief as they embraced. Although his father had been the most demanding human who ever raised a son, he’d also loved that son to distraction. Deuce was counting on that. That and the fact that age might have mellowed the old man.

They slapped each other’s backs and Dad pulled back and took Deuce’s face in his hands, shaking it with only slightly more force than the hug. “What the hell were you thinking getting in that race car, son?”

Maybe mellowed would be pushing it.

Deuce laughed as he pulled away. “I was thinking I wouldn’t get caught.”

“You could have been killed!” his father said, his eyes glinting with a fury Deuce had seen a million times. And those words. How many times had Seamus Monroe uttered “you could have been killed” after Deuce had “gotten caught”?

There was only one answer. Deuce had used it a few times, too. “I wasn’t killed, Dad.”

“But your career was.”

Deuce extended his right arm and shook it out. “Hey, I’m thirty-three. Time to let the young dudes take the mound.”

Seamus made a harumphing noise that usually translated into “baloney” or something harder if ladies weren’t present. Then he brightened and reached out for one of the ladies who was present. “And you’ve met the love of—Diana.”

His life.

Mom couldn’t be the love of his life forever, and the mature man in Deuce knew that. It was that temperamental little boy in him who wanted to punch a wall at the thought.

“Sure did. And I’m impressed with this house. Doesn’t look anything like the old Swain place.”

“Have you seen Monroe’s?” Dad said, throwing a proud look at Kendra.

She still sat at the kitchen table, the brown-and-white dog sizing him up from her lap. The almost-blush that Diana had caused had faded, but Kendra’s eyes were still unnaturally bright.

“Yep,” Deuce said, his gaze still on her. “I saw the bar. Big changes there, too.” He dug his hands into his pockets and leaned against one of the high-gloss countertops. “In fact this whole town looks completely different.”

Dad squeezed Diana a little closer to his side. “This is the reason, Deuce. This lady right here has done it all. She’s a one-woman growth curve.” He slid his hand over her waist and patted her hip, then glanced back at Kendra. “And so’s our little firestorm, Kennie.”

“So what’s going on down there, Dad? Kendra tells me you’re sticking your toes into the Internet waters.”

“We’ve been testing the waters for over a year and we haven’t drowned yet.” Dad laughed softly. “And if everything goes like we think it might, we’re going in deeper. Right, Kennie?”

She leaned forward and slid her mysterious envelope across the table. “And here’s the boat we’re taking out.”

“Oh!” Diana squealed and grabbed the envelope hungrily. “Let me see! How wonderful that Deuce is here for the final unveiling. Have some coffee, everyone. We’ll go into the family room and have a look at Kennie’s masterpiece.”

Kennie’s masterpiece? Not exactly just some paperwork. Deuce gave her another hard look, but she gathered up the dog and her mug and turned her back to him.

As the women moved to the other room, Deuce sidled up to his dad. “So, how you feeling? That, uh, thing working okay?”

The older man gave him a sly smile. “My thing works fine. I don’t even take that little blue pill.”

Deuce closed his eyes for a moment. “I meant the pacemaker.”

Dad laughed. “I know what you meant. It’s fine. I’ve never been healthier in my life.” He looked to the family room at Diana, his classic Irish eyes softening to a clear blue. “And I haven’t been happier in a long time, either.”

Things had changed, all right. And some things weren’t meant to change back.

“I can tell,” Deuce responded. He purposely kept the note of resignation out of his voice.

He couldn’t argue. Dad looked as vibrant as Deuce could remember him in the past nine years. Not that he’d seen him very often.

In the family room, Kendra had spread computer printouts of bar charts and graphs over a large coffee table. Alongside were architectural blueprints, and hand-drawn sketches of tables and computers. He took a deep breath and let his attention fall on an architect’s drawing of some kind of stage and auditorium. What the hell was a stage doing in Monroe’s?

He could try to deal with Dad’s romance, but messing with the bar he grew up in might be too much.

“So what’s this all about?” he asked.

“This, son, is the future of Monroe’s.” Dad squeezed into a loveseat next to Diana and curled his arm around her shoulder, beaming as he continued. “We’ve tested the concept, made it work profitably and now we’re ready to expand it.”

Deuce dropped onto the sofa across from them, close to where Kendra knelt on the floor organizing the papers. “It already looked pretty expanded to me,” he said.

“Well, we did buy out the card shop next door and added some space,” Diana said. “But Kennie’s plans are much, much bigger than that.”

“Is that so?” He looked at her and waited for an explanation. “How big?”

She met his gaze, and held it, a challenge in her wide blue eyes. “We’re hoping to buy the rest of the block, so we can eventually add a small theater for performance art, a gallery for local artists and a full DVD rental business.”

He worked to keep his jaw from hitting his chest.

“Tell him about the learning center,” his father coaxed.

“Well,” she said, shifting on her hips, “We’re going to add an area just for people who are not technically savvy. They can make appointments with our employees for hands-on Internet training.”

He just stared at her. All he wanted to do was run a sports bar with TVs playing ESPN and beer flowing freely. It sure as hell didn’t take place on the information highway and karaoke night was as close to performance art as he wanted his customers to get.

But Deuce stayed quiet. He’d figure out a strategy. As soon as Dad found out that Deuce planned to buy the place, surely he’d change his mind. And Deuce would buy out Kendra’s fifty percent if he had to. She could open her theater and gallery and learning center somewhere else in Rockingham.

He’d make his father understand that he had a plan for the future and it made sense. It didn’t include baseball for the first time in his life, but that was okay.

His only option was coaching and with his track record for breaking rules, he doubted too many teams would be lined up to have him as a role model for younger players. He had no interest in television, or working an insurance company, or being the spokesperson for allergy medicine, like the rest of the has-been ballplayers of the world.

He just wanted to be home. Maybe he couldn’t be the King of the Rock anymore, but this is where he grew up. And where he wanted to grow old.

But not in a flippin’ Internet café.

That was one compromise he couldn’t make.



IT WAS IMPOSSIBLE to concentrate with Deuce’s long, hard, masculine body taking up half the sofa, his unspoken distaste for her plans hanging in the air. Not to mention the fact that his father now sought his opinion on everything.

Kendra hadn’t counted on this kind of distraction.

“This chart emphasizes the growth of the Internet café business,” she said, but for a moment, she lost her place.

The bar graphs and colored circles swam in front of her. And Deuce’s long, khaki-clad legs were just inches away from her. Her gaze slid to the muscle of his thigh. Newman, the little brat, had actually taken up residence next to him and was staring at him like some kind of star-struck baseball fan. Even dogs were in awe of Deuce.

“You showed us that one, honey,” Diana said quietly, leaning forward to pull another chart. “I think you wanted the research about how Internet cafés are the social centers of this century. How people don’t want to be isolated while they are in cyber-space. Remember? The findings are here.”

Oh, cripes. Of course she remembered. She’d written the analysis of the research. She’d used it to convince Seamus to launch the overhaul of Monroe’s. She’d based her whole future on that trend.

And all she could think about was…thigh muscles.

“What do you think, Deuce?” Seamus asked for the twentieth time. “You see these cafés out in Vegas?”

“Never saw one in my life.”

Kendra gave him an incredulous look, then remembered what his life was like. On the road, in hotels. “But surely you have a computer, a laptop or a PDA, and an email address.”

He nodded. “I told you I got an email from Jack. And some of my friends’ kids taught me a cool game called Backyard Baseball.” He ignored her eye-roll and looked at his father. “Frankly, I don’t know what’s going on here in Cape Cod, but the rest of the world still expects to go into a bar and drink. They can’t smoke, thank God, but I haven’t been in a bar where keyboards replaced cocktails. At least not until today.”

Seamus leaned back and regarded his son. “Well, our bar profits were sinking fast, son. Two years ago, we were as close to the red as I’ve been in many years. Big-name chains have come into this place in droves, squeezing our business with national advertising.”

“Monroe’s has been through tough times before, Dad,” Deuce argued. “It always survives.”

“The demographics of Rockingham have changed,” Diana interjected. “This isn’t the sleepy vacation town it used to be. Our population has skyrocketed, and the town is full of young, savvy, hip residents.”

“And young, hip residents don’t go to bars anymore?” Deuce asked. “They do in every other city I’ve ever been in.”

An uncomfortable silence was his only answer.

Finally, Seamus asked, “What don’t you like about this, Deuce?”

Deuce leaned forward, flexing the thigh muscle Kendra shouldn’t have been watching. “I came home so I could take over Monroe’s and run it as a first-rate sports bar.”

Kendra closed her eyes and took the punch in her stomach. She knew it. She’d known this the minute he’d walked in the door.

Was Deuce Monroe put on this earth for the sole reason of ruining her life? He didn’t know what he’d done last time—the result of their recklessness was her burden, and, ultimately, her loss. But this time, he could see what it meant to her.

And so could Seamus. She looked up at the man who’d been like a father to her ever since her own parents had distanced themselves physically and emotionally. But Seamus’s gaze remained locked on his son, an expression of astonishment, joy and worry mixed in the lines on his face.

How could she let herself forget for one moment that Seamus loved Deuce above all and everything? No matter how many times Deuce had gone against his wishes, his love for his only child was constant.

“I had no idea, son.”

Kendra just knew what was coming next. There was no way to avoid what was about to be said.

“Dad, the bar’s been in the family for more than seventy years.”

Bingo. There was the bomb she’d been waiting for him to drop. Monroe’s belonged to Monroes. Always had…always will.

Diana leaned forward and snagged Deuce with one of those riveting stares that withered opponents at the negotiating table. “When, exactly, were you planning to tell your father that you intended to carry on that tradition?”

“Today,” he replied without missing a beat. “I wanted to talk in person, not over the phone. My house in Vegas is on the market. I’m planning to move here as soon as we…settle things.”

Seamus took a long, slow breath and pulled Diana back into his side with a gentle tug. “I wish you had told me sooner,” he said to Deuce.

Why? Would that have changed things? Kendra had to bite her lip from shouting out her question. If Seamus had known Deuce wanted to take over the bar, would he have stopped her expansion plans from the beginning? Even when profits were so low they almost had to sell?

“I think Kendra has a say on all this,” Diana finally commented. “She owns forty-nine percent of the business.”

She felt Deuce’s gaze and had no doubt he remembered she’d told him “fifty” percent. Lies. They always come back to bite you.

Kendra shifted again, wishing she weren’t the only one sitting on the floor. “I’m sure you all know how I feel. The expansion is the business I’ve always dreamed of owning.”

“But Monroe’s,” Seamus said quietly, “is my blood.”

And so was Deuce.

Deuce, who hadn’t come home from a road trip when his father had a pacemaker put in. Deuce, who’d refused to go to college on a baseball scholarship as his father had begged him, instead going straight into the minor leagues. Deuce, who had never called her after they’d made love, so therefore had never even found out that she’d gotten pregnant…and lost that child.

“Are you serious about this?” Seamus asked his son. “Are you absolutely committed or are you just screwing around here until some better job offer comes along?”

“I’m dead serious, Dad.”

Well. There went that dream.

“And you aren’t serious very often,” Seamus said with a soft laugh of understatement. “I guess this is something for me to consider.”

“I came home to run the bar,” Deuce said, his baritone voice oddly soft. “I can’t play ball. I don’t want to coach. I’m not interested in TV or business or anything else I can think of. I want to be home, Dad. I want to run Monroe’s. I want to buy it outright, to free you from the day-to-day operations.” He looked at Kendra. “Of course, I didn’t know you’d already had such great help. I’m sure we can work something out. That is,” he looked back at his father, his face sincere, “if you’ll consider me.”

Without a word, Kendra started to scoop up graphs and presentation pages. She’d have to take her idea elsewhere. It was still viable. She’d figure something out.

She’d spent every dime to buy out half of Seamus’s business, but she’d been in worse places before. Worse financial, emotional and physical places. She would survive. She always did.

“What are you doing, Kennie?” Seamus’s sharp tone stopped her cold.

“We don’t need to go through this presentation. Not now, anyway,” she said, wishing like mad that she’d driven her own car so she could escape.

She looked up to see a pained expression in the older man’s eyes. They’d never discussed it, but in that moment, that look in his eyes confirmed what she’d always suspected. He knew who’d put an end to Harvard for her. He knew.

“Not so fast,” Seamus said.

Could that mean he wasn’t sure yet?

“Well, until you decide what to do…” She continued to gather papers, and Deuce reached forward to help, his arm brushing hers. She jerked away from him and cursed the reaction to the most casual touch.

Her mouth went bone-dry, and she realized with a sickening horror that a huge lump had formed in her throat. She would not give him the satisfaction of seeing her cry. Taking a deep breath, she forced herself to stand.

“I’m going to get something at home,” she managed to say. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

“Where’s home?” Deuce asked.

“Kendra lives in the guest house on the beach,” Diana Lynn said. “Go ahead, dear. We’ll be here.”

Kendra shot her a grateful look. No doubt she’d picked up the near-tears vibe.

“Why don’t you walk over there with her, Deuce?” Seamus asked. Clearly he had not picked up that same vibe. “I need a few minutes alone with Diana.”

Kendra resisted the urge to spear Seamus with a dirty look. Couldn’t she get a break today? But Deuce stood and gestured toward the door. “Show me the way,” he said.

Kendra stole one more pleading look at Diana, who gave a nearly imperceptible nod. Go, her eyes said. Let me talk to him.

“All right,” Kendra said. “We’ll be back in a few minutes.”

“Take your time,” Seamus responded. “We have some serious thinking to do here.”

But Kendra knew that, for Seamus, there was no thinking where Deuce was involved. The old Irishman ran on pure heart, and nothing filled his heart more than the love for his son. No matter how many errors—on the field or in judgment—Deuce made. He was Seamus’s weakness.

And how could she blame him? He’d been her weakness, too.

Without another word, she headed toward the sliding door, with Deuce behind her, and Newman at his heels.

She’d barely stepped into the sunshine when Deuce leaned over and whispered into her ear, “Your whole life, huh? That’s some wicked crush.”


CHAPTER THREE

KENDRA NEVER MISSED a beat. At his comment, she reached down for the little brown-and-white dog, who leaped into her arms.

“Do you hear anything, Newman? I don’t hear anything.”

Newman barked and nuzzled into her neck. And licked her.

Lucky puppy.

“Oh, you’re ignoring me?” Deuce asked with a laugh as he trotted down a set of wooden steps to catch up with her. “That’s really mature.”

“This from the poster boy of maturity.” She set the dog down when they reached a stone path that paralleled the beach. “Or have you stopped setting firecrackers inside basketballs in the teachers’ parking lot?”

He chuckled. “That was your brother’s idea. Anyway, I’ve grown up.”

“Oh, yes. I noticed in all the coverage about that racing stunt just how much you’ve grown up.”

He considered a few comebacks, but there was nothing to combat the truth.

“Well, you certainly have,” he said. At her confused look, he added, “Grown up, that is.”

Her face softened momentarily, but then she squared her shoulders and she strode toward the house. He couldn’t help smiling. Torturing Jack’s little sister had always been fun. Even when she was ten and scrawny and folded into giggles, and tears. But it was even more fun now, when she was not ten and scrawny, but older and curvy.

“I live right here,” she announced as they neared a gray shake-covered beach cottage at the end of the path. “You can come in, or, if you prefer, go down to the water and gaze at your reflection for a while.”

He snorted at the comment. “I’ll come in. Cute place. How long have you lived here?”

“About a year and a half. After Diana finished renovating the property, I was her first renter.” She gave him a smug smile. “I introduced her to Seamus.”

“I can’t believe he’s never even told me he was involved with someone.”

“It’s not like you actually talked to him a whole lot in the past year.”

Past decade, is what she meant, and he knew it. “Not that I owe you an explanation, but I have been pretty busy playing ball.”

“From October to March?”

“I played in Japan.”

“The season you were out injured for four weeks?”

She knew that? “I was in physical therapy every day.”

“During All Star breaks?” She moved ahead of him as they reached the back door, tugging a set of keys from her pocket. “Every single minute, you were busy?”

“I’m here now, aren’t I? And you don’t seem too happy about it.”

She spun around to face him and pointed a key toward his chest. “Do you really expect me to jump for joy because you imploded your own career and now you want to come and horn in on mine?”

“I didn’t know about this Internet café stuff. Dad never mentioned it, he never mentioned a—a girlfriend, and he never mentioned you.”

She stared at him for a minute, no doubt a thousand smart-aleck retorts spinning through her head. Instead she snapped her fingers to call the dog who’d meandered toward the beach, and pivoted back to the door.

Which gave him a really nice view of her hips and backside in worn jeans.

A flash of those taut legs wrapped around him on a blanket in the sand danced through his mind. She’d worn jeans that night, too. He remembered sliding down her zipper, dipping his hand into her soft, feminine flesh, then peeling the denim down her legs.

A rush of blood through his body didn’t surprise him. In the years that had passed, he’d never remembered that night without a natural, instinctive and powerful response. For some reason, that sandy, sexy encounter had never felt like a one-night stand. Probably because it involved a girl who he should have been able to resist—his best friend’s little sister.

“Look,” he said, stabbing his hands in his pants pockets, which really just helped him resist the urge to reach out and touch her. “I had no idea things had changed this much, or that you and Dad had plans for something entirely different.”

“Well, we do.” She entered the house and held the door for him.

He followed her, but his mind was whirring. Was he expected to back off the bar entirely? His family name was still on the door, damn it. The only name that ever had been on that particular door, with or without capital letters.

“Maybe there’s a compromise somewhere,” he suggested. “Maybe we could keep a few computers in one corner of the bar—you know, for the people who aren’t watching games? And you could find some nearby property for your gallery or whatever.”

Instead of brightening, her scowl deepened. She opened her mouth to say something, then slammed it shut again.

“What?” he asked. “What were you going to say?”

“Nothing.”

He dug his hands deeper. “You won’t even consider a compromise?”

Inhaling unevenly, she closed her eyes. “I’ve already compromised enough where you’re concerned.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

She held up both hands as though to stop everything. “Never mind.” She turned away, toward a small hallway behind her. “Excuse me for a minute.”

She turned to stalk down the hallway, but he seized her elbow in one quick grab. “What are you talking about?”

“Nothing,” she spat the word, shaking him off. “Forget I said that.”

He let her go.

What had she compromised for him?

In the tiny living room, he dropped onto a sofa and stared at the serene water of the Sound through a sliding glass door, remembering again the incredible night they’d spent together.

He’d never forgotten that night. Maybe because he knew he shouldn’t have seduced Jack’s sister…but maybe because her response to him was so real and strong. So real, that he couldn’t understand where “compromise” came into play. There were two very, very consenting adults during that beach-blanket bingo.

He’d come home after his mother had died of an aneurysm, too old at twenty-four to feel as though his mommy had left him, but brokenhearted anyway. Kendra had been about twenty, maybe twenty-one, and smack between her sophomore and junior years at Harvard. A business major, he recalled.

He remembered how impressed he’d been—she was smart, and quick-witted, and had grown up into a complete knock-out. Even in the chaos and sadness of his mother’s passing, he’d noticed that Kendra Locke had spent every minute at the bar, calmly taking care of things he and his father were not even thinking about.

His last night in town, he’d gone to the bar and ended up staying until it closed, drinking soda and watching Kendra work. That’s when he officially stopped thinking of her as Ken-doll.

The name just wasn’t feminine enough for a woman that attractive. They’d talked and flirted. She made him laugh for the first time that week.

When her shift ended, they’d gone for a ride. He still could remember pulling her toward him in his dad’s car and their first, heated kiss.

He leaned forward and raked his fingers through his hair. He’d felt guilty, and a little remorseful at seducing a girl he’d always considered a little sister. But she’d been willing.

No, no. That was an understatement. She’d been more than willing. Sweet, tender and innocent, he remembered with a cringe. Certainly a virgin. Was that the compromise she’d made?

Probably. And he’d been a world-class jerk for not calling afterwards. It wasn’t as if he’d forgotten her. He just…couldn’t. He looked down the hallway expectantly. No wonder she still hated him. Especially now that she had what he wanted.

He muttered a curse. Wasn’t it unspoken that he’d always be back? Sure it had happened a little sooner than they all thought, but Dad always knew it. Didn’t she realize that when she bought forty-nine percent—not fifty—of the bar that she was essentially buying into his inheritance?

He heard her footsteps in the hall and looked up to see her walking toward him, looking as calm as the waters beyond the glass doors. Game face on.

“How much time do you think we should give them?” she asked.

“Not too much. Evidently, they get easily distracted by each other.”

She laughed a little and put both hands on the backrest of a bentwood chair, her casual indifference back in place. “We can go back. I got what I needed.”

“What was that?”

“My wits.” She deepened those dimples with a disarming grin.

Was she offering a truce? He was game. “I’m sure we’ll work something out.” He gave her a friendly wink. “You never know. I bet we work well together.”

Her eyes narrowed. “I bet we don’t.”

“How can you say that?” He stood slowly, his gaze locked on her as he moved closer. “Don’t tell me you forgot—”

“Newman!” She snapped her fingers in the air, a warning look flashing in those sky-blue eyes. The message was silent…but clear.

There would be no discussing that night.

The dog came tripping down the hallway with a bark, surprising Deuce by sidling up to his leg instead of that of the woman snapping for him.

Kendra rolled her eyes as Newman rubbed Deuce’s pantleg.

“He likes me,” Deuce noted.

“He’s easily impressed. Let’s go back to Diana’s.”

Laughing, he held the door for her. “I don’t know. Think the jury’s back already, Ken-doll?”

“We’re about to find out, Seamus.”



DIANA LOOKED HAPPIER than usual. Kendra noticed the diamond-like sparkle in her eyes, which usually meant she’d gotten what she wanted. Please God, let it be so. Diana would back Kendra and push Seamus to move on with their plans. She was always in favor of progress and change.

As Diana puttered in the kitchen, straightening an already neat counter, Seamus sat on the sofa, elbows resting on his knees and knuckles supporting his chin. He only moved his eyes, looking up as Kendra and Deuce entered the family room. Unlike his fiancée, Seamus looked anything but pleased with the turn of events.

All of the papers and sketches had been neatly piled on the coffee table. Would those documents be making the trip into banks and venture-capital firms this week…or going home with Kendra?

Kendra stood to one side, but Deuce took a seat across from his father. “So, Dad. Whad’ya think?”

For a long moment, Seamus said nothing, staring first at Deuce, then at the papers on the table. Kendra’s throat tightened and she dared another look at Diana, who had paused in her counter-wiping and turned to watch the drama unfolding in her family room.

“I think I have quite a dilemma.”

No one said a word in response. Kendra willed her heart to slow, certain that the thumping could be heard in the silence. Even Newman lifted his head from the floor, his classic King Charles spaniel face looking expectantly at the humans around him.

“Deuce, you need to understand something,” Seamus began. “This Internet café and artist’s gallery is something we’ve been working on for almost two years. I really like the idea of bringing Monroe’s into the next century.”

Deuce leaned forward and opened his mouth to speak, but Seamus silenced him with one look. Kendra wished she’d taken a seat when they walked in, because her legs felt shaky as she waited for Seamus’s next words.

“And Kennie, you know that my father opened Monroe’s in 1933, the year I was born. He ran it until he died, more than thirty years later, in 1965. Then I took over, at—” he looked at Deuce “—thirty-three years of age.”

Kendra bit her lip as she listened. Did Seamus see this as poetic justice? As history repeating itself? As some etched-in-stone prediction from on high? As the Monroe Man turneth thirty-three, so shall he inherit the bar.

Sheez. Her gaze shifted to Deuce and she could have sworn his lip curled upward. Was he thinking the same thing? Or was he just so damn sure of himself that he could afford to be cocky?

Instead of a snide remark, though, Deuce leaned forward again. “Dad,” he said, forcefully enough that he wouldn’t be stopped by his father’s glare. “Isn’t there some way we can compromise? Some way to keep Monroe’s in the family, as a bar, and find another property for this…other stuff.”

“That’s not feasible,” Kendra argued before Seamus could respond. “These blueprints have been drawn up by an architect—an expensive one, by the way—expressly for that property and the other buildings on the block.”

“So use one of the other buildings,” Deuce countered.

“We are. As soon as we rip out the bar altogether and push that whole wall fifty feet in another direction for an art gallery.”

“An art gallery? In that space?” Deuce looked as though she’d suggested turning it into a nursery school. “That’s perfect for a pool hall and twenty TV screens, each tuned to a different football game on Sunday. They have these satellite dishes—”

“Sunday? That’s one of our biggest days. We do so much Internet business—”

“Not from football fans.”

“You two need to work this out,” Seamus said.

“Precisely!” Diana slammed her hands hard on the kitchen counter. Kendra, like the men and the dog, turned to stare at her. “You need to work side by side, together.”

“What?” Kendra and Deuce responded in unison.

“She’s right,” Seamus acknowledged. “I can’t make a choice without hurting someone I care about. We’ll go on our trip, and you two run the place together.”

“What do you mean—together?” Deuce asked.

Diana came around the breakfast bar into the family room, her gaze on Seamus, a shared, secret arcing between them, but Kendra had no idea what it was. “Why doesn’t Kendra run the Internet café in the day, and Deuce run the bar at night? Let the customers decide where and when they want to spend their money.”

“Run a bar at night?” Kendra almost sputtered in shock. “And lose all my nighttime business?”

“That’s been a tiny percentage of the profits,” Seamus responded. “You’ve been shutting down by nine o’clock lately.”

“But it’s April now. The warm weather is starting, more tourists are coming.” She worked to modulate her voice, refusing to whine. “Those are the people who need Internet access, who bring their laptops so they can work on vacation.”

“People drink on vacation,” Deuce corrected her. “At least at night.” He slapped his hands on his thighs and slid them over his khaki pants, a smug smile in place. “I think it’s a great idea.”

They all looked at her expectantly. Was she going to back down? Let Deuce appear more willing to take the challenge than she was?

No one came in that bar looking for a drink anymore. What remained of the liquor bottles had to be regularly dusted. She’d been running Monroe’s as though it were a coffee shop and Internet café for a long time; her customers were loyal online users. The people looking for a neighborhood bar went to the bigger chains that had come into town.

“Okay. Fine. Whatever you want, Seamus.”

“I want you both to have a chance.” He stood slowly, his gaze moving between them. “I’d like to see the decision be made by you, not me.”

“We’ll let the people of Rockingham decide,” Deuce said, looking at Diana as he echoed her thoughts. Sure, now they were allies.

But Deuce had no idea what he was up against, getting between a woman and her dream. Twice.

Her Internet café was significantly more profitable than a bar, and Diana and Seamus’s trip was only two weeks long. There was no way Deuce could turn a profit in less than a month.

Seamus stepped toward Diana and slid his arm around her again. “Tomorrow, Diana and I are leaving for Boston, New York and San Francisco for meetings arranged with investors and banks.” He paused and pulled Diana closer, sharing that secret smile again. “And we’ve decided to tack on an early honeymoon.”

“What do you mean?” Kendra asked.

“We were going to tell you this morning, honey,” Diana said, “but we were so surprised by Deuce’s visit.”

“Tell us what?” Deuce looked horrified. “Did you already get married?”

Diana laughed lightly. “No. But I found the most amazing timeshare in Hawaii. A gorgeous house in Kauai, on the water. We couldn’t resist.”

“How long will you be gone?” Kendra asked, a sinking sensation tugging at her stomach.

Seamus grinned. “A month in Hawaii, plus the two weeks of business trip.”

“A month?” Kendra looked from one to the other. “You’ll be gone for six weeks?”

“Great,” Deuce said, standing up. “Diana, do you think you can find me a place to rent until I sell my house in Vegas?”

Kendra glared at him. “Why don’t you wait to sell your place until we see who…what happens.”

“You can stay here,” Diana offered. “Newman seems to have taken a liking to you.”

“I take care of Newman,” Kendra said. Good Lord, she didn’t want Deuce a hundred yards away from her for six weeks.

“You can handle him in the evenings,” Deuce said, his gaze on her. “I’ll be at the bar.”

“There’s no way you’re going to be there, in charge and alone,” she said quickly. “I’ll do my paperwork at night.”

“Then I’ll do mine during the day.”

Kendra hadn’t noticed that Seamus and Diana had slipped into the kitchen, until she heard their soft laughter. They stood with their heads close to each other, slowly walking toward the hallway.

“I kind of hate to leave,” Seamus whispered. “Just when it’s getting interesting.”

Deuce grinned at Kendra. She glared at him.

“This is so not interesting,” she mumbled, turning to retrieve her papers and put them back in order.

“I disagree,” he said, suddenly way too close to her back. “This could be very interesting. Remember the night we—”

She spun around and stuck her finger right in his face. “Don’t go there, Deuce Monroe.”

With a playful smile, he put both hands over his heart, feigning pain. “Was that night so horrible that you can’t even think about it?”

If only he knew. If only. But he wouldn’t, Kendra swore silently. He would never know.

She gave him a blank stare. “What night, Deuce? I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Is that right?” His voice was silky smooth, and the dark glimmer in his eyes sent firecrackers right down to her toes. “I bet I can make you remember.”

“One bet’s enough for me today,” she said, seizing one of the sketches of the new Monroe’s layout and holding it in front of her face. “And I bet I get this.”

He slid the paper out of her hand, and leaned so close to her mouth she could just about feel that Hollywood stubble as it threatened to graze her.

“Let’s play ball,” he whispered.


CHAPTER FOUR

WITHOUT KNOCKING, Deuce leaned against the solid wood door that separated a back office from the storage areas piled high with empty computer hardware boxes. He’d done as much as he could for the past two days from Diana’s home. He’d stopped into Monroe’s a few times, perused the small kitchen and made a few changes around the bar. But he hadn’t yet entered what he still thought of as Dad’s office. Which was always occupied by Kendra Locke.

He eased the door open without any hesitation over the latch. Because there was no latch. There’d never been a working latch as long as he could remember. But, were the employees of Monroe’s still as trustworthy today as in the past? He might have to get that old lock fixed after all.

Despite the unfamiliar high-tech logos and the aroma of a Colombian countryside surrounding him, the solid mass of wood under his shoulder felt very much like home. As the door creaked open, he half expected his father to look up from the scarred oak desk, his broad shoulders dropping, his eyes softening at the sight of his son—right before he launched into a speech about how Deuce could do something better.

Instead of his father’s Irish eyes, he met a blue gaze as chilly as the glycol cooling block he’d just assembled on the long-dormant beer tap behind the bar.

“It’s five-thirty,” he announced to Kendra. “Time for coffee drinking Internet surfers to pack up and go home. Monroe’s is open for business.”

She lowered the lid of her laptop an inch as she lifted her brows in surprise. “Today? Tonight? You’ve only been in town for two days. Don’t you have to unpack, get settled and give me a week or two or three to prepare for these temporary changes in my business?”

“I’m ready for business. Tonight.”

He stepped into the tiny space, noting that the old green walls were now…pinkish. The window that was really a two-way mirror over the bar was covered with wooden shutters that belonged on a Southern plantation. “And there’s nothing temporary about…” He closed the door and peeked at the space behind it. Aw, hell. “What happened to the plaques commemorating Monroe’s sponsorship of Rockingham’s state champion Little League team?”

Her gaze followed his to yet another of those black-and-white nature still-life shots that he’d seen in about six places now. He could have sworn her lips fought a smile.

“Diana Lynn took that photograph,” she said simply. “She was inside a sequoia in California. Pretty, huh?”

He didn’t comment. He’d find the Little League plaques. Dad must have stored them somewhere. “There are two freaks left on the computers out there,” he pointed over his shoulder with his thumb. “And they are both immersed not in the new millennium, but in the middle ages from what I can see.”

“Runescape,” she answered with a nod. “That’s a very popular online medieval strategy game. And they are not freaks. That’s Jerry and Larry Gibbons. Those brothers spend hours in here, every day.”

“Do they drink beer?”

She shrugged. “It might impair their ability to trade jewels for farming equipment.”

“They have to—”

“Stay,” she interrupted, jerking her chin up to meet his gaze, even though he towered over her desk. “You can’t kick out my customers at night. If they want to sit on those computers until 2:00 a.m., there’s no reason for them not to.”

“Suit yourself,” he said affably. “But the TV monitors are about to be tuned into Sports Center, and the jukebox will be on all night. Loud.”

She flipped the laptop open again and looked at the screen. “The jukebox hasn’t worked for a year. My customers prefer quiet.”

“It works now.”

She gave him a sharp look. Did she have her head so deep in the books that she hadn’t noticed him out there yesterday morning, installing a CD system in the box?

“No one is going to show up for a drink tonight,” she said, turning her attention back to the computer.

“You don’t know that.” He resisted the urge to reach out and raise that sweet chin, just to see those mesmerizing eyes again. Regardless of how chilly they were. “With the front door open, anyone who passes by could stop in. Walk-in business is the heart of a bar.” The fact that he’d worked the phone and called every familiar name in a fifty-mile radius wouldn’t hurt either.

She shook her head slightly, her smile pure condescension. “Deuce, I hate to break it to you, but Monroe’s pretty much shuts down around the dinner hour. We might have a few stragglers come in after seven or so, and Jerry and Larry usually stay until they realize they’re hungry, but there’s no business done here at night.”

“And you just accept that? Don’t you want to build nighttime revenue? I thought you were an entrepreneur. A capitalist.” He almost made a Harvard joke, but something stopped him.

“I’m a realist,” she said. “People pop into an Internet café during the day, when they need access to cyber space or a break in their schedule. At night, at home, they have computers.”

“So change that,” he countered.

“I’m working on it.” She leaned back in the chair—not Dad’s old squeaker, either, this one was sleek, modern and ergonomic. Crossing her arms over the rolling letters spelling Monroe’s on her chest, she peered at him. “Were you paying any attention the other day or were you so wrapped up in resentment that you didn’t even see my presentation? Remember the plans? The theater? The artists’ gallery? The DVD-rental business?”

He’d gotten stuck on one word. “Resentment? Of what?”

“Of the fact that your father has found…love.”

His elbow throbbed, but he ignored it. “I don’t begrudge my dad happiness. You’re imagining things.”

One blond eyebrow arched in disbelief.

“I don’t,” he insisted. “His…lady friend seems…” Perfect. Attractive. Successful. Attentive. Why wouldn’t he want all that for his dad? “Nice.”

“She is that, and more.” She shifted her focus to the keyboard again, and she began typing briskly. “Now, go run your bar, Deuce. I have work to do.”

You’re dismissed.

“I can’t find any wineglasses.”

She gave him a blank look, then resumed typing. “I have no idea where they are anymore. I may have given them away.”

She wanted to play hardball? With him? “Fine. I’ll just serve chardonnay to the ladies in coffee mugs.”

That jerked her chain enough to drop her jaw. But she closed it fast enough. “You do that.” Type, type, type.

“And you don’t mind if I use those coffee stirrers for the cocktails?”

She narrowed her eyes and studied the screen as though she were writing War and Peace. “Whatever.”

“And until I have time to place some orders for garnishes, I’ll be dipping into your supply of fresh fruit for some cherries and orange slices. Will that be a problem?”

Her fingers paused, but then blasted over the keys at lightning speed. Unless she was the world’s fastest typist, she couldn’t possibly be writing anything comprehensible. “I do a tight inventory on every item in stock,” she said over the tapping sound. “Please have anything you use replaced by tomorrow.”

“Will you give me the names of your suppliers?”

She hit the spacebar four times. Hard. “I’m sure you can find your own.”

“Can I borrow your Rolodex?”

Now her fingers stilled—as though she needed all her brain power to come up with a suitably smartass answer. “There’s a Yellow Pages in the storage room.”

She launched into another supersonic attack on the keyboard, her body language as dismissive as she could make it.

Aw, honey. You don’t want to do this. You’ll lose when I start throwing curves.

She typed. He waited. She typed more. He wound up.

“Kendra?”

“Hmmm?” She didn’t look up.

“That window right there. You know it’s a two-way mirror into the bar?”

“I’m aware of that,” she said, still typing. “I don’t need to monitor my patrons’ activities. I have staff for that, and no one is in there getting drunk or stupid. At least not on my watch.”

Low and inside. Strike one.

“That’s true, but…” Slowly, he crept around the side of the desk toward the fancy white shutters. “Aren’t you just a little bit curious about what I’ll be up to out there?”

“Not in the least. I expect it’ll be you and the empty bar for most of the night. Pretty dull stuff.”

A slider. Strike two.

He opened the shutters with one flick, giving a direct shot through the mirror that hung over his newly assembled beer taps. “I’d think a girl who’d spent so many hours with her face pressed to the heat register just to hear the boys in the basement would be naturally voyeuristic.”

He heard the slight intake of breath just as he turned to see a screen full of jibberish. She opened her mouth to speak. Then closed it with the same force with which she snapped down the lid of the laptop. A soft pink rush of color darkened her pretty cheeks.

“Come to think of it, I’ll work at home tonight.”

Steee-rike three.

“That’s not necessary.” He grinned at her, but she was already sliding a handbag over her shoulder.

As she opened the door, she tossed him one last look. There was something in her eyes. Some shadow, some secret. Some hurt. As quickly as it appeared, it was gone.

“Good luck tonight,” she said, then her pretty lips lifted into a sweet, if totally phony, smile. “Call me if you get hammered with the big nine-o’clock rush.”

When the door closed behind her, the room seemed utterly empty, with only a faint lingering smell of something fresh and floral mixed with the aroma of coffee.

Taking a deep breath, he turned to the California sequoia, ready to remove it for spite. But that would be childish.

Instead, he looked through the two-way mirror in time to see Kendra pause at the bar to check out the newly assembled beer taps. She touched one, yanked it forward, then flinched when it spurted.

She bent down, out of his view for a moment, then arose, a coffee mug in hand. Pulling on the tap again, she tilted the mug and let about six ounces of brew flow in, expertly letting the foam slide down the side.

She lifted the mug to the mirror, offering a silent, mock toast directly at him. Then she brought the rim to her mouth, closed her eyes, and took one long, slow chug. Her eyes closed. Her throat pulsed. Her chest rose and fell with each swallow.

And a couple of gallons of blood drained from his head and traveled to the lower half of his body.

When she finished the drink, she dabbed the foam at the corner of her mouth, looked right into the mirror and winked at him.



THE TASTE OF THE bitter brew still remained in Kendra’s mouth several hours later. She’d walked Newman, made dinner, reviewed her inventory numbers, puttered around her bungalow, and even sunk into a long, hot bath.

But no distraction took her mind off Deuce Monroe. Her brain, normally chock-full of facts, figures and ideas, reeled with unanswered questions.

How could she get through six weeks of this? Where would she get the fortitude to keep up the cavalier, devil-may-care, I-don’t-give-a-hoot acting job she was digging out of her depths? What could she do to make him go away? What if he discovered the truth about what happened nine years ago?

There were no answers, only more questions. The last one she asked out loud as she opened Diana’s door for a third time to gather up Newman. “Why does that man still get to me after all these years?” The dog looked up, surprised.

“I’m lonely, Newman,” she admitted. “Let’s take another walk.”

Newman never said no. He trotted over to the hook where Diana hung his leash.

Sighing, Kendra closed the slider and wrapped the strap around her wrist letting Newman scamper ahead while her gaze traveled over the wide beach. In the moonlight, the white froth sparkled against the sand, each rhythmic crest rising over the next in an unending tempo.

It had been a night much like this one, on a beach not three miles away, that Kendra Locke had given her love, loyalty and virginity to a boy she’d adored since first grade. And now, so many years later, that boy was at her café, driving away her customers, changing her plans and upsetting her peaceful existence.

“And he probably doesn’t have a clue how to close the place,” she told Newman, who barked in hearty agreement. “What if he screws up?” she asked, picking up her pace across the stone walkway to her beach house. “He doesn’t know how to cash out or power down the computers.”

Newman barked twice.

“I agree,” she whispered, tugging his leash toward her beach house. “We better do what we can to save the place.”

In ten minutes, she’d stripped off her sweats and slipped into khaki pants, an old T-shirt, sandals and, oh heck, just a dash of makeup. She rushed through the process, not wanting to change her mind, but definitely not wanting to arrive too late and find the café abandoned, the back door open, the computers still humming.

Kendra navigated the streets of Rockingham, mindful of the ever-growing population of tourists and locals. Something huge must be going on because even the tiny parking lot behind Monroe’s was full. She finally nailed a parallel parking space a block away, and it was already ten-fifteen when she and Newman hustled down High Castle Boulevard toward Monroe’s. He’d probably bailed by the time the Gibbons brothers left, around eight-thirty.

She expected the front door to be locked when she tugged at the brass handle. But the door whipped open from the other side, propelled by a laughing couple who almost mowed her down in their enthusiasm to get to their car. Kendra stood in the doorway, stunned as they brushed by her and mumbled excuses.

One step into Monroe’s and she froze again. From speakers she didn’t know she still had, Bruce Springsteen wailed. A stock-car race flashed on one TV monitor, a baseball game on another. Glasses and mugs clanged and loud voices of fifty or sixty people echoed with toasts and laughter, and somewhere, in the distance, she smelled…barbecued chicken.

Kendra ventured a few steps through the door. Had she fallen asleep in the bathtub and got stuck in a really vivid dream?

A total stranger tended the bar. A woman she’d never seen waltzed through a cluster of tables and chairs carrying an old brown drink tray laden with glasses. And, as though her eyes weren’t playing enough tricks on her, Jerry and Larry Gibbons were over in the corner, flirting with some girls, sipping ice-cold brews from the brand-new tap.

Kendra tried to breathe, tried to think. How had he done this? How had he—

“Well look what the…” Deuce’s chocolate gaze traveled over her, pausing at the floor. “…dog dragged in.”

Newman skittered across the hardwood toward him, but Kendra tugged his leash. She opened her mouth, but before she could utter a sound, Deuce was next to her, sliding one solid, strong arm around her waist. His face dipped close enough for his lips to touch her hair.

“Don’t tell me,” he said, the musky scent of him mixed with beer and barbecue filling her head. “You were worried I couldn’t handle the nine o’clock rush?”

The only rush she felt was a bolt of electricity charging from her head, down her body and leaving a thousand goose bumps in its wake. “I was worried you had no clue how to close up.”

“We’re not closing for hours, Ken-doll. And I hope you’ll stay for the duration.”

She looked up at him, her razor-sharp brain taking an unexpected vacation. Words, praise, criticism—anything intelligent—eluded her. Everything except the heart-stopping desire to kiss him. And that was not intelligent.

“How did you do this?” she managed to ask.

“Word spreads. It seems Rockingham is still a very small town,” he said, his eyes glinting in a tease.

She glanced at the patrons, two deep at the bar. “And, apparently, a thirsty one.”

She was enough of a professional to appreciate the revenue flow. And enough of a competitor to be more than a little bit jealous.

She sniffed. “What’s that smell?”

“Profits,” he whispered, that mighty arm squeezing her waist even tighter. “You smell revenue on the rise.”

“I smell barbecue chicken.”

“Oh that,” he laughed, guiding her closer to the bar. “You know JC Myers owns The Wingman now?”

She assumed the ownership of Rockingham’s favorite barbecue joint was a rhetorical question and didn’t answer.

“He agreed to provide some emergency assistance.”

“What emergency?”

“A munchie emergency. You can’t serve gallons of alcohol and no food.” He waved a hand toward the crowd. “We’ve got to keep these people happy.”

“There’s food in the back,” she said defensively.

He rolled his eyes. “Granola bars and cupcakes.”

“Muffins,” she corrected.

“Not exactly sports-bar food.”

Newman pattered around her and she scooped him up protectively, before she wandered farther into the fray. She saw some familiar faces from around town, and plenty of new ones. Who were all these people and why had they suddenly shown up?

“Who’s tending bar?” she asked.

“You don’t remember Dec Clifford? My old first baseman?”

As if she’d ever noticed anyone on any team he played on besides…the pitcher. “Vaguely. I didn’t realize he was still in Rockingham.”

“He’s a lawyer in Boston now,” Deuce told her, his hand firmly planted on the small of her back, making sure those goose bumps had no chance of disappearing. “And over there is Eric Fleming, outfielder. But now he’s in commercial real estate in New Hampshire. That’s Ginger Alouette serving drinks. She was a track star in high school, if you don’t remember. She lives in Provincetown. Most of these people still live on Cape Cod—I just had to dig them up.”

A lawyer from Boston, a developer from New Hampshire and Ginger from P-town. They’d all come to see him—to work for him.

“I’ll get real staff soon,” he promised. “I just wanted to get open as soon as possible and so I had a little help from my friends.”

He was still the draw, not Monroe’s Bar & Grill & Wannabe Cyber Café. Deuce was the main attraction and, suddenly, with sickening clarity, she faced the truth. He could make this work. He could make a raging success out of the bar…and she’d be doing Seamus a disservice by trying to fight it.

“I can’t believe you brought a dog in here,” he said, reaching for a quick pet of Newman, who nuzzled into Kendra.

She’d never dreamed the place would be packed, or Newman would have stayed home. As she would have. “I thought you’d…” Be all alone. “Need some—”

“Company?” he asked with a grin.

“No, just help.” But that had been ridiculous. He had all the assistance he needed. She looked pointedly at the black screens of her computers. “How did you figure out how to get all the systems down?”

“I just installed a glycolic cooling unit, a CD player and a satellite dish, Kendra. It didn’t take a Harvard degree to turn off a bunch of computers.”

The comment jabbed her right in the stomach. She swallowed a hundred retorts and looked away. He had no idea what he’d said, and she could hardly zing him anymore for incompetence. He had it all going on, and more.

“Would you like a drink?” he asked, as they reached one empty barstool. “Dec, remember Jack’s little sister? Get the lady whatever she likes. It’s on the house.”

Jack’s little sister. That’s what she’d always be to him. Not the owner of this establishment. Not the woman he’d deflowered a decade ago. Not…anything. Just Jack’s little sister.

“On the house?” She allowed him to ease her onto a barstool. “I am the house.”

He just laughed, leaning so close to her ear she thought he was about to plant a kiss on her neck.

“I believe you’ve already had a sample of our new draft selection, right, Ken-doll?”

She just looked at the bartender, vaguely remembering a younger version of his face that had no doubt spent hours with the baseball boys in the basement. She’d been so blinded to anyone but Deuce. “I’ll just have a soda, please,” she told him.

And then Deuce was gone. A whisper of “Excuse me,” and the warmth of his body disappeared from behind her. She fought the urge to turn and watch him work the crowd. Instead, she cuddled Newman in her lap and gratefully accepted the cold drink for her dry throat.

“He’s absolutely adorable.”

Kendra turned to see the familiar, friendly face of Sophie Swenson, her hostess and right hand at the café. Sophie held a glass of white wine—in a stem glass—and her deep-blue eyes glinted with excitement.

“Yeah, he’s adorable,” Kendra assured her, with a disdainful glance back at Deuce. “But he knows it.”

Sophie let out a soft giggle. “I meant the dog.”

“Oh.” Kendra couldn’t help laughing as she pulled Newman higher on her lap. “Well, Newman knows he’s adorable, too.” She narrowed her eyes at Sophie, noticing the flush on her pretty cheeks, the way her gaze darted around the crowd. Would her most senior employee want to slide over to the Dark Side now? “You want to switch to a new evening schedule, Soph?”

Sophie shrugged and settled into the barstool. “If the action stays like this, I might. I mean is Monroe’s going back to being a bar? What about the expansion plans?”

Kendra let out a long, slow sigh. “I have no idea,” she admitted. “I just wish he’d go back to where he came from.”

“He came from…here.” Sophie’s eyes were without humor. “I mean, his dad owns the bar.”

Kendra’s shoulders slumped slightly. “I own half of this bar.”

Sophie raised a surprised eyebrow.

“Internet café,” Kendra corrected, burying her fingers in Newman’s soft fur and scratching him. “And I’m not going to walk away because the mighty Deuce has come home.”

Sophie’s gaze moved from Kendra to Deuce, then back to Kendra. “He’s crazy about you.”

Her heartbeat skidded up to triple time. “I doubt that.”

“He hasn’t taken his eyes off you since you walked in here.”

Why did that fact send yet another shower of goose bumps over her? Kendra closed her eyes until it passed. “No, we’re just in an oddly competitive situation right now.”

Kendra stole one more glance over her shoulder. Ginger the track star-turned cocktail waitress gazed up at Deuce and giggled. Another athletic-looking man slapped him on the back.

But Deuce’s gaze moved over everyone and locked on Kendra. There was that secret smile, that cocky tease in his eyes. And, as it had since before she knew how to write his name in cursive, the old zingy sensation washed over her.

Oh, Lord, not still. Not at thirty years old. That incapacitating girlhood crush had resulted in nothing but sleepless nights and pillows drenched in tears. A lost opportunity to graduate from the finest university in the country. And she wouldn’t even think about the baby. She’d trained herself not to ever, ever do that.

Hadn’t she paid enough for the honor of worshipping at Deuce’s altar?

“Call it competition if you like,” Sophie said, yanking Kendra back to the present. “But that man’s got you front and center on his radar screen.”

“Well then I’ll just have to disappear.”

“That’s kind of difficult since you’re both working in the same place,” Sophie said.

“Not at all,” Kendra said, gathering up Newman with determination. “I work days, he works nights. And never the twain shall meet.”

Sophie tilted her head a centimeter to the right in a secret warning. “The twains are about to meet, honey. Hunky baseball player on your six.”

Clutching Newman, Kendra slid off the stool and took a speed course through the crowd around the bar. The back door was closest, so she focused on it like a beacon for a lost ship. If she could just get into the kitchen before he got to her, she could slip into the back parking lot.

She breezed through the storage area, ignored the surprised looks from the borrowed employees of The Wingman who were plating up chicken in the little kitchen, and flung the back door open into the night.

“That wasn’t so hard, was it?” she whispered to Newman, setting him gently on the concrete.

Newman sniffed at the corner of the Dumpster.

“No time for trash, Newman.” She tugged on his leash and led him along a brick wall through the side alley and to the main road.

Where she walked smack into one six-foot-two-inch former baseball player wearing that triumphant grin that used to melt her in the stands of Rockingham Field.

“The party just started, Ken-doll,” he said softly, placing those incredible hands on her shoulders and pulling her just an inch too close to that solid wall of chest. “You can’t run away yet.”

The definition of stupid, she thought desperately, is making the same mistake twice. And Kendra Locke, who’d scored a coveted scholarship to Harvard and masterminded the makeover of Rockingham’s version of Silicon Valley was not stupid. Was she?

“I’m not running away,” she insisted. “It’s too crowded in there for a dog. And I—” she cleared her throat. “I have to go home.”

“I’d like you to stay.” He dipped his face close to hers. She didn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t possibly think.

Deuce was going to kiss her. She opened her mouth to say something, something like “This is a bad idea,” but before she could manage a word, he covered her mouth with his.

She stood stone-still as his fingers tightened his grip and his lips moved imperceptibly over hers. He closed a little bit of space between them, his chest touched hers, his legs touched hers, his tongue touched hers.

Was she really going to do this? She, the former Mensa candidate and Rockingham High valedictorian? Could she be that foolish and wild? Could she dare let history repeat itself?

Opening her mouth, she did the only thing she could possibly think to do.

She kissed him back.


CHAPTER FIVE

KENDRA SLID HER ARMS around Deuce’s shoulders, which was all the body language he needed to completely close the space between them.

A soft moan rumbled in her throat as he tested the waters by grazing her teeth with his tongue. In that instant, it all came back. The magical kisses of an eager, sweet girl. The memory of that extraordinary night hit him as hard as the surf that they’d let pound them as they’d lain naked on the sand.

He touched the dip of her waist and skimmed his hands over the curve of her backside, hardening instantly against her stomach, moving automatically against her hips.

“Deuce.” He could feel his name tumble from her lips as she reluctantly broke the kiss. “Newman.”

Newman?

Then he realized the dog was parting them by pulling on his leash. He gave the leather strap a good tug. “Hey bud. Gimme a break.”

That was enough to kill the moment. Even though her blue eyes were darkened by the same arousal that twisted through him, Kendra backed up.

“Listen to me,” she said softly, but with a whispered vehemence that made him look hard at her. “I’m not the same girl I was back then.”

“No, you’re not,” he agreed, pulling her just enough into him so there was no doubt of the effect she had on him. “Now you’re a woman.” He traced his thumb along her jaw. “Smart, willful and…beautiful.”

She dipped away from his touch, the darkness in her eyes shifting from arousal to wariness.

“I’m smart all right,” she insisted, and he sensed she was telling this to herself as much as to him. “Too smart to…” Her voice drifted as she managed to untangle herself from his arm. “I’m going home now.”

He smiled at her. “I like you, Kendra.”

She backed up farther and gave him a dubious look. “What are you up to, Deuce Monroe?”

“You don’t trust me at all, do you?”

Her eyes suddenly widened. “Do you think seducing me is going to win you the bar? You think I’ll just back down from this fight because you swept me off my feet and into bed?”

The words punched him. “No.” Truthfully, the thought hadn’t even occurred to him. “I just…like you.”

Nothing on her face said she believed him.

“Why don’t you stay until I close up?” he suggested. “We can talk about the business, about how we can…figure this out.”

“You don’t want to talk.”

No, he didn’t. But he would. “Come on, Kendra. Stay. I can take you home later.”

Newman skittered toward the street, suddenly impatient with the conversation, and Kendra went with him as though she felt exactly the same. “Just lock all the doors when you leave. And put the cash in the green zipper case in the bottom drawer of the office.”

“Oh, yeah, I’ll put the cash in the office that doesn’t lock.”

“The desk does,” she said, reaching into her pocket. “Here.” She held up a key chain. “The little gold one locks the cash drawer. Leave it on Diana’s kitchen table and I’ll stop in and walk Newman in the morning.”

Maybe he’d leave them on his dresser so she’d have to come in his bedroom to get them. Maybe, if he hadn’t lost his touch, she’d be right there in the bed next to him in the morning.

He reached for her hand. “I’d really like if you’d stay.”

She shook her head in warning. “My car’s right there,” she said. “Bye.”

Before he could get a grip on her arm, she’d taken off with the dog in tow, hustling down the street. Guess he had lost his touch.

He let his arousal subside as he waited in the street to see her get into a car and drive away. Pocketing the keys, he watched until the taillights disappeared at the bend away from the beach.

He touched his mouth, the feel of her lips still fresh. He was not done with her. Not by a long shot.

The front door of the bar flung open and two of his old teammates came bounding out, their laughter loud, their guts showing that beer consumption had replaced batting practice as their favorite pastime.

“Man, Deuce, it’s good to have you back.” Charlie Lotane pounded Deuce’s back. “This is going to be an awesome bar. You got the touch, man.”

“Ya think, C-Lo?” The old nicknames came back easily. “I was just wondering if I’d lost it.”

“Deuce, you are the man!” Charlie assured him over his shoulder. “We really needed a place like this in the Rock. Way to go, bro.”

“Thank God you came back, Deuce.”

Deuce watched them disappear down High Castle and suddenly wondered just what the hell he’d come back to prove. That he was still “the man” who could pack Monroe’s? That he was still the main event in town? That he could still see adoration in Jack’s little sister’s eyes?

Was he that shallow and insecure?

The door burst open again and he welcomed the distraction.



NEWMAN CURLED INTO the corner of Kendra’s living room, as at home in this beach bungalow as he was in Diana’s mansion. He was sound asleep by the time Kendra realized exactly what she needed to do in order get her head back on straight.

She needed to read her notebook.

She’d never been one to buy a diary, with a pretty filigree lock, or an embroidered design on the cover. It seemed so planned and pathetic, as though a formal diary somehow legitimized her longings. Plus, she’d known at a very young age that such a girlish item would be too tempting to Jack…and the thought of him sharing her diary with the boys in the basement still sent a rush of heat to her cheeks.

So she’d kept a simple spiral notebook, college-ruled and ragged at the edges. It never drew anyone’s attention; instead it blended in with her many schoolbooks, another tool of a brainiac child bound and determined to get to the Ivy League.

But this was no ordinary notebook. The dates of the entries were far apart, but over the course of about a dozen years, it was just about full. Written on both sides of every page, in a script that had started out awkward, moved to a girlish flourish, and ended up as scratchy as a doctor’s prescription.

She hadn’t looked at the book in at least four years. But tonight, her body still humming from the electrical charge of that kiss, she’d gone to the bottom of a box of rarely worn sweaters to find a piece of her heart that had never quite healed. Sliding her nail into one of the curled corners, she wet her lips, still warm from the taste of Deuce.

The man could kiss and that was a fact.

In truth, it had been right in the middle of that heart-tripping lip-lock that the notebook had flashed in her mind like a big red flag. Warning. Warning. Serious, severe discontentment and disappointment ahead.

She lifted the cover. “Perhaps we need a little history lesson,” she whispered to herself.

She opened it randomly, to about the fifth or sixth page.

The words “Mrs. Deuce Monroe” decorated the margins. The O’s in Monroe were hearts. Kendra laughed softly. She had to. Otherwise, she’d cry. The penmanship was classic third-grade, early cursive.



Tomorrow, my family is driving all the way to Fall River for my brother’s baseball tournament. And guess what???? Deuce is coming too!!! In our car!!! His parents said he could drive with Jack!!! I will be in the car with him for hours and hours!!! I’m excited and happy tonight.



Kendra smiled, shaking her head. She remembered the trip vividly. Jack and Deuce had traded baseball cards and listened to the Red Sox game the entire time and never once said a word to her. Except when they rolled in laughter because she had to stop and go to the bathroom so often. And they’d lost the tournament on one of Deuce’s classic out-of-control pitches, so the trip home was real quiet.

She flipped to the middle. Her handwriting had matured, and the date told her the entry was made when she was fourteen years old.

I hate Anne Keppler. I just hate her and her black hair and her perfect cheerleader’s body. He calls her “Annie”—I heard him. She’s down there right now, playing pool and giggling like a hyena along with that completely dumb Dawn Hallet(osis) who runs after Jack like a puppy-dog. Oh, God. He likes her. Deuce likes Anne Keppler. I heard him tell Jack last night after everyone left their noisy party. He kissed her! I heard him tell Jack he got tongue. How gross is that?



Her limbs grew heavy at the memory of Deuce’s tongue. Not gross at all, as a matter of fact.

A series of broken-heart sketches followed that entry, but many months passed before she wrote again. A few words about entering high school, taking difficult courses, then…



Oh, lovely little piece of paper…I’m holding my driver’s license. Yes! The State of Massachusetts and some really obnoxious old lady with orange hair agreed that I could drive (they were mercifully understanding about the parallel parking problem—the parallel parking that Jack swore I wouldn’t have to do). Mom said I could go to Star Market this afternoon for some groceries. Guess I’ll have to take a quick spin past Rock Field…there’s baseball practice tonight....



She’d taken that drive about a million times. And she’d made up another million excuses to wander over to the stands, to give something to Jack, to watch Deuce out in the field, throwing pitches, getting chewed out by Coach Delacorte. Rarely, if ever, did Deuce notice her. Still, she was certain that if she just waited, if she just grew up a little more, if she just got rid of the braces, if she just could fill a C-cup, he would realize that he’d loved her all along.

By the time she grew up and the braces came off and the bra size increased, Deuce had ditched Rockingham for the major leagues. She tried to forget him and, for the most part, with her focus on getting into Harvard, and staying there, she succeeded. It was even possible to work at Monroe’s in the summers and not think too much about him.

Until Leah Monroe died, and Deuce came home, in need of comfort and love.

She didn’t bother to look for a passage in the journal that described the night she lost her virginity on the beach. She’d never written about it, trusting her memory to keep every single detail crystal-clear in her memory.

But as time passed, she did turn to her red notebook to write about the pain. The first entry was made when it began to dawn on her that she’d never hear from him again.



Deuce has been gone for nine days. Like a fool, I check my messages every hour. I pick up the phone to see if it’s working. I run to the mailbox for a card, a note, a letter.

The closest I can get to him is the box scores in the paper. He pitched last night. Lost. Does he think about me when he goes back to his hotel? Does he think it’s too late to call? Or does he have a girl in Chicago, in Detroit, in Baltimore…wherever he is right now.

Oh, God, why doesn’t he call? How could he have been so sweet, so loving, so tender? Was it all

an act?

There was one more entry, but Kendra shut the notebook and tossed it on the table. The walk down memory lane was no pleasant stroll; the exercise had worked. She’d never meant any more to Deuce than Annie Keppler or any other girl in his past. Of course, since their paths were crossing again, being the professional player that he was, he hit on her tonight. One kiss in the dark. Another meaningless display of affection. He was just high on his packed house and she was the available female of the moment.

He had no idea how their one night of pleasure had ruined her entire life. Evidently, Jack had never told Deuce his sister got pregnant and had to drop out of Harvard. Even though her brother had stuck by her and was still close to her, Jack had been as embarrassed by her stupidity as her parents. And the father of her baby remained the closest-guarded secret in her life. She’d never told anyone. Not even Seamus, who had never, ever passed judgment on her. He’d just given her a job when she needed one.

Newman’s sudden bark yanked her back to reality, followed by a soft knock on her door. “Kendra? Are you still up?”

Oh God. Deuce.

She grabbed the red notebook and stuffed it into the first available hiding place, the softsided bag she took to and from work.

“What’s the matter?” She asked as she approached the door. Her voice sounded thick. How long had she been lying there, dreaming of Deuce?

“Nothing,” he called. “I wanted to give you back your key.”

Slowly, she opened the door a crack and reached her hand out, palm up.

He closed his fingers over hers, and pulled her hand to his mouth. The soft kiss made her knees weak.

“We made over a thousand dollars tonight,” he whispered.

She jerked her hand away and let the door open wider. “Get outta town!”

He grinned in the moonlight, holding up her set of keys. “I did that already. And now I’m back.” Stepping closer to the door, he whispered, “Can I come in and tell you about what a great night it was?”

How could he have been so sweet, so loving, so tender? Was it all an act?

She swiped the keys dangling from his hand. “No. Just leave these on Diana’s kitchen table in the future. I’ll be sure you can find them on my desk at the end of the day.”

Then she dug deep for every ounce of willpower she’d ever had and closed the door in his face.

Something she should have done a long time ago.



DEUCE LACED HIS fingers through the chain-link fence that surrounded Rock Field and sucked in a chest full of his favorite smell. Freshly turned clay and recently mowed spring grass. A groundskeeper worked the dirt around the mound, raking it to the perfect height for a six-foot pitcher to slide some fire in the hole.

He didn’t have to be at the bar for another hour or so for his second full night of operation. All day long he’d fought the urge to go to Monroe’s and find Kendra to see what she really thought of his success the previous night. At the same time, he fought the urge to make a trip to his old stomping grounds.

Eventually, he lost one of the fights, and drove the short distance to Rockingham High, knowing that he’d probably arrive on a practice afternoon. In April, every afternoon was practice.

His elbow throbbed as he tightened his grip on the metal, pushing his face into the fence as though he could walk right through it. Come to think of it, he could walk right through it. All he’d have to do is whistle to the groundskeeper, who’d amble over and ask what he needed, assuming he was a parent or even a scout. Deuce would introduce himself, and watch the man’s face light up in recognition.

Deuce Monroe? Rockingham High’s most famous graduate? Well, get on the field, Deuce!

He heard a burst of laughter and turned to see half a dozen lanky high-schoolers dressed in mismatched practice clothes, dragging bat bags. One balanced three helmets on his head, another circled his arm over his shoulder to warm it up.

Somebody swore and more laughter ensued; one boy spat as they started unloading their gear.

After a few minutes of stretching out, some of the players took off for windsprints and laps. A guy who looked to be about forty, wearing sweats and a whistle, jogged onto the field. He eyed Deuce for a minute, then started calling out to the players.

Rick Delacorte, the only coach who’d ever known how to handle him, had retired last year after twenty years at Rock High. Deuce had stayed in touch with Rick, knew he and his wife had headed out to Arizona to spend their golden years in a condo strategically located within driving distance of the Diamondbacks’ stadium.

He couldn’t remember the name of this new guy, somebody Rick said had moved up from Maryland or D.C. to take the job. Deuce watched him needle a few players, sending some more for laps. A couple of catchers started blocking drills, and the infielders lined up for hit-downs and cut-offs.

An easy sense of familiarity settled over Deuce as he watched a few pitchers warm up for a long toss. In less than three throws, Deuce could see one of the kids limiting his range of motion. The new coach didn’t notice, and Deuce bit back the urge to call out a correction. Instead, he sat down on the aluminum stands. Just for a minute. Just to see how they played.

He only realized what time it was when batting practice ended, and the coach called for the last run. He was seriously late for the bar, but hell, this had been too relaxing. As he stood, the groundskeeper emerged from the afternoon shadows behind the visitor’s dugout.

“Excuse me?” the man called out.

Deuce acknowledged him with a nod.

“You lookin’ for someone in particular, son?”

“Just watching the practice,” he said, squinting into the sun that now sat just above the horizon.

The older man approached slowly, an odd smile tugging at his lips. “What do you think of the new coach, Deuce?”

Deuce started in surprise. “Do we know each other?”

The man laughed. “I know you, but you probably don’t remember me. The name’s Martin Hatcher and I used to be—”

“The Hatchet Man,” Deuce finished for him, taking the hand that was offered to shake. “I’m sorry I didn’t recognize you, sir.”

The former principal of Rockingham High laughed easily. “Well, I’m not as imposing with a rake in my hand as I was waving your pink slips.”

Deuce shook his head and chuckled. “What are you doing out here?” The juxtaposition of the feared and revered principal now in the position of field caretaker seemed preposterous.

“I’m retired, Deuce,” he said, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his pants. “But I volunteer here just like a lot of ex-Rock High teachers and staff. I still love the school, so I do what needs to be done. Last week, I worked in the cafeteria for a few days. That’s always a bit of an education in human behavior.”

Deuce took in the network of wrinkles over the familiar face, and the shock of gray hair. He’d done his share to add to the whitening of that head, he was sure.

“Don’t feel bad that you didn’t recognize me, Deuce. I’m not sure I would have known you, either. But I heard rumors that your own retirement brought you back to town.”

“Wasn’t exactly retirement,” he said with a grin. “More like lifelong detention.”

That earned him another hearty laugh and a pat on the shoulder. “You always could charm your way out of anything, Mr. Monroe.”

“I couldn’t charm the contract lawyer for the Nevada Snake Eyes.”

“Their loss, our gain. It’s just too bad it didn’t happen a season earlier.”

“Why? I had my best year last year.”

“Indeed you did. I thought you could have been a Cy Young contender.”

Deuce snorted. “Not that good.”

“But if you’d have pulled your little race-car exploit before Rock High hired him…” He jutted his chin toward the dugout where the new coach stood, surrounded by ballplayers, some of whom listened to his lectures, while others looked anxious to leave.

“What’s his name?” Deuce asked.

“George Ellis. He’s teaching science, too, which I think he’s much better at than coaching.”

Deuce’s gaze moved to the field, then back to Martin. “He’s not bad. Lots of energy. Seems to know how to get them to hit.”

“You’d have been better.”

“Me?” Deuce coughed back a laugh. “No, thanks. I have no interest in going out there and motivating guys who think they know everything.” Guys like him.

They fell into pace together toward the parking lot. “So you’d rather run a bar.”

Deuce heard the skepticism in his tone. “It’s called Monroe’s, Mr. Hatcher. And, since I am called that, too, it feels like the right thing to do.”

“I’m not your principal anymore, Deuce. You don’t have to call me Mr. Hatcher, and you don’t have to give me your load of BS.”

Deuce slowed his step and peered at the man who once had spent hours threatening, cajoling and teasing Deuce. “That was no load of BS.”

“Monroe’s isn’t even a bar anymore.”

“We’re working on that.”

Martin chewed his lip for a moment, then lowered his voice. “Seems to me Kendra Locke has some pretty big plans for the place.”

The Hatchet Man, Deuce remembered from numerous trips to his office, always had a subtle way of making his point.

“I have plans, too.” But then, subtle had never worked that well on Deuce.

Martin paused at the edge of the parking lot, crossing his arms and nodding. “Kendra was a favorite student of mine. Of course, she was a few years behind you.”

“Her brother Jack was my best friend.”

“Oh, yes. I remember Jackson Locke. A rebel, but very artistic. And he liked those basketball bombs over in the teacher’s lot.” He chuckled again. “Let you take the heat for the big one that dented Rose Cavendish’s old Dodge Dart, as I recall.”

Deuce just smiled. “Ancient history.”

“We got a lot of that around here,” Martin mused, his gaze traveling toward the red brick two-story building of the Rockingham High that sat up on an impressive hill. “Kendra has quite a history, too.”

Kendra? Where was he going with this? Deuce waited for him to continue, as he would have if he’d been sitting across Principal Hatcher’s imposing desk, discussing his latest infraction.

“She went to Harvard, did you know that?” Martin asked.

“Yes.”

“Didn’t finish, though.”

“That seems a shame,” Deuce said. “She was real smart.” And kissed like a goddess, too.

“I only had a few Harvard-bound seniors in my twenty-five years at Rock High. So I remember every one.”

“Why didn’t she finish?”

“You’ll have to ask her,” he said, unlocking the door of an older model SUV. “And by the way, she’s still real smart.”

“I know.”

“And you still love baseball.”

Deuce grinned. “I’m not going to coach.”

The other man just laughed and climbed into the driver’s seat. “You spent a lot of time watching practice.”

That Hatchet Man. He was always an observant dude. “Nice to see you again, Mr…Martin.”

“I’ll stop in the bar sometime, Deuce. I heard you packed them in last night.”

“News travels fast around Rockingham.”

Martin nodded. “It sure does.”

Deuce closed the driver’s-side door and said goodbye, watching his old friend and nemesis drive away. Then he turned to the field and took one more deep breath of baseball.

But suddenly he really wanted to know why Kendra Locke had given up her dream, and why that one piece of news didn’t seem to travel like everything else around Rockingham.


CHAPTER SIX

FLAT ON HIS BACK, the cold dampness of the tile floor seeping through an old Yomuri Giants sweatshirt, Deuce swore softly as the broken nozzle of the soda spritzer slipped from his fingers and bounced on his chest. He’d been under the bar for half an hour and still didn’t have the damn thing working right.

Five days into his latest endeavor, and he was fixing his own equipment. At eight in the morning, no less. A decision he made the night before when the sprayer had malfunctioned. As much as he’d like to sleep after a late night running Monroe’s, he wanted to get in before any of the Internet café customers showed up.

Yeah. Right. He shook off a dribble of club soda that trickled onto his cheek and clamped his teeth tighter over the flashlight that shone on the unit.

Who the hell was he kidding? Cybersurfers didn’t care if the bar was being worked on while they shopped online and played medieval trading games.

He’d come in before the place opened because Kendra had made a science out of avoiding him. And Deuce didn’t want to be avoided any more.

But when he’d slipped in the back that morning, he’d heard voices raised in confrontation from behind the partially closed door to the office. He picked up Sophie’s complaints about an employee who was supposed to have done something regarding a software update, and Kendra’s calmly spoken instructions that Sophie take care of the problem.

Instead of interrupting, he’d gone straight to the bar and slid underneath to inspect the faulty spritzer. As he worked, he heard the sounds of the café opening up, and the ubiquitous smell of coffee being brewed.

He just about had the nozzle reinstalled when the coffee aroma was superseded by something light and spicy and pretty. Turning his head, his penlight lit a pair of high-heeled sandals a few feet from his face. His gaze slid up, up, up a long set of bare legs to a short skirt with a flippy hemline.

Man, there was something to be said for a view from the floor.

One of the cream-colored shoes tapped.

“Come on, Deuce,” Kendra whispered to herself. “Where did you hide the soda thingy?”

She shoved a few of the stainless-steel cocktail shakers to the side, and yanked at the hose that was connected to the nozzle in his hand. “What the heck’s the matter with this?”

She pulled harder, hand over hand toward the end of the hose…where she gasped as they came face to face.

“Oh my God! You scared me. What are you doing down there?”

The flashlight beam made another slow journey up her legs, stopping on a particularly sweet mid-thigh muscle. It flexed under his scrutiny.

“Adjusting my equipment,” he managed to say without unlocking his teeth. “And enjoying the show.”

She backed out of the beam. “I should step on you.”

That made him laugh and the flashlight fell out of his mouth. Slowly, he slid out from under the lower shelf and stood to his full height. She tried not to look at him, but failed.

He wiped at some grime on his jeans and held the sprayer toward her. “Soda, water or diet? They were getting all mixed into one messy flow last night.”

“Certainly didn’t affect the cash flow.”

He grinned. “Oh, so you counted it already?”

Over the past week, they’d started an unspoken exchange. He locked the pouch in the drawer each night, and left the keys on Diana’s kitchen table. She picked up the keys early the next morning when she walked Newman, while Deuce was still asleep. When her day was over—always a few minutes after he arrived—she took the pouch to the bank and left the keys on the desk for him. All the while, she managed to avoid spending any significant amount of time with him.

“As a matter of fact, I have a meeting with the architect in a few minutes,” she told him. “I was planning to make a cash drop at the bank on my way.”

“Oh, that’s why you’re dressed up?” He took another leisurely gaze over a silk blouse buttoned just high enough to make him want to…unbutton it. “I thought it was to impress me.”

“I don’t imagine a skirt and blouse are too impressive to you.”

He shrugged. “You look nice. But I’m kind of partial to leather.”

She rolled her eyes and opened her right palm to reveal two pills. “You’re not helping my headache.”

He retrieved a clean glass, filled it with water and handed it to her. As she put the pills in her mouth, he said, “Don’t blame me. I heard you fighting with Sophie.”

Her eyes popped open, but she managed to get the aspirin down. “I wasn’t fighting with her,” she denied hotly after she’d swallowed. “We were just working out some issues.”

“Sounded like she wasn’t happy.”

She sighed softly and spilled the remaining water in the sink, her gaze moving across to the computer area where Sophie worked at a terminal. “She’s not.”

“What’s the matter?”

“Just some coworker issues.” She settled a sincere blue gaze on him. “Nothing I can’t handle.”

“Well, maybe I can help,” he offered. “I know a little about teamwork.”

She regarded him for a minute, an internal battle whether or not to confide in him waged over her expression. “She just has some problems with newer employees,” she finally said. “Not everyone is quite as competent as she is and, well, she tends to let them know it.”

“Like the veteran and the rookies.”

She looked questioningly at him, then smiled. “Not all of life can be equated to baseball.”

“Yes it can,” he answered matter-of-factly. “Why don’t you put her in charge of training?”

“Training?”

“Give her responsibility for their success. Coaches do that all the time in the spring when they’re trying to build cohesion between the old, seasoned guys who know everything and the hotshots up from the minors who think they know everything.”

She glanced at Sophie, then back at him. “What do they do, exactly?”

“If you give her the job of training them, and tie their success to hers, she might be more prone to want them to succeed.”

“She does want them to succeed,” she countered. “She also wants everyone to be as good as she is. With the computers, with the customers, with everything. And some of these kids are just out of college.”

“Precisely.” He glided the sprayer hose back into place and twisted a faucet to wash his hands. “But make her feel like their accomplishments reflect her skills. Trust me. It’ll work.”

She said nothing as he soaped and rinsed his hands, then gave him that gut-tightening smile. The real one. The one where she let down her guard. “Thanks for the advice. Now what are you doing here at this hour?”

“I wanted to talk to you.”

“Oh?”

“I can’t seem to get you alone for five minutes.”

“I’m busy.” She lifted a shoulder of indifference, but the cavalier act wasn’t working. She was avoiding him and they both knew it. “I’m busy. You work nights. I work days. And, by the way, you’re making my life complicated.”

He managed not to smile. “I am?”

“All this money, Deuce. How can I make a compelling argument to your father that we shouldn’t have a bar in here?”

“You can’t. That’s the idea. And look at this place.” He gestured toward the computer stations, many that were taken with busy patrons. “You’re not exactly losing money while I’m making it.”

She nodded. “As a matter of fact, café and Internet access revenues are up, too.”

“Good, then you won’t mind investing in a pizza oven.”

“A pizza oven?” She backed up to stare at him. “Now you want to turn this place into a pizzeria?”

He swept a hand toward the wall of booze behind him. “They drink, they have to eat. I did some research and pizza is a very high-profit item. Especially per slice.”

She looked dubious. “I don’t know.”

“You might be able to serve it in the afternoon, too.”

“With coffee?”

He winked. “It’s best with beer.”

“Deuce.” Her shoulders sank. “I’m on my way to meet with the architect and you are changing my business plan by the minute.”

“To the tune of a grand a night.”

“I know. I can count.” She put her fingertips to her temples and rubbed gently. His fingers itched to help alleviate the headache. “Let me think about the pizza oven and—”

“I’m just going to order it. I wanted to know if you have a particular supplier you use.”

“I do. Buddy McCrosson, over in Fall River. But I have to deal with him because he’s an old bag of wind and wouldn’t give you the best price.”

“Then you can come with me to pick it out.”

“I can’t, I have a new employee starting tomorrow—”

“Put Sophie in charge of your new employee.” He gave her a victorious smile. “And we’ll take a drive out to Fall River tomorrow.”

She shook her head, a flash of terror in her eyes. Was she afraid of the spontaneous change to her plans…or of being alone with him?

“Kendra,” he leaned lower. “We’re partners here.” He almost closed the space between her temple and his lips. Would a kiss on that aching spot make her feel better?

“We’re not partners,” she said stiffly, her eyes locked on his.

“But you can’t avoid me for the next four weeks.”

She closed her eyes as though his very proximity made her dizzy, sending a splash of satisfaction through him. He set his lips on the soft skin of her hairline and forehead and kissed. “I hope your headache goes away.”

“You are my headache,” she said softly. “You make my head throb.”

He laughed softly. “Great. We can work down from there.”



THERE WAS NO DOUBT Sophie loved the idea of creating a training manual and implementing it. She fairly danced out of Kendra’s office the next morning, and even held the door for Deuce who had been waiting outside. For how long, Kendra had no idea.

“So that went well, huh?” he asked, his dark eyes glimmering.

She hated to admit it, but he’d been right, and one good turn probably deserved another. “Thank you for your advice,” she told him. “I owe you one.”

“Great. I figure we can be in Fall River by noon, pick out the pizza oven of our dreams and kiss off the rest of the afternoon with an intimate beachside lunch.”

Intimate? Kiss? Dreams? She ignored the rush of anticipation that meandered from her heart through her stomach and settled way, way too low. “I owe you one, Deuce, not a day and lunch. Anyway, it won’t take two hours to get there. We can be home and back to work by one o’clock.”

“I need a pizza oven, sweetheart.” He waved a dismissive hand toward the disarray of papers and files on her desk. “And you need a break.”

That much was true. Seamus had called from San Francisco to tell her that a few of the meetings had gone so well that the investors needed some more data. She’d pulled that together, which was no mean feat considering she wasn’t working evenings. Blowing off the day with Deuce seemed both insane and inspired.

He leaned one impressive shoulder against the doorjamb and her gaze flickered over the taut fit of his navy-blue polo shirt, tucked into the narrow hips of a pair of khaki pants. He’d dressed nicely for their day trip. She’d worn jeans and a sweater—not fully believing he’d follow up on his threats to take her to Fall River. But here he was…looking…

“You going to stare at me for an hour or are we leaving?”

Stare. She blinked. “You’re imagining things. I’m just wondering what my restaurant supplier will think of you.” She made a showing of hunting for her bag. “I guess if he likes baseball, we’re in good shape.”

“No,” he said, his serious tone forcing her to look up. “Let’s just leave my former career out of it.”

She regarded him for a moment, the weight of her tote bag seeming as heavy as his voice. “Really?” She dropped the handle of the tote bag and just grabbed her purse. “That’s not like you.”

“I’m full of surprises,” he said with a laugh, levity back in place. “I even have one in the parking lot.”

In the kitchen she stopped to talk to Sophie and explain where they were going. Ignoring Sophie’s subtle raised eyebrow implying “isn’t this an interesting development?” she followed Deuce into the back lot, where his rented car had been replaced with a bright-red Mercedes two-seater…top down.

“Surprise,” he said. “I decided to upgrade.”

Her breath caught in her throat and all she could think about was the last time he took her out in a convertible. It was Seamus’s car and she didn’t remember the make, only that when he’d pushed the driver’s seat all the way back, she’d fit perfectly between his body and the steering wheel.

Heat lightning flashed through her veins at the memory.

“I thought it would be nice since we’ll take Highway 28 over to the south shore,” Deuce said.

It took her a moment to erase the memory of his rock-hard body and soul-melting kisses to process what he’d just said. “The beach road? That’ll take forever. Route 6 is much faster.”

“What’s your rush?” He opened the passenger door and indicated for her to climb in. “I thought it would be fun to see the beaches. I haven’t been to some of those places in…years.”

Oh, this was a bad idea. A joyride along the beach—that beach—in a convertible with Deuce. How did this happen? She had been so adept at avoiding him and now she was walking right into hell on four wheels.

Or was it heaven?

In the side-view mirror, she saw him study her backside as she slipped into the deep-red leather, already warmed from the sun. His gaze lingered just long enough for her to glance over her shoulder and burn him with a warning glare.

He made no attempt to look away. Instead, his scrutiny burned hotter than the leather against her body. “You always did do justice to a pair of jeans, Kendra.”

Oh, hell. It was heaven.



DID DEUCE DELIBERATELY slow down as they passed the dunes of West Rock Beach? Did he even remember that this was the beach…their beach? Or was Kendra the only one who nurtured those memories?

In nine years, she’d never returned to West Rock Beach.

She battled the urge to look to her left, to look at the sandy backdrop and the few reeds of tall grass, and at the man who sat next to her.

“Tell me something, Ken-doll.” The serious tone made her stomach drop. “Do you think of me when you pass this spot?”

She leaned her head back and let the sun stream over her face. “Why would I do that?”

Laughing, he accelerated and pulled the gearshift into fourth, his knuckles just grazing the worn denim of her jeans. “You are bound and determined not to talk about it, aren’t you?”

Oh, God. “Correct.”

“You think if we just act like it never happened, then we can pretend it didn’t, don’t you?”

“Correct again.”

She opened her eyes to find his gaze locked on her. “It did happen, Kendra. And I want to talk about it.”

“Watch the road,” she warned. “And I don’t.”

A truck rumbled by in the other direction, forcing blessed silence. Did he really want to do this? To what end?

“You’re mad because I never called.”

She snorted softly. “Ya think?”

His hand slid from the gearshift to her leg, his powerful palm and fingers covering half of her thigh and sending a wicked shot of excitement straight through her. She eased right out of his touch, earning a look from him.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly.

She brushed her leg as though she could erase the impact of his fingertips. Yeah, right. “It’s okay.”

The wind off the waters of Nantucket Sound whipped her hair across her face, and she left it there, letting it hide the expressions that might give away her real feelings.

Wanting Deuce was so fundamental to her. It was like breathing.

Damn it all, nothing had changed. It was as if nearly a decade hadn’t passed. As if he’d come home a month after they’d shared every intimacy, and picked up without missing a beat. And her stupid, foolish girl’s heart was ready to just open up again.

“Are you sure it’s okay?” he asked, breaking the quiet of her thoughts.

“You’re forgiven for not calling,” she said quietly. Maybe if she let him off the hook, he’d back away.

“You’re not lying?”

She shook her head. “I would never lie.” But she didn’t exactly want the whole truth out there for discussion, either.

For what seemed like an eternity, he didn’t speak. Eventually, she flipped the lock of hair off her face, using it as an excuse to glance his way. His jaw was locked tight, his eyes, behind his own sunglasses, were narrowed in deep thought.

“Then I’ll tell you the truth,” he said.

She waited while he collected his thoughts, and passed a pickup truck.

“I had to cut off everything that was Rockingham,” he finally said, so softly she almost didn’t hear him over the wind and the engine of the Ford F-150 he’d just blown around.

“Why?”

“Because…” he shook his head and ran his tongue over his lips. No act of nature could get her to look away as she studied his serious expression. Serious…and beautiful. It still hurt to look at him.

He barreled the car forward right up to the rear bumper of a minivan, then ripped into the other lane, floored it, and whizzed by the poor young woman in the driver’s seat. He lowered his speed back to the limit and sucked in a breath.

“Without my mother to run interference…” He spoke slowly, candor softening his voice. “I couldn’t handle my dad. Without my mother… I just missed her too much. I couldn’t come back.”

Seamus could be overbearing. Way beyond overbearing where Deuce was concerned. “I understand that.” But why the hell didn’t you call to tell me? Years of training herself not to reveal her true feelings to Deuce kept her from asking the question. Maybe that was foolish, maybe that was just chicken. But that was the only way she knew how to handle him.

The one time she had admitted her feelings…

“And if I couldn’t come back…” he continued, “what was the use of calling you?”

She shrugged. “Oh, I don’t know. Common decency? A lifelong acquaintance? Acknowledgement of…” The baby I carried. “…my feelings?”

“I’m really sorry, Kendra.” He swallowed hard enough for his voice to crack. Her heart did the same. “It was a shitty thing to do.”

This time she patted his leg. “Forget about it, Deuce. I forgot about it a long time ago.” Liar, liar, liar.

“So why’d you leave Harvard?”

The question was so unexpected it practically took her breath away. “I lost my scholarship and couldn’t afford to finish.” That was the God’s truth.

He shot her a look of pure disbelief. “You had almost a full ride. How’d you lose it?”

“My grades went in the toilet.” Along with most breakfasts those few months.

Traffic forced his gaze back to the road. “What happened? You were an A student. A genius. I remember that.”

Yeah, a genius who didn’t use birth control. She repositioned herself in the bucket seat. “I screwed up, Deuce. It happens all the time. Or did you forget about the racing incident that landed you here?”

He gave her a wry smile. “Not that you’d let me.”

She’d have to keep the conversation on him. Otherwise, he’d probe too deeply. “So, what was your thought right before you hit the wall in that car?”

“My dad’s gonna kill me.”

“He was furious,” she acknowledged. “The language was colorful, I can tell you.”

He glanced at her. “How did you screw up?”

“Let it go, Deuce.” Please.

“Was there a guy involved?”

“Yes.” The truth.

“Did you love him?”

“Yes.” More truth.

“Do you still?”

Oh Lord. “Once in a while, I think about him,” she managed to say, despite the real estate her heart was taking up in her throat.

“Did he…hurt you?”

She thought of the blood and the pain and the insane trip to the hospital. All the guilt and disappointment, and, the worst part, the relief. “They were dark days.” She’d lost the baby, Harvard and Deuce. “But I survived.”

She pulled the seatbelt away from her chest, sucked in a breath of sea-salted air and smiled at him, aware that for the whole conversation, his hand had stayed firmly planted on her leg. “So what kind of pizza oven did you want to get?”

He shot her another disbelieving look at her sudden segue.

“You know, the more I think about it,” she added before he could answer, “the more I think pizza would be a big hit at the café. I did a little research and Baker’s Pride, Blodgett and Lincoln seem to be the best options.” They stopped at a light, but she let the words roll out and fill the air. “The best price would be Blodgett, which is truly commercial grade, and I think we might even be able to get a refurbished—”

His fingers squeezed her thigh. “We were talking about your love life.”

She put her hand over his, instantly loving the power she felt in those fingers, the hint of masculine hair tickling her skin, the sinewy muscles that baseball had formed. “Now we’re talking about pizza ovens. Isn’t that why we’re here?”

“One of the reasons,” he said, turning his hand so they were palm to palm and threading his fingers through hers. “The other reason is because I’ve been trying to get you alone for a week and it’s impossible.”

“I’m busy.” She congratulated herself on yet another half truth that could not technically be called a lie. Why didn’t she extricate her hand from his?

Because she couldn’t. Any more than she could look away as he leaned closer to her face. His mouth was a breath away. His eyes locked on hers and his lips parted as he closed the remaining space between them.

The kiss was hotter than the sun that burned leather seats, and sweeter than anything Kendra could remember. At least, since the last time he’d kissed her.

A horn honked and startled them apart.

He held up his hand in apology to the car behind them, but didn’t take his gaze from hers. “I’m not even close to done with talking about your love life.” He shoved the gearshift into first. “Or kissing you.”


CHAPTER SEVEN

DEUCE SAW THE LOOK of shock on Kendra’s face when he’d introduced himself as Seamus Monroe to Buddy McCrosson, owner of Fall River Restaurant Supplies. Either Buddy didn’t put two and two together with the names, or he wasn’t a baseball fan. Either way, Deuce and Kendra spent nearly two hours with the man and no one mentioned the Snake Eyes or their former pitcher.

Watching Kendra in action was definitely the best part of the meeting. Although she never lost that feminine, sexy aura that surrounded her, she pounded out a tough deal, negotiated for way more than he’d have even thought of, and managed to let poor Buddy think it was all his idea.

All the while, Deuce studied her long, capable fingers as she examined a refurbished oven and imagined them on him. He listened to her soft laugh and fantasized about hearing it as he slowly undressed her. And, of course, he took any excuse to brush her silky skin or touch her slender shoulder.

He hadn’t been kidding when he told her he wasn’t done kissing her. He wasn’t.

While she’d gotten Buddy to knock off two percentage points of interest on a short-term loan and throw in an $800 fryer—surprising him completely with her willingness to add more unhealthy food to her café menu—Deuce had started planning where and how and when he’d get back to kissing her.

The minute they said goodbye to Buddy, he launched his plan into action.

“I’m starved,” he told her as they climbed back into the 450 SL.

“Anything but pizza,” she agreed, buckling her seatbelt. “There are tons of places between here and home.”

“I know exactly where we’re going.” But he had no intention of telling her. “It’ll be a little while before we eat, but I promise, it’s worth the wait.”

She gave him a curious look, but didn’t argue. She slid the paperwork from their meeting into the side pocket of her door, then dropped her head back and closed her eyes, letting the sun light her face. As he turned to back out of the parking spot, his gaze lingered on her face, her long throat, her sweet lips.

He wanted to kiss her right then. Why wait? Because, as any good pitcher knew, timing was the key to success.

They listened to jazz and barely spoke as he drove toward Rockingham. When they finally stopped at a deli in West Dennis, she looked surprised.

“Barnstable Bagel?” She half laughed. “You in the mood for a Reuben?”

“Great deli sandwiches here, if I recall correctly.” If he told her he was going for atmosphere instead of cuisine, she’d fight him. “Wait here. I’ll be right back.”

When he returned, she took the bag of food and drinks that he handed her and tucked it into the space behind their seats. “We’re eating in the car?”

“I believe it’s called a picnic.”

She lowered her sunglasses enough to look hard at him. “A picnic?”

“Chill out, Ken-doll. You’ll like it.” He hoped.

When he pulled up to the dunes at West Rock Beach, he practically felt her whole body tense. He shut off the engine and turned for the bag in the back. “I’ve always liked this beach.”

She backed away to avoid contact. “Is this your idea of a joke?”

“No,” he said slowly, pulling up the deli bag. “This is my idea of a picnic.”

“This is… We don’t have a blanket,” she said quickly.

“We can sit on the benches.”

Barely disguising a long, slow sigh, she climbed out of the car and they walked toward a low rise of the dunes, then stopped to take in the panorama of the Atlantic Ocean. A cool, salty breeze lifted his hair and filled his nostrils.

“Why are you doing this, Deuce?” she asked quietly.

“This has always been my favorite beach.”

Without responding, she reached down and slid out of her loafers, then bounded toward the weather-worn bench that faced the ocean. He followed her, lumps of sand sliding into his own shoes.

“And because I want to make up for not calling you,” he said as he sat next to her.

“By coming here?” She crossed her arms and faced the water. “I told you, I’ve forgotten about it and I think you should, too.”

“Turkey or roast beef?” He held out the two wrapped sandwiches and she took the one marked with the T.

“I’ll take this one.”

“You’re lying, Kendra.”

She looked up at him. “I like turkey.”

“You haven’t completely forgotten.”

Wordlessly, she unwrapped the sandwich and made a little tray on her lap with the white deli paper. As he did the same, she nibbled at the crust of the whole grain bread, gazing at the blue-black waters of the Atlantic.

“Okay,” she finally said, setting her sandwich in her lap, “I haven’t forgotten. But I forgive. I mean, I forgive you for never calling. I don’t see any reason to hold a grudge. Can we move on now?”

“But you remember everything else?”

She nodded, but didn’t look at him.

“So do I,” he admitted. Every kiss, every touch, even that long, shuddering sigh as he entered her.

He thought he saw her close her eyes behind her sunglasses, but then they ate in silence, only the rhythmic crashing of the waves and the occasional squawk of a gull breaking the mood. Two young mothers with three kids between them wandered by looking for shells, and a retired couple walked hand-in-hand by the water’s edge. He stole a sideways glance to see which vignette held her attention.

Her focus was on the children. Funny, he’d thought she’d like the old people who still held hands. He regarded her as she took a bite of a potato chip, watching the children with rapt attention.

“You want kids, Kendra?”

Her jaw stopped moving and her whole being froze. Slowly, she wiped the corners of her mouth with a paper napkin and swallowed. “What brought that question on?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. You’re about thirty, right?”

“As of last November.”

“Well, don’t most women your age want kids? Tick-tock and all that?”

She didn’t answer, but that little vein jumped in her neck. She took a drink of water and he watched her throat rise and fall.

“I’m so involved with the café, I don’t really think about it,” she finally said.

He opened another water bottle for himself. “I want kids,” he announced, surprising himself with the sudden candor. By the look on her face, he’d surprised her, too. “I do,” he continued. “Nine boys so I could have my own little team.”

She leaned back and let out that pretty laugh that sounded like music. “I pity the poor woman who has to give you nine children.”

“Adoption.” He could have sworn she sucked in a tiny breath at the word. “Seriously. Adopt a couple of sets of twins and bam, you got an infield.”

“You’re nuts.” She folded up the white paper carefully, her fingers quivering a little.

“Are you cold?” he asked, reaching over to touch her hands. “We can go back to the car.”

She shook her head. “No, I’m fine.”

God, he loved holding her hand, touching her skin. He squeezed her fingers.

“Listen to me,” he said softly. “It wasn’t as if that night didn’t leave an impression,” he said slowly. “Because it did.”

She whipped her hand out from his grip. “What part of I don’t want to talk about it anymore don’t you understand, Deuce?”

“Why don’t you want to talk about it?”

She blew out a disgusted breath. “Maybe because it embarrasses me.”

“Why are you embarrassed? It was…” Incredible. Amazing. Mind-boggling. He got hard just thinking about it. “Great.”

“I doubt you remember the details.”

Oh but he did. “You’re wrong.”

She folded the deli paper into a tiny square and held a pickle to him. “Want this?”

“Don’t change the subject again.”

“I’m not changing the subject. I’m offering you a pickle.”

“I’m offering you an apology.”

“You did that already. Apology accepted. But you’re going to owe me another one if you don’t drop the subject.”

He took the pickle and her deli wrap, stuffed them into the bag, and carried it all to a trash can about twenty feet away. She stayed on the bench, sipping her water.

When he returned, he held out his hand. “Let’s take a walk.”

She just looked up at him, a half smile tipping her lips, deepening her dimples. “Aren’t you a little overdressed for a walk on the beach?”

He reached down and slid off his Docksiders and socks and tucked them under the bench next to her loafers. “Let’s go.”

For a moment, he thought she was about to refuse, but then she slipped her hand in his and stayed by his side as they walked down to the sand still packed solid by the morning tide.

“I wisely carried a blanket around in those days,” he said. “Came in handy that night, didn’t it?”

She playfully punched his arm with her free hand. “You won’t let go, will you?” Before he could answer, she slowed her step, shaking her head. “Actually, as I recall, I grabbed the blanket from the bar before we left because it was chilly and you had your dad’s car.”

He frowned. “I thought I had a blanket in the trunk.”

“See?” she said, her voice rich with both humor and accusation. “You don’t remember a thing.”

“Not true. I remember kissing you outside Monroe’s, by that side wall.” She’d tasted like oranges and cherries, as if she’d been sampling the bar garnishes.

“We were in the car the first time we kissed.”

He closed his eyes for a minute. He could remember the taste of her, the need to pull her closer, but he didn’t remember if they were standing or sitting. “Maybe. But I remember the kiss.”

“Me too.” She whispered the words into the wind, but he caught them.

Deuce let go of her hand and put his arm around her shoulders. “You were wearing a little pink top.”

“Blue.”

“Your hair was shorter.”

“In a ponytail.”

He tightened his grip and lowered his voice. “You had a snap-in-front bra.”

“Finally, he gets something right.”

“I bet I remember more details than you do,” he insisted.

“You’d lose that bet.”

“I would not.”

“Cocky and arrogant as always.” She dipped out of his touch and slowed her step. Deliberately, she pushed her sunglasses over her forehead and the look in her eyes hit him like a ninety-mile-an-hour fastball to the chest. “There is nothing, no detail, no minor, incidental facet of that night I have forgotten. Don’t bet me, Deuce Monroe, because you’ll lose.”

He never lost. Didn’t she know that? He took his own sunglasses off so she could see the seriousness in his eyes. “I’ll bet you a reenactment.”

She stopped dead in the sand. “Excuse me?”

“If I can remember more details about the night than you can, I get a reenactment. On the beach. Tonight. Maybe again the next night.”

She shook her head, the only sound she could make was a disbelieving laugh. “And what if I win? What do I get?”

“A reenactment. That way we both win.”

Just as her jaw dropped, he reached down and sealed the deal with that kiss he’d been wanting all day long.



BLOOD RUSHED THROUGH Kendra’s head, deafening her and drowning out the sound of the waves. For stability, she reached up and grabbed Deuce’s rock-hard shoulders just as he opened his mouth and deepened the kiss. Wide warm lips covered hers and the tip of his tongue slid against her teeth with unbelievable familiarity, a welcome invasion that made her whole body clutch.

He wrapped his arms around her and eased her against his body with a low, slow, nearly inaudible groan.

“For example, I remember that you like,” he whispered huskily against her mouth as he broke the kiss, but not the body contact, “very deep, very long French kisses.”

Arousal, quick and sharp, twisted inside her, forming a knot in her tummy and between her legs.

She dug deep for sanity and a clear head, but he ran his hands down to the small of her back and pressed her hips against his. Her throat felt as if she’d swallowed a mouthful of sand.

“And I remember,” he said, making a tiny left-right motion with his hips, “that you can have an orgasm fully clothed and in the car.”

Her hips responded with a mind of their own, driving against him with some uncontrollable need to prove him right. She couldn’t argue with his memory. She couldn’t argue with his body, kisses or silky voice either.

Lifting her face to his, she kissed him again for the sheer overwhelming joy of it, stalling the inevitable with one more dance of their tongues, one more minute of heaven.

With a long, deep breath she managed to ease him back and end the kiss.

“All lucky guesses,” she told him. “You could be talking about any of the dozens of girls you seduced on this beach.”

“No,” he denied. “No one on this beach but you.”

Wouldn’t she like to believe that?

“I already told you two things you forgot,” he teased. “And I bet you don’t even remember what I wore that night.”

She frowned and scoured her well-visited memory bank. Surely she knew every thread of clothing he had on that night. But all she could see was his face. His bare chest. His… Oh, of all the things to forget. What was he wearing that night? She had to blame the memory loss on the blood draining from her head to that achy spot between her legs. “Are you asking me if I remember what you wore?”

“You’re stalling for time, Ken-doll. You heard me. What did I have on that night?” He raised a suggestive eyebrow. “That is until you undressed me.”

Oh, yes, they’d undressed each other. She could still remember the feel of his flesh as she pushed his clothes away. As she closed her fingers around his shaft.

Another bolt of that heat lightning singed her at the thought.

She bit her lip and narrowed her eyes, infusing her tone with confidence. “A baseball shirt and jeans.”

“Nice guess, but wrong.”

“You don’t remember what you were wearing,” she countered. “You probably don’t remember what you wore yesterday.” But she did.

“Funny thing is, I do remember.” He tunneled his fingers into the hair at the nape of her neck, his large hands engulfing the back of her head. Her stomach braced for another dizzying kiss. “I’d gone to the bar that night after having dinner with some relatives who were still in town for the funeral.” He did remember that night. The realization that it was important to him made her almost as lightheaded as the way he was holding her. “So I had dress pants on, something like these. I wouldn’t wear those with a baseball jersey.” His smile was victorious.

“Okay, so you remember some things. But if we had a contest, I’d win.” Why she’d admit that the night meant so much to her, she wasn’t sure. Probably because the game was fun. His hands were fun. That last kiss was way more than fun.

“Care to exchange more memories, sweetheart? I’m really looking forward to the historic reenactment of…” He paused for a moment.

Bingo. She had him. “You don’t remember the date.”

“I do. Of course I do. It was June. Before the All-Star break.” He dragged his hands up and down her spine, closing his eyes as though he was memorizing the feel of her, and for a moment she thought she might melt right into the sand. “June twelfth,” he said. “A Friday night.”

“I’m in trouble,” she said with a laugh. “You’re starting to scare me.”

“I told you, I remember everything.”

“The date and the style of my bra. Hardly everything.”

He pulled her close again, putting his mouth up against her ear. “I remember what you said afterwards.”

I love you, Deuce Monroe. I’ve always loved you and I always will.

Her heart really did stop, then it thundered in double-time against her chest. She waited for him to repeat her declaration and knew she couldn’t deny it.

“You said…” His breath tickled her ear. “‘I can’t wait for the next time.’”

Yes, she’d said that, too. Maybe he didn’t remember the whole I-love-you-forever-and-always part. She could hope.

“Guess what, Miss Locke?”

She backed away from his treacherous lips and looked at him. “What?”

“I think I out-remember you.”

“Not a chance.” Was there?

“What did I say to you when you left?”

She regarded him, looking for clues in those eyes. How could she forget? But she had? She had no memory of his last words to her. “You said, ‘See ya later, Ken-doll.’”

He shook his head. “I win. I’ll pick you up tonight after the bar closes. Say, midnight?”

“What did you say?” she asked, trying to ignore the voice in her head that was screaming yes, I’ll be ready at midnight! “When we said goodbye, Deuce. What did you say to me?”

“I’ll tell you tonight. Or better yet…” he grinned at her the way he did right after he left some poor kid at the plate not knowing what had hit him. “I’ll tell you tomorrow morning when you wake up.”


CHAPTER EIGHT

EVERY TIME THE FRONT door of Monroe’s opened, Deuce glanced up from the almost empty bar, expecting to see Kendra. Not that he really thought she’d come down to the bar to speed up the closing process so they could get to the beach…but he hoped. His blood simmered at the thought. She wouldn’t back out, would she?

After all, a bet was a bet.

At eleven o’clock, only two stragglers sipped beers and watched the end of a Celtics game at one end of the bar. The medieval game-playing twins had abandoned their jousting to work a couple of girls at a table, but they’d already closed their tab. A few other tables were ready to call it a night.

Very soon, he could close up and collect on his bet. At the sound of the great door creaking open, he turned to see Martin Hatcher pulling off a bright-green trucker cap as he entered.

His eyes lit up at the sight of Deuce. “There’s my favorite knuckleball man,” he said, ambling over to the bar.

“Kind of late for you, isn’t it, sir?” Would the Hatchet Man settle in for a few hours? Not that Deuce wouldn’t enjoy the conversation, but tonight he wanted to close as early as possible.

Martin slipped onto a barstool and crossed his arms. “I’m retired, son. So it’s no longer a school night for me. How about a draft?”

“Coming right up.” Deuce poured the golden liquid, tilting the glass to create the perfect head. “Here you go, sir.”

Martin raised the glass in salute. “Lose the sir, Deuce.”

Deuce laughed and leaned on the bar. “You’ll always be the voice of authority to me, Martin.”

The glass halted halfway to his mouth as his lips twitched. “I’ve never been the voice of authority to you, Deuce. You always marched to your own…authority.”

Then he drank. One of the bar patrons held up a twenty and Deuce cashed them out and said good night. Two down, a few to go. He moved back down to where the ex-principal sat.

“Been to any more practices?” Martin asked.

Deuce shook his head, but Martin’s look stopped him. He could never fudge the truth with the Hatchet Man. “All right. One. Well, two.”

Martin released a soft, knowing chuckle. “How’s the elbow doing?”

“Not bad, actually.” He rubbed the tender spot, and blessed the workouts he’d been secretly doing every day. “I can actually throw a knuckleball again. But man cannot live by knuckleballs alone.”

“Keep working out and you can play again.”

“I can play now,” Deuce said defensively. “It’s the lawyers who blackballed me from baseball, not the doctors. I’d need more P.T., but…” his voice drifted away. “Anyway, I’m a barkeep now.”

“You can’t stay away from a ball field,” Martin said with a wry smile. “I remember that was the only way I could really get to you. Detention, suspension, parental call-ins, nothing worked but keeping you off the field.”

“That was where I wanted to be,” Deuce agreed. “Although detention had its side benefits. That’s where you find the cute bad girls.”

Martin laughed at that and sipped some more draft, then glanced around. “But not your business partner,” he mused. “She never did anything bad.”

But she would. In an hour or two.

“Where is Kendra?” Martin asked.

Hopefully, slipping into something…easy to slip out of. “She only works days. I cover the nights.”

“Interesting arrangement,” Martin mused. “How’s that going?”

“We’re working on some changes.” Deuce flipped on the water to wash the last of the glasses as a burst of laughter erupted from the Gibbons’s table. Maybe they were getting ready to take the ladies home for a wild night of medieval sportsmanship.

“As I understand it, Kendra was already working on some changes for Monroe’s. Did she tell you about them?”

Deuce looked up from the sink. “Of course. I’ve seen all the plans.”

“What do you think?”

The truth was, he thought that her plans were great. But he also could make a sports bar profitable. Deep inside, he hoped for a compromise, but couldn’t imagine her agreeing to it. “Jury’s out.”

Martin sipped. “She’s been working on the whole cyber café and artists’ space for a long time.”

“Two years,” Deuce noted. “That’s how long she’s been part-owner of this place.”

“Oh, no, Deuce. She’s really been at Monroe’s for nearly ten or more.” Martin’s gray eyes looked particularly sharp. “Since she was first in college.”

Why did Deuce get the idea he was being worked by the principal? “I remember,” he said, turning to stack the clean glasses.

“But then she dropped out.”

Deuce froze at the odd tone in Martin’s voice. Was he accusing him of something…or was that just residual fear of the principal teasing Deuce. He reached for more glasses, clearing his throat. “She said she had a bad break-up.”

When Martin didn’t respond, Deuce looked up. The man wore the oddest expression.

“You know women,” Deuce said, the old awkwardness of sitting in the principal’s office sluicing through him. “They get…weird.”

Martin just nodded, then slid his glass to make room for his elbows as he leaned toward Deuce. “I’d hate to see her unhappy again.”

What was he saying? “Do you think my being here is making her unhappy?”

Martin frowned. “Did I say that?”

“Well, what are you saying?” Deuce demanded.

“I’m saying that she has—or had—big plans for this place and I happen to know they don’t include a sports bar.”

Staring at the man, Deuce searched his mind for a reasonable explanation for Martin’s strange message. Then the truth dawned on him. He started laughing, which made the old Hatchet Man’s eyes spark like cinders.

“Martin, I’m not going to coach the high-school baseball team. You can’t psyche me into it with guilt over Kendra’s café plans, sir.”

“You call me sir again and I’ll write you up, son.” He winked and pushed his empty glass forward. “What do I owe you?”

Deuce shook his head. “Truth is, I owe you, Martin. That one’s on the house.”

“Maybe I’ll see you at practice this week. I’m working the grounds.”

They both knew he would.

When the last glass was clean, the register was cashed out and the night’s draw was tucked into the pouch, Deuce locked the drawer in Kendra’s office and pocketed the keys. As he pushed the chair back from the desk, his foot bumped into something soft.

Bending over, he spied the nylon tote bag Kendra carried between work and home. She must have left it when they went to Fall River and forgotten to pick it up before she’d gone home.

Well, she had been distracted. He grinned at the thought, reaching for the bag. Did she really need it tonight? With one finger, he inched the zippered opening to see what it contained. A laptop, a calculator, some folders, a red spiral notebook.

Nothing earth-shattering.

Deuce took the bag with him to his car, sliding it behind the passenger seat and made a mental note to leave it with the keys on Diana’s table for her to find when she came over to walk Newman.

Correction. Tomorrow morning, Kendra would wake up in his bed. Then he could give her the bag in person.

He gunned the Mercedes’s engine and pulled onto High Castle with a sense of anticipation he hadn’t felt since his last opening day.



FROM BEHIND THE TWO-FOOT protection of a sand dune, in the nearly moonless night, Kendra heard the rumble of the Mercedes’s engine. Blue halogen headlights sliced into the night.

A trickle of guilt wound its way through her chest. Hiding out on the beach was a chicken thing to do, but if Deuce knocked on her door and melted her with that smile and annihilated her with that mouth…she’d be dead. She’d had all night to think about the “reenactment” he proposed, knowing full well he was basically asking her to sleep with him.

And, Lord have mercy, she wanted to say yes. Her skin practically ignited at the thought of giving in to the full-body ache he caused. She’d never say no if he had her out on West Rock Beach. Or in a bedroom. Or a car. Or the kitchen. Or…

The lights faded and she heard a car door. Kendra sank deeper into the sand.

She just had to keep avoiding him, and when Seamus and Diana returned, she’d tell them…what? She wasn’t sure yet. The bar was profitable, no doubt. But the cyber café revenues were up as well. She was no closer to “working it out” with Deuce—as Seamus had instructed—than the day this all started.

She was, however, closer to giving in to that toe-curling attraction that had blinded and stupefied her for, oh, twenty-odd years now.

She imagined Deuce rounding the side of the house, peering at her darkened, quiet beach bungalow. Would he give up then, or would he knock?

He’d assume she was dead asleep…or out for the night. Then he’d surely go back to Diana’s and slide the kitchen door open.





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