My Front Page Scandal. Carrie Alexander
closely he almost landed in her lap. Without bothering to disentangle their limbs, he slammed the door shut, clipping a protruding lens. The photographer went reeling.
David met the driver’s flat glare in the rearview mirror. “Floor it.” The man grunted, but the cab took off with a jerk.
“What was that about?” Brooke was flush with outrage.
“Read tomorrow’s paper and you’ll find out.”
She put her hands on his chest as if to push herself away. “Will it be the truth?”
“Who cares?”
She gave him a slow blink. “Bitter much?”
His face was stiff and bruised, and it hurt when it moved. He laughed anyway. “You’re supposed to be my angel. Don’t I get any sympathy?”
They were still entwined. He was aware of every detail about her—the thick lashes, the shallowness of her breathing, the jut of her sharp chin and slight quiver of her bottom lip, the press of her thighs and the shadowed crevice between them where her dress had slipped too high. She was an interesting mix of innocence and provocation.
He curved a hand around her thigh—taking his time—and lifted it from his. She yanked it away as if he’d tried to molest her and scooted across the seat, giving her skirt a violent jerk that must have come close to snapping a few of the leather bands.
With her legs clamped together, she smoothed back her hair. “I didn’t realize that Boston had that many paparazzi.” Even though she was obviously trying to sound unflustered, there was a tremor in her voice.
He shrugged. “Just enough to be annoying.”
“Was that why you were speeding on your motorcycle in the first place, to get away from them?”
“Yeah. They were way back, but closing in. I thought if I banged a U-ey, as you locals say, I might lose them.”
She rubbed a knuckle across her mouth. “I watched from the window. You bounced off a lamppost and scraped the curb.”
“What window?”
“Worthington’s. I’m a display artist—a window dresser.” She looked down at herself and sucked in a gasp. “I have to go back. I—uh…” She put one hand on her thighs, crossed the other arm over her breasts. “I left the window in a mess.”
“Where is this place, exactly—Worthington? I can pick up my bike, if it’s still there.”
She gave the driver a Newbury Street address on the ritzy northern end. “You don’t know O.M. Worthington? It’s a venerable department store. A Boston institution.”
“Sounds vaguely familiar.” With a tired sigh, he relaxed his aching body against the seat. The last time he’d been this sore, he’d run into a two-hundred pound catcher at home plate. “They sell designer dresses and stuff, right? I’m not a big shopper.”
She pinkened at his lazy perusal. Very little of her was visible under the oversize jacket, but if the leather S&M dress was any example, he should shop more often.
“We sell everything,” she said quietly.
“Shoes?” He knew what women called her kind of shoes. Come do me. The throbbing desire to take her up on the unspoken invitation rivaled all his aches and pains added up together.
He closed his eyes. You’re in enough trouble. Don’t ask for more. “Do you sell good reputations? I seem to have lost mine.”
“Don’t be so hard on yourself. I’m sure you had your reasons for quitting the team.” She didn’t ask what they were. A proper Bostonian to the core, even if the outside told another tale.
“Then you know who I am.” What he meant was, you know what I did.
The decision to get out of baseball had been rash and stupid, born out of his shame over his past. He’d regretted it ever since, but didn’t know how to repair the damage without giving himself away. After all his hard work the loss of his career stung, sure, but what he really disliked was having an entire city thinking the worst of him.
He’d quit baseball so that wouldn’t happen.
But karma was a bitch. And, as his redneck dad always said, blood will tell.
“I saw last year’s World Series, along with the rest of the city,” she said. “I went to the parade, too. You rode a fire truck with some, um, girls.” Brooke sounded less accepting than he’d expect of a woman dressed the way she was. “You know. Bimbos.”
The cab hit a pot hole and David cringed. A hundred little pain demons were beating the inside of his skull like a bass drum. “Not bimbos. Groupies.”
His memories of the parade were vague, but he knew that a whole squadron of groupies had climbed aboard the fire truck mid-route to smother him with champagne and kisses. The firefighters driving hadn’t minded. They’d gotten the leftovers.
“Groupies?” Brooke sniffed. “Same difference.”
By his standards, it wasn’t that late, but David had already had a long night. He wasn’t very alert, and certainly not thinking straight. Still, he knew something wasn’t kosher with the Brooke that he saw and the one who spoke and reacted like a far more conservative woman.
He lifted his head and squinted at her. “You work in that outfit?”
Her lips pressed together. “Not usually.”
“Were you planning a night out?”
“No. No plans.” She blinked. “I mean, I was supposed to meet friends, but I called while you were being examined and said I’d been delayed and might not make it. So, um, no definite plans.”
“You have them now. My doctor’s counting on you.”
Her head pulled back a fraction. “I know I promised to look after you, but please don’t expect me to go home with you.”
“Fine. I don’t have a home. I have a hotel room.”
She widened her eyes. “Then I really can’t stay with you.”
“Why not? You’re single.” He could tell.
“The problem’s not me.”
It’s you. David winced.
“It’s my family. They’re…old-fashioned.”
Dodged that one. His usual cockiness was no match for the gratefulness he felt. Bad rep, be damned. His angel didn’t despise him the way the rest of the city’s population seemed bent on doing.
He touched his tongue to his dry lips. Post-Series, in the heady days of fame and adulation, his life had changed. He’d partied with team sponsors and city bigwigs instead of the working-class guys he’d normally gravitated toward. Along the way, he’d been introduced to plenty of high-society women like Brooke, women who oozed culture and refinement. He’d felt awkward around them until he’d realized they expected the same out of him as any other female—a rough-and-tumble, good old Georgia boy who could charm them out of their satin underdrawers.
David would bet his Series ring that Brooke came from one of Boston’s conservative Brahmin families, which meant that her upbringing was miles away from his own, in every way possible.
But there was also the revealing dress and the do-me shoes to consider….
“So don’t tell them,” he said. “Your old-fashioned family.”
“You have paparazzi. They’ve already taken photos of us. I can’t be a part of—”
He waved her off and closed his leaden lids against the glare of streaming headlights. “No explanation needed. I get it.”
An extended silence made