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Decision time.
Bottom of the ninth.
Step up to the plate or walk away.
Patient needs to drop the baseball metaphors and just get on with it.
For once, she was in complete agreement with that annoying voice in her head.
And she knew what she had to do.
It took Alex a few seconds to realize what the vibrations in his pocket were. Relief and several rapid toasts had him feeling loose and distracted. The vibrations came again. His phone. Right. Damn. Who was calling? Half of New York baseball seemed to be here and they’d already held a damned press conference.
He pulled out the phone, ready to tell whoever it was to take a leap, then froze when he read the text which simply said Your office. Now.
Maggie.
The adrenaline rush cleared his head with a speed that was startling.
He shoved his half-empty glass at Gardner, muttered excuses to the people they’d been talking to, and wound his way through the party and out to the elevator as fast as was humanly possible in the overcrowded room. They’d locked off the top floor, where the offices were, in case anyone from a rival team decided to take the party as an opportunity to sneak up to the executive level and help themselves to information about the Saints. That meant he wasted a minute or so getting his pass to override the system so he could get up there.
The hall lights were on half-strength as he stepped out into the corridor and hurried toward his office, trying to ignore the steady thumps of his pulse in his ear. What did Maggie want?
She couldn’t have changed her mind and decided to leave, could she?
The thought was enough to make him stop a few feet from his office door. It was open about six inches, but there was no light spilling from the opening.
Was she even in there?
Was she sitting in the dark?
That couldn’t be a good sign.
He pushed the door open, holding his breath as he stepped through. Then he froze as he saw her. Perched on his desk. Wearing nothing but a Saints jersey, long legs bare as they swung back and forth. The white and blue and gold fabric made her hair and eyes look very dark.
She smiled. “I’ve been waiting for you.” She moved and the jersey slipped down one shoulder, revealing quite a bit of bare flesh.
He froze, shocked into immobility, feeling as though his brain had stopped for a moment. As had his heart. Probably because all the blood in his body had dived to his groin in an instant at the sight of her. “So I see.”
He stepped farther into the room, ignoring the wild desire to run across the room and tear the rest of her clothes off. If he did something stupid now, he could ruin things all over again. His body protested as he made himself move slowly. He pushed the door shut. Locked it for good measure. Just in case, by some miracle, this was really happening and she wasn’t a victory-induced hallucination.
He could smell her though, smell the sweet rich drift of her perfume. He didn’t think hallucinations wore perfume. He leaned back against the door, drinking in the sight of her. “Was there something you wanted?”
Maggie’s smile widened. “Yes. I felt I owed you an apology.”
“For what?”
“For calling you the devil.”
“You’re forgiven.”
“Not so fast. You see, I decided that you probably are the devil. Because that’s about the only reason I can think of for the fact that I can’t seem to keep away from you.”
The sudden rush of relief made him grin at her. “It couldn’t just be innate natural charm?”
She shook her head and the fabric slithered farther down her shoulder, her skin shining softly at him in the light coming through the window. “Nope. You being the devil is the only explanation that makes sense.”
“How does that make sense?” He really wasn’t following this conversation too well. His attention was nearly one hundred percent riveted by the skin of her shoulder and the way the V-neck of the jersey was giving him a tantalizing view of the curve of one of her breasts. He studied the jersey, trying to work out how long it would take to rip it off her. Which was when he noticed the letter on the sleeve patch was a W not a J.
