Kate Angell

PROLOGUE

“What the hell were you thinking?” Guy Powers, owner of the Richmond Rogues, addressed the Bat Pack, the top power hitters in Major League Baseball. His gaze shifted among the players seated across his desk. Right fielder Cody ‘Psycho’ McMillan, third baseman Jesse ‘Romeo’ Bellisaro, and catcher Chase ‘Chaser’ Tallan, all slouched in tan club chairs, arrogance and pride personified. Not one of the men showed an ounce of remorse.

Powers slammed The Virginia Banner atop a growing
stack of newspapers. Headlines glared back at him. Big and bold and block-lettered.

PSYCHO WASTES NO TIME GETTING IN SWING OF THINGS.

RICHMOND BRAWLERS TAKE TO THE FIELD.

Powers shoved forward on his brown leather chair. He
rested his elbows on a massive claw-footed oak desk. Pursed his lips. His tone pure disgust. “Media Day. Photographers, journalists, television and radio. A chance to hype the season ahead and instead you fought, showed your asses.”

He shuffled the newspapers, snagged one from the bottom. Ruffled the pages. Read, "Sports writer Emerson Kent's column Press Box claims player egos have grown larger than the National Pastime." He creased the newspaper, returned it to the stack. "I tend to agree with her."

“Kent’s column is a joke.” Psycho snorted. “She
should return to the Society Section. Lady writes as much about the players’ haircuts, tight butts, and the
restaurants we frequent as she does about runs batted in and who stole second.”

Powers nostrils flared. “Emerson draws women readers. Women who fill one-third of the seats at James River Stadium.”

“Emerson went out of her way to make us look like
jerks,” again from Psycho.

“She didn’t have to go far today.” Powers gaze now as hard as his reputation in the National League East. “You screwed up.”

All around Powers, the room bristled with hostility.
Hostility from team management. Standing in an arc behind his desk, publicist Catherine Ambrose, team manager Tim Rhodes, pitching coach Danny Young, and team captain Risk Kincaid all glared at Psycho as if he’d committed the crime of the century.

In Powers’ eyes, Psycho had. An hour into interviews
and photo ops, and the right fielder had taken batting
practice, showing off for the press. Powers’ latest
acquisition to bolster the bullpen had been on the mound.

Left-hander Chris Collier had thrown some major heat. Heat that gunned down Psycho. The fastball clocked at one hundred miles per hour caught the right fielder on the hip. Spun him around and drove him to his knees.

The press and executives had cringed.

Trash talk erupted between the two men. Loud and
profane. Collier had claimed it a wild pitch. An accident.

Psycho swore the pitcher had thrown to maim. Animosity shot between home plate and the mound. Soon spreading among the other team members as well. The ballplayers spat and glared. Clenched their fists. The atmosphere darkened, primed for a fight.

The head trainer ordered Psycho off the field.
Instructed him to ice his hip. Psycho had blown him off.

His ego on the line, he’d taken a stiff practice swing, once again facing down Collier.

The press stood on the sidelines, wide-eyed and taking notes as quickly as each could write or relay play in a television or radio broadcast.

Collier was smoking. Pleasing the crowd with his
changeups, followed by a slider.

Psycho whiffed. Couldn’t buy a hit. Dark determination glazed the power hitter’s eyes as he dug in, edging home plate.

Collier fired a sinker. The ball spun, dropping
suddenly as it reached the plate. Psycho couldn’t jump back fast enough. A guttural hiss escaped as the ball slammed his instep.

Media sympathy surrounded him until Psycho threw down his bat, tore off his batting helmet, and charged the pitcher's mound. Bent on retaliation.

Chris Collier dropped his mitt, stood his ground. Psycho threw the first punch, and all hell broke loose. Romeo and Chaser came off the bench and the bullpen emptied. Players took sides, and fists flew.

A fight captured by the media. A publicist's nightmare. Catherine Ambrose would be hounded by the press the entire season. Powers made a mental note to send her a bottle of Tylenol. Extra-strength.

Catherine did an exceptional job in public relations.
No one thought faster on her feet or spoke with more
authority, continually bending over backward to downplay the team’s behind-the-scene disputes and nasty divorces. She stood between the players and the press to keep the Rogues’ name as polished as their World Series Trophy.

Unfortunately for all concerned, today’s on-field
fiasco could not be buried with the obituaries.

Powers ran his hands down his face, focused fully on
Psycho. “You broke Chris Collier’s nose. His vision’s
distorted. He won’t start the season opener.”

"Start Cooper Smith or Roan Ginachio. Both have more talent than Wimbledon," Psycho stated as he crossed his ankle over his knee and rubbed his bandaged and deeply bruised instep. Had the ball caught him an inch higher, it would have shattered his ankle.

Wimbledon. . .Powers shook his head. His latest
acquisition had taken a whole lot of ribbing since his
arrival. Collier’s sharp features, white-blonde hair, light hazel eyes and lean frame lent more toward tennis pro than baseball player. Psycho had tagged him Wimbledon, just to be annoying.

For whatever their reasons, Psycho and Collier had
hated each other from the onset of spring training. The
undercurrent cut deep. The fight today was a culmination of taunting, aggression, and bad blood.

Powers listened as pitching coach Danny Young ripped
Psycho a new one. “Media Day targets trades and new
acquisitions. Collier was to throw a series of pitches, show his heat.”

“His heat struck me twice,” Psycho reminded Young.

“It was an accident. Collier was about to apologize
when you stormed the mound.”

“Apologize, my ass. The man has a rifle-arm and
precision timing. One wild pitch, I might believe. Two,” Pyscho shook his head, “the man threw to take me out of the game.”

“You crowded the plate,” Young openly accused.

“Like hell I did.”

“You did,” team captain Risk Kincaid backed up Young. “Roger Clemens in his prime would have nailed you.”

“Clemens I would have excused,” Psycho snarled.
“Wimbledon deserved what he got.”

“No remorse, Psycho?” Powers raised a brow.

His silence said it all.

Romeo and Chaser nodded their agreement.

Behind the Bat Pack, their sports agent, Cal Winger
shook his head. Disgusted by their behavior. Winger had represented the three players from their first appearance in the majors. He’d grown gray trying to keep them in line. And quite bald. Frown lines bracketed his mouth. He looked ten years older than his present forty-five.

Powers still had a full head of dark hair. He’d be
damned if the Bat Pack would drive him to either hair dye or plugs. Or an early grave. They’d already caused him an ulcer.

There would be no fighting in his organization. Not as long as he owned the team. His starting pitcher was out for the count. Which left the bullpen lean.

Powers scooped his rubber stress ball off the desk-
top. Manipulated it in his hand. Squeezing so hard his
fingers pressed his palm. Tension slowly left his body.

He wanted to be calm when he leveled his punishment on the Bat Pack. Clearing his throat, he spoke with the authority of his position. “Psycho, you’re the most fined and suspended player in Major League Baseball, both on and off the field. You disregard rules and fair play. You’re arrogant and self-centered, and a total pain in the ass.”

Psycho’s eyes widened in a who, me? expression.

Keeping his voice even, Powers tallied, “Four black
eyes, five split lips, two dislocated shoulders, and a
bruised kidney resulted from the fight. In the midst of the fray, Romeo slammed into Emerson Kent and knocked her down. Her suit jacket was ripped and her slacks grass stained.” Powers cut his third baseman a look. “She’s new to Sports. I don’t want her harboring ill-will toward the Rogues. A personal apology and the purchase of a new outfit are in order. Understood?”

Romeo slowly nodded.

Powers lowered the final blow. “The Bat Pack will be
suspended one game for each man or woman injured.”

"Sit the bench for thirteen games? Son of a-“ Psycho swore a blue streak. "I'm more at fault than Romeo and Chaser. Suspend me, let them-"

“Walk?” Powers shook his head. “They should have held you back, not joined the fight.”

“Totally sucks, Guy.” Psycho was the only player on
the team to call Powers by his first name.

“It’s about to suck a whole lot more. You’ll be fined for fighting. Take into account the embarrassment to the Rogues, you’ll hit six figures.“

Psycho’s jaw went slack. “You can’t—“

“I can, and I will,” Powers assured him.

“Trade me.”

“Definitely an option.” An option Powers would never
execute. No other player breathed baseball as Psycho did. The right fielder was a feared contact batter and base stealer. He consistently drove in ninety runs from the leadoff position. His leaping catches on defense consistently robbed an opposing player of a home run. He’d slammed into the cement wall so many times, chalk outlines similar to those drawn around a dead body sketched the outfield perimeter. Each one a testament to his dedication to the sport. He had six Golden Gloves. And had been voted onto the 2006 National League All Star team.

Powers pushed back from his desk, stood. He met
Psycho’s gaze squarely. “Keep your animosity off my field.”

Every muscle in Psycho’s body tightened as he shoved
off his chair. “Might want to share that advice with
Wimbledon as well.”

Powers watched the Bat Pack leave his office. All
strut and swagger. Young men flanked by fame and fortune and a lack of repentance.

Once management had departed, Powers sat alone. He'd done what he had to do. He'd taken the Bat Pack off the roster. Richmond fans would not be happy. They wanted another World Series Trophy as much as Powers needed control over his team.

His Rogues lacked unity. He blamed the salary cap and off-season free agency for the dissension. Only six of his original starters remained. The newcomers crashed the park with attitude and their own sense of self-importance. An importance that exceeded the Bat Pack’s cockiness. While Risk Kincaid had gone out of his way to integrate team spirit, the Bat Pack had pulled the welcome mat.

The three power hitters stood alone. They had each
others back. And no one elses.

Powers faced Opening Day with rookies and second
stringers. Not a good way to start a new season.

His heartburn flared like a blow torch.


CHAPTER ONE

Cody 'Psycho' McMillan's doorbell rang, the tone wired to thirty seconds of Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers
'I Won't Back Down'. Barefoot and bare-chested, his jeans unsnapped, he jabbed in the security code, disengaged the system. Three clicks and a beep, and he opened the heavy oak door, then leaned negligently against the jamb.

“Cody McMillan?” A slender woman with delicate
cheekbones and a dimple in her chin inquired. Her deep blue gaze as cautious as it was curious.

His eyes narrowed. “Who’s asking?” He lived on the
outskirts of Richmond, in a gated historic district. Yet time and again fans and groupies landed on his doorstep.

Her car wasn’t parked in the driveway, which meant she’d walked onto his property. Walked, or climbed the stone wall surrounding his Colonial. Lady didn’t look like a rock climber.

The afternoon sun struck her from behind as she stood
beneath the columned portico, casting her within a halo of light. Dressed in a wrinkled blue suit and worn down heels, she looked like an angel, down on her luck. He looked at her darkly. “You’re trespassing.”

She took him in, from his narrowed eyes, naked chest
to his bare toes. She blinked twice, stated, “I’m here on business.”

“Insurance, encyclopedias, vacuum cleaners, I’m not
buying.”

“I don’t do door-to-door. I’m here to offer my
services.”

“Do those services include your sweet mouth?”

Her lips parted, and her eyes went wide. Crude and rude, he’d rendered her speechless. He was acting like an asshole, but didn’t give a damn. Suspended from the Rogues, he’d lit into anyone who’d crossed his path. Lady had picked a bad time to offer him a service.

She swallowed hard, took a step back, only to catch
one navy pump on an uneven brick on the shallow steps. She wavered, nearly lost her balance.

Reflexes sharp, Psycho snagged her wrist, righted
her. Smooth skin. Delicate bones. He ran his thumb over her palm. Soft, but sweaty. Lady was nervous.
So nervous, the black leather portfolio pinned beneath
her arm slid down her side. Heat colored her cheeks as the broken clasp snapped open and a map of Richmond, blank notepad, and box of tampons landed at his feet.

Psycho hunkered down beside her. Blushing profusely
now, she quickly scooped up the map and notepad. He handed her the box of tampons. Closing the portfolio, she pushed to her feet, ran one hand over her hip. The skirt pulled tight against her protruding hipbones, the fabric worn thin at the seams. What appeared a row of staples hemmed the skirt to just below her knees. She wasn’t dressed for success.

He caught her swallow. "I'm Keely Douglas, from Gloss Interiors," she introduced herself.

Gloss Interiors? Who was she kidding? Psycho crossed
his arms over his bare chest. Studied her. Her portfolio stood empty of prize-winning photographs and a decorating plan. He was not in the mood to be played.

“I’ve met with three restoration designers today. I
wasn’t scheduled to speak with a fourth,” he stated.

“Your secretary worked me in. A last minute appoint-
ment.”

Lady didn’t give up. “You spoke with Mrs. Smith?”

She looked relieved. “Yes, Smith, that’s correct.”

Busted, sweetheart. Psycho had a financial advisor and
a sports agent. An attorney on yearly retainer. A part-time pet sitter. But no secretary. He rubbed his knuckles along his stubbled jaw. Wondered how much rope it would take for her to hang herself. “Mrs. Smith didn’t mention you,” he baited Keely. “She’s old and forgetful. After this incident, due to be fired.”

Keely looked horrified. “Please don’t let her go on my
account. I may have written down the wrong day and time.”

"Maybe you did." He took a step back, one hand on the door, ready to close it.

She didn’t take his hint to leave. Instead, she
straightened the lapels on her blue blazer, along with the decorative gardenia pin that drooped over her right breast. Teacup breasts, Psycho noted. He preferred a handful.

"Have you contracted with a design firm?" Woman wa persistent.

He shook his head. “I’ve yet to commit.”

He'd have remained non-committal had The Daughters of Virginia not badgered him to restore Colonel William Lowell's childhood home. A home Psycho had purchased without thought or ramification to its heritage. The Colonial gave him privacy in a world where everyone wanted a piece of him. The estate now stood in near ruins after having been gutted by an ambitious previous owner who never proceeded beyond the demolition stage.

No matter those who came before him, The Daughters
blamed Psycho for the Colonials distressed state. They
demanded he restore its integrity. Their weekly visits,
letter writing campaign, and constant phone calls had
prompted him to start the restoration.

Unfortunately, his contact with architects had proven
disastrous. Their vision of his home was much different than Psycho’s own.

Not one of the reputed designers had impressed him.
Once the ladies identified him as a Rogue, they’d seen him as the Bank of Psycho. A man with limitless funds and little taste. Not one of the decorators asked him what he wanted. Each told him what he needed.

Their portfolios resurrected the Classical American
Style with carved moldings, mullioned windows, and plaster ceiling medallions. Lacquered walls and stenciled floors. Their discussion of antiques had drawn his yawn. He’d seen enough fabric swatches and hand-painted Chinese-patterned wallpaper to last him a lifetime. All he wanted was enough history restored to the Colonial to get The Daughters off his back. It was late afternoon. His priorities lay in a workout, run, and reflection on his suspension. Not dealing with Keely Douglas.

“Do you have a business card?” he finally asked her.
“I’ll have my secretary give you a call. We can set up an appointment for later this week.”

She bit down on her bottom lip, looked up at him with
those deep blue eyes. “My schedule is full. It would be weeks before I could work you in.”

Yeah, right. Psycho didn’t believe her for a second.
“We’ll connect next month then.”

She looked so disheartened, he almost gave her thirty
minutes of his time. Almost. The cavalcade of Cadillacs creeping down his driveway drew his attention to The Daughters of Virginia and their untimely visit. Didn’t these women have anything better to do than uphold their southern pride?

“Shit,” Psycho swore beneath his breath as one car
door opened and the first of four Daughters stepped out.

The president, Rebecca Reed Custis, led the way. The women marched on the house with the precision of Confederate militia. All silver-haired and dressed in gray linen suits with platinum Daughters of Virginia broaches pinned at their throats. He half expected them to shoulder rifles and bayonets.

“Mr. McMillan,” Rebecca offered Psycho a tight-lipped,
cultured greeting.

“Hello, Becky,” he kept his tone casual.

She looked him up and down, shuddered. "Don't you own a shirt? A pair of shoes?"

He scratched his bare belly. Then jammed his hands in his jean pockets. The worn denim pulled low on his hips. So low, his black and scripted Stands on Command tattoo was visible at his groin. "I'm a nudist, Bec. I could have answered the door with my bat and balls."

She paled at the thought. “We’ve come to see what
progress you’ve made on the Lowell House.”

A silence settled as The Daughters stared him down.
The atmosphere as combative as a battlefield prior to the first shot fired. He could bullshit. A delay tactic—

“Mr. McMillan hired my design firm,” Keely Douglas’
voice rose from behind the matrons. “We’ve spent the
afternoon together, exchanging ideas. I was just leaving when you arrived.”

Lady should have been long gone. Psycho felt immediate relief she'd chosen to linger. She'd saved his butt. "Keely Douglas of Gloss Interiors, meet The Daughters." Psycho introduced each one.

Rebecca looked down her nose at the young blonde,
sniffed. “You’re not recognized by the Richmond Historical Society.”

“My heritage interested Mr. McMillan more than my
experience.” She modestly dipped her head. “Keely Douglas-Lowell. Fifth generation grandniece to the Colonel.”

Psycho stared at Keely, as transfixed as The
Daughters. Grandniece, his ass. Rebecca Reed Custis could trace the lineage of every confederate leader that fought in the Civil War. Lowell’s family tree didn’t include Keely Douglas. He waited for The Daughters to chastise Keely for defaming the Lowell name.

Rebecca turned on the designer, studied her so closely Psycho pressed between the women and moved to Keely's side. "Problem, Becky?" he asked.

“She’s illegitimate,” Rebecca stated.

Keely sighed, her shoulders slumped. “Embarrassingly
illegitimate,” she confessed. “My heritage lies with
Marshal Cutter Lowell, Colonel William’s brother. Marshal had relations with a tavern wench in 1862. The bastard side of the family was born.”

“Good heavens!” Rebecca slipped a lace handkerchief
from her gray clutch purse, fanned her face. “A blight on the Lowell name.”

A blight called bullshit, Psycho thought.

“Marshal could never measure up to William,” Keely
said, so sincere she made Psycho blink. “The Colonel was a man revered. William Lowell graduated from West Point without demerit. He possessed every virtue of other great commanders without their vices.“

“Mary Chestnut, the Richmond diarist, called him ‘the
portrait of a soldier’,” Rebecca praised.

"He bore a remarkable personal appearance. Erect as a poplar with shoulders thrown back," Daughter Helen
Adler Paine commended.

“Lowell was dignified and cordial. His aura of
infallibility drew the unconditional trust of his
soldiers,” this from Daughter Olivia Morris Tuthill.

"My family has an original oil painting of Lowell on his war-horse Ranger." Keely spoke in reverence. "He's neatly dressed in his Confederate uniform, unconscious dignity as both soldier and gentleman."

The Daughters held immense interest in the oil
painting. They debated the master behind the work, deciding it had to be Winslow Homer, which Keely concurred it was.

Psycho couldn’t believe his ears. Lady had stones.
Keely stretched the truth like a rubber band that would eventually snap her in the ass. He shot her a warning look, which she totally ignored.

“While I’m not out-rightly related to William,” Keely
humbly continued, “I’m honored to retain the history and American spirit of Lowell House.”

“Would you return the Colonel’s painting to its right-
ful place above the mantel?” Rebecca inquired of Keely.

“If Mr. McMillan so wished.”

“Definitely my wish,” Psycho stated.

Contemplation ensued as Rebecca quietly consulted with The Daughters. Keely didn't appear the least bit phased they spoke behind her back. She looked calm. Downright serene. Her thickly-lashed blue gaze shone clear. Her lips curved in an unconcerned smile. She gave nothing away, as if lying was second nature.

Psycho often lied to get himself out of trouble
or to get a woman into bed. He made promises. Broke them. Keely knew how to twist words to her benefit. Damn impressive.

Several minutes passed before Rebecca once again faced Keely, interest in her eyes. "Tell us your plans, Miss Lowell. How do you envision the restoration?"

Psycho shook his head. Keely was no more a Lowell than he was. Yet she'd penned her name in the family Bible. On the bastard side.

Allowing The Daughters and Keely entrance, he crossed to the fireplace, big enough to swallow a Volvo. He watched as Keely took in the twin staircases to the second floor and the large landing at the top. Along with the stretch of center hallway that led straight through to the back door. She looked oddly in her element among the rotted wood, chipped plaster, and sagging ceiling.

“In every renovation, my design firm retains the
history of the Colonial while modestly modernizing the
home,” Keely began.

“How much modernizing?” Concern pinched Rebecca’s
lips.

“Only as far as updating the plumbing and heating
systems. The lighting and appliances,” Keely returned.

"How many Colonials have you renovated?" Psycho asked, just for the hell of it.

Keely met his gaze squarely. “Enough to know
you’ll need a respirator to breathe life into your home.”

“Well put, my dear,” Rebecca applauded.

Psycho couldn't believe Keely had won over The Daughters. The women had hounded and chastised him for months. Yet the mere mention of her being Marshal Lowell's illegitimate grandniece along with having an antique oil painting in her possession had landed Keely in their good graces.

She’d also inserted herself into his life without his
permission. Psycho didn’t like anyone to have the upper-hand. While she’d saved his ass, it was time to put her in her place. Just so she knew where she stood with him.

Pushing off the fireplace, he sauntered toward Keely.
“Take us room by room and layout your plans.” He put his afternoon run and workout on hold. “I’m damn curious.”

Keely sighed. “We’ve all ready discussed the restor-
ation at length. Surely you’ve tired of the conversation.”

“Never tired,” he returned. “I want The Daughters
assured I’ve hired the best possible designer.”

“The remainder of our afternoon is free,” Rebecca
spoke for the group. “With the recent death of my dear
husband, I’ve time on my hands. A short tour of the house would be delightful.”

“Let’s tour,” Psycho agreed.

Keely Douglas inwardly cringed. McMillan's expression breached no wiggle room. Hard and intimidating, he knew she'd lied about her heritage and the oil painting. He'd yet to discover she didn't have a designer bone in her body. She hoped to keep it that way.

Keely needed this job. At twenty-seven, she didn’t
know what she wanted to do with her life. She was
considered an adult, but without a grown up job. Waitress to dog walker. Ticket taker at the movie theater. Slicing bread at a bakery. All employment lasting less than six months. She wanted a job that ran a full year. Her rent was due. She didn’t want to live out of her grandfather’s station wagon.

Renovating a Colonial couldn’t be all that tough. She
loved history. Found the Civil War fascinating. When a
close friend employed by Tashika Designs mentioned the most infamous Rogue in Richmond baseball planned to have his Colonial restored, Keely had taken a chance. She’d parked her car a mile from the guard gate and snuck in when the guard conversed with one of the Colonial Hill residents.

It hadn’t been hard to pick out McMillan’s home. It
was architecturally challenged. A total eyesore. Chipped cornice trim. Two crooked windows. Missing bricks. She’d researched the Colonial inside and out. Had spent a chunk of her last paycheck on design books updating the period.

She'd bluffed her way through much of her life. Fabrication came as natural as breathing. Envisioning the Colonial fully restored, she propped her portfolio against a dark pine-paneled wall and entered the formal living room, left off the entrance hall.

A dozen steps, and Keely slowed. Her eyes went wide
and her jaw slack as red and green Christmas lights blinked their welcome. The décor highlighted by dark green lawn furniture and an electrical cable spool used as a table. A wooden sign hung on the wall above an enormous home theatre television: A good friend will come and bail you out of jail, but a best friend will be sitting next to you saying, ‘Damn, that was fun!’

Through a scarred wooden portal leading into the
dining room she caught sight of a dismantled dirt bike on a tarp smudged with grease. Every drawer on the Craftsman tool chest stood open. Dirty rags littered the floor. The scent of oil overpowering.

Her smile broke, and relief settled bone-deep. Any
redecorating would be an improvement over the way McMillan now lived.

More confident, she informed The Daughters, “On our
first meeting, Mr. McMillan and I discussed the living
room. He admitted his favorite season was autumn, when the sun glistens off the trees surrounding the house. We agreed the room should be decorated with that warmth. Glazed yellow walls that glow like aged maple leaves on an October afternoon. All highlighted with sage, burnt orange, and russet red.”

“I’m an autumn as well,” Rebecca piped up, pleased.

Keely glanced at the man she’d labeled ‘fall’. Too
masculine to be handsome, he radiated a raw intensity that intimidated. Enigmatic eyes, too casual a stance. A ticking time bomb.

“Mr. McMillan wants authenticity over reproduction,”
she pressed forward. “A camelback sofa in apricot velvet, chintz covered slipper chairs, and Oriental carpets.”

“A fine rosewood piano,” Rebecca chimed in.

“An antique secretary. One with scalloped pigeonholes
and paneled doors,” Helen Adler Paine suggested.

Charlotte Maitlan Moss swept her blue-veined bejewled hand toward the double-sashed windows, presently covered by bed sheets. "Sheer inner curtains beneath tailored swag dressing."

“A tea caddy,” added Olivia Morris Tuthill.

“Definitely a tea caddy,” McMillan muttered darkly.

“Perhaps a tall-case clock by Simon Willard,” Rebecca
enthused.

“Mr. McMillan’s already placed the clock.” Keely
motioned The Daughters toward the entrance hall. There, she pointed to the wide landing at the top of the twin staircases. “He’d like the grandfather clock centered between a row of newly constructed windows.”

“Impressive,” echoed The Daughters.

Keely moved to the east staircase. “Mr. McMillan
also suggested a tri-corner table bearing a silver tray holding candlesticks and an oil-burning lamp,” she said straight-faced. “Replication of a time when lighting devises were carried upstairs to light the way to the second floor.”

“A lovely idea.” Rebecca looked at Psycho with new
respect.

The man remained silent. Deceptively so.

Climbing the first step, Keely imagined, “Polished
hardwood floors, a low fire burning in the hearth. . .” She ran her hand over the banister, paused, “Teeth marks on the newel post?”

"Mr. McMillan's dogs," Rebecca informed her. "The black mongrels have chewed the history right out of the Colonial."

“They’re Newfoundlands, Becky,” Psycho stated. “Six
months old and full of themselves.”

With the mention of the pups, loud barking drew everyone's attention down the center hallway to the back of the house. Trailing McMillan, The Daughters marched out the rear door. Keely on their heels.

Her eyes widened at the sight before her. Two of the
biggest dogs she’d ever seen had broken from a fenced run and now romped playfully about a small cemetery, set back from the house.

“Boris, Bosephus,” Psycho called to the Newfies, who
totally ignored him.

"Animals are as undisciplined as their owner," Rebecca huffed.

Undisciplined and misbehaving, Keely noted as Psycho
jogged across the lawn toward the dogs. The man was fast, but the pups were faster. He didn’t reach them in time. To Keely and The Daughters horror, one dog lifted his leg on a headstone, while the other started digging at the gravesite. Deep digging. His front paws scooped like a bulldozer. Chunks of grass and dirt went flying; along with coffin chips.

Rebecca gasped, swooned. "The Lowell Family Cemetery. Shallow graves. They've hit a casket."

Keely caught the matron’s arm, held her upright.

Helen Adler Paine shuddered. “Colonel Lowell has
rolled over in his grave.”

Keely watched as Psycho grabbed one Newfie by the
collar, only to have the second pup escape. “Boris!”
she called out, hoping to draw one of the dogs toward the house, and away from the graves.

She drew him all right. One hundred pounds of drool loped across the yard in her direction. Boris had no brakes. His front paws struck her chest and knocked her to the ground. Down for the count, he sniffed inappropriately. Slobbered all over her suit. Then licked her cheek. He had the worst puppy breath on the planet.

Beside Keely, Rebecca hyperventilated. Her breathing
loud and erratic. Pushing to her feet, Keely snagged Boris’ collar, held on tight. It wouldn’t take much for the Newfie to drag her across the yard.

From the corner of her eye, she caught Psycho pen
Bosephus, then come after Boris. He took charge of the pup with one hand, then patted her down with the other, checking for broken bones.

He probed her shoulder, her clavicle, smoothed down
her lapel. Her heart skipped when his fingers brushed her breast, then swept over her grass-stained skirt. His palm curved her hip, swept her butt. Lingered a moment too long on her left thigh. He skimmed dirt off one calf, traced the ladder on her nylon. Then met her gaze. “You hurt?”

Not hurt, but downright tingly. There was nothing
caressing in his touch, yet she felt aroused. Her nipples peaked and warmth filled her belly. “I’ll live.”

“Miss Lowell was attacked.” Rebecca came to stand
beside Keely. “Those animals scared the life out of us.”

“There’s a leash law on Colonial Hill,” Olivia Morris
Tuthill informed him. “We’re appalled those black beasts run free.”

“Boys have learned to flip the latch. I need to
get a lock,” Psycho stated as he led Boris to the pen.

“Miss Lowell,” Rebecca said with Confederate dignity.
“We would understand if you no longer wished to work for Mr. McMillan.”

Psycho McMillan. His reputation and suspension
preceded her visit. Commentary on every radio and
television station reported him wild and impulsive. A man on a short fuse. He’d fought his own teammate. It had taken the strength of six men to pull Psycho off Chris Collier.

Coming toward her now, his dark gaze narrowed. She took him in. Unruly black hair, bruised hip and foot and raw male swagger. He'd yet to snap his jeans. His Stands on Command tattoo still visible.

Naughty, notorious, and a known nudist, he was like no man she'd ever met. He both scared and drew her to him. The draw won. She would take her chances with him and his Colonial.

She cleared her throat. “I appreciate your concern,
Rebecca, but I’ve never backed down from a challenge. I will return the house to its southern roots.”

Admiration shone in the older woman’s eyes. “The
Colonel would be proud.” With those words, The Daughters picked their way across the lawn and departed.

The moment they were out of sight, Psycho turned on
her. He rolled his shoulders, dug his hands deep into his jean pockets. “You saved my butt. Got The Daughters off my back.”

“They want their heritage preserved.”

“Can you make it happen?”

“I can try.” He hadn’t officially offered her the
job. “Am I hired?”

“Against my better judgment. You’ve no experience.”

“Allow me to decorate the entrance hall and living
room,” she requested. “If you’re not satisfied, I’ll walk.”

“If I’m not satisfied, you’d better run.”

“I’ll also train your dogs,” she sweetened the pot.

“They’ve been kicked out of two obedience schools.”

"They need hands-on discipline. How long have you had them?"

"Long enough to build a run and learn they can flip a latch." He raked one hand through his hair. "My brother recently separated from his wife. She kicked him out of the house and forced him into an apartment with no room for the dogs. I took them off his hands. They're playful and clumsy. Tend to be wild."

Wild, just like their master. “I can handle them.”

“Question is: can you handle me?”

“Handle you how?”

“I’m a nudist. I like being naked.”

She bet he looked good nude. “Whistle a warning
before you enter a room.”

"I’m not a nice guy,” he told her straight out. “I
flip off the world. Play by my own rules. I hear son of a bitch more often than my name. I tend to piss off people. I’ll tick you off too.”

“Maybe I’ll tick you off first.”

One corner of his mouth curved. “Maybe you will.”

A moment of silence before she shuffled her feet.

“Guess I should be going.”

“Guess you should.” He rolled his tongue inside his
cheek. “I’ll be at James River Stadium tomorrow. Call my secretary for a key to the house.”

She hesitated. “Mrs. Smith, right?”

“If she doesn’t answer, I keep an extra one taped
to a brick beneath the second window to the left of the front door.”

She scrunched up her nose. “You don’t have a
secretary, do you?”

“No more than you have an oil painting of Colonel
William Lowell on his war-horse Danger.”

“Ranger,” she corrected.

“Stretch the truth all you want with The Daughters,
but be straight with me.”

“I’ll work on it.”

“Work sky blue, sun yellow, and outfield green into
the interior design,” he stated. “I’m pure summer, sweetheart. Not an autumn.”

***Hope you enjoyed Chapter One! Preorders on Amazon or Barnes and Noble are welcome. Curveball goes on sale May 29th.