Kate Angell

CHAPTER ONE

Who’d been sleeping in Kason Rhodes’s bed?

The left fielder for the Richmond Rogues had returned from six weeks of spring training in Florida to find someone had moved into his mobile home.

That person was presently in his shower. The bathroom door stood cracked and steam curled into the hallway.
The peach scented shower gel cast the intruder as female.

Kason took a moment and looked around his bedroom.
Unmade bed, tossed brown comforter, rumpled beige
cotton sheets, the imprint of her head on his pillow.

Lady was an uninvited sleepover.

A vintage Guns N Roses T-shirt, a pair of stonewashed
jeans, a pale blue bra and panties lay across the foot of his bed. Black Converse sat on the floor.

Kason’s jaw locked. Damn he hated intruders. He valued his privacy. No one came on his land without his
permission. He had No Trespassing signs posted throughout his thousand acres, yet this woman ignored his warning.

Con or prank, reporter or baseball bunny, Kason wanted her gone. None of his team members knew where he lived. He used a post office box for his mail. Most thought he lived in the woods with wolves.

He hated the fact she’d tracked him down.

He was about to send her packing.

Within seconds he heard the shower shut off and the
plastic curtain draw back. The medicine cabinet creaked as it was opened and closed, then silence as she stepped into the hallway.

Wanting to see her before she saw him, Kason backed
behind the window air conditioner and faded into the late afternoon shadows. The woman wouldn’t immediately spot him when she entered his bedroom.

He’d positioned his eight month old Doberman by the
front door. Cimarron was well trained and wouldn’t allow an escape.

The lady had acute senses. Wrapped in a white towel,
she stopped by the dresser, cocked her head, and listened.

She knew she wasn’t alone. Casual, yet cautious, she looked into the mirror. She spotted him in two heartbeats.

Their eyes locked.

His narrowed, and hers went wide.

Amazingly, she didn’t scream.

She turned around slowly, and in the blink of an eye,
went bat-shit on him.

Nothing surprised or shocked Kason. He’d lived life
hard. Yet unease settled bone deep when she scored her hair brush, bottle of perfume, can of soda, paperback novel, box of Kleenex, porn star vibrator, and goose-neck lamp off the top of her nightstand and fired them at him. He barely had time to duck.

Lady had the arm of a tomboy. The items came fast and furious and forced him back against the wall. She hit him five out of seven times. The perfume squirted on impact, and he smelled fruity. The base of the lamp bruised his shoulder. The vibrator smacked his thigh and the switch turned on, a low, slow buzz.

Son of a bitch.

“You’re trespassing,” she shouted at him. “Get out or
I’ll call the police.”

Call the cops on him? No way in hell.

“This is my trailer,” he grunted, barely managing
to intercept an alarm clock aimed at his groin.

“No, it’s mine,” she bit back. “I found it abandoned.”

Abandoned? The woman was crazy.

She showed no fear, only irritation, as she grabbed
a tire iron off the floor. The tomboy was prepared for a burglar or home invasion. She was all threat and focus as she slapped the tool against her palm, her message clear: his head was about to roll.

Kason pushed off the wall and put on his game face.
Mean and intimidating came second nature. He crossed to the bed, faced off with the woman over his mattress. He held up his hand, “Put the tire iron down before someone gets hurt. Let’s talk this out.”

The hard swing of the iron held up her end of the
conversation. She had power. The whish blew by his ear, stood his hair on end.

She gripped the tool low. Each swing loosened the knot
on her towel above her right breast. The cotton fabric
shimmied down her C-cups.

A fourth flick, and the towel hung on her nipples.
Pink nipples, puckered and pointed right at him.

Kason nearly got his brains knocked out for staring.

The woman pulled a face, then took her eyes off him
for less than a second as she tugged up the towel.

The distraction was all he needed to make his move.
He lunged low across the bed and tackled her. She twisted and the tire iron went flying. A flip of her body and Kason had her pinned.

Lady was all slick skin, spread eagle, and spitting
mad. Wild brown hair and watercolor blue eyes registered as her shriek deafened his left ear. He blocked the jerk of her knee, but couldn’t stop her bite to his shoulder.

He groaned, swore she’d drawn blood through his gray
pullover. She’d scarred him with her teeth.

She was strong for a woman, yet he didn’t want to hurt her. It took several attempts to secure both her hands with one of his own. Tomorrow tattooed her right wrist and a man’s waterproof watch wrapped her left. The black leather band looked old and well-worn.

She squirmed and bucked as he straddled her fully,
then gnashed her teeth a second time. Damn if she didn’t prove slippery. Kason tightened his thighs against her hips, squeezed until she exhaled.

“Get off me.” She fisted her hands above her head,
wanting to blacken his eye.

He tightened his hold. He enjoyed fiery women, yet
the one beneath him would as soon unman him as draw her next breath. Tomboy was aggressive.

He might have considered her cute had she stopped
screwing up her face. Her cheekbones were as sharp as her chin. A tiny crescent scar curved one corner of her mouth. Her lips flattened against her teeth. She was all snap and snarl and flashed a lot of bare skin.

Her towel had parted, exposing her full breasts, a
gold-studded navel, and one pale hipbone. She dug in her heels, pushed up, struggled against his weight.

Kason was a big man. At six foot three, he tipped the
scale at two twenty. He had three percent body fat, the
remainder solid muscle. The lady would fight, but she’d soon tire. She wasn’t going anywhere. Not until she explained her takeover of his trailer.

He leaned low, until their noses nearly touched.
“Who are you?” he growled.

“I could ask the same of you.” She tried to head butt
him. “Breaking and entering is a felony.”

A felony? It was his trailer.

He shifted his right leg, countered the slam of her
her heel to his calf. “How long have you lived here?”

Her muscles flexed, more fight to come. “Six weeks,
if it’s any of your business.”

It concerned him greatly. She’d settled in right
around the time he’d left for spring training. “My mobile home, my business,” he told her. “You can’t take over property without investigating ownership.”

“Possession is nine-tenths of the law.”

Triple bullshit to that logic.

She fought to sit up.

Strands of her wet hair slapped his cheek. Her peach-
scented shampoo tickled his nose. He sneezed.

The ram of her shoulder knocked his collarbone.

Her nipples poked his chest.

Kason sucked air.

He jerked on her wrists, and she flattened back on the
bed. Sweet Mother she was soft beneath him.

“How could you live here?” Her question hissed through her teeth. “No drapes, worn furniture, scratched linoleum, little water pressure. I broomed out a bat and two rats.”

He curled his lip. “The electricity was left on.”

“And no doubt pirated,” she countered. “There’s been
no meter reader.”

Someone read the meter. An electric bill arrived every
single month. “How’d you get inside?” he demanded.

“Unlatched bathroom window, easy entrance.” She rolled her shoulders, again tried to rise. “You’re smothering me, jerk. Get the hell off.”

He debated. He didn’t want to go another round with
this woman. “Truce?” he asked.

She muttered, “Until your back’s turned.”

He’d keep one eye on her at all times.

He released both wrists and swung off her. “Get
dressed, living room five minutes,” he ordered as he
snatched up the tire iron, followed by the white plastic vibrator that would shame most men. He lifted an eyebrow, tossed her the sex toy, the buzz now faint. “Needs new batteries.”

Her whole body blushed.

Kason soon learned she couldn’t tell time. Ten minutes
stretched to twenty before she came to him, hair tamed, body clothed. She looked like a tomboy in her baggy shirt and jeans.

He preferred her in a towel.

He’d left the tire iron visible on the kitchen
counter. There was caution in her eyes, as well as a hint of daring. She wanted her weapon back. The tool stayed with him. Lady had tried to bust his balls and crush his skull. He wasn’t taking any chances.

Cimarron gave a low bark, drawing her attention.

Kason watched her expression shift, from stubborn to
soft. “What’s his name?” she asked.

He hesitated in telling her. “Cimarron.”

She didn’t ask Kason if the dobie was friendly. She
went straight to him and hit her knees, ready to win the big dog over.

“Hello, handsome.” She let Cimarron sniff her hand
before she scratched his ear. Within seconds, man’s best friend had rolled onto his back to have his belly rubbed.

Kason swore he heard Cim sigh.

Well trained and highly protective, Cimarron took his
cues from Kason. Kason had yet to call the female intruder ‘friend’, which was the dog’s signal to back down.

The Doberman was already down, and so relaxed he
looked asleep with his eyes closed and tongue lolling from the corner of his mouth. Damn if he wasn’t drooling.

Ticked that Cim purred like a kitten under enemy
hands, Kason gave a low whistle and Cimarron lurched to his feet, fully alert.

“Bed,” Kason instructed, and Cim immediately headed
down the hall.

“Great dog,” the woman said as she pushed to her
feet.

“Don’t get attached,” Kason returned.

“I never do,” spoken softly with her chin down, the
words said more to herself than to him.

His rumblings in the kitchen drew her notice as he
raided the cupboards. Her disgust scored deep.
“Trespassing, and now stealing my food. You are such an ass.”

A hungry ass actually. He was about to feast.

While she’d dressed, he’d remembered a leftover can of tomato soup, stuck high on the shelf. He was tired and
hungry and not in the mood to be played.

He’d driven straight to Richmond from training camp.
He’d stopped twice to feed Cimarron and to give the dog a run, then to hit a taco drive-through around noon the previous day. He hadn’t eaten since.

What he found in his cupboards blew him away. The
tomboy bought in bulk. She’d stored food for an army. Or a giant.

Sixty-four ounces of peanut butter and jelly spread a
lot of sandwiches. Loaves of wheat, rye, and marble filled the bread box.

Family size boxes of hamburger helper, macaroni
and cheese, popcorn, and six types of cereal bowed the
upper shelves. Cases of number #10 cans of spaghetti sauce, tuna, mixed nuts, and peaches were stacked beneath the counter, along with an enormous tin of animal crackers, as round as a small beer keg.

The refrigerator held eight tubs of butter, an
enormous wheel of Swiss cheese, and a dozen cartons of eggs. Thirty pounds of hamburger wrapped in butcher paper jammed the freezer, along with fat bags of frozen vegetables. There was no sign of the ice cube trays.

Kason hadn’t seen this much food outside a grocery
store or a restaurant. The items went on and on.

His intruder must have a tapeworm.

“Care to share?” he asked, before he helped himself
anyway. “Half my tomato soup for a grilled cheese sandwich."

She glared at him. “Not an even trade.”

“That’s all I have to bargain with at the moment.”

A second of sympathy passed with a blink. “Hard
times?” she asked.

Not that hard. In a mid-season trade the previous
season, he’d signed a multi-million dollar contract with the Rogues. He was presently the highest paid outfielder in Major League Baseball.

His life was a work in progress. He’d chosen to
live in the mobile home until he could build his house with his two bare hands. He considered the double-wide his construction trailer. It had all the basics.

He’d never pictured a woman living here. Having the tomboy think him poor had benefits. People treated him by what he did, not by who he was. Strangely he liked the fact she’d yet to label him Rogue.

“I’m in-between jobs,” he told her, which was
partially true. Five days separated spring training from opening day at James River Stadium. There’d be meetings and workouts, yet a few hours belonged solely to him.

She straightened her shoulders. “I work part-time at
Frank’s Food Warehouse on Route Eleven. I get a discount on bulk items.” She nodded toward the newspaper on the short breakfast bar, opened to Classified. “I need more hours. I’m job hunting.”

More than Kason needed to know. He didn’t do personal on any level. He turned away from her and preheated the toaster oven.

“You have a name?” her question hit him between the
shoulder blades.

“Kason.” Last names weren’t important. He planned to
feed her, then release her. He’d never see her again.

“I’m Dayne.”

Introductions over, he nodded without looking up.

Dayne Sheridan leaned a hip against the counter, read
Kason’s expression. The man wanted her gone. A grilled cheese sandwich and he’d show her the door.

To hell with him, she wasn’t leaving. The mobile home
held her food. She wasn’t about to walk away from her
groceries. They’d cost her last dime.

Kason claimed the trailer belonged to him, yet she’d
seen no proof of purchase. She wanted to see the deed.

She studied him as he took a loaf of rye from the
bread box and laid out eight slices. His hair was dark, his brown eyes sharp. Cheekbones slashed to an aggressive chin. He had a muscular build, wide shoulders and thick thighs.

He wore a gray pullover and a pair of Wranglers that
rode low on his hips. He flashed the black waistband on his boxers when he bent to remove the wheel of Swiss cheese from the refrigerator.

Dark, dangerous, fallen crossed her mind. And
definitely a loner. She thought she’d seen him pictured somewhere, but couldn’t pinpoint time or place. Maybe on America’s Most Wanted.

The tire iron lay on the counter, midway between them.
The tool was her primary means of protection should he show her the door. If she inched a little closer, she could swipe—

“Back it up.” Kason cut off her lunge. He moved the
tool beyond her reach. “I like my head on my shoulders.”

She held her spot at the end of the breakfast bar.
If she couldn’t get to the tire iron, there were always knives. Plastic wasn’t a great defense, but she’d feel safer with one in her pocket. Or maybe a fork, prongs had jab.

Silence separated them as Kason made the sandwiches.
He sliced thick wedges when she’d have conserved with slivers. She hoped he wouldn’t eat the entire wheel of Swiss cheese in one sitting. She was on a very tight
budget.

Her mother had taught her to bargain shop. Buying in
bulk saved her from regular trips to the grocery store. Large quantities were cheaper and stretched over weeks. She could survive for a month.

She watched as Kason slid the sandwiches into the
toaster oven and set the timer for three minutes. He then popped the lid on the tomato soup and poured it in a pan on the stove.

Dayne inhaled, there was something comforting about
soup and sandwiches. Something stable, homey, and family.

She didn’t let the feeling overtake her. A sense of home had played tricks on her ever since her father deserted her mother when Dayne was twelve.

“How’d you land here?” Kason broke across her past.
He’d collected paper plates and bowls, along with plastic silverware. Man was ready to eat.

There was no reason to tell him about Mick Jakes,
radio personality, ex-fiancé, and weasel among men. The man had dumped her on-air. Dayne had heard the broadcast along with his million listeners. Mick claimed it was him, not her, and that time and space would decide their future.

Dayne had gone numb. She’d worked at WBT 91.2 as
Mick’s assistant, promoting his talk show through speaking engagements and live onsite remotes. They’d talked marriage in the fall, and she’d hired a wedding planner.

With their break up, she’d lost her job. Mick had gone
as far as to change the locks on the condo they’d shared, then closed their joint-checking account.

Humiliation had sent Dayne packing. She’d had fifty
dollars to her name and a full tank of gas when she’d
left Baltimore. Heartbreak, self-pity, and her wedding file accompanied her south.

She’d changed the settings on her car radio. Mick in
the Morning was dead to her. She’d sworn off men in the public eye.

Dayne blinked away her past. Her good luck sucked.
She’d drifted in and out of small towns for a week. Two flat tires, a lost wallet, and sleeping in her car had added insult to injury. She’d never been more miserable.

Without a lot of back story, she told Kason about the
accident that brought her to the trailer. “I was on the interstate headed south when a snowstorm hit. Zero
visibility, no sense of direction, I got lost. The side roads proved slippery and I skidded straight into a snow bank. My Camry died. Once the blizzard let up, I walked until I came across this mobile home.”

“My mobile home.” He sent her a dark look. “You’re not originally from Richmond then?”

Baltimore, Maryland no longer existed for her. “Rich-
mond is my home now.” Finding the trailer had given her hope. She’d felt comfortable in the woods. She had no plans to leave.

“Where’s your car?”

She sighed. “I had it towed. The estimate on repairs
would have cost more than the used car. I sold it for
scrap.”

“How are you getting around?”

“On a bicycle with a basket. It beats walking.”

She’d walked six miles each way her first week of
employment at Frank’s Food Warehouse. She’d worn blisters on her feet and her arms had ached from carting home groceries.

She’d humbly requested an advance on her paycheck,
and with cash in hand, purchased a used Schwinn. As long as the bike didn’t blow a tire, she was in good shape. She had pedal power.

The timer dinged and Kason slid the sandwiches from
the toaster oven onto two plates. Three grilled cheeses for him, one for her. He then split the soup into bowls. Dayne swore she got the lesser portion.

“Kool-Aid or soda?” she asked.

A hint of a smile as he said, “I haven’t had Kool-Aid
since I was five.”

Neither had she. She’d bought the Kool-Aid on impulse.
Memories of her dad and she dipping their fingers into the packets and sampling the sugary granules remained as sweet as the drink. She could still see her father’s purple tongue when he’d stuck it out after sampling the grape flavor. Her own tongue had been bright green from the lime food-coloring. They’d both laughed so hard. . .

“Raspberry or fruit punch?” Dayne offered.

“Fruit punch.”

She found a pitcher, stirred up the Kool-Aid. No
ice, they’d have to drink it warm. Two plastic glasses in hand, she moved to a small oval table situated before the west living room window.

Kason made two trips in delivering their dinner. He
dropped a spoon beside her bowl, then took the chair across from her. The man could eat. He’d inhaled two sandwiches before she’d finished her first half.

Outside the trailer window, twilight purpled the sky
and shadows thickened. The darkening light gave Kason a dangerous edge. His skin stretched tight across his
cheekbones. His eyes glittered with an inborn tough.

The man wasn’t much for small talk. He ate his
sandwiches, drank his Kool-Aid, then broke the silence on his last spoonful of soup. “Can I drive you to a hotel?” he asked.

She squared her shoulders. “No hotel.” She felt safe
in the secluded trailer. She had no plans to leave.

“You’re not spending another night here.” He pushed to
his feet, pierced her with a look. “You’ve overstayed your welcome.”

“I could say the same for you.”

He collected the paper plates and bowls.

She dogged him to the kitchen.

He dumped their dishes in the trash.

She crossed her arms over her chest at the end of the
counter, tapped her foot, totally resistant.

Kason picked up the tire iron, slapped it against his
palm. The air tensed and pulsed and her heart bumped hard.

His eyes narrowed on her, and not in a good way.

Dayne suddenly wished she’d snagged a plastic fork
when she’d had the opportunity. It was too late now. She had no protection against this man. He looked ready to strike.

Dayne flinched.

And Kason frowned.

Long seconds ticked, as he stared at her.

Her breath collected deep in her chest. She could
barely exhale. Swallowing proved impossible. She’d gone cold.

The hands on the kitchen clocked swept three full
minutes before he tossed her the tool. “I don’t hit women. You keep the tire iron.”

Relief swept her. She wouldn’t have stood a chance
against this man. He was ripped and rough and could've crushed her.

Yet he hadn’t moved a muscle.

She’d misread him. “I can stay?” she dared.

A shift of his jaw, followed by, “One more night,
guest room.”

“What about tomorrow?”

“We hitch a wagon to your bicycle and you pedal your
food down the road.”

####