Free Sliding Home by Kate Angell Page A

as she waited for word on his condition. Her mind had been on Rhaden and
not on the game. She'd missed Kason Rhodes's grand slam and Psycho McMillan's
vertical leap that stole the tying run from Pittsburgh.
    Rhaden's diagnosis came
with the Rogues' win. He suffered blurred vision and a fractured nose. In all
her years of watching baseball, she'd never tracked a player's recovery. Yet
she'd downloaded the injury roster daily.
    He'd missed three games,
and returned for the playoffs. His face was bruised, his nose heavily taped.
    Rhaden Dunn appealed to
her. She'd never been attracted to jocks. She didn't like cocky, nor did she
believe major league players were God's gift to women.
    She dated the corporate
elite. Men of prominence and power. Her life appeared to be perfect on paper. A
strong financial background. Solid career. Phenomenal networking. The ability
to choose her own path.
    She believed in controlling
her destiny to the last detail, which included her sexuality. She'd made
herself the perfect businesswoman, only to recently realize that somewhere
along the way, the real woman had gotten lost. A part of her felt unfulfilled
and empty.
    She couldn't remember the
last time a man had kissed her and her knees had buckled. One look at Rhaden
and her fingertips tingled. So much so, her hands shook.
    They trembled now as she
produced a set of contracts for his signature. “It's a deal, then. Cora Dora
will soon feature a St. Patrick's Day pie, pistachio-peanut.”
    “The ladies are definitely
inventive.”
    Revelle released a soft
breath. With Rhaden re-signed, she had every right to attend his photo shoots
or drop by any locale where he might be promoting a dessert. Time spent with
him related to business.
    Her uncle's unwritten rule
banned corporate and player involvement, yet she would walk outside the line
for him.
    She passed Rhaden her
Montblanc fountain pen, a gift from Uncle Guy. She watched the first baseman
finger the jeweled and outrageously expensive pen. “Does it ever run out of
ink?” he asked.
    “Hasn't yet,” she said. “It
keeps on writing.”
    He drew the contracts to
him, smiled. “Can't believe I get paid for eating pie.”
    Revelle's telephone rang.
She caught the number of the incoming call and recognized it as Collage, a
oneroom schoolhouse in the historic district preserved as a children's art
gallery. A patron of watercolors, clay statues, and papier mache, she donated
heavily to keep the gallery alive.
    Each month the curator
sponsored a new elementary school exhibit. It was time for Revelle to judge the
show.
    She'd take the call while
Rhaden reviewed and signed his contracts. “Excuse me,” she said to him. “Revelle
Sullivan,” she announced into the phone.
    As expected, the call was
quick and ended with her agreement to review the drawings that very afternoon.
More often than not, she took a guest judge with her for a second opinion.
    If the opportunity arose,
she snagged a Rogue. Risk Kincaid and Psycho McMillan had accompanied her in
the past. The kids grew an inch taller when the athletes praised their artwork.
This time she'd been too busy to plan ahead.
    Team practice was over for
the day. Players were scarce. She disconnected, and looked directly at Rhaden.
He'd scrawled his name on the bottom line of the last page of the contracts and
pushed to his feet, ready to leave. “Do you like children?” she blurted out.
    He blinked, bumped into his
chair, looked uncomfortable. “I'd like to be a father someday,” he returned. “Every
guy wants his own baseball team.”
    Nine boys. Her uterus clutched. “I need a guest judge for an
art show,” she was quick to explain.
    More unease. “What kind of
art?”
    “Elementary school.”
    Relief shone on his face. “I
was afraid it was abstracts, which I've never understood. I can do crayons and
stick figures.”
    “I'll owe you one,” she
said, hoping he'd make a move, ask her for a later date.
    He nodded, noncommittal.
    Rhaden