Chapter 2

Mal emerged from his office about an hour after Raina had left, in search of coffee and the latest update from the crew replacing the last few sets of security gates in the stadium.

He passed by the reception desk and saw Sara typing something on a laptop.

"Where's Tora?" he asked.

Sara looked up but she kept typing. "She had a half day. I said I'd cover for a while."

"You know you don't have to do that."

She shrugged. "I like helping out. I'm flying Maggie back into Manhattan later. Did you need me to take you anywhere?"

Mal shook his head. "No, I have my bike."

"You will go home tonight?" Sara nailed him with a disapproving look.

Mal hid a wince. He thought he'd hidden the fact that he'd spent a couple of nights in his office lately from Alex or Lucas but apparently not. If Sara knew, then Lucas must know.

"Yes, Mom," he said.

"Not your mom. Just an interested onlooker. The three of you are going to be burned out before the start of the season."

"Only a few more days. I think we'll survive."

"I hope so." Her expression softened a little. "What did you want with the dance coach?"

"What?"

Sara's gaze sharpened. "The dance coach? Raina. You know, short, red hair, smokin' bod. Was in your office about an hour ago? That one."

"Just a scheduling mixup," Mal muttered. "I fixed it." He tried not to think about the "smokin' bod," as Sara had so neatly put it. He'd been trying not to think about it since Raina had left his office.

"She's pretty," Sara said.

Pretty was not the word Mal would use to describe Raina Easton. Her face was too sharp for pretty. She was all cheekbones and dark angled brows above slightly tilted eyes that were somewhere between bronze and green and razor-sharp red hair sleeking around her face. Then there was the mouth. Curved and bowed in contrast with the straight lines everywhere else. Painted a shiny version of her hair color. He'd found it hard to look away from that mouth. Until she moved. Because when she moved—particularly when she walked—every last one of his male instincts went on alert.

He'd watched the practice a little while longer from the safety of the stands after he'd spoken to her. In the sea of dancers, she'd been the only one he'd seen.

Bad news.

Alex and Lucas had both gotten themselves tangled up with women who worked for the Saints since they'd bought the team. He had no intention of continuing that trend.

A woman was the last thing on earth he had time for.

And a woman like Raina Easton? A redheaded, sex-on-legs, owner of a goddamned burlesque club of all things, firecracker? No. Just no.

She wasn't the sort of woman you'd get out of your mind easily if you let her in.

So he wasn't going to.

"Hello? Earth to Malachi?"

He realized he was still standing by the desk. Sara was looking amused.

"Sorry, what?"

"I said Raina's pretty," Sara repeated.

He forced a shrug, and Sara's smile widened. "I suppose. If you like that type."

"The hot-as-hell redhead type?" Sara said. "Don't most men?"

"Why are we talking about this? She's not going to be here for long."

Sara frowned. "I thought Alex had hired the Fallen Angels for the season?"

Mal fought the urge to roll his eyes when she said the name. He still couldn't believe Alex wanted to use cheerleaders at their home games. Cheerleaders weren't a baseball thing. But Alex thought they'd be good publicity, and he'd managed to convince Maggie to take his side; then the two of them had managed to convince Lucas as well. So Mal had been outvoted.

"I doubt we'll use them that long," Mal said.

"That doesn't seem fair."

"Oh, we'll pay them anyway," Mal said. He wasn't going to rip them off when Alex came to his senses and changed his mind.

"Alex seems pretty set on the idea," Sara said.

"I'm sure he is," Mal said. "But if it doesn't go down well with the fans, then he'll see sense."

"If they all look like Raina, then I think they'll be popular with the fans," Sara said.

"We'll see."

"Lucas said she owns a burlesque club. That's pretty cool. Maggie and I thought we might check it out. Have you ever seen it? You live in Brooklyn, right?"

"Yes. Not much time for burlesque clubs, though." Not much time for any nightlife recently, in fact. He wasn't entirely sure what burlesque was exactly. He had mental images of girls in corsets and fishnets and hairdos like old movie stars, but Alex had stressed that it had nothing to do with stripping.

Not that it was any business of his what Raina Easton did with her life. Any more than it was his business imagining what she might look like in a corset.

"You should come with us, when we go," Sara said.

He shook his head. "That sounds like a girls' night out. Take Hana. Or Shelly." Hell, anyone who was female and not him.

"Chicken. I bet Alex would come with us."

"Then ask him." If Alex had any sense he'd leave girls' night alone too. Then again Alex was the one who thought the cheerleaders were a good idea in the first place, so apparently he had given up on sense for a while.

It was after ten when Mal finally left Deacon. At least working late meant there was no traffic to get in his way as he aimed the bike toward home. He liked riding at night, out on the road with fewer idiot drivers to get in his way. The only problem was keeping the Harley at the speed limit instead of opening it right up and indulging his taste for fast bikes. But he wasn't out to kill himself or anybody else, and the last thing the Saints needed was the press having a field day because he'd been stupid enough to get a ticket. So he held it down and let the roar of the bike and the rumble of the road beneath him clear his head.

By the time he reached the streets of Brooklyn he was more relaxed but also more awake than he'd been when he'd left Staten Island. The thought of going back to his apartment and crawling into bed had lost its appeal. He steered the bike through the streets, not sure what exactly he wanted to do. Once upon a time, this itchy feeling would have been easily solved with a bar and a drink and a willing woman to take his mind off things. But his taste for wild lost nights died three years ago.

And lost nights weren't a habit he wanted to reacquire. He'd worked through the grief now. Come to terms with the fact that Ally was never going to walk through his door again. He was never going to see bright-blue eyes and wild blond hair sauntering in on long, long legs, laughing at him as she outlined her latest plot for adventure. It hadn't been easy but he'd done it. So no, no more need for lost nights with too much bourbon and the nearest woman to ease the pain.

And no more wild girls. Ally had been wild, at her deepest core. Wild and it had killed her. That was the infuriating senseless part. She'd survived the army, survived three tours, and then she'd come home and whether she'd always been that way or whether she was chasing the adrenaline high she couldn't get in civilian life, she'd started doing crazy things. And it had been one of those—her impulsive decision to take up paragliding—that had killed her.

Stupid. All because she had an itch under her skin that couldn't be scratched. A need to fly or a need for escape. He'd never figured out what exactly had driven her into the sky with nothing but flimsy fabric to hold her up. Where a simple change of weather had stolen her from him. At least that's what the accident investigation had determined.

He'd never entirely believed it. Part of him wondered if she'd just let the wildness carry her all the way down into the dark to try to drive out whatever had been eating at her soul.

He'd never know now.

So no. No more wild girls.

No one who made his skin itch.

The next woman in his life had to be calm and easy and looking for a good solid life. Not that he'd ever told anyone those were his criteria. Definitely not Alex and Lucas. They'd either laugh at him or, more likely, decide that he needed some more therapy.

Which he didn't.

All he needed was a life that wasn't crazy.

Come to think of it, maybe he did need more therapy. Because buying a baseball team wasn't exactly designed to deliver a life of peace and quiet. But the craziness would die down, he hoped, once they got everything running to their satisfaction. Then it would just be the long slow process of building the Saints back up to the team they should be. The team they would be if he had anything to say about it.

That wouldn't be crazy. Just a process. A considered and logical process if you listened to Alex and Lucas and Dan Ellis, the Saints' manager.

So, a calm and steady life. That sounded good.

But he was pretty sure that calm and steady ruled out women like Raina Easton. She owned a nightclub, of all things. He didn't know what happened there but it wasn't exactly mainstream USA.

Not that he could claim to be mainstream USA, either. But he could get there.

So he needed to stop thinking about Raina Easton. Yes, she was sexy. Yes, he already liked her style. Yes, there might be a little itch there. But that didn't mean he had to indulge it.

The lights changed and he gunned the bike down the near-empty street—only to land in a detour due to construction work on the cross street. He turned right, in obedience to the signs and the guy directing traffic, and went down the next street at a more sedate pace. He pulled up at a set of lights and glanced down the next street as he waited for the green. And there, winking at him like an invitation, was a discreet sign lit in shades of blue and green that read MADAME R. The R stood out because it was outlined in pink, unlike the rest of the lights.

Madame R.

Raina Easton's club. He knew the name from the résumé he'd read when they hired her.

Keep moving, Coulter.

Just keep moving.

But despite the better urgings of his brain, he turned the bike as the lights turned green and rode toward that bright pink R like it was a magnet, cursing himself while he did it.

It was late but the club was still open. For another hour, or so the guy at the door—who was wearing skintight black apart from the braces holding up his trousers; those matched the shiny dark-pink door—informed him. Okay. One hour. That was time to have a drink and regain control of his senses and go home. He paid the cover charge and walked up a half flight of stairs toward the sound of music and laughter. It was a Tuesday night, but apparently that wasn't deterring anyone from going out and having a good time.

At the top of the stairs there was a heavy velvet curtain in a deep shade of greeny blue, half hooked back with a cord that ended in tassels with tiny deep-red fabric lips hanging from them.

He moved through the opening, ducking to avoid the curtain's fringe, and stepped into the club.

The inside of the club wasn't what he had expected. He'd expected red and gold. The bordello school of sexy … well, he really hadn't thought about it that much. But this space wasn't that. No, this was sleek and sensual. Black lacquered furniture and low lighting from both lamps and candles and soft fabrics in deep gray and jewel tones. There were mirrors here and there in aged silver frames, set in places that reflected both light and the people within, making it hard to tell exactly where the room ended. There were lights above, too, high in the air. Black chandeliers dripping with crystals that mirrored the other colors in the room. It all said, Come in. Sit down. Let us entertain you. You'll like it. We promise.

Intriguing. How had she managed to achieve that with just furniture and paint and fabric?

But the furniture wasn't really what he was interested in. Nope.

Not even slightly. Not when the second thing he'd spotted after walking into the club, after the chandelier, was Raina Easton standing on the stage in a very short, very tight sequined silver dress and fishnet stockings, sparkly microphone in one hand, mouth painted a siren red even brighter than her hair. A wicked grin that made his temperature rise a few degrees brightened her face.

She had her head slightly tilted to one side and whatever she'd done with her makeup made her eyes look far greener than they had earlier.

She was listening to something someone in the audience was saying, which Mal couldn't quite make out.

But apparently Raina could. She laughed, a throaty, deep-down laugh that had no business coming out of such a small woman, and then shrugged and did a little shimmy that made the shiny fringe of her dress, which he hadn't noticed before, spark light in all directions.

It wasn't all that was sparking. He felt his mouth go dry and his brain go foggy as she purred, "Sorry, sweetie, but that's all you're getting tonight."

The audience laughed along and Mal found himself suddenly scanning the crowd, trying to figure out who it was who'd made the comment—it had obviously been some sort of invitation.

Shit. What the hell was he doing?

This wasn't good news.

He shouldn't be bristling over something some complete stranger said to a woman he barely knew. Not when he hadn't even heard the comment to know whether there was something actually worth bristling over.

He made himself look back at the stage, where Raina was bending down to give a round of applause to the tiny band—a drummer, a guitarist, a sax player, and a keyboardist—nestled next to one corner of the curving stage.

The audience applauded again and started to call for more.

Raina shrugged. "No can do, my lovelies. The neighbors get a little difficult about noise restrictions around here, and your favorite gals need their beauty sleep." She gestured down the length of her body and mock-pouted. "All this takes work, you know."

The audience protested some more and she wagged a finger. "You'll be happy to know that the bar is open for another hour. So you have time for a little more booze. But you'll have to entertain yourselves." She laughed that wicked laugh again. "I have faith that you'll all be up to the task. You never know what little secrets the person next to you might be harboring." She leaned over and whispered mock-conspiratorially, "If you ask very nicely, they just might tell you."

God, he really wanted to know what little secrets she might be harboring.

The interesting kind, he thought. Possibly the very interesting kind.

He turned away as she bowed, needing to gain some distance. A beer. He needed a beer.

Actually he wanted something stronger but he wasn't going to indulge when he was riding home.

He made his way over to the bar. The bartender, thank God, proved to be speedy. The beer was cold and crisp and the glass was chilled, the moisture cooling his hand at least. Hopefully the rest of him would cool down, too.

This had definitely been a bad idea.

So he would drink his beer and disappear before he could get himself into any more trouble.

He took another mouthful.

"Well, well, well," a voice said from beside him. Raina's voice.

Hell.

"I wasn't expecting to see you here tonight, Mr. Coulter," she continued.

He turned on the bar stool.

She stood there in that goddamned ridiculous dress, sparkling gently in the flickering light of the candles in the lamps over his head.

"It's Mal, not Mr. Coulter," he said.

Red lips pursed. "I think I'll stick to Mr. Coulter for now," she said. "What brings you to my humble establishment? Did you manage to convince Alex that cheerleaders are a bad idea after all?" There were nerves in the big eyes despite her bravado.

Damn. He hadn't thought about what she might make of him coming to see her.

"No," he said. "Your cheerleaders are safe." He left off for now. Then he tipped his glass toward the room. "And if this is what you call humble, I'm not sure I want to see what you think fancy is."

One side of her mouth lifted. "Fancy involves me wearing far more comfortable shoes. Surrounded by servants fulfilling my every whim. And far less dealing with drunks."

"You seemed to have them under control." She did indeed. He'd worked a bar or two in his youth and when he'd first been kicking off his security firm. Raina obviously knew what she was doing handling an audience.

He scanned the room again. Actually, for midnight on a weekday—which meant those who were here were probably serious about enjoying the evening and consuming booze to match that aim—the room seemed well controlled. No one was obviously plastered that he could spot, and the vibe was cheerful, not dangerous.

She wrinkled her nose. "Lots of practice." She gazed up at him and muttered something that he thought might have been "Damn, he's big," then she hitched herself up onto the bar stool next to him, crossing her legs. Which gave him an eyeful of what was a very, very nice thigh encased in fishnets as she leaned over to the bartender and asked for mineral water.

Danger zone.

He looked back up at her face. That was somewhat safer. Only somewhat, but looking at her face, if he tried hard enough, he could pretend that she was wearing something that more closely resembled clothing from the neck down.

At least the dress—skimpy as it was—wasn't a corset. He was pretty sure if he saw her in a corset he would be in a world of trouble.

Raina took her glass from the bartender and took a long sip. "So how long have you been here, Mr. Coulter?"

"Not long," he said. "I was riding home and passed the sign. I remembered the name of the club from your CV."

"That's an interesting route home," she said, tilting her head at him. "Don't you live in Park Slope?"

She knew where he lived? He frowned.

Raina waved a hand. "Don't worry, I'm not stalking you. It was in the papers when you bought the Saints. You live in Brooklyn and Alex and Lucas live in Manhattan. I thought you'd live on Staten Island."

He shrugged. "I grew up in Brooklyn," he said. "So I moved back here when I got the chance."

"If you grew up in Brooklyn, why aren't you a Yankees fan?"

"Ah. My dad grew up on Staten Island," Mal said. Baseball. That seemed a safe enough subject. "So he was a Saints fan. Got me young."

"Was?"

"He died about ten years ago," Mal said.

Her expression turned sad. "I'm sorry."

"Yeah. Life sucks sometimes. It was lung cancer. He never smoked but there you go. It was a long time ago, though."

She winced a little. "It's never a long time ago when you lose someone important," she murmured. "I guess he would've been thrilled that you own the Saints now."

"Well, he'd be happy if I got them to win a World Series. So maybe in time, he will be."

"You're not trying to win the World Series this year? I thought you were meant to be the saviors of the Saints."

"We might have saved them, but we're not miracle workers. The team needs building up, and that takes time. Dan Ellis has done pretty well with not enough money for the last two seasons, so right now we'll take building on that."

"But you want to win the Series one day, right?"

"Of course." A World Series. It seemed like a crazy dream. Once upon a time he'd wanted to play in a World Series. He'd never gotten that far, but now he might get to own a winning team.

If they could get the team through this season.

"You like to win, then?"

"Ms. Easton, anyone who says they don't like to win is lying."

"There's a difference between liking to win and having to win."

"If I had to win, I think I would have spent my money on something other than the worst team in MLB, don't you?"

"Well, that would be the smart thing," she agreed, toying with the slice of lime on the edge of her glass.

God knew what she was thinking. He was being sized up, that much was clear. Which told him there was a brain heading up the pretty package. Which he'd kind of figured out earlier but it was good to have confirmation.

"I'm not sure that anyone has ever accused me of always doing the smart thing," he admitted. And if they had, right now he was proving them very wrong. The smart thing would be to run far, far away from Raina of the sleek curves and the plump lips and the goddamned endless legs. How did a woman so short manage to have such long legs? But instead he stayed put, halfway to mesmerized as she shifted on the stool and her sequins sparked little flecks of light everywhere. Including all over the acres of skin she had on display. She was pale to begin with. With the light flickering over her she was close to being moonlight personified.

And if the sight of her wasn't bad enough, he'd now noticed the smell of her as well. Her perfume was something deep and spicy with a hint of leather and something salty amid warmth. It smelled kind of like sex.

It made him want to lean in and press his nose into the curve of her neck and inhale her before he pulled her onto his lap and found out if she smelled good all over.

Really not smart.

Truly dumb, in fact.

"You don't seem to be doing too badly," she said with another one of those assessing looks. "So if you're prone to doing dumb things, you've survived your impulses so far."

"So far," he agreed. "Dumb luck maybe."

"Or skill," she said. "I'm not sure you survive in the special forces for as long as you did with just luck."

Right. She'd read about him. "Actually dumb luck has a lot more to do with that than you might imagine. I know plenty of guys far smarter than me who didn't make it back."

She winced again and he was forced to wonder exactly why he was telling her all this. Somehow she was getting past his guard. Or maybe that was just exhaustion and the beer finally getting to him.

Speaking of which, he really needed to leave before he descended to a whole new level of dumb. He tipped his glass back and drained the last of his beer.

"I have to hit the road. And you must have things to do to close up here," he said.

"We have it down to a fine art," she said. "But yes, things need doing."

She slid off the stool at the same time as he did. Which left them standing very close together.

He took a deep breath, and more of her perfume snuck into his brain. He shook his head.

"What?" she asked softly.

"Nothing," he said.

"Ah," she replied.

Standing, she had to tilt her head back to look at him. Thank God her dress lay flat to her skin because if he'd gotten a peak of cleavage right at that moment he wasn't sure he wouldn't have just kissed her.

As it was he couldn't bring himself to move too far away from her. Or at all.

A minute passed as they just looked at each other. Far too long for the look to be open to any interpretation other than the obvious.

Eventually Raina shook her head and stepped back. "Well, this is inconvenient," she muttered.

He wasn't sure if he was supposed to have heard. "What's inconvenient?"

Another head shake. "I think you know. But I also think it's something that we shouldn't be discussing late at night." She looked disappointed but resolute. "Definitely not." She took a step back. "So I think we'll call this good night, Mr. Coulter."

"Mal," he corrected.

"Oh no," she said. "It's Mr. Coulter. Might help us both deal with the … inconvenience."

"If you go around calling me Mr. Coulter at Deacon, people are going to think it's weird."

"Well, there's really not that much reason we need to run into each other at Deacon, is there?" she asked. "Not now that I understand the rules of the schedule."

"I'm at Deacon about fourteen hours a day right now. I'm guessing we'll cross paths."

If he had anything to do with it, they would. Because he was pretty sure that somewhere back there in that unspoken conversation they'd been having, he'd decided the only way to get Raina Easton off his mind might be to convince her to climb into bed with him and not get out until they'd burned themselves out.

But apparently she had more sense than him. Or at least some sense of self-preservation.

"Well, we can deal with that when we have to," she said. "Good night, Mr. Coulter."

"Good night, Ms. Easton," he said. Then failed to leave until he'd finished watching her make her way back through the club and disappear though a door beside the stage.