“There’s nothing wrong. You’re an amazing woman.” He sighed again and looked very pained. “I’m so sorry I have to do this to you. I am sorry I ever let it go this far.”
“Let it go this far?” she cried, and felt the first tear fall. “What does that mean? You weren’t into it, but you just strung me along for no reason?”
“No,” he said instantly. “It wasn’t like that. But I never thought . . . shit, I don’t know what I thought. I just can’t commit, baby.”
“Who the hell asked you to commit?” she cried.
He reached for her hand, but she yanked it out of his reach. “I can’t be with you, not anymore. I have to leave. This is for the best—”
“Don’t you dare tell me what is best,” she snapped, swiping at the tears that fell from her eyes. “Just . . . just go, if you’re going.”
“Let me help—”
“No!” she cried. “Don’t do anything except get the fuck away from me, Michael!” She turned away, fumbled in her bag for some tissues.
He got up and moved toward her, but Leah wouldn’t look at him. She couldn’t look at him. Her whole world had just been turned upside down in one stunning blow. He’d stolen her breath, crushed her heart, and now she lay bleeding and gasping for air. She hated him in that moment. She absolutely hated him. She flinched when he put his hand on her shoulder, as if he had burned her. Michael removed his hand, and she listened to his footfalls as he walked out of her life, leaving behind nothing but the ashes of what had been the greatest love of her life.
Chapter One
New York
Five Years Later
SOMEONE hurled an empty beer bottle at the limousine Michael Raney was riding in; it bounced off the back windshield and hit the back fender before crashing onto the pavement as the car eased out of the Shea Stadium VIP parking lot.
“Lemme out,” Parker Price said through clenched teeth, and reached for the door, but his brother Jack held him back.
“There are dozens of them, bro. You can’t take them all,” Jack said.
Parker shoved his brother off and sagged against the plush leather seats, defeated. “It’s over. It’s so over. I might as well shove my cleats up my ass.”
“That’s the spirit,” Jack said. “And anyway, I don’t think it’s that bad,” he added, and rather unconvincingly, considering that it really was that bad. Frankly, Michael had never seen a shortstop play a game as poorly as Parker Price had just done. The Yankees had made the Mets look like a bunch of little leaguers, and the shortstop, for whom the Mets had shelled out one hundred and ten million dollars plus bonuses over seven years to make sure that never happened, was the worst of the lot.
Another beer bottle hit the top of the car. Parker snapped his head up and punched the button that lowered the window separating them from the driver. “Hey pal, if you haven’t noticed, angry fans are hurling beer bottles at us—do you think you could pick up the pace a little?”
“Yo, genius, I’m not the one who had a hole in my glove you could drive a truck through, right?” the driver snapped back. “I’m going as fast as I can, but there are a lot of vehicles in front of us.”
Parker punched the “up” button, raising the window, and stared morosely at the floor.
“Look at it this way, Park,” Jack tried. “If you were hitting well, they’d probably say you’d juiced up.”
Parker groaned and dropped his head.
Something else hit the car, bouncing off the top. A baseball, maybe?
“Oh for four,” Parker said. “I haven’t had a hit in eight games.” He suddenly punched the window button again. “We’re going to the Essex, Central Park South.” He sent the window up again without waiting for an answer from the driver.
That address, unfortunately, was where Michael Raney and Jack Price, two of the four Thrillseekers Anonymous boys, were putting up for this baseball series. T.A., as they liked to call themselves, was the premier private adventure club in the United States, catering exclusively to the very wealthy. They also did some of the best stunt work in Hollywood. In fact, Michael and Jack were taking one last little break in New York, while Eli McCain and Cooper Jessup, the other two partners, were back in L.A., finishing up a new deal for the film War of the Soccer Moms.
Jack had the idea of coming to New York to watch his brother Parker play ball for the Mets. “Private box,” he’d said to Michael. “Really good-looking women.”
‘Nuff said.
But now Parker wanted to come up to their suite, and Michael didn’t think that was a good idea. He was giving out all the signs of being a seriously wet blanket, and Michael was ready to go out. He hadn’t been to New York in a few years and he was anxious to hit some of his old haunts. Nothing against Parker—he was a decent guy when he was on, but when he was off, he was pretty miserable company, and man was he off now.