Stealing Home

chapter 4



LORELEI DIDN’T WASTE any time. As soon as Mark hit the bed she stepped over to him and cringed, feeling momentarily rotten. Thank goodness he’d fallen on the bed and not on the floor. No way could she have lifted all of Mark Cutter and his muscles up onto the bed.

After she pulled the comforter over him, she went to the kitchen and filled a glass with water. She rifled through her purse until she found ibuprofen and grabbed three . . . no, better make that four. With them in hand she hurried back to his bedroom and set them on the nightstand.

She wiped her palms on her thighs and opened the drawer.

There it was, right where Dina had said it would be. Nothing like an ex-wife to know such things.

Reaching for it, she stole a quick sideways glance at Mark. His good luck charm wasn’t what she’d expected. It was nothing more than a gold braided necklace and a simple small cross. Nothing exciting, nothing flashy. No fancy embellishments. It was rather boring, actually.

But, boring or not, it was very, very valuable. It was going to save Michelle’s life.

Lorelei curled her fingers around it and grimaced.

Mark was going to hurt like hell when he woke up. But then again, he was a professional baseball player. He was used to getting bowled over and feeling crappy the next morning, so she shouldn’t feel too bad about it.

It was such an odd sensation standing over a virile, unconscious male. Disconcerting, but in a strange way empowering. Especially when that unconscious male was one of the MLB’s toughest men and its most notorious womanizer.

And wow, he had a body. Seriously fabulous. Even out cold he looked hard and dangerous. Lorelei let her eyes roam over his naked body as she palmed his necklace. Well-developed muscles rippled over his wide shoulders and down his chest to a lean, corded waist.

She couldn’t resist running her free hand lightly over his amazingly flat stomach for a brief second. Mark Cutter had a stomach worthy of framing and hanging on her wall.

She removed her hand and raked her gaze down the rest of his body. Distressed jeans covered his sculpted legs, and Lorelei let out a low whistle at the slight bulge she saw between his heavy thighs. Lord have mercy.

The clock on the nightstand by the bed caught her attention as it clicked over a new hour. Two A.M. Definitely time to go.

Just as she was about to turn, she thought better of it. Leaning over him instead, Lorelei placed a tender kiss on his hair. “Thanks for the necklace, catcher.”

Then she straightened, put her shirt back on, and left the room without glancing around. Just grabbed her purse off the counter and went straight for the exit. Lorelei shoved his good luck charm in the bag and stepped through the door. Sighing, she closed it quietly behind her, firmly shutting the image of his perfect body out of her head. It wasn’t like she hadn’t seen a hot body or had good sex before. She was a liberated woman of the twenty-first century. A modern-day woman. Of course she’d had good sex before.

As she walked down the hall to the elevator, she remembered their kiss, could still feel his lips hot and demanding on hers. When she stepped inside the empty lift and punched the lobby button, she melted against the arm rail and sighed.

Who was she trying to kid?

MARK WOKE TO the sound of a whole construction crew hammering in his head. As he rolled onto his back with a groan, it took him a minute to realize where he was.

His first clue was the soft, plush mattress beneath his bare back. The second was the comforter tangled around his legs. He was obviously in a bed. But, why was he still wearing his pants?

Moaning, his mouth full of sand, he lifted a shaky hand to his face and rubbed his scruffy cheek. Shit, he felt weak as a newborn.

Mark painstakingly pried one gritty eye open. Sunlight streamed through the bedroom’s massive windows, making his head pound furiously. Why weren’t the drapes closed? Couldn’t they see he was in agony? He closed his eye again and tried to swear. His parched mouth and sore throat wouldn’t comply. A pathetic whimper came out instead. He tried again and barely managed a sound.

It must have been one wild time last night. His head hurt damn bad. It really sucked to wake up to the worst hangover of his life. Not that hangovers were ever fun. But this one really blew. Plain and simple.

Mustering up the courage, Mark pried his eyes open and slowly rolled to a sitting position. He had to grab hold of his head to keep it from falling off. The comforter wedged tightly between his thighs, royally pissing him off.

Holding his head steady with a hand, he reached between his legs and yanked out the offender. The comforter fell to the floor as he swore a blue streak in the quiet condo.

He wanted to know what had gone on last night, because he couldn’t remember a thing. Other than the best breasts he’d ever seen. Those he remembered with crystal clarity. It was everything else that was blurrier than a Colorado blizzard.

Groaning his way to his feet, he stumbled toward the hallway and tripped over his discarded shoes from the night before. He kicked them out of the way with another curse and went in search of Fonda Peters. He was in a real foul mood by the time he’d wandered throughout his condo and come up empty. A pair of his crystal snifters on the glass table, his clothes strung all over the place—but no sign of the delectable temptress.

Mother Nature called and Mark wandered back down the hall to the bathroom to take a leak. Had Fonda up and left last night afterward? If she had, she’d be the first. Apparently she was different from all the rest. And that was odd, because in his pretty extensive experience they were all the same.

Damn it. Why couldn’t he remember anything?

After he finished, Mark stepped over to the long granite countertop and peered into the mirror. He looked like crap. His hair was a tangled mess. Half of it hung in his eyes, which were dull and bloodshot, with dark half circles underneath. A scruffy shadow beard covered his jaw, and his mouth was drawn tight.

No wonder she’d bailed. He wouldn’t want to wake up next to him, either.

Mark left the bathroom, made his way back over to the bed, and sat down when he noticed the drawer on his nightstand was ajar. Warning bells began ringing in his head as he yanked it open and looked inside, searching the contents. With suspicion creeping in, he ignored the water glass and pills perched on its top right in front of him. He could focus on only one fact:

His necklace was gone.

Instantly he was on his feet and close to full-out panic.

Shit. Shit. Shit. It had to be here. Had to. He couldn’t play baseball without it. Son. Of. A . . . Where was it?

He dumped the drawer on the floor with a loud thump and stomped out to the living room. His necklace had better be there somewhere. He had a game today!

He searched the leather sofas and chairs, overturned his coffee table. Still nothing.

Next came the kitchen. He tore through every cabinet, scoured the refrigerator. Looked high and low and came up empty. A quick call in to the building’s security desk confirmed that no one had turned it in. It was simply gone.

“How the hell did I lose my f*cking lucky charm?” He racked his brain. Maybe he and Fonda had got a bit too rambunctious last night, bumped the nightstand, and it caused the drawer to open and the necklace to fall on the floor.

Wait a minute. Fonda Peters.

A growl of anger clawed its way up his throat and ripped out on a furious roar. She couldn’t have.

His eyes came to rest on the empty glasses. A nasty suspicion began to form in his mind as he stalked over to them. “But you did do it. Didn’t you, Fonda Peters?”

He was serious about only a few things in his life—baseball being number one. Nobody screwed with his game and got away with it. Especially not a woman who hadn’t even given him her real name.

A shiver of dread crept up his spine, but he ignored it and lifted a glass to his nose, sniffing. Nothing.

He reached for the other one and brought it to his nose. Still nothing.

Though his head throbbed like an open wound, his memory of her was still intact. And he didn’t like what it was telling him. Not one bit. Fonda Peters was a liar and a thief. He remembered her standing in her bra with that guilty-as-sin smile on her face right before he fell to the bed. She’d drugged him in his own frigging home.

His lips curled in a snarl, his chest heaved. Fonda Peters had gone and stolen his good luck charm like a naughty girl. Now she was going to have a big bad baseball player to pay.

LORELEI WAS OFFICIALLY ticked off. Hanging up the phone with more enthusiasm than it called for, she swore. She’d finally gotten ahold of Dina to confirm their meet-up time to unload the goods, and had gotten blown off instead. Apparently Dina had “company” over.

It’s not like she hadn’t already wasted the day sitting around waiting on the woman. Now it just figured that she’d get stuck hanging on to a stolen item for another day. Why again had she agreed to it?

Oh yeah. The money.

Her niece needed the money.

Slapping her hands on her thighs, she stood from the bed. Nothing she could do about it now. She was just going to have to hang around Denver for another day. Wasn’t that lovely?

Anxiety gripped her as she thought about home, about Michelle. She really missed her. Wanted to hold her and cuddle her and make her laugh. But, it wasn’t going to happen tonight. And that seriously sucked.

Tonight she was stuck in a very posh hotel room full of fluffy white towels and complimentary slippers. Room service just a dial away and a mini fridge full of booze. And she, Lorelei Littleton, in a pair of gray sweatpants and a pink tank top without a single thing to do. Who’d rather be at home on the ranch than in the four-star hotel Dina had put her up in.

She supposed she could hit the town, but the idea sent shivers down her spine. Nuh-uh. Mark Cutter might be out there. No way was she going to risk running into him.

She’d be an idiot to venture out tonight. It was room service and cable TV for her. Why not? The room was paid for—compliments of her current cohort in crime. And she was kind of on the lam anyway, so she might as well live it up.

Lorelei crossed the thick carpet and turned on the TV as she walked toward the phone. She called room service and placed an order for a cheeseburger, fries, and iced tea. As she hung up the phone the late news flashed on the big screen.

Her stomach lurched.

There he was, in all his glory, on the evening news recap. Mark Cutter, Denver Rush’s star catcher, duking it out over home plate with Luc Lanier from the Arizona Diamondbacks.

An odd tug of horror and fascination propelled her forward until she was on her knees in front of the big screen, eyes glued to the set. They were going at it bare-fisted like two lunatics.

His catcher’s helmet flew from his head as the Diamondback clocked him upside his skull, bloodied his mouth. But the crazy man just laughed as he swiped the back of his hand across his split lip.

It took three of Cutter’s teammates to jerk him off the other guy. The television made a constant bleeeep noise as the network censored the foul language flying around the diamond. All the baseball players had seriously dirty mouths. And the Rush’s catcher was having a field day tossing around the F-word.

Lorelei couldn’t hear a word the sportscaster was saying—she was engrossed in the cocky, bloodied grin on Mark’s face as he was escorted to the Rush’s dugout.

She’d stolen that guy’s good luck charm.

She was a frigging idiot.

Lorelei rocked back on her bare heels and let out a whoosh of air. She had to get rid of that necklace—fast. Seeing him like that made it very clear just who she was messing with. A person who could smile over a fistfight had to have a few screws loose, right?

Her gaze swept back to the TV. The final score of the Rush vs. Diamondbacks game was painful. A total shutout with the Diamondbacks winning 5–0.

No wonder Mark had gone out with fists flying. Of course he wouldn’t take that well. No doubt he blamed his crappy performance on his missing good luck charm.

Lorelei flinched inwardly and then steeled her mind against the guilt. It wasn’t like the jerk was a nice guy. Good kisser? Definitely. Good with his hands? Oh yeah. Nice guy? Nuh-uh. Not from what she’d heard about him.

From all accounts, Mark Cutter was an all-American a*shole. He deserved a little humility.

Still, it did poke her conscience a little to know she was partly to blame for the Rush’s pitiful defeat. They were a great team, and only a few games into the regular season. If they blew their chance at the World Series she was somewhat to blame. In a convoluted, roundabout sort of way.

By stealing Mark’s cross Lorelei had psyched out their premier catcher—broken his focus, gotten under his skin.

Not many girls could claim that. Sure, plenty got into his pants. And after what she’d seen last night, she didn’t blame them. Not one little bit.

But she just bet she was the first to mess with his game. Well, not really her—it was his missing charm that had him so unfocused. Oh hell, she’d stolen it from him; she could take the credit if she wanted to.

Lorelei laughed self-consciously. She didn’t know if she should or not. Because she knew if he ever found out it was she there’d be the devil to pay.

Her mind flashed to an image of his eyes as they’d been last night. Hot and lethal. Like shards of aluminum.

Unbidden, warmth slid down her torso at the memory of the wild kiss they’d shared. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if he came for her, after all. Then she might get another chance to kiss him. That might not be so bad.

And apparently pretending to be a tramp last night had warped her mind. One night playing a hussy for Mark Cutter and she was thinking of all the different positions she knew. Which weren’t nearly as many as a real floozy, granted, but she was giving it her best effort.

And that was the problem.

The guy was a cocky, conceited, spoiled sports star. If he found her, kissing her senseless again would be the next thing on his mind—right after he had her arrested. She wouldn’t even have the chance to tell him how flexible she was. He’d have her cuffed and hauled off before she could croon, I do yoga, lover boy.

And no way was she going to jail. So she’d just have to keep that tidbit of knowledge to herself and not let him find her. But, really, it wasn’t possible for him to catch her. He didn’t even know her real name. She’d been Fonda Peters.

Even if he did make the connection between her and his missing cross, he had no way of tracking her. She hadn’t even used her credit card to pay for her room. His ex-wife had.

She was the person Mark should be going after anyway. Dina was the one who’d approached Lorelei in the first place, offering to pay her one hundred grand to swipe his good luck charm. If anyone was to blame, really, it was she. Well, Mark, actually. He should never have been such an ass to his ex in the first place. Then she wouldn’t have been hell-bent on revenge.

Since “company” had waylaid today’s plan to meet in the hotel bar, she and Dina had decided to meet tomorrow at Riley’s, a quaint Irish pub just off the beaten path. There they’d make the exchange. Cash for cross. The end. Then Lorelei could hightail it home to Loveland and Michelle.

A knock sounded at the door, surprising Lorelei.

Finally, room service. She was starving. It was a sad fact of her life that she had a heck of an appetite and could pack away more food than even her older brother could. In some very unladylike but highly entertaining contests she’d proven that. And that’s why hot dogs now made her turn a putrid shade of green. But she’d showed Logan. Ha ha.

And now he boiled Oscar Mayers in the house whenever he was mad at her. The a*shole.

Grabbing the remote to click the TV off, Lorelei patted her sloppy ponytail with a hand and made for the door. She should have asked for a double cheeseburger. And a chocolate milk shake. Now that sounded good.

Ready to pounce on the delivery boy the minute he wheeled his cart over the threshold, Lorelei grinned in anticipation. Wiggling her booty in excitement, Lorelei gripped the handle, swung the door wide open.

And came nose to chest with a very angry Mark Cutter.

“Hello, Fonda Peters. I believe you have something that belongs to me.”