Karen Young - Belle Pointe

“The suspense is almost unbearable.”

—Romantic Times BOOKclub on Never Tell

“Karen Young is a writer who delivers intense, gripping

and dark suspense…bound to keep you hooked.”

—Romantic Times BOOKclub

“Young skillfully mixes romance with

edge-of-your-seat suspense.”

—Library Journal

“…a powerful novel that was extremely

hard to put down.”

—Romance Reviews Today on In Confidence

“…a moving tale of second chances.”

—Romantic Times BOOKclub on Private Lives

“Karen Young is a spellbinding storyteller.”

—Romantic Times BOOKclub

Also by KAREN YOUNG

NEVER TELL

IN CONFIDENCE

PRIVATE LIVES

FULL CIRCLE

GOOD GIRLS

Belle Pointe

Karen Young

www.mirabooks.co.uk

As in all my books, I’m indebted to so many people who helped make this one happen. I took a leap of faith when I chose to build the story around a professional baseball superstar. Most of what I know about baseball I learned in grade school.

Therefore, I relied on guidance from Doug Simmons, my son-in-law, for the technicalities of the game and the effect of injuries on a pitcher. For guidance on the workings of a cotton plantation, I relied on Peggy Peal, my grandson’s other grandmother, whose family has lived on and worked a cotton plantation in the Mississippi Delta ever since God invented dirt.

For insight into the social culture of the Delta, I owe thanks to Gloria Dunbar. For the business stuff, Bob Wood, my lawyer son-in-law, proved, as always, a fabulous asset. Finally, to my editor, Valerie Gray, for insightful critique. Thanks to you all.

For my grandson, Josh.

Baseball, football, basketball—

the family’s very own super athlete!

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Epilogue

As it always happened at these events, the room was filled to capacity. Scanning the crowd, Anne Whitaker estimated the number at better than three hundred, well surpassing the goal of the nonprofit sponsor. Amazed that all it took for folks to plunk down five hundred dollars a plate was the appearance of the star pitcher of the St. Louis Jacks—who just happened to be her husband. Buck’s name was a strong draw, so he was constantly in demand. Not only was he a gifted speaker and utterly relaxed in front of an audience, but he was genuinely funny. And, perhaps most appealing of all, he came across as modestly unimpressed with his superstar status.

Anne smiled politely and murmured in response to a comment from the baseball commissioner’s wife seated on her left. With the din of voices and the music of a live band, it was impossible to have any real conversation. As distracted as she was, she wouldn’t have been able to talk anyway. She was ten weeks pregnant and feeling distinctly ill. It wasn’t the classic nausea that came with pregnancy, but something different and it filled her with panic. During the cocktail hour, she’d made no less than four visits to the powder room fearing the worst, but so far nothing. More than anything, she wanted to go home. But a glance at her watch told her it would be a while yet before that was possible.

When she glanced up to find Gene Winston, Buck’s agent, watching her narrowly, she managed what she hoped was a natural smile. No surprise that Gene had picked up on her distraction. Even if he knew the reason she was distracted, he would be unmoved. Buck’s public image was all he cared about. He never needed to remind her of her role at these events. She knew it and played it well.

Buck, finally sensing something, let his napkin fall to the floor. Leaning close on a pretext of retrieving it, he murmured in her ear, “You feeling okay, sugar?”

“I’m just a little…queasy,” she told him, hoping against hope that what she feared wasn’t happening.

“We’ll be out of here soon.” He squeezed her hand and turned his attention back to the commissioner.

She longed to lean against him just for the comfort it would bring but—again—not possible here and now. Even if she weren’t okay, there was nothing to be done about it. The sponsor’s spokesman would soon be up introducing Buck.

She shifted to allow a waiter to refill her water glass and caught the concerned look on Marcie Frederick’s face. Marcie, wife of Monk Frederick, one of the Jacks’ managers, had already commented on the odd fact that Anne was refusing wine lately. Although Marcie was a friend, she didn’t know about the pregnancy. No one knew.

Not even Buck.

Which was the cause of much of Anne’s agitation. She was going to have to tell him and soon. Probably tonight. But after the initial surprise, she told herself he was bound to be pleased. He knew she’d dreamed of having a baby for years. Time would tell if he’d be happy enough to forgive her for the way she’d gone about getting pregnant.

A waiter removed her untouched dessert, while another appeared at the table with after-dinner coffee. Anne put a hand over her cup to refuse just as sharp pain struck in her lower abdomen. She gave a small, involuntary gasp but, in the noisy ballroom, nobody noticed except Marcie. For a stunned moment, Anne didn’t move, and then another searing pain struck.

Rising shakily to her feet, she murmured a distracted apology to the table at large. Buck looked a little surprised at her untimely exit. It had been barely fifteen minutes since she’d last left. But she was too intent on getting to the now all-too-familiar powder room to explain.

Flashing a strained smile to a waiter who courteously opened the exit door, she slipped out and dashed down the hall. Thankfully, the powder room was empty. Her heart thumping with dread, she entered the first stall.

Please, don’t let it be blood.

But it was. Not much, but it was there. She closed her eyes and fought an urge to scream a denial. But no time now to panic. It wasn’t so much that it signaled disaster, she told herself, but she would have to leave. She had strict instructions from her doctor if there was ever any sign of spotting.

Go to bed immediately. Feet up. Total bed rest.

She would have to ask someone to deliver a note to Buck so that they could leave. As for Buck’s speech, he would just have to make some kind of explanation. Their baby’s life was at stake.

A few moments later, she stood at the ballroom door and saw, to her intense relief, that Buck was not on the podium yet. But it would not be long until he was introduced. She stopped a passing server and thrust a note into the startled man’s hand. “Will you give this note to Buck Whitaker, please?”

Slipping back out of sight, she watched as Buck was handed the note which he read without any show of emotion. He was good at that. He had plenty of practice keeping his cool under extreme pressure. No one who played major league baseball panicked easily.

Meanwhile, waiting for him, it was all she could do not to panic. With her insides in a knot and dread in her heart, she took a deep breath. The cramping was irregular, but every nerve in her body screamed at her to run to the escalator and leave. Which would definitely cause a stir. As it was, she was not going to be voted most popular when, because of her, the guest speaker had to bow out early, but there it was.