Kristin Hardy - Scoring

He clinked his beer bottle with Becka’s. “You’re definitely a better player than I am, but I usually don’t stink as badly as this. I think I need a goal.” He glanced at the table. “I think we ought to bet on the next game.”

“I don’t play for money, Duvall.”

“No money. Something better.” He set his bottle down and traced a finger along her jawbone. “You win, the evening’s over and I never bother you again…. I win, we go to bed.”

She opened her mouth with the intention of telling him to go to hell, but stopped before the words got out. It was the perfect setup, she realized. He was offering her a chance to reel him in, to get him turned on and, thinking he had her, then take the game from him and show him who was really in control. “I think that’s a bet I can live with.”

Mace walked behind her, sliding a slow hand down her hip, and she jolted. He leaned over the table with his pool cue, looking sexy and a little bit dangerous, yet more than capable of taking this game, of taking her.

Uh-oh. “Wait,” she blurted, just as the cue ball cracked into the colored balls, scattering them around the table.

Damn. Too late.

Dear Reader,

The minute Becka Landon swaggered onto the scene in My Sexiest Mistake, I knew she deserved a book of her own. Fortunately, my editor agreed, and the result is Scoring, the first book in my UNDER THE COVERS miniseries. I’ve always been fascinated by spin-off characters, enjoying the way they unfold as they move from their initial introduction through to a story that focuses just on them. The UNDER THE COVERS miniseries isn’t anything as obvious as a family saga. As you read Scoring, As Bad As Can Be (May) and Slippery When Wet (July), your challenge is going to be figuring out which secondary character in each book will become the hero or heroine of the next.

For now, though, just sit back and enjoy as Becka strikes sparks with hunky Mace Duvall, ex-baseball heartthrob. Be sure to drop me a line at kristinhardy@earthlink.net and tell me what you think. Or drop by my Web site at www.kristinhardy.com for contests, e-mail threads between characters in my books, recipes and updates on my latest book.

Have fun,

Kristin Hardy

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To Shannon Short for a great critique,

to Teresa Brown for being generally wonderful,

and

to Stephen,

luz de mi vida,

for everything.

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

“GOD, I LOVE IT when you have your hands on me.” The husky words broke the stillness of the room.

Becka Landon slid her fingers over the muscled back of the half-naked man lying in front of her, the warm oil slick under her palms. Skin slipped against skin as her breath came faster, a faint dew of moisture forming on her flushed face. The scent of the oil wove its way into her senses, the warmth of his body heated hers. She caught her lower lip between her teeth in concentration.

“I don’t want to share you,” he groaned. “Let’s just run away, you and me.”

Becka’s mouth curved. “Sammy, you try running away with anyone and your wife will track you down and brain you with a frying pan.” She slapped him smartly on the shoulder. “Off the table, coach. Time to go teach these kids to play baseball.”

Sammy Albonado, manager for the Lowell Weavers minor league baseball team, sat up and ran his fingers through his grizzled hair. Years of crouching behind the plate as a major league catcher had given him dickey knees and chronic bursitis in his shoulder. Only Becka’s skilled hands could banish the aches on those days when the arthritis gnawed at him. “You got yourself a great touch, kid. I’m gonna have you teach my wife.”

“I don’t know.” Becka put her hands on her hips and gave him a sassy look from under the bangs of her red hair. “If I were you, I’d be a little nervous about bringing Essie in. I might have to tell her you’re threatening to run off on her unless you make it worth my while.”

“Aw, you know I was just joking.” When she only looked at him, he slumped his shoulders in defeat. “What do you want?”

“New hoses for the whirlpool.”

“That’s a hundred bucks. I’ll have to fill out a req.”

“You’re the one asking me to keep a secret, Sammy,” she reminded him, fighting a smile. “I’m only here as long as Ron’s out with his carpal tunnel problem, and who knows how long that will be. I’ve got to do what I can to get this place in shape before I leave.”

“You’re not goin’ anywhere,” he insisted. “Whether Ron comes back this season or not, I’m gonna find a way to keep you on. Even if you do push me around.”

Hope ballooned up inside her before she could hold it down. “I don’t push you around, Sammy, I just…encourage you. But it’s all for the sake of the team.” She gave him an impudent grin and shoved her hands into the pockets of her khaki walking shorts, trying to ignore the leap of excitement. She knew that keeping her spot as team trainer was a long shot. It didn’t do to count on things that might not happen.

Sammy walked out of the clubhouse and into the shadowed space underneath the grandstand, following the sloping walkway that led to the field. A couple of players skidded up from the parking lot in street clothes.

“Hey, Sammy, is it true?”

“What? You should be dressed and on the field stretching, not bugging me,” he barked in the gruff tone he imagined gave him authority. “It’s almost time for practice. In my day we cared enough to be early.”

“But is it true?” asked Paul Morelli, the tough, good-looking catcher with the makings of major league talent.

“Is what true?” Sammy’s voice rose. “Is it true that all of ya are gonna be out on the field in fifteen minutes or I’m handing out fines? You’d better believe it.”

“No, for real, we heard that Mace Duvall is coming as a batting instructor.”

Sammy took his time hitching up his trousers and adjusting his cap, then nodded. “Yep, he’ll be the batting instructor all week, and he’ll go on the road with us.” His look turned to a glower. “But unless you guys get changed and out on that field in ten minutes, you ain’t never gonna meet him.”

“You just shaved five minutes off the time, Skipper,” protested Sal Lopes, the team’s center fielder.

“That’s nothin’ compared to what I’m gonna shave off you if you don’t get your butts out on that field,” Sammy thundered, and the players scattered toward the clubhouse.