Kiley’s wife and the circulation manager for the Herald. She was also, coincidentally, Prudence Trueheart’s best friend. Ellie and Sam had met at the paper and married just a year ago.
“I’m not curious,” Pete lied, pushing back from the cubicle. He laughed dryly. “Why would I be curious about Prudence Trueheart?”
“She has a real name, you know,” Sam said.
“Pierce,” Pete murmured. “Laura—or is it Nora? Or maybe it’s Nola. We’ve had a few conversations over the years. Once when I took her parking space, and another time when she accused me of stealing her stapler. I even kissed her once at a Christmas party. And I think I’m the only one in the sports department who reads her little memos. At least, before I rip them off the refrigerator door.”
He couldn’t really blame Prudence. As the San Francisco Herald’s only other syndicated columnist, she really didn’t fit into any of the other departments at the paper. Prudence was an orphan of sorts and had been given the only available office commensurate with her salary and her value to the Herald. That office just happened to be in the sports department, though both she and Pete were coveting a huge corner office about to be vacated on the other end of the floor.
Hell, she might have had more luck with her memos in Lifestyles. Or even at the city desk. But trying to whip a bunch of rowdy sportswriters and footloose photographers into a polite group of co-workers was a near impossible task. Still, she never stopped trying. Every month, she posted a new memo about office etiquette in the lunchroom; from refrigerator hygiene to coffeepot protocol, there wasn’t a rule of polite society that Prudence Trueheart didn’t try to enforce.
But the Bullpen was called the Bullpen for a good reason. And it wasn’t populated solely by bullheaded men. The sportswriters and photographers at the Herald, male and female, were an odd lot, stubborn and single-minded in their love of any and all sports—and in their distaste for common courtesy. To some outsiders, they might seem like a bunch of arrested adolescents. But Pete liked the laid-back atmosphere and the daily games that began the moment the noon deadlines had passed. They worked hard and they played even harder.
He pushed aside thoughts of Prudence Trueheart, chiding himself for bothering to waste brain cells on her, then turned his attention to today’s competition. On Thursday, they always played baseball. Other days it was hockey or golf or basketball. The diamond was laid out among the desks in the Bullpen, and a plastic ball and bat made the competition safe for windows and other breakable objects. Today, the competition would be against Sam Kiley and his motley crew of city beat reporters, easy marks for the money that was often wagered.
Glancing at the clock, Pete headed for the lunchroom to retrieve the ball and bat from a closet. As he grabbed the equipment, he glanced over at the refrigerator. A new note on crisp Herald stationery had been posted in Prudence’s precise style. He stepped over and scanned the text. “‘Property Rights for Food Owners,”’ he muttered. Apparently, Prudence had had some yogurt that had gone missing a few days back.
Pete grabbed the paper and crumpled it in his fist. “Bottom of the ninth, game seven of the series. The bases are loaded and the winning run is at the plate. Beckett steps up into the batter’s box and the crowd goes wild.” He tossed the paper wad up into the air, then swung the bat. Prudence’s memo went sailing across the room, hit the wall, then dropped into a wastebasket.
“Grand slam home run!” Pete held up his arms and bowed before walking out of the room. By the time he reached the Bullpen, the teams had assembled and were eagerly awaiting the start of the game. He tossed the ball at Sam Kiley and stepped into the batter’s box. “Loser buys the beers at Vic’s tomorrow afternoon,” he called.
Kiley let the first pitch fly, low and away, and Pete took a swing, connecting with the whiffle ball and sending a line drive across the Bullpen—and right into the open door of Prudence Trueheart’s office. An instant later a scream split the air, and Pete dropped the bat. The guys looked at each other and then at Pete.
He winced. “Hey, I didn’t do it on purpose. That was a perfect line drive to right field. Ramirez didn’t make the catch.” He pointed at the sheepish sports photographer. “Error,” he muttered.
Sam held up his hands in mock surrender. “You hit it, Beckett. You’re the one who’ll have to apologize.”
Pete cursed softly. The last thing he needed was to be verbally dressed down by Prudence Trueheart, especially when he’d so recently fantasized about her mouth. Maybe if he just ignored his faux pas, she’d write another memo. But then, they only had one whiffle ball, and the game couldn’t continue unless he ventured inside her office to retrieve it.
“I’ll go,” he finally said. He felt the same way he had as a kid, when Sister Amalia, his Catholic school principal, called him in to her office after he’d sent yet another wild pitch through the rectory window. “If I’m not out in five minutes, send a rescue party.”
He crossed the Bullpen and slowly approached the office door. When he peeked inside, Pete expected to find a glowering Prudence, pacing her office like a hungry tiger, ready to tear him to shreds. Instead, he found her sitting on the floor next to her desk, rubbing her left brow. He quickly bent down and touched her ankle. “Are you all right?”
She looked up through watery blue eyes and blinked. The moment her gaze met his, Pete’s lungs slowly ceased to function and breathing became impossible. He’d spent a fair amount of time speculating about the woman who occupied this office, but with her hair mussed and her glasses removed, he had to admit that she was much prettier at close range. Her complexion was flawless, her profile nearly perfect. Her full lips were parted slightly and her breathing shallow. She had a mouth made to be kissed, and kissed deeply—and had she been any other woman, Pete might have given it a try at that very moment.
Instead, he swallowed hard. “Nora,” he murmured, his gaze dropping to her long, shapely legs and her trim ankles. Her name was Nora Pierce. He’d always thought of her as Prudence Trueheart, but now, with the scent of her perfume wafting through the air and the heat of her skin beneath his palm, she didn’t seem much like a Prudence anymore.
Clearing her throat, she fixed her eyes on the spot where his hand rested on her leg, where his thumb idly stroked the inside of her ankle. Her gaze narrowed, and she picked up the plastic baseball and held it out. “Mr. Beckett. I believe this is yours.”
Pete forced a smile. He snatched his hand away from her ankle, then took the ball from her fingers, feeling as if he’d just stuck his hand beneath Sister Amalia’s habit. “Thanks.”
Her eyebrow rose every so slightly, disdainfully. “And?”
“And?” His mind raced. And what? Thank you very much? Was that what she was waiting for, some kind of superlative? He scowled, then glanced from the baseball to her cool glare—and the faint bruise growing beneath her eye. “Oh. And. And I apologize,” he ventured. “I’m sorry. Truly sorry.”
Her expression softened slightly, and he bit back a massive sigh of relief. “Thank you,” she said. “Apology accepted. And maybe next time you could close my door before you begin your game?”
“Um,” he murmured, letting his gaze drift over her body, taking in the buttons of her suit. They looked as if he could undo them in just a few seconds. Somewhere beneath that drab fabric was a woman’s body, and from what he could see, it didn’t deserve to be trussed up in such a conservative outfit. Pete clenched his fists and pushed the idea aside, returning his gaze to her face.
Nora rubbed her eye, then sucked in a sharp breath. As she tried
