to when you’ve got a strong, almost completely healthy male to help?”
Indeed.
“Fine.” She swallowed, moistening lips suddenly drier than Arizona in August. “But watch out for the leg.”
“Your wish is my command.” He gave a mock bow, wrapped his good arm around her waist and lifted her gently, pulling her flush against all those warm, hard, beautiful muscles as she inched upward. He smelled like sweat and soap and strong, healthy male, and she fought the nervous shudder building up inside her.
This was a bad idea. No, not bad. Monumentally stupid. Like trapeze-without-a-net stupid.
“I’ve got it from here, thanks.” She stuck a crutch under each arm and stood as tall as her injured leg would allow. “I’d shake your hand, but I’m not too steady on these things.”
“You don’t say.” He crossed his arms in front of his chest and eyed her up and down, not bothering to hide the glint of raw appreciation in his gaze. “Explains why you fell through the door, landed on your ass and interrupted my workout.”
More like on her face, but she wasn’t about to correct him. Not when she was too busy trying to control her cha-chaing hormones. “I didn’t think anyone would be in here this late. I was planning on doing some stretches, but then I heard voices...”
“Eavesdropping?” A playful grin teased the corners of his lips. “Hear anything interesting?”
She pursed her lips. “If you must know, it sounded like you two were getting...intimate. And then Sara said stop, and you wouldn’t, so I thought she might be...in trouble.”
“In trouble?” A burst of laughter escaped him. “Get this straight, Duchess. I don’t have to pressure women to be with me.”
“I don’t imagine you do,” she muttered.
“So you opened the door for a little lookie-loo?” He waggled his brows. “I wouldn’t have pegged you as a voyeur. Kinky. I like it.”
“That’s not how it was.” She wobbled on her crutches, not sure whether to stay and continue what was turning into verbal foreplay or flee in search of Sara and the ice. Before she could make up her mind, he strode over to the weight rack, grabbed a ten pounder in each hand and began doing squats.
“Hey.” She shuffled a couple of steps forward. “Sara said you were through for the night.”
“She said we were through. And we are. I’m just doing a little leg work before bedtime. I don’t care what those quacks in Sacramento think. I’m going to be back by the start of next season, better than ever.”
“Next season?” She studied him. The shock of blue-black hair falling across his forehead. The full sleeves of tattoos, partially hidden by his brace. The logo of Thor brandishing a lightning bolt in one hand and a baseball bat in the other on his sweat-stained shirt. All of it clicked into place. “You’re that baseball player. Jace Morgan. The one who hit for the cycle in last year’s All-Star game.”
Not that she had a clue what that meant. But the way her brother Gabe and his buddy Cade had gone on and on about it, it had to be pretty extraordinary.
“It’s Monroe.” He switched to lunges. “Want my autograph?”
“Dream on.” What she wanted was him gone. She’d picked the Spaulding Center for Rehabilitation and Research because of its reputation for being discreet. With a star athlete like him there, the press was sure to come sniffing around. And just like that—poof—there went any shot she had of keeping her recovery on the down-low. The whole dance world would know where Noelle Nelson, prima ballerina of the New York City Ballet, had gone to mend her ruptured ACL. A dancer’s worst nightmare.
She tightened her grip on her crutches and headed for the door.
“Leaving so soon?” Jace’s tone was almost taunting.
Noelle clumped around to look at him. He was still lunging, his fine, firm ass squeezed tight, the muscles in his legs bunching and flexing with exertion. It was a second before she could remember what she was going to say. “Not every woman is susceptible to your charms.”
Liar, liar, pointe shoes on fire.
He stopped lunging to smirk at her. “So you admit I have charms.”
“I admit no such thing.” She huffed a stray strand of long, blond hair off her face. The man was as annoying as he was attractive.
Jace shook his head and crossed to the weight rack, where he exchanged the two ten-pound dumbbells for one twenty pounder. “The lady doth protest too much, methinks.”
“I do not—” She stopped midsentence, the irony of her words not lost on her, and reached down to scratch an itch under her knee brace. “Shakespeare?”
“Not all jocks are dumb.” He sat on the edge of the bench and started in on hammer curls with his good arm. So much for a little leg work. “There’s more to me than meets the eye.”
That was what she was afraid of.
“I think I could use that ice pack, after all. I’d better go see what’s keeping Sara.” She hobbled to the door.
“Hold up, Duchess.” Jace set down the weight with a clank. “You know my name, but I don’t know yours.”
“Sucks for you,” Noelle called over her shoulder without stopping her snail’s-pace escape. He’d find out eventually. Bat his too-long eyelashes and worm it out of Sara or some unsuspecting nurse. Until then, he’d have to be satisfied with Duchess.
Because Noelle had a mission. And a plan. And neither one included a bad-boy ballplayer with a panty-melting smile and a working knowledge of the Bard.
* * *
JACE FROWNED AND concentrated on the barbell in his hand, his reps picking up speed. He didn’t want to think about Duchess What’s-Her-Name and her ridiculous assumption that he was getting it on with his new PT. Or her legs that seemed to go on forever. Or the way her sweet little ass swayed when she hobbled out of the room. Who knew crutches could be sexy?
He had enough to worry about. He hadn’t taken a three-and-a-half-hour flight—commercial, no less—to let himself be distracted by a pretty face and an even prettier body. He was going to be back in a Storm uniform by spring training, playing the best ball of his life.
He lowered the weight to the floor with a grimace and leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees and staring at his reflection in the mirror. The guy who looked back at him had never been afraid of a little hard work. Hell, it wasn’t the first time he’d torn a ligament in his throwing arm. Been there, done that and he had come back in record time. But this time he’d needed surgery, and he’d be lying if he said the man in the mirror didn’t look a little scared.
The pocket in his gym shorts buzzed and he pulled out his cell, glanced at the screen and swiped his finger across, grateful for the interruption. “Hey, dude. Tough loss.”
On the other end of the line, Cooper Morgan, Sacramento Storm second baseman, swore. “Yeah. The close ones really suck. How’s the rehab going?”
Slow.
