Kiss Me, I'm Irish: The Sins of His Past / Tangling With Ty / Whatever Reilly Wants...

Oh, God, why doesn’t he call? How could he have been so sweet, so loving, so tender? Was it all

an act?

There was one more entry, but Kendra shut the notebook and tossed it on the table. The walk down memory lane was no pleasant stroll; the exercise had worked. She’d never meant any more to Deuce than Annie Keppler or any other girl in his past. Of course, since their paths were crossing again, being the professional player that he was, he hit on her tonight. One kiss in the dark. Another meaningless display of affection. He was just high on his packed house and she was the available female of the moment.

He had no idea how their one night of pleasure had ruined her entire life. Evidently, Jack had never told Deuce his sister got pregnant and had to drop out of Harvard. Even though her brother had stuck by her and was still close to her, Jack had been as embarrassed by her stupidity as her parents. And the father of her baby remained the closest-guarded secret in her life. She’d never told anyone. Not even Seamus, who had never, ever passed judgment on her. He’d just given her a job when she needed one.

Newman’s sudden bark yanked her back to reality, followed by a soft knock on her door. “Kendra? Are you still up?”

Oh God. Deuce.

She grabbed the red notebook and stuffed it into the first available hiding place, the softsided bag she took to and from work.

“What’s the matter?” She asked as she approached the door. Her voice sounded thick. How long had she been lying there, dreaming of Deuce?

“Nothing,” he called. “I wanted to give you back your key.”

Slowly, she opened the door a crack and reached her hand out, palm up.

He closed his fingers over hers, and pulled her hand to his mouth. The soft kiss made her knees weak.

“We made over a thousand dollars tonight,” he whispered.

She jerked her hand away and let the door open wider. “Get outta town!”

He grinned in the moonlight, holding up her set of keys. “I did that already. And now I’m back.” Stepping closer to the door, he whispered, “Can I come in and tell you about what a great night it was?”

How could he have been so sweet, so loving, so tender? Was it all an act?

She swiped the keys dangling from his hand. “No. Just leave these on Diana’s kitchen table in the future. I’ll be sure you can find them on my desk at the end of the day.”

Then she dug deep for every ounce of willpower she’d ever had and closed the door in his face.

Something she should have done a long time ago.

DEUCE LACED HIS fingers through the chain-link fence that surrounded Rock Field and sucked in a chest full of his favorite smell. Freshly turned clay and recently mowed spring grass. A groundskeeper worked the dirt around the mound, raking it to the perfect height for a six-foot pitcher to slide some fire in the hole.

He didn’t have to be at the bar for another hour or so for his second full night of operation. All day long he’d fought the urge to go to Monroe’s and find Kendra to see what she really thought of his success the previous night. At the same time, he fought the urge to make a trip to his old stomping grounds.

Eventually, he lost one of the fights, and drove the short distance to Rockingham High, knowing that he’d probably arrive on a practice afternoon. In April, every afternoon was practice.

His elbow throbbed as he tightened his grip on the metal, pushing his face into the fence as though he could walk right through it. Come to think of it, he could walk right through it. All he’d have to do is whistle to the groundskeeper, who’d amble over and ask what he needed, assuming he was a parent or even a scout. Deuce would introduce himself, and watch the man’s face light up in recognition.

Deuce Monroe? Rockingham High’s most famous graduate? Well, get on the field, Deuce!

He heard a burst of laughter and turned to see half a dozen lanky high-schoolers dressed in mismatched practice clothes, dragging bat bags. One balanced three helmets on his head, another circled his arm over his shoulder to warm it up.

Somebody swore and more laughter ensued; one boy spat as they started unloading their gear.

After a few minutes of stretching out, some of the players took off for windsprints and laps. A guy who looked to be about forty, wearing sweats and a whistle, jogged onto the field. He eyed Deuce for a minute, then started calling out to the players.

Rick Delacorte, the only coach who’d ever known how to handle him, had retired last year after twenty years at Rock High. Deuce had stayed in touch with Rick, knew he and his wife had headed out to Arizona to spend their golden years in a condo strategically located within driving distance of the Diamondbacks’ stadium.

He couldn’t remember the name of this new guy, somebody Rick said had moved up from Maryland or D.C. to take the job. Deuce watched him needle a few players, sending some more for laps. A couple of catchers started blocking drills, and the infielders lined up for hit-downs and cut-offs.

An easy sense of familiarity settled over Deuce as he watched a few pitchers warm up for a long toss. In less than three throws, Deuce could see one of the kids limiting his range of motion. The new coach didn’t notice, and Deuce bit back the urge to call out a correction. Instead, he sat down on the aluminum stands. Just for a minute. Just to see how they played.

He only realized what time it was when batting practice ended, and the coach called for the last run. He was seriously late for the bar, but hell, this had been too relaxing. As he stood, the groundskeeper emerged from the afternoon shadows behind the visitor’s dugout.

“Excuse me?” the man called out.

Deuce acknowledged him with a nod.

“You lookin’ for someone in particular, son?”

“Just watching the practice,” he said, squinting into the sun that now sat just above the horizon.

The older man approached slowly, an odd smile tugging at his lips. “What do you think of the new coach, Deuce?”

Deuce started in surprise. “Do we know each other?”

The man laughed. “I know you, but you probably don’t remember me. The name’s Martin Hatcher and I used to be—”

“The Hatchet Man,” Deuce finished for him, taking the hand that was offered to shake. “I’m sorry I didn’t recognize you, sir.”

The former principal of Rockingham High laughed easily. “Well, I’m not as imposing with a rake in my hand as I was waving your pink slips.”

Deuce shook his head and chuckled. “What are you doing out here?” The juxtaposition of the feared and revered principal now in the position of field caretaker seemed preposterous.

“I’m retired, Deuce,” he said, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his pants. “But I volunteer here just like a lot of ex-Rock High teachers and staff. I still love the school, so I do what needs to be done. Last week, I worked in the cafeteria for a few days. That’s always a bit of an education in human behavior.”

Deuce took in the network of wrinkles over the familiar face, and the shock of gray hair. He’d done his share to add to the whitening of that head, he was sure.

“Don’t feel bad that you didn’t recognize me, Deuce. I’m not sure I would have known you, either. But I heard rumors that your own retirement brought you back to town.”

“Wasn’t exactly retirement,” he said with a grin. “More like lifelong detention.”

That earned him another hearty laugh and a pat on the shoulder. “You always could charm your way out of anything, Mr. Monroe.”

“I couldn’t charm the contract lawyer for the Nevada Snake Eyes.”

“Their loss, our gain. It’s just too bad it didn’t happen a season earlier.”

“Why? I had my best year last year.”

“Indeed you did. I thought you could have been a Cy Young contender.”

Deuce snorted. “Not that good.”