Diamond in the Rough

Mike heard the incredulous note in the other man’s voice. Lance was the one with an ego, not him. “No, of Steven Shaw.”

The man nodded and Mike expected him to drop the matter. Lance looked down his nose at anything more physical than finding the seat numbers on his theater tickets. But apparently the man did absorb a few things that went on around him. He actually knew who Steven Shaw was.

“They’re a small but steadfast bunch. Loyal to the end, so I hear. I thought they might come out of the woodwork after your little Steven-Shaw-should-rot-in-hell-for-all-eternity piece.” He ended the pronouncement with a smug smirk.

“I didn’t say that,” Mike protested. “I just said that, if we reconsider our stand and put him in the running for the hall of fame, then we’ve surrendered our standards. We’d be setting a terrible precedent and a bad example for the younger fans.”

Lance raised his hand in defense. “Please, spare me. I don’t need to have you quote the entire article for me. I assure you, I get the gist.” Lance paused, then added, “And, as a matter of fact, I quite agree.”

That stunned Mike. He couldn’t remember when he and the other man had agreed on anything.

“What I don’t agree with is your actually meeting with this so-called ‘fan.’ At least, not without taking some pepper spray with you. Did it occur to you that this woman might be deranged? Of course,” he added, “anyone who’s so rabid about sports has to be a little deranged as far as I’m concerned.”

That made up Mike’s mind for him. “Thanks for your concern, but I can take care of myself.”

The smirk on Lance’s lips widened and the theater critic shook his head as if to say, Poor fool. What he did say was, “I take it you never saw Misery.”

That would be the movie about the fanatical fan, Mike thought. “As a matter of fact, I have. If this Miranda comes into the bar carrying a hatchet, I’ll be sure to duck out the back.”

Lance’s eyes narrowed, but there was still evidence of contempt. “It might very well be too late by then.”

Mike shrugged. “I’ll take my chances,” he said, before getting back to his notes for his next day’s column.

And so, approximately five hours later, Mike found himself securely planted on a bar stool, nursing a warm glass of beer and watching the door. But every time it opened, someone other than this so-called Miranda— who called their kid Miranda, anyway?—entered.

His beer was almost gone.

He’d arrived ten minutes before six, preferring to be early so that he had the advantage of observing the woman when she crossed the floor. He wanted to size her up before they met face-to-face. No woman he knew—other than Kate—was ever anything but late.

He glanced at his watch. Six o’clock on the dot. Dollars to donuts, she wasn’t going to show, he thought, taking another sip of his beer. Setting the mug down, he ran a thumb over his lips to eliminate any residue suds. He’d give her fifteen minutes, then leave.

When an older woman walked in alone, Mike was sure he’d found his challenger. She looked at him for a long moment, her eyes traveling over the length of his body as if he were a tall, frosty glass of ice water and she were newly arrived from the desert. And then, after a slight hesitation that appeared to be tinged with regret, she continued walking right past him.

Damn, he didn’t have time for this. After draining his glass, he set it back down on the bar with finality. He really did need to get going. He hadn’t finished his article and there was still that packing to do. He never liked leaving things until the last minute. He never knew when he might need that minute for something else.

Preoccupied, he didn’t feel the hand on his arm, didn’t realize there was anyone standing beside him until he turned right into her. And bumped up against possibly the firmest soft body he’d ever encountered. Thrown off guard, Mike took a quick step back.

The apology was automatic, as were the manners ingrained in him from a very young age. “Sorry, didn’t see you standing there.” Wow, she was hot and he tried not to stare. It had been a while since he’d witnessed such a perfect combination of body and face. “My gorgeous woman radar must be down.”

“Right along with your common sense, I see,” the woman countered. A hint of a smile curved her lips. Or maybe that was just his imagination. “That line doesn’t really work, does it?”

“It’s not a line,” he assured her. Very few women took his breath away. After all, this was Southern California, where more than a preponderance of beautiful women existed, many of whom held down “other” jobs in Hollywood. But this one was definitely in a class by herself. “Just an honest observation.”

She looked at him for a long moment. He almost got the impression she was staring straight into his mind.

“Like all your other observations?” she finally asked.

Was that a smirk on her face? Why? They didn’t know each other. God knew he would have remembered meeting a woman who exuded what he could only term as barely harnessed sexuality. Her long blond hair was bound up with a few pins. He had a feeling if he pulled them out, like in one of those old, hokey, grade B movies, a storm of swirling blond curls would tumble down and all but overwhelm her face. He usually liked sleek hair, but on her, he would have bet his soul that curly would look damn good.

Almost as good as those curves beneath the sensible navy blue jacket and matching pencil skirt.

For some reason, he caught himself thinking of one of those fantasies, the ones that started out with a refined, scholarly looking woman who, with a little bit of coaxing, turned into a smoldering tigress.

He definitely needed to get out more.

The way she watched him made him feel they knew each other. But how? He would have remembered her, no question.

“Do I know you?” he finally asked. Although it was tempting, he didn’t add that he knew he wanted to know her because that, too, sounded like a line. A pitiful one.

Miranda deliberately took her time, enjoying that he obviously felt at a disadvantage. Her eyes slowly swept over the journalist. It was something she’d learned from observing her father. With every pitch, SOS had taken his time on the mound, sizing up the batter each and every time, unnerving him as he mentally selected just the right pitch to throw and bring the batter down.

Rather than saying no, or drawing the moment out, she ended his quandary and replied, “I’m Miranda.”

Like a drawbridge that had its chains severed, Mike’s mouth dropped open. His eyes widened as he stared at her in disbelief.

“You’re Miranda?” So much for intuition, Mike upbraided himself. Unless this woman had an amazing plastic surgeon on retainer, she wasn’t any older than about twenty-five.

Amusement highlighted her face. She enjoyed catching the man off guard, although she wasn’t exactly sure why he looked as surprised as he did.

“Yes, I am.” Her line of work had taught her to go straight to the heart of the matter when it came to getting answers. “Just what were you expecting?”

The image of a fanatical groupie chasing after Shaw in orthopedic sneakers instantly disintegrated. How had the man managed to attract someone so young into his camp? She was too young to have watched many of his games.

“Not you,” he replied honestly.

The words seemed to emerge out of his mouth in slow motion. Which happened to be the exact speed of his brain waves. This was an unusual predicament for him. Competition for jobs as a sportswriter was close to cutthroat. His lightning-fast brain—with a tongue to match—was what had landed him the position at the Times to begin with. So just how did one drop-dead gorgeous female negate all that without even trying?

At any other time, Miranda might have been flattered. It had been a long time since she’d found herself in a social position, a long time since she’d been on the receiving end of a compliment. Test tubes and analytical data tended to be silent. But this was the man who had seen fit to mount a crusade against her father. Which made him unlikable, no matter how pretty his blue eyes were.

“Baseball fans come in all sizes and shapes,” she informed him and then tried not to respond as she felt his eyes drift over her. His gaze couldn’t have been more intense if he were measuring her for a thong bikini.

“Obviously,” he murmured.

And they did, he’d be the first one to say that. It was just that he’d had a preconceived notion of what she, SOS’s champion, would look like. He’d met a few of SOS’s fans, the ones who continued to stick by him despite the betting scandal. This Miranda was far too young to be a fan. And yet, he thought back to the heated e-mail exchange. She was definitely a fan. But it made no sense to him. Most people Miranda’s age didn’t even know who—or what, for that matter—SOS was.

He realized suddenly that he had completely forgotten his manners. Kate wouldn’t have been happy with him. Rising to his feet, he gestured toward the other end of the room, where round tables and chairs were sprinkled about. “Would you like to sit at a table?”

Miranda gracefully planted her seat onto the stool beside his. “This is fine.”

Mike sat down again, acutely aware that as he took his seat, his body was captivatingly close to hers. And that the room had become several degrees warmer.

He began to raise his hand to signal the bartender. “What’ll you have?” he asked.

Miranda didn’t miss a beat. “An apology would be nice.”

Mike dropped his hand down again before the bartender looked his way. Turning on his stool, Mike studied the petite, intense woman beside him. It wasn’t only the reporter in him that was curious about her, but it made for a good start.

“Your dad an SOS fan?”