Triple Score

Knowing the score...

Prima ballerina Noelle Nelson needs to recover from her injury and return to the stage. She won’t consider failure...or be distracted by baseball’s resident bad boy, Jace Monroe. His tattoos, wicked smile and deliciously athletic body might drive her crazy, but a media frenzy is the last thing this good girl needs.

Jace is sick with fear that his own injury will never heal, but he’s not about to let anyone notice, especially the gorgeous blonde dancer he loves to infuriate. He’s pushing himself past his physical capacity, putting his future at risk. Still, when it comes to making a play for Noelle, Jace is in scoring position—and he’s not going to back down!

Who says he has to be Mr. Right? What’s wrong with Mr. Right Now?

The world had narrowed to three things: Jace’s mouth, Noelle’s fingers and the half a cookie clutched between them.

His breath mingled with hers. “Are you ready?”

In a heartbeat, the cookie vanished from her hand and her index finger was drawn into the warm, wet vortex of his mouth. He worked his way down to her pinkie, tormenting each finger in turn with his lips, teeth and tongue until they were sucked clean.

Oh. My. God.

“I’m still hungry.”

She glanced at the tin in her lap. “There’re more cookies.”

“That’s not what I’m hungry for.”

Jace plucked the tin of cookies off her lap and set it down on the bench behind him.

“I think you know what I want...”

Dear Reader,

Finally! You met the baby of the Nelson family, ballerina Noelle, in Triple Threat. Now, three books later, she gets her own story in Triple Score.

Things aren’t all rosy for poor Noelle. She’s torn her ACL, a possible career-ending injury for a ballet dancer. So she’s holed up at an exclusive rehab center focused on one thing and one thing only—following her treatment plan and getting back onstage ASAP.

Enter bad-boy baseball player Jace Monroe. He’s ruptured the ligament in his elbow—again—and he needs to get better fast so he can rejoin his team, the Sacramento Storm, as shortstop. But unlike Noelle, Jace isn’t a by-the-books kind of guy. He’s willing to break the rules of rehab to get what he wants. And what he wants is to play baseball—and tear down the walls the elusive, alluring ballerina keeps putting up between them.

I’ve loved my time with the Nelson family, and I hope you have, too. Sadly, Triple Score is the last in The Art of Seduction series. But you’ll get the chance to catch up with all of the Nelson siblings in the epilogue. And you might get to see at least one Nelson pairing in one of my upcoming books for Harlequin Blaze. Remember Malcolm and Marisa from Triple Threat? Well, it looks as if they’ll be getting their own story, a Christmas book tentatively titled Six Pack Santa.

But first you’ll get to see more of Jace’s pals Cooper and Reid. So play ball!

Until next time,

Regina

REGINA KYLE was destined to be an author when she won a story contest at age eight with a touching tale about a squirrel and a nut pie. By day, she composes dry legal briefs. At night, she writes steamy romance with heart and humor. A lover of all things theatrical, Regina lives with her husband, teenage daughter and two melodramatic cats. When she’s not writing, she’s usually singing, reading, cooking or watching bad reality television.

For Diane. My only sister, my first friend. I hope you read this under the covers with a flashlight and no one catches you and tells you to go to sleep. And that you like it as much as you did Flat Stanley. W2T, 143.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

Dear Reader

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

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

Epilogue

Extract

Copyright

1

“THAT’S IT, JACE.” A female voice, thick and smoky, drifted through the closed door. “Perfect.”

A low, male moan followed. “Feels good.”

“Not too hard. Just a little more.”

“Oh, yeah.”

Noelle Nelson froze, one hand on the grip of her crutch and the other inches from the door marked “Physical Therapy.” The room was usually empty this time of night. But the couple in there clearly had a different kind of therapy session in mind.

Ewww.

She lowered her hand. Her nightly stretches would have to wait. She might not be able to do much with a torn knee ligament, but she’d be damned if she was going to let herself go. When her leg healed and she got the green light to dance again, she’d be ready. More than ready.

Noelle tightened her fists around the rubber crutch grips, fully intending to swing herself around and hobble back to her room. That was the right thing to do. Not lean in and press her ear to the door. But morbid curiosity wouldn’t let her leave without at least trying to figure out who the heck was in there. Maybe she could pick up a few pointers. It’d been a while since she’d gotten any action. Not that anyone at the rehab center had sparked her interest. No one had visions of mixing it up on the massage table dancing in her head.

“That’s far enough.” The woman’s voice pitched higher.

“Come on,” the man cajoled.

“Stop, Jace. I mean it.”

“Just a little further. I promise.”

“I said no.”

WTF? Noelle pressed closer to the door, straining to hear better. No more protests. No sounds of a struggle. Just clanking metal, like someone was using the free weights.

What in God’s green earth was going on in there?

She reached for the doorknob again. A little peek. That was all she needed to make sure the woman, whoever she was, was okay. Then she could walk—or limp—away with a clear conscience.

Noelle inched the knob to the right and pushed the door open a hair, then a bit more. Damn. Still not enough to see anything. She risked discovery and cracked the door open farther, leaning forward on her crutches to see far enough into the room to spot the mysterious Jace and his gal pal.

Finally, she caught a glimpse—two heads bent next to each other, one fair, one dark. She leaned in, holding her breath. One of her crutches wobbled. She grabbed at it, her pulse accelerating, but it slipped out from under her and clattered to the floor.

“Shit.” Teetering, she reached for the closest thing to her—the door—to steady herself. Instead, it swung open and she tumbled through the opening. Trying to muster as much dancer’s grace as she could, she threw down her other crutch and thrust out her hands. They met the scratchy indoor-outdoor carpet of the physical therapy room with a jolt, blessedly taking the brunt of the impact. She collapsed in a heap, her injured leg, in a brace from mid-thigh to just below her knee, extended out behind her.

“Shit,” she repeated, slowly raising her head and absorbing the scene in front of her. No strewn clothing. No naked bodies. No show of force. Nothing even remotely sexual or threatening. Just Sara, one of the therapists on staff, hovering over a man sitting on one of the exercise benches, all his energy focused on what looked to be a five-pound weight clutched in his fist.

And what a man.

Even with a brace from the middle of his upper arm to his wrist, Noelle could sense the power in his tattooed bicep. She’d spent her life being lifted and thrown by dancers toned and strong from intense, daily workouts. But they were more on the lean side. This guy was built like a linebacker, muscle on muscle on muscle. His tank top clung to his broad chest with well-defined pecs and his gym shorts hugged thighs he’d clearly spent hours bulking up with squats and lunges. Sweat beaded at the back of his bent head, dampening the thick, dark curls at the base of his neck, and he radiated a not-so-quiet determination.

“Ohmigod!” Sara’s shout broke Noelle out of her lust-induced stupor. The therapist rushed over to her, moving immediately to kneel beside her. With practiced hands, she manipulated Noelle’s injured leg, feeling up and down the brace. “Are you okay?”

“I think so.” Noelle struggled to sit up. “Nothing hurt except my pride.”

“Everything seems in place.” Sara nodded reassuringly. “You’re lucky.”

Right. She’d just fallen flat on her face in front of the only guy to get her hormones to wake up and do the cha-cha since Yannick had dumped her in front of the entire company six months ago. Six lonely, sex-starved months. Real lucky.

“Don’t move. Let me get an ice pack in case it starts to swell.”

“I’m fine, really,” Noelle insisted. “I don’t want to interrupt your session.”

“We’re through here.” Sara stood and shot Jace a warning look before crossing to the door. “Right?”

He shrugged and looked up, giving Noelle her first glimpse of eyes the color of fine, aged whiskey, tinged with what looked like concern. “If you say so.”

“I do. I only agreed to stay late so you could get acclimated to the facilities here, not work yourself to death on your first day.” Sara ducked into the hallway and Jace appeared in her place at Noelle’s side, all six-foot-something of him occupying the air above her in a way the tiny therapist never could.

“Lose something?” He held Noelle’s crutches out in front of him. Any concern she’d seen in those whiskey eyes had morphed into amusement.

“You could say that.”

“I just did.” He handed her crutches.

“Thanks.” She grabbed them and tried—unsuccessfully—to get to her feet. Normally, she wouldn’t disobey a direct order from her PT. And you didn’t get more direct than, “Don’t move.” But she had to get out of there and away from Mr. Tall, Dark and Dangerous. Fast. Well, as fast as she could in her present condition.

“Hang on.” The man in question reached down with his good arm and took hold of her elbow. Arousal zinged down her forearm to her fingertips. “Here. Lean on me.”

She shook him off, needing the tingles to stop. Six months celibate or not, she hadn’t flown across the country for a casual hookup, no matter how hot she found the hook-ee. She was there for one reason and one reason only—to get back on stage as soon as humanly possible. “I’m perfectly capable of managing by myself.”

“I’m sure you are.” His fingers curled around her elbow again and damned if the tingles didn’t start anew. “But why should you have 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. Painful. “Great. I’ll be back at short before you know it.”

“Not until next season.” A note of caution crept into Cooper’s voice. He and Jace were part of the trio the press dubbed “the most lethal double play combo in the major leagues,” and he’d always been the level-headed one. “The good, the bad and the ugly,” a reporter had called them. Cooper was the “good,” Jace the “bad” and first baseman Reid Montgomery, with a jagged scar across one cheek that made him look a modern-day pirate, the “ugly.”

“I know. I heard the damn doctors.”

“I’m sure you heard them. But are you actually going to listen for a change?”

“Who appointed you my goddamn keeper?”

“It was either me or Reid.” Jace could hear the smile in his friend’s voice. “And he’s got some new chick he’s into, so...”

Jace chuckled and reached down to grab the water bottle he’d stashed under the bench. “Say no more. Let me guess. Tall, blond and drop dead gorgeous, with an IQ only slightly higher than her waist measurement.”

Cooper’s answering chuckle echoed over the phone. “Bingo.”

Like the Duchess. Except for the IQ thing. Jace could tell from her quick barbs she had more going on upstairs than Reid’s usual companions.

Beauty and brains. A dangerous combination.

Jace took a gulp of water and swirled it around in his mouth before letting it trickle down his throat. “So what’s the deal? You still coming out here for the All Star break?”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world. Think they’ll let you out for a day or two?”

“I don’t see why not.” Jace sipped the water again and closed his eyes, letting his head fall back. “As long as I’m a good boy.”

“You?” Cooper scoffed. “Not likely.”

“I can be good,” Jace insisted. “When I want to be.”

“Which, unfortunately, isn’t often.”

“Did you call to harass me or was there something you wanted?” Jace chugged the last of his water and wiped his mouth on his good arm.

“To harass you.”

“Mission accomplished.” Jace stood and stretched. “I better go. Rumor has it they get pissed around here if you’re not in bed by ten.”

“Are you at rehab or summer camp?”

“Both.” Jace bent to pick up the weight. “I’ll call you in a few days. Kick some ass for me in St. Louis.”

“You bet.”

Jace ended the call, returned the weight to its place on the rack and headed back to his room. Once inside, he flipped on the light switch and stared, open-mouthed.

“What the hell?”

The bed had been empty when he left to meet Sara. Now one of those inflatable love dolls lay sprawled on top, her cherry-tipped breasts pointed straight up at the ceiling and her ruby red mouth in a permanent O. A cardboard box sat between her open legs. On one side, the words For Your Enjoyment: Handle With Care were printed in bold, bright blue marker. No return address, but the postmark was from Chicago, where the Storm had finished up a recent road trip.

Jace flicked open the utility knife on his key chain, sliced through the packing tape and began pulling out items one by one. A box of condoms. A tube of Astroglide. He kept digging. The damn thing was packed with enough sex toys to keep a rowdy bachelorette party whooping it up for hours.

Cooper and Reid’s warped idea of a care package. They’d probably paid some gullible orderly a fortune to do their dirty work. Or maybe offered him box seats the next time the Storm were in Phoenix.

“Very funny, assholes.”

The corners of Jace’s lips curled into a smile in spite of himself. It was funny. Though God only knew what the staff would think when they came to clean in the morning.

He started chucking stuff back in the box until all that was left was the doll. No way was she going to fit, not in her present state. And he sure as hell wasn’t leaving her like that. With a sigh, Jace opened the valve.

Nothing.

He picked up the doll and squeezed it. A long, slow whoosh of air escaped from the valve. He squeezed again. “Come on, baby. Give it to me.”

A shrill, female squeak from behind him made Jace turn toward the door, the doll still in his arms.

“Sorry.” Noelle leaned against the door jamb, almost as if her crutches weren’t enough to keep her vertical. Her porcelain cheeks tinted red. “Again.”

“Back for some more covert operations?” Jace loosened his hold on the doll. “Has anyone ever told you your timing sucks?”

“Maybe it’s not my timing.” Her eyes traveled from him to the doll and back again. “Maybe it’s your...libido.”

“Very funny.” He smiled in spite of himself. She was smart, sassy and not in the least bit intimidated by his tattoos or his attitude or his fame, like so many women. “You know there was nothing going on between me and Sara.”

“That doesn’t explain you and...” she wagged a finger at the doll “...her.”

“A practical joke from a couple of friends.”

“Some friends.”

He threw the doll onto the floor and stepped on it, squashing one plastic boob. The air came out in a hiss, and he continued to flatten the doll with his feet.

“You’re going to pop it.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Do I look like I care?”

“You never know. You might need her for...something.”

“Like I said, I’ve never been that hard up for female companionship. And I don’t plan to start now.”

“From the way things looked a minute ago, you could have fooled me.”

He stopped his rhythmic stomping to stare at her. “Was there a reason for this late-night visit? Couldn’t sleep? Lonely? Miss me, maybe?”

Her face flushed an ever deeper scarlet. “Sara said I should apologize for spying on you guys.”

He rolled his eyes. “Not much of an apology if she’s making you do it.”

“I’m here, aren’t I?” she huffed. “And no one’s holding a gun to my back.”