Samantha gave Jarrett a cool smile. “Well, it was nice to see you again, Mr. Corliss, but I have to get back to my office.”

She turned away, looking for the nearest exit, anxious to put distance between her and this too compelling man. He stepped close and stopped her, encircling her wrist lightly with calloused fingers.

“Not so fast. We’re just getting warmed up here.”

“The inning is over, Mr. Corliss. It’s time for you to go back to the bench.”

“Come on, Sammy, I haven’t even had a chance to throw one yet. Have dinner with me tonight.”

The question surprised her. The impulse to say yes surprised her even more. “Strike one, Mr. Corliss.”

“Didn’t I just put one right over the plate?”

“Sorry, no. That one was wild.”

“Tomorrow night, then.”

“No. Thank you, Mr. Corliss, but no.”

She tugged away from him, but he let her get only half-free. He ran a finger down her cheek and over her chin. The touch was so electric that Samantha’s hand tightened around his. All her good intentions vanished.

Dear Reader,

Having my very first book published by Harlequin American Romance has been a thrilling adventure! Thanks for choosing to read it; I’m glad you decided to join me.

The inspiration for this book came while watching a Little League game one warm spring day. Some of those nine-year-olds played so hard and so seriously. I wondered what happened to those boys as they grew up. Who would they become as young men? Would they still dream of hitting a home run or making a double play? And what would they risk to hold on to that dream? Their love for the game was so intense, what could possibly get in its way? And what about all those little girls who had dreams of their own? I had to know the answers to my questions, and Man of the Year began to unfold, as if the story was telling itself.

I hope you enjoy reading this book as much as I enjoyed writing it. Please visit me at www.lisaruff.net. And keep a watch out for my next book from Harlequin.

Happy reading,

Lisa Ruff

Man of the Year
Lisa Ruff

MILLS & BOON

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Lisa Ruff was born in Montana and grew up in Idaho but met the man of her dreams in Seattle. She married Kirk promising to love, honor and edit his rough drafts. His pursuit of writing led Lisa to the craft. A longtime reader of romance, she decided to try to create one herself. The first version of Man of the Year took three months to finish, but her day job got in the way of polishing the manuscript. She stuffed it into a drawer, where it languished for several years.

In pursuit of time to write and freedom to explore the world, Lisa, Kirk and their cat sailed from Seattle on a thirty-seven-foot boat. They spent five years cruising around Central America and the Caribbean. Lisa wrote romance, but it took a backseat to an adventurous life. She was busy writing travel essays, learning to speak Spanish from taxi drivers and handling a small boat in gale-force winds.

When she returned to land life, she finally revised Man of the Year and sent it to an agent. Within a year she had a contract from Harlequin American Romance.

She and her husband are cruising on a sailboat again somewhere in the Atlantic Ocean. When not setting sail for another port, she is working on her next Harlequin romance.

For Kirk.

I could not have done it without you.

Thanks for giving up Maine.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter One

Samantha took a deep breath and unclenched her fists as she neared the wide blue doors. Relax, it’s just another job. But this was not just another job, at least not like any others she’d had. The doors were closed, but the scent of the locker room slipped past them and wafted around her. Male sweat, liniment and antifungal remedies teased her nose, growing stronger with each step. At the doors, her guide, Peter Brinks, stopped and cleared his throat.

“Here we are.”

She answered with a smile she hoped showed cool assurance. Beyond these doors was a male sanctuary where few women ventured. Few were allowed. Samantha was one of the lucky ones. Or unlucky, depending on how things went today. The thought made her fists clench again. She chided herself: it was only a locker room—no big deal. She had seen a man naked before, right? This was her job and going in there was part of the deal. She squared her shoulders and uncurled her fingers, but sweat coated her palms. She had to admit the truth to herself: an entire room full of naked men was a daunting prospect.

Peter opened one of the doors and poked his head inside. “Hey, guys. Cover up,” he yelled in warning. “I got a lady coming through.”

The laughter and chatter swelling out of the room ebbed for a moment. Peter waited, his head still around the edge of the blue door. Samantha smothered a laugh. He was as nervous as she was about all those naked bodies she might glimpse. Finally, he stood back, opening the door wide for her.

“Everything looks decent in there now, Miss James.” Peter chuckled as he ushered her through the door. “At least as decent as it gets in this place. Right this way.”

Peter led her through a maze of wood benches and metal lockers enameled the same shade of blue as the two front doors. A fine mist hung in the room, courtesy of the hot showers, and the smells were even more pungent inside. The wintergreen of liniment combined with acrid sweat made Samantha’s eyes sting. She tried not to stare as she passed the athletes in various states of undress. It was not easy. They were so large and…and muscular. The steam from the showers glistened on rippling biceps and washboard stomachs. Drops of water slipped down powerful chests and into the curling hair spread there. It was no different from being at the beach, she told herself. But she knew that was a lie. These men were professional athletes. They were paid—and paid well—to keep their bodies in top condition. Her uncontrollable fascination embarrassed her, though not enough to stop her from sneaking glances. This was better than any beach she had ever visited.

The men watched her pass through their midst with just as much curiosity—and, it seemed to her in some cases, with as much embarrassment. After all, it wasn’t every day that a woman strolled through this male domain. But Samantha expected to spend much more time here in the future, so they had better get used to her. She would have to get used to them, too. Peter led the way through the maze of maleness to a glass-walled office on one side. As she followed him into it, Samantha’s attention settled on the matter at hand. She widened her smile and stuck her hand out confidently.

“Coach Cummings, I’m Samantha James. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

JARRETT CORLISS WAS ONE of forty players that watched the woman weave through the room. Unlike some of his teammates, he was not embarrassed to be clad in only a damp towel, slung low across his hips, while a beautiful woman walked past. He was curious, though. The slim, graceful redhead had caused a hush to fall over the normally raucous room. More than one head had swiveled to follow the gently swaying hips beneath the navy-blue suit. And since they were looking in that general direction, they gave her legs a thorough assessment, too: long, luxurious legs encased in silk that looked like they lasted forever.

The fiery mane of hair wrapped into a neat roll at the base of her neck caught Jarrett’s eye first. He scanned down the rest of her body and back to her face, where his attention locked. From across the room he could see her straight nose, arched eyebrows and clear, peachy skin. What color were her eyes? They must be green to set off that hair. Jarrett narrowed his eyes, squinting as he did during his wind-up on the mound. What would she look like without the stiff business suit, he wondered. Just how far did that peachy skin go?

Jarrett absently rubbed his right shoulder, running his hand over the ridge of scar tissue as he stared at her back. And just how did a woman like that fit into management’s plans? With all the changes around the club, he wouldn’t be surprised to see them walk an elephant through this place. A woman made him more wary. He rubbed his shoulder harder and figured he would find out soon enough.

“Shoulder bothering you, Corliss?”

Jarrett turned to the pitching coach. “It’s a little stiff. A few more workouts, it’ll be fit as a fiddle,” he replied with a sure wink.

The coach didn’t smile in return. “Give it a good soaking in the whirlpool. And don’t overwork it.” Before Jarrett could answer, the coach was interrogating another pitcher.

Jarrett grimaced. Was the guy joking? As if he would take chances at this stage of recovery. He tried not to let the burning in his shoulder affect his temper, but the coach’s trite advice, coupled with the annoying pain in the joint, ate at him. There was not one inning, not one single practice, when someone wasn’t doubting him or fretting over his pitching or his shoulder. Well, let them worry. The satisfaction of proving them all wrong in the end would be worth the pain now.

In his better moments, Jarrett understood why everyone was skeptical. He could be as realistic as they were. Maybe more so. Few teams wanted to take a chance on a pitcher recovering from rotator-cuff surgery. When the injured pitcher was already twenty-eight years old and there were dozens of other hungry, younger arms begging for a chance, why bother with a has-been? But Jarrett had recovered, or at least he was on his way. He had proved himself a few times in practice this last week, so the coach’s fussing irked him. It also spurred him to work harder, to put more speed in his fastball, more curve in his slider, for himself and for the team. Mostly for himself. The Rainiers were his last hope.

And if the Rainiers were his last hope, he was theirs, too. The team was in deep trouble. Management denied it fervently to the sports reporters and even to the players, but a persistent rumor said the team would be sold before the end of the season and moved to some other city. He rubbed his shoulder again.

Jarrett knew the Rainiers’ troubles were precisely the reason they had plucked him as a last-chance free agent. The team’s owner, Andrew Elliott, needed a winning season, but couldn’t afford the best pitcher in the world. He also didn’t have time to groom a new pitcher. So like any desperate owner strapped for cash, Elliott had gone bargain hunting and found Jarrett, injured but full of potential, experience and skill. So while Jarrett was not exactly the Rainiers’ best hope, he was the best hope they could afford. He was realistic about this. Even grateful. They were taking a chance on him. He would give them everything he had, which might be a considerable contribution if his shoulder held up. And if not? Well, best not to think of that.

Coach Cummings blew a short, sharp blast on the whistle that always hung around his neck. Every head snapped to attention, including Jarrett’s. Alongside the coach stood the peachy-skinned redhead.

“Men, I want to introduce Samantha James. She’s with Emerald Advertising. The club has hired her and her company to promote our team and maybe get a few more citizens into the stadium when we take the field.” All eyes that weren’t on her already shifted to look at Samantha. No one bothered looking at the coach again. “I’m going to bring her around and introduce her. She would like to speak with each of you personally, since—”

“Honey, you can get as personal with me as you’d like,” a voice called out from the back of the room. The remark was accompanied by a loud snap that could only have come from the elastic of a jockstrap. The words and the snap brought a burst of laughter from the rest of the team.

Jarrett watched to see how the redhead, Samantha, took the teasing. He thought she would either wither and crawl under a rock, or storm out and threaten to sue the whole bunch of them for sexual harassment. He saw her crane her long, slender neck to find the perpetrator.

“Well, honey,” she said, a faint smile on her lips, “the first thing I’m looking for is a spokesman in a TV commercial. A really loud one. You might just get the part.”

This comment raised another round of laughter. The redhead gave as good as she got, without ruffling any feathers. Jarrett’s admiration reluctantly rose a few notches. Sexy as sin and a sense of humor: the woman might be dangerous.

“All right, listen up!” the coach yelled over the raucous banter and hooting that had resumed. He paused for a fierce glare at the players. “As I was saying before I was interrupted, Ms. James would like to meet all of you—God only knows why. So cooperate with her and try to act your best for a change.” As soon as the coach finished speaking, the noise in the locker room went back to its previous high decibels.

Jarrett watched discreetly as Samantha moved from one player to the next. The coach performed introductions. She seemed to be joking with each guy, if the smiles and laughter were any indication. She was even getting along with the worst chauvinists on the team. Such a sweet little thing, she was. Pretty as the dew on a honeysuckle vine, as his daddy in Oklahoma would say. Too bad sweet things got chewed up and eaten in this locker room.

She and Coach Cummings circled the room, starting at its far end. With each handshake and burst of small talk, those long, gorgeous legs took one more step toward Jarrett. He had to admire her poise. The only woman in the room, she seemed indifferent to the state of dress—or undress—of the men with whom she shook hands and talked. He glanced at his own towel and decided to leave it. Besides, he couldn’t very well drop it to the floor with her in the room. Or could he?

SAMANTHA PUT ON HER best business smile and gave each player a firm, confident handshake. She asked questions, tried to remember each name and laughed where appropriate. All the while, her head swirled with ideas for an ad campaign. Each man put on a show for her benefit, unknowingly fueling her creative process. Teasing comments flew, but they were never aimed directly at her. Their quips were saved for one another, each one trying to insult the other better than he had been insulted. Their jokes told her volumes about each man. Her anxiety had nearly disappeared, and she began to worry less about being the only woman here as her hope grew. This might not be such an impossible job after all. With the right hook, a good spin and a few flashy graphics, the public would love every single player—even if they didn’t think much of the whole team.

The Rainiers were a challenge for any advertising firm. With a string of losses and a host of scandals, their public image was at rock bottom. Before meeting these men, when she had first won the dubious honor of promoting them, she had wondered about the chances of increasing ticket sales. And her own chances at helping them do it. Now before her was a room full of boys pretending to be professional athletes. It was comical, even touching. They wanted so much to be liked, respected and admired. It seemed hopeless. Yet she had to come up with an idea that would capture the very jaded hearts of former fans and regain some of their lost loyalty. The Rainiers’ future was at stake. So was hers and her company’s.

Her mind wandered off on another tangent. Maybe she could use the idea about little boys playing baseball. It would make a cute, humorous TV spot, something endearing that would show their innocent, earnest side. While considering this, she found herself standing before a tall man. He was clad only in a towel, which draped around his lean hips precariously. That towel drew her eyes as well as her imagination. She stopped thinking about the appeal of little boys in TV commercials and started considering other appealing possibilities. As she stared at the towel, the tall man reached down and tightened the damp cloth to fit more snugly. The white terrycloth barely left enough room for her imagination to work.

“Samantha, this is Jarrett Corliss.” Coach Cummings’s voice reached her ears dimly. “He’s a pitcher, one of our starters this season.”

“Pleased to meet you, Samantha.” His voice was deep and mellow, with more than a hint of a sweet, country drawl.

His hand reached out, and she unconsciously met it with her own. Samantha barely heard someone call to the coach from across the room, telling him that he was wanted on the telephone. The coach excused himself, but it was as if he had ceased to exist already. Everyone had. For Samantha, the steamy locker room had emptied except for her and this man in front of her. Her eyes crawled upward from the white towel, over the flat, tautly muscled belly to the broad chest scattered with curly, dark-blond hair. The corded neck and shoulders invited her touch.

Her gaze went farther up and finally met a pair of eyes. They dazzled her with the blue of a summer sky over a wide, endless prairie. The eyes were set in a sun-bronzed face, and a wave of hair the color of corn silk dipped over one arched brow. A dimple flashed beside the sculpted lips. The eyes had followed her deliberate stare as she made her way from the towel to look directly into them. Now those blue eyes twinkled with unabashed amusement.

Without a word, the man—she had forgotten his name already—took the same liberty. He was in no hurry, either. His gaze traveled slowly from the top of her head, down across her breasts, her legs and back to her face. She felt a prickling sensation on her skin where his eyes touched. She bridled at being gazed at so intensely and deliberately—never mind that she had committed the same crime just seconds ago.

Samantha struggled to retain her professional demeanor. Why did this man in a towel affect her so much more than the other half-dressed men? By now the clasp of their hands had strayed far from a polite greeting into something more intimate and dangerous. Realizing she was holding his hand, not shaking it, Samantha pulled back abruptly.

“Well.” Her tone was husky, reaching for brisk firmness and failing. “It’s nice to meet you as well, Mr.—” she said, fumbling for his name.

“Jarrett. Jarrett Corliss.”

“Right. Mr. Corliss.”

“Just Jarrett,” he interrupted before she could say any more. “Mr. Corliss is in Oklahoma getting ready for this season’s crop of peppers and tomatoes.” A slow grin came to his lips. “I always thought Dad had it bad, sittin’ on a tractor all day in the sun. But standin’ around in a towel meeting beautiful women is a whole lot hotter and sweatier work than plowin’ up a field.”

His voice had lowered, and the words steamed in Samantha’s ears, hot with meaning and suggestion. His eyes were trained on hers. Their laughing sparkle invited her to share the joke. She could feel the heat—the heat that came from their blue depths as much as his bare torso.

“If it’s that unpleasant in here, you ought to take a nice cold shower,” she suggested. Samantha stepped back a pace, but he moved with her. He was deliberately trying to throw her off balance.

“And take off my towel?” His glance flickered over her once more in swift appraisal. “Is that what you want?”

Samantha got a grip on herself. Her immediate attraction to this man’s physical presence was undeniable. She felt it down to her bones. But she didn’t intend to let that get in the way of her job. She smiled coolly.

“It would be a fabulous publicity shot. But not suitable for our target market.” Before he could take her up on the offer to pose naked, she changed the subject abruptly. “So, you’re the new kid on the mound.”

“Yes, ma’am. And real eager to work closely with you on publicity. Very close.” Jarrett’s lips curved into a smile that deepened the beautiful, mischievous dimple in his left cheek.

Samantha almost smiled at his persistent charm. His wide grin told her that he read her amusement. She ignored it and said crisply, “Good. We’ll need everyone’s cooperation.”

“Well, you let me know when and where you want me to cooperate, Samantha,” he drawled. “I’ll come runnin’.”

Whatever she might have said next was interrupted when a muscular arm suddenly dropped over her shoulders. Then a whisker-stubbled face smacked a kiss on her cheek.

“Sammy, what’s a nice girl like you doing in a dump like this?”

JARRETT WATCHED IN AMAZEMENT as the left fielder, the biggest, most obnoxious womanizer on the team, swooped down on Samantha and kissed her. Jarrett’s lips tightened as irritation washed through him. Boomer—nicknamed that because of his power hitting—was a jerk and here he was hanging all over this gorgeous woman. Jarrett silently cursed him.

He had been making progress with Samantha. Despite her cool replies to his bantering, she was attracted. There was nothing cool in her green eyes when she looked at him. They had burned his naked skin wherever they touched. She liked what she saw. Hell, if he ever got the chance to look at her wearing only a towel, he wouldn’t pass it up, either. Now Boomer had blown everything.

“So you had to make a personal appearance, Sammy,” Boomer teased. “What? Don’t you trust any of your flunkies to do the job?”

“Oh, I trust my employees. It’s you and your little friends here that I have misgivings about.”

Their banter was comfortable—familiar. Obviously, they knew each other well. They might not be doing this chummy routine to aggravate him, but that was the result. Jarrett ground his teeth. He watched with annoyance—and no small amount of envy—as Boomer curved an arm around Samantha’s waist, and gave it an affectionate squeeze.

“Yeah, you may not trust me, but you gotta love me anyway.” He gave Samantha another bold, bristly kiss, then turned to Jarrett. “Hey, Jarry. How’s the ol’ shoulder holding out? I hear you might have to pitch underhanded.”

Jarrett crossed his arms over his chest. Boomer thought himself a great comedian. “It’s fine. How’s your ol’ arm doing?”

“Great. Never felt better,” the left fielder replied and flexed the biceps in his free arm. “I’ve been knocking them out of the park.” Boomer turned his attention back to Samantha again. “Listen, Sammy, have you got a minute? I need to talk.”

“About what?”

Boomer flashed a glance at Jarrett. “Not now, you’re too busy. How about later, when you’re done here?”

Samantha’s curiosity was evident. “All right. I’ll try to catch up with you after I’ve finished.”

“Great!”

Boomer pressed another kiss on her cheek and walked away with a parting wave. Jarrett noticed how Samantha’s eyes followed him out the door.

“Known him long?” The question rushed out before he could stop it.

“Since we were in diapers,” she quipped. She wore a generous, teasing smile, as if she knew that this vague information would really goad him.

“I guess ‘Sammy’ comes from a long way back, too.” Jarrett tried to sound politely interested. To his ears, he failed miserably. He was surprised to see Samantha’s cheeks tint lightly in a rosy blush.

“Yes, it does. But you can call me Samantha.”

“Sure,” he muttered under his breath. “For now.”

Coach Cummings rejoined them, forestalling any further retort from Jarrett. “Sorry about that, Ms. James. That was Mr. Elliott. I see you’ve had more than enough time to size up Jarrett.”

“Yes, thanks, Coach. Mr. Corliss and I are finished.”

“He’s the last rat in the pack. Now, you wanted to take a look at the uniforms?”

“Yes, then the stadium.”

“Sure. Follow me.”

Before the coach escorted her away, Jarrett summoned a grin and winked at her. Boomer was gone and that was reason enough to smile. “It’s truly been a pleasure, Samantha. Call me when you need help with your sales pitch. Pitching’s what I do best.”

Her eyes flickered to his, but she looked away before he could catch a hint of her thoughts. She didn’t say another word, just walked out with the coach. Jarrett watched her until she was gone. You may be finished with me, he thought, but I’m not finished with you. Not by a long shot.

SAMANTHA FELT JARRETT’S EYES follow her every step out of the locker room. As the coach showed her the team uniforms, the costume for the mascot—a brown fuzzy suit that was supposed to resemble a marmot, but looked more like a man-sized rug—and gave her a tour of the stadium, she mused over Jarrett Corliss. Like most jocks, he obviously thought of himself as God’s gift to women. With his teasing blue eyes and that dimple, she supposed he had more than his fair share of baseball groupies. He would be popular with the young women who hung around the gates after practice or a game, offering their bodies to anything in a uniform. “Mitt-muffins,” Boomer called them. Jarrett probably took advantage of that willingness on occasion, too. Just like all the other players.

Samantha had yet to meet a baseball jock who would resist what a mitt-muffin offered. She supposed they saw it as their due, a perk of fame and success. But, to her, it was repugnant. She had tried to love a ballplayer once or twice and learned a bitter lesson. Let the boys have their fun: she would find a real man who played the game by the rules.

Which made her own starstruck gawking at Jarrett doubly embarrassing. What had she been thinking? She had acted like a groupie—or nearly as bad. No wonder he had flirted with her so outrageously. He was gorgeous, she admitted, but he was just one piece of her advertising campaign. Nothing more, nothing less. This was business, not some singles club. From now on, she would treat him like all the rest of the team. She would put his offer of cooperation to profitable use—though certainly not the way he intended.

She pushed Jarrett Corliss and his dimples to the back of her mind and concentrated on the tour Coach Cummings was giving her. She took copious notes as they walked to the dugout, stood at home plate and took a quick tour of the concessions area. Every new sight, every detail, added to the ideas swirling in her head. All the while, she peppered the coach with questions. When they completed the tour and the talk, Samantha had a feel for the inner workings of the Rainiers: how they practiced, who made decisions on and off the field, what they hoped to achieve and how, and what the biggest obstacles were to winning. She requested videotapes of recent practices and last year’s games. Cummings promised that he would get them to her office before the week’s end.

By the time they were finished with their tour, the team had dispersed from the locker room. Peter Brinks told her that Boomer had also left for the day. Whatever her brother had to say must not be that important. She bid goodbye to Coach Cummings and slipped through the wire-mesh gate to the parking lot.

The chilly wind and rain cut through her wool suit and she was glad to get inside her red BMW. She turned the heater up full blast and used the wipers to flick away the light mist on the windshield. The typical late-January weather made her long for spring. She skirted Pioneer Square, empty of the tourists that would flock there in summer. She loved this part of Seattle, the buildings all graceful relics of the past. Her car crossed Yesler Avenue, the original “Skid Row” where logs had been skidded down to the water, milled and shipped away to provide lumber for the world. As she drove, she puzzled over her encounter with Jarrett Corliss. Why had she been so taken in? The way he looked in a towel was undeniably sexy. What woman wouldn’t think so? But she ought to know better.

While stopped at a red light, the idea suddenly hit her. Of course! It was the perfect way to get people back into the stadium: sex appeal. She would scatter one or two good photos of the pitcher in tight jeans or a well-tailored Rainiers uniform around town on billboards or in the local magazines. Women would come in droves to see him. Some of his teammates might have the same sex appeal. She knew her little brother would love the idea of strutting his stuff for the camera. Fill the ballpark with women, and the men would quickly follow. The picture of Jarrett wrapped in a towel merged with the players acting like little boys. Pieces of a commercial started to fall into place in her head. The light turned green. Samantha hit the accelerator and sped toward her office.

Chapter Two

Samantha rushed in out of the rain and walked briskly to the elevator. The brass hand in an arch above the doors pointed at the number ten, slowly dropped to nine, then stopped. She waited, staring at the ornate brass curlicues on the door in front of her without actually seeing them. Her mind was still on the commercial for the Rainiers. A few minutes later a soft chime sounded, and the doors opened. An old man in a burgundy uniform with gold braid carefully held the door for her to enter.

“Hello, Ted.”

“Good afternoon, Miss James. A fine day we’ve got, don’t you think?”

Samantha grinned at the elevator operator. “With rain and wind like this, you can say it’s a fine day?”

“Oh, well, it’s Seattle. If this isn’t a fine day, then it’ll be a while before we have one.”

Samantha laughed. He was right. With all the rain in Seattle, they had to appreciate days when it only drizzled. Ted pulled the door closed and shifted the lever to “up.” With a clank and a slight wheeze, the ancient elevator rose slowly to the twelfth floor. The Smith Tower, the oldest high-rise in the city, had its quirks. This elegant brass relic of an elevator was one of them. But Samantha loved the old building. Much taller skyscrapers rose all around, but they seemed like polished, characterless monoliths in comparison. Since 1913, the tower had outlasted both developers that coveted the land it occupied and earthquakes that tried to shake it down. Now, quirks and all, it was an intrinsic part of the Seattle skyline. It was also the perfect home for Samantha’s company.

The car jerked to a halt, a foot above the twelfth floor. Ted patiently shifted the lever up and down, joggling the car closer to the same level as the floor. Samantha waited just as patiently, though she would have been happy to hop down the short distance. The elevator was Ted’s pride and joy, and Samantha respected his need to do his job perfectly. He opened the brass gate and waved Samantha on her way.

“Thanks, Ted.”

“My pleasure, Miss James. You have a good day.”

Walking down the short hall, Samantha opened the door into her corner of the advertising world. On the front end, Emerald Advertising looked like any other business. Muted rose paint on the walls and furniture upholstered in navy and plum greeted the visitor, an image of tasteful yet understated affluence. At the large mahogany reception desk, phones rang quietly and were answered graciously. The lighting was also subdued, soft. Two equally inviting conference rooms, one large and one small, lay directly behind the reception area.

If Samantha knew anything about her business, it was that packaging made the product. Her clients had preconceived ideas of how a successful ad business should look, how it felt, smelled and worked. So, she gave them glass walls, a touch of brass and chairs with ample padding: the plush trappings where deals could be made in comfort. The front office looked spacious and gracious, as Samantha liked to say, with enough room to stretch out your checkbook.

Behind this formal front lurked Emerald Advertising’s messier, creative side. A three-quarter-height wall of frosted glass separated one half from the other. Occasionally, this seamier side of the company slipped over the wall and broke into the respectable realm. While sitting in the waiting area, clients occasionally caught glimpses of objects flying through the air. These strange sights happened so suddenly that they were usually dismissed as figments of the imagination—indoor UFOs. After all, mature adults did not throw things in an office, did they?

Samantha greeted the receptionist. Debbie smoothly put one caller on hold while simultaneously routing another call back to Pam at her desk.

“Brenda pulled your messages when she got back from lunch. I’ve put most of your calls through to her this afternoon.”

Samantha thanked her and walked behind the wall into “Never-Never Land” as her employees called it. Most of the back half of the business had no walls, cubicles or other hindrances to carve up the space. Only Samantha’s corner office was enclosed. The walls were frosted glass for an illusion of privacy, but her door was nearly always open. Illustrators and copywriters were free to toss ideas back and forth—or erasers, spitballs or rubber bands, if the whims of creativity so required it. The front office decor flowed back to this area, but in a more lively fashion. Where the entrance to Emerald Advertising inspired business, the working area inspired creativity. The colors were bolder and brighter, the energy level higher.

The clutter in this creative room was terrible, which was mostly Samantha’s fault. She encouraged her employees to hang personal art, current projects, comic strips on the walls—anything pertinent to their work, and things not so pertinent, whatever generated fresh ideas and imaginative thoughts. It was an idea factory where slogans, logos and images for products from detergent to auto parts were crafted. The waste from this process littered the tables, desks and floor.

One of four walls was entirely devoted to Emerald’s competition. Ads for lingerie, espresso, software, oil-and-lube service and more were plastered one atop another. Comments were scribbled across them. Just above eye level to the left was a small banner that read Worst. To the far right was a similar banner with Best. Under these headings were the ads that had won either award that week. For each ad pinned to the wall, Samantha wanted a critique. Did it succeed in promoting the product? Why did it fail? How could Emerald do it differently? How would they do it better?

Better was always what Samantha wanted from her company, her employees and herself. Because of this, Emerald Advertising had earned a steadily increasing reputation for fresh, offbeat campaigns in the marketing world. It was a reputation that Samantha worked hard to cultivate. Staying on the cutting edge of advertising was a continual challenge. That’s what made the work so interesting. In time, Samantha hoped to turn Emerald into one of the leading advertising firms in the city—and the nation. The contract with the Seattle Rainiers was a critical step toward fulfilling that dream.

She stopped to greet Stuart and Lane, one of her best creative teams.

“How’s it going, guys?”

“Pretty good, Ms. Boss-lady,” Lane answered playfully. “We’ve got the storyboards ready for Big Snot Auto Parts. I think they’ll go for it.”

Samantha laughed at Lane’s irreverence. “Good. When do you meet with them?”

Stuart answered. “Next Tuesday.”

“I’d like to see what you’ve got planned.” Samantha glanced at the clock. “Not this afternoon. How about first thing tomorrow morning?”

The two men agreed, and Samantha moved on to her office. She smiled, thinking about Stuart and Lane. As a creative team, they worked together beautifully, though she sometimes thought that they shared the same mind. Often you’d ask a question of one, and the other would answer. Or one would finish the sentence that the other had started. Nice guys, but odd—perfect for advertising and her company.

As she went through the door to her office, Samantha noticed a short, blond spike of hair peeking over the top of her blue swivel chair. Those pale spikes could only belong to Brenda Miller, Samantha’s right-hand woman. Brenda kept Samantha’s world organized. She followed the progress of current projects, passed on the information she thought needed to be heard, and filed the rest for future use. Samantha was certain Brenda could do at least seven things at once. Besides all that, Brenda was Samantha’s closest friend.

“Hey, what is this? Some sort of coup?” Samantha teased. “I’m gone for two hours, and you’ve already taken over.”

“Samantha!” Brenda spun around in her boss’s chair, ignoring her teasing. “How did everything go? Did you meet the team?”

The question was laced with more excitement and zest than Brenda usually mustered for business. She and her husband, Craig, a lawyer, were dedicated Rainiers fans. She had made Samantha promise that she would get autographs of any new players for Brenda’s collection.

“It was fine.” Samantha dropped her briefcase to the floor and perched on the edge of the desk, flipping through the mail piled on it.

“Come on, Samantha,” Brenda begged. “Fine cannot describe a trip to a locker room full of half-naked, gorgeous hunks of male flesh.”

Samantha laughed. “Why do you think they were half-naked?”

“Wishful thinking.”

Samantha chuckled at Brenda’s wistful look. “Well, I might have noticed one or two that were wearing less than the regulation uniform.” An image of Jarrett Corliss wrapped in a damp towel popped into her mind, as if it were a jack-in-the-box that had wound itself up, springing into her head unannounced. Samantha blinked, pushed the image back into the box and slammed the lid tight.

“What do you mean? Or should I say who do you mean?”

“No one,” Samantha denied firmly.

“Bull. You met someone.”

Samantha shook her head. “I’ll tell you later. What’s happened here at the factory?”

Brenda allowed the subject change without comment. “Running wild and crazy as usual. If there are any problems, everyone seems to be handling them on their own and not sharing them with me.” She levered herself out of Samantha’s chair with some effort. “Boy, that gets harder to do every day.”

Samantha reached out and helped her friend to her feet, steadied her, then patted the protruding stomach. Six months pregnant, Brenda had started to waddle a bit. “Junior giving you problems today?”

“Only when he does a tap dance on my bladder.” She sighed. “Now, the urgent mail is on the left, the not-so-urgent is on the right, the important messages are here, I fielded the rest. You want a cup of coffee?”

“I can get one myself. I thought the smell made you nauseous.” Samantha sat and looked over the piles Brenda had indicated.

“Not anymore,” Brenda said with a grimace. “Now cat food, that makes me green.” Both women laughed at that.

“Then, yes, thank you. I’d love a cup. And if you’ve got time, I’d like to go over the material I picked up at the Rainiers today. I think I have a campaign just about figured out.”

“Jeez, you’re quick. Stuart and Lane will be disappointed. They want to come up with all the brilliant ideas.”

Samantha wiggled her eyebrows and did a poor imitation of Groucho Marx. “I had a lot of inspiration while I was there.”

Brenda groaned. “Okay, I’ll get my notepad and the coffee and be right back.”

Samantha pulled a thick file from her briefcase. She took an envelope of photographs from the file and went to the large worktable just outside her office door. Around her, activity buzzed. Stuart and Lane took turns shooting a foam basketball through a hoop over the windows. Samantha didn’t ask what that had to do with auto parts. A printer hummed, spitting out paper. Carol hunched over a computer, composing a layout. Somewhere in the back Pam argued on the phone.

Samantha spread the photographs out before her on the table. Eight-by-ten headshots mingled with the “action” poses that she had always found corny. She pulled out the headshots and lined them across the table. Players were identified by name across the bottom of each photo. Other personal data, vital statistics and averages were listed on the back. None of the official information said much about the individuals. Samantha recalled her conversations with the players: their jokes, their quirks, their stories all came back to her.

“So this is the new team.” Brenda peeked over Samantha’s shoulder. “Here’s your coffee.”

“Thanks.”

“Not bad.” Brenda picked up a photo. “Hey, this is José Alvendia. He used to play for Houston. Craig and I wondered what had happened to him. He used to be really good.”

“Let’s hope he’s still really good.” Samantha eyed the photo. “Between you and me, Elliott told me that this is the last chance he’s giving the team. If they don’t turn things around, he’s going to sell it.”

“What? I thought the city had a contract with him for two years.”

“No, only one year is guaranteed. The second year depends on this season’s revenues.”

“You think they can do it? Pull the club out of the toilet, I mean?” Brenda knew as much or more about the team as anyone, and the skepticism was evident in her tone.

“I don’t know. Elliott’s put some money into getting players. About half of these guys are new this year.” Samantha waved at the spread of photos with her coffee cup. “But your guess is as good as anyone’s whether they can pull it off.”

“Well, that could either mean new energy, or too many egos to make a team work together.”

“Exactly.” Samantha sipped her coffee thoughtfully. “But for better or worse, we’ve got to shove our personal doubts aside and assume they’ll succeed.”

Brenda eased herself onto a chair at the side of the table. “Maybe we should just stick to auto parts and bookstores.”

Samantha eyed the photos as she pondered Brenda’s words. Not only had the Rainiers been rock-bottom in the league, they’d also managed to bring just about every scandal swirling around the club: drugs, drunk driving, bar fights. One player had even been caught having an affair with the mayor’s wife.

“Well, at least the problem players have either been suspended indefinitely or left the team,” Samantha said, thinking aloud.

“Or they’re in jail.”

“Don’t remind me. It’s been four months since the end of last season. If we hit the public with a whole new image, play up the bright future the team has, I think we can win the fans over.”

“So what’s your big idea, boss?” Brenda sipped the glass of water she held. “How’s the rookie ad-lady going to save the day?”

Samantha perched on the edge of the table, facing Brenda. “Try this one: When I was talking with some of the players, I had this flashback to grade school. Do you remember at recess, the boys would try to outdo one another with jokes and tricks when they were around the girls? They’d do all this silly stuff just to get our attention and we ended up thinking they were just that—silly?”

“Yeah, and the weirdest ones always turned out to be the guys you dated in high school,” Brenda said with a laugh. “So how does this sell a baseball team?”

“What if we play on that image to reintroduce the team to the public? Especially the new ones. Set up a series of commercials with the players shown as boys. Take them through childhood when they’re on the playground to adulthood in the stadium. Each guy would have some particular talent that revealed itself at an early age. Or maybe it’s just a quirk that has followed him through life that makes him good at what he does now.”

“You mean like the naughty boy throwing a rock that breaks a church window?” Brenda asked. “In the next spot, he’s the team’s star pitcher.”

“Exactly. That’s a good one.”

“What about the print ads and the billboards?”

“We could use stills of each player, showing a parody of them as a kid, then as an adult. You know, a photo of a kid breaking the church window, then a still of the actual player winding up for a pitch.” Samantha felt the seed of the idea blossoming in her head. “We can use the new faces on the team. The old ones, too. Introduce all of them so it’s like there’s a completely new ball club. We give the customer the feeling of getting to know the team from day one. How a new era of great baseball got started. Or, at least a new season.” Samantha finished with a shrug.

Brenda sat for a moment sipping her water. “This has promise, boss. You’re good. But I’m still thinking about those half-naked men. What about them?”

“What half-naked men?”

“The half-naked men that gave you that glazed look a little while ago? You said you’d explain later. It’s later now.” Brenda was watching Samantha with wide, guileless eyes.

Samantha was not fooled. “Hmm. Think you’re pretty smart, don’t you?”

“That’s why you hired me.”

“I haven’t quite figured out where the half-naked men fit into the picture, but I have my target.”

“Who?”

“Jarrett Corliss.”

“The pitcher with the bum shoulder? Why him?”

Samantha sorted through the photos and pulled one from the mess. “This is why.” She handed it to Brenda.

Brenda took one look at the blond, blue-eyed man and whistled her approval. “My, oh my. He was with Arizona a while ago, wasn’t he? I wondered what happened to him.” Brenda shot an inquiring look at Samantha, then added, “Well, his shoulder may be toast, but the rest of him has sure improved with age.”

“Brenda, I am telling you the complete and honest truth—this man is the best-looking thing in a damp towel that I’ve ever seen in all my twenty-eight years.” Samantha pointed her finger at the other woman. “And that opinion is never to be mentioned outside of this conversation.”

Brenda had a steadily widening grin on her face. “That good, huh? He’s the reason for your glazed, dreamy look?”

Samantha had to smile. “Well, he did kind of…pop into my head unexpectedly.”

The two burst into laughter that had a decidedly wicked ring to it. Others in the office glanced up to see what the joke was, then went back to what they were doing after deciding that it was private.

Samantha wiped the corner of her eyes. “He’s also the…what do I want to say? He’s the smoothest man I’ve ever met.” She felt her blood sizzle from the memory of Jarrett’s bold appraisal. “He’s from somewhere south—”

“Oklahoma,” Brenda supplied, looking at the back of the photo she held.

“Oklahoma, then. He has a drawl and entirely more charm than what’s good for him.”

Brenda laughed. “Sounds like you’ve got a thing for the man in the towel.”

“No way, Bren. No ballplayers. Never again. You know that.”

“It’s been a long time, Samantha.” Brenda looked at her friend directly. “Just because he plays baseball, doesn’t mean he’s going to run around on you.”

“Whether he plays baseball or not, he’s not going to get the chance.”

Brenda shot her an exasperated look. “Those were boys, Sam. These—” she waved a hand at the photos arrayed on the table “—are men who know what mitt-muffins are like and what they want. Not every guy in the league is only interested in empty sex.”

Samantha snorted. “Yeah, and I’m the Queen of Sheba. The mitt-muffins are just the tip of the iceberg, Bren. It’s the ego I can’t stand. Every player I ever met acted like he’s God’s gift to the universe. That hasn’t changed much from when I was a kid, hanging out at Boomer’s high school games.” Samantha looked at Jarrett’s picture, then turned it so the handsome smile was directed at Brenda. “This guy’s got an ego as big as them all. Maybe bigger.”

“You know that after meeting him just once?”

“Oh, yeah, that came through loud and clear.”

“But he still turned you on,” Brenda added smugly.

“I said he was sexy, not that I was interested in him.”

“I say go for it, Sam. If he’s as sexy as you—”

“You know I can’t, even if I did want to,” Samantha interrupted. “I told you what Elliott said.”

“He can’t tell you who you can and can’t date,” Brenda said.

“Sure he can. He holds all the cards. At least as far as the team is concerned.”

“You think he’d cancel the contract because you went on a date with a player?” Brenda was incredulous.

“I don’t know if he would cancel, but he could make our lives very difficult,” Samantha said, serious now. “I can’t—I won’t—take the risk of finding out how far he’s willing to be pushed. I do know Elliott was dead serious when he said he didn’t want any trace of scandal around the team.”

“I suppose you’re right.” Brenda sounded doubtful.

“I know I am. We need this contract much more than I need a date with some smooth-talking, sexy farm boy from Oklahoma.”

“It’s your call, Sam.”

“Exactly, and I don’t want anything that smells even vaguely suspicious getting back to Elliott’s nose. Besides, I get enough of baseball from Boomer. More, I don’t need.”

“Speaking of which, what are you going to do about him?” Brenda shuffled the pictures and came up with Boomer’s. “What’s his bit in all this?”

“Nothing special. I treat him just like any other player. He knows that and so do I. Elliott didn’t seem to think there was a problem, as long as we both knew that there would be no special treatment. I told him about the connection, but it turns out he already knew. Thanks to Boomer.”

“He told him?” Brenda asked, surprised. “Why would he do that?”

“Little brother didn’t want any blotch on his career because I was bidding on the team’s ad contract.”

“Huh? I don’t get it.”

Samantha shrugged. “That’s how he explained it. As it turned out, I may have gotten the contract because of my connection with him, at least indirectly. Elliott said that my knowledge of baseball was one thing that tipped the scale in our favor.”

“That and being low bidder.”

“Well, his budget is tight this year, so that worked to our advantage as well.”

Samantha was philosophical about why she had beaten other, more prestigious firms for the high-profile job. In the end, all that mattered was that she knew her team could do the work as well as, or better than, any other firm. She had convinced Elliott of that. And her spiel to him was not merely boastful, hopeful words. Samantha would not have taken the contract if she did not think Emerald was right for the job and that the job was right for Emerald.

The size of the project was a bit daunting for a small company, though. The firm would be responsible for not only the advertising, but also a new logo, uniform design and colors. Caps, buttons, bumper stickers, giveaways—the list was endless. They would set up interviews for the players at local radio and television stations. The budget ran into the millions.

To handle all this work, Samantha had to turn away numerous smaller jobs, some with clients that she hated to lose. In the past, those small jobs had been the company’s bread and butter. The contract with the Rainiers would usurp all their resources. If Emerald succeeded, it would earn national exposure. Other corporate clients would notice the small company from Seattle and come courting. Samantha’s fledgling firm would fly to a higher altitude in the ad business. With that flight would come money and prestige.

And if they failed? Samantha had not thought much about that possibility. Without consulting her accountant, she knew her business could not afford to lose. If Emerald failed to show Mr. Elliott a healthy return on all his advertising dollars, it would be stretched pretty thin, maybe too thin to recover. Nothing like putting all our eggs in one basket, Samantha had thought when she signed the contract.

“So, Bren, this is the big one. Let’s get started. I want to schedule a kickoff meeting with everyone on Monday. Afternoon is best.” She gathered up the photos.

Brenda jotted a few more notes on her pad of paper, then boosted herself out of the chair. “Right, boss. I’ll set it up.”

Samantha dropped the photos in the center of the mess on her desk. As if by magic, Jarrett’s picture slid out of the pile. He smiled up at her.

“Wipe that cocky grin off your face, Jarrett Corliss,” Samantha warned the man in the photo as she tapped his nose with the eraser end of her pencil. “I’ve got plans for you.”

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