...God, the way her body had fit against his…

At the bar, Catherine’s hot, dangerous curves had melted into Mark’s body as if he were concocted of wax, and she’d swayed in a sexy dance for a few moments before her senses—and inhibitions—returned. Damn inhibitions.

If she were any other woman, he would’ve been halfway up to her suite right then and there, but no. She had to be Rock Ramsey’s daughter, quite possibly the most respected female icon in sports today. He couldn’t very well ball her senseless.

Well, he could, actually, but he wouldn’t. Not that her position with major league baseball garnered her more respect than other women deserved, but… Damn it. He could overlook lots of things for an experience with a woman like that, but he couldn’t overlook her role in the MLB.

The moment he’d watched her teeter off to the ladies room—there was something indeed charming about a girl who looked like she could handle her liquor, but couldn’t—he’d decided to tuck her safely in bed, and give her nothing more than a wave from the field tomorrow. As impossible a task as it seemed, he’d leave her as untouched as his Great Aunt Buffy’s Hummel collection.

But now, after a few drinks more, she was leaning against the door of her third-floor suite, looking like a pin-up doll. Her chin pointed downward, as if she were studying the patterns in the carpeting, and disheveled hair spilled around her heart-shaped face like an ebony river. Her uptight businesswoman blouse was no longer tucked in evenly. If he’d looked, and heaven help him, he’d looked more than once, the graceful curve of her generous breasts taunted him from beneath the buttons.

Lick me, they seemed to say. Suck me good. Someone should, and he’d love to be the candidate. Unfortunately, there was no way to do so without her thinking he was sleeping his way to the top. Perhaps Catherine Ramsey-Hart was yet another reason to hang up his baseball hat. If he took his skills—or lack thereof—as a third baseman out of the equation, she might take him as seriously as he was contemplating taking her toes.

Her shoes weren’t on her feet anymore. She’d walked right out of one in the atrium, and he’d steadied her whilst she’d removed the other. Now, the pristine, two-inch-heeled sandals dangled from her hand. One of her feet, clad in snagged nylon, propped against the door, and all of her toes wiggled.

They, too, begged for oral attention, and so did her soft, ivory neck. The entire package was refreshing. Girls he’d been with recently were bronzed with sun, showed their bodies as if they wanted a leg-up on nudist colonies—ultra low-rise pants and cropped shirts. In recent years, he’d seen more ass-cracks on girls at the stadium than on plumbers.