Clutch Hit, Faith O'Shea [read along books TXT] 📗

here, and this will give you what you need.”

“And it will give you a room to sleep in while you’re with me?”

“Yes, but I didn’t know that.”

The bedrooms were a good size, with lots of light and offered a view of downtown.

“You did well, Alicia. I am happy to be here.”

The tinge in her cheeks was back and she backed out of the room, moved to the kitchen.

“I had food delivered yesterday so you won’t go hungry.”

“There are places that deliver?”

“Other than grocery stores? Yes, dozens. Is that what you’re planning?”

“Rique’s friend, Fiona, is good with ordering in. She told me I could get anything I wanted in the city.”

“I still can’t believe he’s been here less than a week and already has a girl friend?”

“It is not like that. Yet.” He graced her with a smile. “Although I believe he will see soon enough that she is good for him.”

“I wouldn’t count on that. His reputation precedes him.”

“It is ironic. He is planning to go to Brazil to find a wife. He thinks he needs to settle down, thinks that will put him on the straight and narrow. He’ll never find the right wife looking for her that way. Those meetings happen through coincidence. Just look at me.”

She ignored that and zeroed in on something else.

“Do Brazilian women look the other way when their significant others do the dirty with different partners?”

He wasn’t surprised by the question. He was beginning to get the impression that she had a

one-track mind.

“I don’t know the answer to that, but he is different than you might think. His family is close, and there is much love there. He will be looking for the same.”

Spending months with them in Brazil had given him an inside look into what a family could be, given the right circumstances

She chortled. “You’re kidding, right?”

“You find this hard to believe?”

“Very hard.”

“His sister is married to Reid Jackson. You have seen him do the dirty with someone other than Izabella?”

She shook her head. “No. He’s one of the good ones.”

He left her mulling that over, going to the refrigerator to see how it was stocked.

He all but gasped at the contents. It was full, the shelves and side compartments lined with all kinds of essentials. Essentials here. He would have none of this at home.

“What are all these things?”

He could feel her behind him, peering around his shoulder. “Staples. Milk, orange juice, creamer, water, beer, eggs, butter, jams and jellies.”

He opened a drawer to find all kinds of fruits, another to find meats and cheeses, still amazed at the amount of food at his disposal.

Left alone with his mother after his father’s abandonment when he was six, they had had to scrimp to survive. Only with his trips to Rotterdam, Australia, Canada was he able to make extra cash by selling the cigars his country was known for. The state would give the players boxes of them and if one had the right mind-set and personality, they could sell them on the black-market for spending money. He’d forced himself to become racketeer so he could buy his mother some of the things he thought she’d like.

Her voice was measured when she said, “I had some idea of what you liked and tried to guess at the rest. If there’s anything missing, let me know.”

He retrieved a beer, looked over and asked, “Do you want one?”

Her head was tilted while she studied him. He thought for sure she’d go scampering into her bedroom and close the door, but she surprised him.

“Seeing that I told you I’d keep you company tonight, we might as well hang out, so yeah, I do. Let me change first. Get out of this suit. Then I’ll join you.”

He watched as she retreated down the hallway. Her stride was back to confident and sure.

She didn’t scream femininity. There was no sashay, no sexy clothing, no flirtatious fluttering of eyelashes. She was all angles but with curves in all the right places. Her cheekbones were chiseled, her frame lean and athletic. He’d bet his life she worked out at the gym, ate healthy, and didn’t drink much even though she’d drunk heavily in Mexico. He’d also bet that was on his account. She’d been wired as she tried to make headway through the morass that was immigration, spending hours on phone calls to various international entities, negotiating for his release. The nights were spent drinking rum and tequila, in the hotel bar, discussing baseball rather than life. She’d complained that she was wasting her vacation time on worry and frustrated plans. He’d gotten to know very little about her, and she probably knew even less about him, the man, not the ballplayer. Tonight, he hoped to learn more.

He twisted the cap off the beer and took a swig. It was a brand he’d never heard of before, but it was good. Dark and bold. He glanced at the name again so he could commit it too memory. He’d order more as he needed.

He sank into the plush cushions of the white couch. He’d have to make sure he was clean when he came back here from practice. It wouldn’t take much to soil the material. He rubbed his hand against the soft surface, looked around again, still not believing that this was now his home. Far different from the four-bedroom wooden structure he’d lived in until he moved to Camagüey to play ball. It was generations old, built before the revolution, weathered, beaten down from the hurricanes, weathered, and neglected from lack of cash. They wouldn’t have that problem anymore. If his mother wanted to stay in Cuba, he could have moved her to Camagüey or Havana, where she could have led a good and prosperous life, but it was not what she wanted. She wanted freedom; the kind unavailable to them in his place of birth. She was the one who wanted a new lifestyle. He scanned the room again. She could never imagine such luxury, so