Lawless in Leather Read online

  Malachi Coulter’s bark might be worse than his bite but she had the feeling she didn’t want to really see him growling.

  She wasn’t sure that she wanted to see him in a good mood, either. Add a smile to the chiseled lines of that face and a girl might be in serious trouble, anti-bad-boy resolutions or not.

  The door to the office at the end of the hall was open. She took a breath and stepped into the doorway.

  Malachi was sitting at a desk, but his chair was turned to face a bank of monitors showing what she assumed was security footage of the ballpark.

  “I thought security offices were always down in the basement,” she said. “They are in the movies.”

  The chair swung back around to her. She tried to ignore the tiny curl in her stomach as she took in that face again.

  “Ms. Easton. Done with your practice?” Mal said.

  “For now.” She walked into the office, not waiting for his invitation, and put her bag down near the desk. She jerked her chin at the bank of screens, feeling a little bit of tech envy. She had security as good as she could afford at her club but that was still limited to cameras on the main floor, with a few others covering strategic points in the building and the entrances and exits. The twelve monitors behind Malachi’s desk each showed views from four cameras, and she suspected they rotated through even more than that. “Nice setup.”

  His eyebrows rose. “Just the key feeds,” he said. “Our main monitoring room is on one of the lower levels. Close enough to a basement, I guess.”

  “I can’t imagine having to run crowd control for a place this size,” Raina said. “Must take a hell of a lot of people.”

  “Yes, it does.” Malachi said. He tilted his head at her. “Security isn’t a subject I’d expect a dancer to know a lot about.”

  She shrugged. “Maybe I ran away with a rock band when I was a teenager and spent my formative years hanging out with roadies and security teams.”

  He shook his head. “According to your background check, you spent your teenage years in a number of different schools around the country until you landed in New York for Juilliard. Where you lasted a year before you started working on Broadway.”

  They’d done a background check on her? Well, she shouldn’t be surprised. Alex Winters wasn’t the kind of guy not to obtain all the information he needed. And Malachi didn’t strike her as any more easygoing. “Busted. No rock bands for me. Well, not the kind with arena tours. But dancers spend their lives in theaters and other venues. And these days, those come with security. I pay attention.”

  “I guess burlesque clubs come with security, too,” he said.

  “Yes, they do,” she said. So he knew about the club. And what she did these days. She waited to see what he said next. A lot of people assumed burlesque meant stripper. Mal said nothing. “But not like this,” she added, nodding at the monitors as she tried to figure out what silence meant.

  “That might be a good thing,” Mal said. Then he waved a hand at the chair. “Please, sit.”

  She waited for him to say something else, but he didn’t. Man of little words, this one. “So, you asked to see me?” she said as she sank into the chair. The dark brown leather was old and soft and she ran her hand over the arm, appreciating the feel of it. “Is there a problem?”

  “Just thought we should get things straight about the security protocol around here.”

  “O-kay.” She leaned back in the chair. “I’m sorry, no one told me that I had to do anything about security. I sent my practice schedule to Alex days ago.”

  “It’s probably still sitting in his in-box,” Mal said. “He’s been flying back and forth to Florida every other day with the end of spring training.”

  “So I should send it to you as well?”

  He nodded. “Then you’ll be in the system and we can leave passes for you all at the gate for next time.”

  She rummaged in her bag for her phone and then opened her contacts. Held it out to him. “Fine. Give me your email and we’ll be all set.”

  He took the phone. As his head bent as he typed, his hair fell forward over his face and she had another flash of Oh Lord, he’s attractive. In a perfect world he’d be giving her his details for a whole ’nother reason … but this wasn’t a perfect world, and she’d learned over the years that men like Mal were among the least perfect things in it.

  Damn it.

  “There.” He passed the phone back to her and his fingers brushed hers. Brushed and lingered. Just for a second or two. Then she pulled her hand back, resisting the urge to shake it to get rid of the tingle in her skin.

  “Thanks,” she said. “I’ll send you that schedule.”

  “Good. And I’ll send you where you’ll be practicing.”

  “What do you mean where?”

  “You can’t use the main field every time.”

  She sat up a little straighter. “Why not? It’s best for the girls to be familiar with where they’re going to be performing.”

  “Sometimes it’s not available. The ground staff will be doing things to the field or the team might need to use it. They’ll be back from Florida this week. Which reminds me, I’d appreciate it if you’d tell your dancers that the players are off limits.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You heard me.”

  “How about you tell your baseball players that the dancers are off limits?” she said. “In my experience it’s more likely to be the guys hitting on the girls, rather than the other way around.”

  Mal shrugged. “Well, in my experience when the guy comes with a nice fat bank account, that’s less likely to be true.”

  “You did not just say that,” she said. “You think that my dancers will be panting after your baseballers?” She had to admit it wasn’t entirely out of the realm of possibility; a couple of the girls on the squad were single. Still, in her experience, professional dancers were just that. Professional. They wanted to dance. And they wanted the paycheck.

  “This is Major League Baseball. Girls are always after the players.”

  “Poor things. Obviously they’re incapable of resisting the wiles of evil women?”

  Mal shook his head. “I didn’t mean that. I just meant it’s not unheard of for women to go after rich athletes for their money.”

  Raina narrowed her eyes. “This is New York. There are two other baseball teams in town where the guys are a lot better paid than the Saints players.” The Saints were just about the worst team in the league. She knew that much. Her mom’s dad had been a Saints fan.

  “True. But our guys are still earning more money than a lot of people. Things will be simpler for everyone if everyone just keeps their distance.”

  “Which brings me back to how about you give this speech to your guys. They can keep it zipped.” She was starting to think that she’d been right in her initial assessment. He was tall, dark, and grumpy. Which was a good thing, she told herself. It would make his exterior much easier to ignore if he was going to be cranky all the time.

  “Trust me, I will be,” Mal said.

  “Good,” Raina said. “I’ll tell the squad, too.” Her phone buzzed in her hand and she glanced down at the screen. Message from Luis. Damn. That meant something was going on at the club.

  “Something wrong?” Mal asked.

  She shook her head. “No. Just business.” She stood. “Was there anything else? I’m sure you have a lot on your plate.”

  He studied her a moment, dark eyes inscrutable. She wondered, because she was clearly an idiot, if she’d see any other colors in that very dark brown if she got up close. Which she wasn’t going to do. Ever. Though even as she thought it she felt the first tiny move of her muscles swaying toward him.

  Not going to happen. Dancer’s instinct saved her and she froze before she could make the movement for real. Feeling heat rise in her face, she took a step back, then bent to grab her bag again to disguise both the retreat and the blush.

  “Nothing else. For now.”
r />   There was a world of interpretation that could be made of those last two words and the deep rumble of the voice saying them. Her cheeks went hotter, and she forced herself to hang on to the most sensible version. That he really did have nothing more to say.

  She made herself smile as she straightened. Tried to look like she wasn’t thinking illicit thoughts. Professional—that was what it was all about. He’d made his views on dancers mixing with his team pretty clear, and no doubt those views extended to himself. No mixing business with pleasure.

  Apparently he didn’t take after his partner. Alex Winters was dating Maggie Jameson, the daughter of the former owner of the Saints. She still worked for the team. And, having met Alex a few times, Raina was damned certain it wasn’t his money that Maggie found irresistible. The man had charm by the bucketload. After all, he’d talked her into taking on this crazy job after he’d seen her at Madame R at a friend’s stag night. Convincing her that she was just what he needed to train a squad of baseball cheerleaders had taken a lot of charm.

  Maybe he should lend some of it to his partner. Then again, maybe not. The man had way too much dangerous charm of his own even when he was being cranky. Which meant the only sensible thing to do was to stay out of his way.

  Chapter Two

  Mal emerged from his office about an hour after Raina had left, in search of coffee and the latest update from the crew replacing the last few sets of security gates in the stadium.

  He passed by the reception desk and saw Sara typing something on a laptop.

  “Where’s Tora?” he asked.

  Sara looked up but she kept typing. “She had a half day. I said I’d cover for a while.”

  “You know you don’t have to do that.”

  She shrugged. “I like helping out. I’m flying Maggie back into Manhattan later. Did you need me to take you anywhere?”

  Mal shook his head. “No, I have my bike.”

  “You will go home tonight?” Sara nailed him with a disapproving look.

  Mal hid a wince. He thought he’d hidden the fact that he’d spent a couple of nights in his office lately from Alex or Lucas but apparently not. If Sara knew, then Lucas must know.

  “Yes, Mom,” he said.

  “Not your mom. Just an interested onlooker. The three of you are going to be burned out before the start of the season.”

  “Only a few more days. I think we’ll survive.”

  “I hope so.” Her expression softened a little. “What did you want with the dance coach?”

  “What?”

  Sara’s gaze sharpened. “The dance coach? Raina. You know, short, red hair, smokin’ bod. Was in your office about an hour ago? That one.”

  “Just a scheduling mixup,” Mal muttered. “I fixed it.” He tried not to think about the “smokin’ bod,” as Sara had so neatly put it. He’d been trying not to think about it since Raina had left his office.

  “She’s pretty,” Sara said.

  Pretty was not the word Mal would use to describe Raina Easton. Her face was too sharp for pretty. She was all cheekbones and dark angled brows above slightly tilted eyes that were somewhere between bronze and green and razor-sharp red hair sleeking around her face. Then there was the mouth. Curved and bowed in contrast with the straight lines everywhere else. Painted a shiny version of her hair color. He’d found it hard to look away from that mouth. Until she moved. Because when she moved—particularly when she walked—every last one of his male instincts went on alert.

  He’d watched the practice a little while longer from the safety of the stands after he’d spoken to her. In the sea of dancers, she’d been the only one he’d seen.

  Bad news.

  Alex and Lucas had both gotten themselves tangled up with women who worked for the Saints since they’d bought the team. He had no intention of continuing that trend.

  A woman was the last thing on earth he had time for.

  And a woman like Raina Easton? A redheaded, sex-on-legs, owner of a goddamned burlesque club of all things, firecracker? No. Just no.

  She wasn’t the sort of woman you’d get out of your mind easily if you let her in.

  So he wasn’t going to.

  “Hello? Earth to Malachi?”

  He realized he was still standing by the desk. Sara was looking amused.

  “Sorry, what?”

  “I said Raina’s pretty,” Sara repeated.

  He forced a shrug, and Sara’s smile widened. “I suppose. If you like that type.”

  “The hot-as-hell redhead type?” Sara said. “Don’t most men?”

  “Why are we talking about this? She’s not going to be here for long.”

  Sara frowned. “I thought Alex had hired the Fallen Angels for the season?”

  Mal fought the urge to roll his eyes when she said the name. He still couldn’t believe Alex wanted to use cheerleaders at their home games. Cheerleaders weren’t a baseball thing. But Alex thought they’d be good publicity, and he’d managed to convince Maggie to take his side; then the two of them had managed to convince Lucas as well. So Mal had been outvoted.

  “I doubt we’ll use them that long,” Mal said.

  “That doesn’t seem fair.”

  “Oh, we’ll pay them anyway,” Mal said. He wasn’t going to rip them off when Alex came to his senses and changed his mind.

  “Alex seems pretty set on the idea,” Sara said.

  “I’m sure he is,” Mal said. “But if it doesn’t go down well with the fans, then he’ll see sense.”

  “If they all look like Raina, then I think they’ll be popular with the fans,” Sara said.

  “We’ll see.”

  “Lucas said she owns a burlesque club. That’s pretty cool. Maggie and I thought we might check it out. Have you ever seen it? You live in Brooklyn, right?”

  “Yes. Not much time for burlesque clubs, though.” Not much time for any nightlife recently, in fact. He wasn’t entirely sure what burlesque was exactly. He had mental images of girls in corsets and fishnets and hairdos like old movie stars, but Alex had stressed that it had nothing to do with stripping.

  Not that it was any business of his what Raina Easton did with her life. Any more than it was his business imagining what she might look like in a corset.

  “You should come with us, when we go,” Sara said.

  He shook his head. “That sounds like a girls’ night out. Take Hana. Or Shelly.” Hell, anyone who was female and not him.

  “Chicken. I bet Alex would come with us.”

  “Then ask him.” If Alex had any sense he’d leave girls’ night alone too. Then again Alex was the one who thought the cheerleaders were a good idea in the first place, so apparently he had given up on sense for a while.

  * * *

  It was after ten when Mal finally left Deacon. At least working late meant there was no traffic to get in his way as he aimed the bike toward home. He liked riding at night, out on the road with fewer idiot drivers to get in his way. The only problem was keeping the Harley at the speed limit instead of opening it right up and indulging his taste for fast bikes. But he wasn’t out to kill himself or anybody else, and the last thing the Saints needed was the press having a field day because he’d been stupid enough to get a ticket. So he held it down and let the roar of the bike and the rumble of the road beneath him clear his head.

  By the time he reached the streets of Brooklyn he was more relaxed but also more awake than he’d been when he’d left Staten Island. The thought of going back to his apartment and crawling into bed had lost its appeal. He steered the bike through the streets, not sure what exactly he wanted to do. Once upon a time, this itchy feeling would have been easily solved with a bar and a drink and a willing woman to take his mind off things. But his taste for wild lost nights died three years ago.

  And lost nights weren’t a habit he wanted to reacquire. He’d worked through the grief now. Come to terms with the fact that Ally was never going to walk through his door again. He was never going to see bright-b
lue eyes and wild blond hair sauntering in on long, long legs, laughing at him as she outlined her latest plot for adventure. It hadn’t been easy but he’d done it. So no, no more need for lost nights with too much bourbon and the nearest woman to ease the pain.

  And no more wild girls. Ally had been wild, at her deepest core. Wild and it had killed her. That was the infuriating senseless part. She’d survived the army, survived three tours, and then she’d come home and whether she’d always been that way or whether she was chasing the adrenaline high she couldn’t get in civilian life, she’d started doing crazy things. And it had been one of those—her impulsive decision to take up paragliding—that had killed her.

  Stupid. All because she had an itch under her skin that couldn’t be scratched. A need to fly or a need for escape. He’d never figured out what exactly had driven her into the sky with nothing but flimsy fabric to hold her up. Where a simple change of weather had stolen her from him. At least that’s what the accident investigation had determined.

  He’d never entirely believed it. Part of him wondered if she’d just let the wildness carry her all the way down into the dark to try to drive out whatever had been eating at her soul.

  He’d never know now.

  So no. No more wild girls.

  No one who made his skin itch.

  The next woman in his life had to be calm and easy and looking for a good solid life. Not that he’d ever told anyone those were his criteria. Definitely not Alex and Lucas. They’d either laugh at him or, more likely, decide that he needed some more therapy.

  Which he didn’t.

  All he needed was a life that wasn’t crazy.

  Come to think of it, maybe he did need more therapy. Because buying a baseball team wasn’t exactly designed to deliver a life of peace and quiet. But the craziness would die down, he hoped, once they got everything running to their satisfaction. Then it would just be the long slow process of building the Saints back up to the team they should be. The team they would be if he had anything to say about it.