No Time to Explain Read online

  Read more Kate Angell

  Sweet Spot (Richmond Rogues)

  No Tan Lines (Barefoot William)

  Unwrapped (Anthology)

  He’s the One (Anthology)

  No Strings Attached (Barefoot William)

  No Sunshine When She’s Gone (Barefoot William)

  The Sugar Cookie Sweethearts Swap (Anthology)

  No One Like You (Barefoot William)

  No Breaking My Heart (Barefoot William)

  No Time to Explain

  KATE ANGELL

  KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Read more Kate Angell

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Acknowledgements

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2017 Kate Angell

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.

  KENSINGTON and the K logo are Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

  ISBN: 978-1-4967-0368-2

  First electronic edition: October 2017

  ISBN-13 : 978-1-4967-0369-9

  ISBN-10 : 1-4967-0369-3

  Thanks, always, to Alicia Condon, Editorial Director.

  Arthur Maisel, production editor, you are appreciated.

  Debbie Jarodsky Roome, for all our years of friendship.

  (In memory of) Jody Jarodsky Denison. I appreciated your

  doggy day care stories, featuring your Goldendoodle, Murphy.

  TK, my favorite Triple-A player.

  My longtime readers, thank you for sticking by me. You are

  the best. Welcome to my new readers. Enjoy Barefoot William

  and the Rogues.

  Play ball!

  RICHMOND ROGUES

  Starting Lineup

  28 – RF – Halo Todd

  19 – C – Hank Jacoby

  13 – 3B – Landon Kane

  22 – CF – Rylan Cates

  6 – SS – Brody Jones

  17 – 1B – Jake Packer

  45 – LF – Joe Zooker

  3 – 2B – Sam Matthews

  55 – P – Will Ridgeway

  One

  Here comes the bride.”

  The wedding march echoed down the Barefoot William Boardwalk. The annual Southwest Florida bridal event brought both engaged and expectant women to the beach. It was a sea of sexy, sweet, and everything in between. Joe “Zoo” Zooker took it all in. The idea of marriage made him sweat. It triggered his gag reflex. He could, however, admire the ladies planning their weddings, as long as they didn’t involve him. He was a bachelor. For life.

  “Does Crabby Abby’s General Store sell condoms?” asked his Richmond Rogues teammate Jake Packer. Better known as Pax.

  Joe and Pax presently leaned against the blue metallic railing that separated the boardwalk from the beach. Joe knew where the condoms were shelved. He’d stocked up earlier in the week. “They’re back by the pharmacy, bottom shelf, next to the douches and the K-Y lubes.”

  “You need anything, bro?”

  Joe shook his head. He had six Magnum XLs in his wallet to get him through the night.

  “Be right back, then.” Pax pushed off the railing. He walked the short distance to purchase his protection. He planned to get lucky. So did Joe.

  The team was in town for spring training, with an entire weekend to kill. Booze, babes, and sex would definitely come into play. Monday, and they’d turn serious. They’d live and breathe baseball. The entire team would assemble for workouts and scrimmages. Nine Roanoke Rebels would also hit the field. Affiliate Triple-A players participating in preseason practices and an exhibition game. Showcasing their talent and hoping for the call to suit up in the majors.

  Joe hated squad competition. Dean Jensen in particular got under his skin. The minor leaguer played left field. Joe’s position. Joe had refused him, four years running. Under Rule 5 draft, Dean had one final year to either make the club’s expanded forty-man roster or be passed over. The guy kept coming after Joe, harder and faster each season. He just wouldn’t let up. But then, Joe wouldn’t have, either, if the situation had been reversed.

  He rolled his shoulders now. Cracked his knuckles. It was too nice of a day to dwell on the asshat. He turned and stared out over the Gulf. Clear skies. Turquoise water. White sugar sand. Sunbathers. Sand castles. Carnival rides, an amusement arcade, and a long fishing pier stretched south. Paradise. He would retire here. Years from now. Following his last bat.

  Joe waited patiently on Pax—for all of five minutes, before restlessness claimed him. He wasn’t good at standing still. He was in continuous motion. A few brave men mingled with the wedding-minded ladies. He tugged down the bill on his black baseball cap. His mirrored Maui Jim aviators allowed him to stare, and not be caught doing so. He stepped into the crowd. Pax would find him. Unless he found a hot babe first.

  So many women. Blondes, brunettes, redheads. A chick with purple hair. The multicolored storefronts on the beachside shops were all open, welcoming the stirring breeze and the aroma of salty air. The scent of freshly popped popcorn wafted, along with the aroma of chocolate fudge, cheesy nachos, cotton candy, and women’s perfume.

  Ladies came on to him. He was recognized by many. Flirted with by most. Inviting glances and promising smiles. His navy T-shirt scripted with I’ve Broken All the Rules Today, So You’ll Have to Make New Ones drew whispered suggestions. Half-naked women appealed. Kink tempted. He liked the attention. A lot.

  Space was tight. Whether intentional or by accident, female bodies pressed against him. Some snugged as close as skin. He didn’t mind the touching. Although a few hands got downright personal. Arousal heightened his senses. He was looking for a weekend lover, but no one fully caught his eye. So he kept on walking, sex foremost on his mind.

  Long decorated tables lined both sides of the boardwalk. Signs were visible. Bridal banners arched overhead. Women clustered, checking out the area’s best photographers, florists, engraved invitations, caterers, bakers, wedding and reception venues, entertainment, hairstylists, makeup artists, prenuptial consultants, and other important services. Mannequins exhibited wedding gowns. Assorted accessories, from veils, crystal tiaras, rhinestone headbands, and sashes to every type of jewelry exhibit came next. Along with the garters.

  Garters. Worn on a bride’s thigh. A total turn-on. He scanned the ruffled, pearled, lacy, feathered, monogrammed, brooched, and rhinestoned collections. Foreplay. He might buy one for the pure pleasure of slipping it up his next conquest’s leg, then slowly sliding it down. Sexy.

  “Something blue,” he heard a woman say, softly and wistfully.

  He glanced toward where her voice had come from. Stopped, and got an eyeful. A slender blonde stood in profile, alone at the end of the table, toying with a pale blue satin garter with a silver heart charm. He was a sucker for long hair. The sun had run its fingers through this woman’s strands, leaving them streaked
and shiny. The ends touched her waist. He openly stared as she bent, her shoulders curving, her ass jutting out. Sweet cheeks were outlined beneath her short skirt. Gently stretching the elastic, she worked the garter over a sandaled foot—her toenails painted silver—then up her calf and onto her thigh. She had nice legs. Freckled knees. She straightened, admired the garter. She had yet to notice him. He appreciated her further.

  Her smile came slowly, on a sigh. “Perfect, don’t you think, Lori?”

  He shifted his stance. Cast her in his shadow. Then removed his aviators for a better look. Twirled them by an arm. He wasn’t Lori, but that didn’t stop him from saying, “Hot, sweetheart.”

  She jerked up, and he took the opportunity to check her out. Wide eyes, deep and dark as midnight. A sharp contrast to her fairness. Tip-tilted nose. Full glossed lips, slightly parted. She wore a navy tank top; her denim skirt had a gold side zipper. Zippers made for a quick strip. Diamond studs sparkled at her ears. A collection of thin gold bracelets circled her wrist. A pearl ring on her forefinger. She was pretty, he mused, but not nearly as attractive as the babes in his nightly party posse. Those he chose for getting it on. Still, he’d give her five minutes.

  She didn’t ignore him, but neither did she invite conversation. He initiated, “Nice assortment of garters.”

  “See one you like? Try it on.”

  Was she serious or playing him? “None in my size.”

  “Elastic stretches.”

  She had him there.

  “The pink garter with the red hearts and white feathers looks like you.”

  Looks like me? Was that how she saw him? Hearts and feathers? Her polite expression gave nothing away. He crossed his arms over his chest, hooked his thumbs in his armpits. Widened his stance. Questioned, “Having a good time?”

  “Not as good as you.” Dry-toned.

  “I don’t follow.”

  “This is a female event.”

  Predominantly female, but open to the public. He’d noted five guys on the boardwalk. Seven, counting him and Pax. “Your point?” he asked.

  She told him. “Men don’t always attend bridal affairs for the right reasons. You shouldn’t be here unless you’re hearing wedding bells.”

  No ringing. None whatsoever.

  “There are hundreds of hopeful ladies over there on the boardwalk,” she added. “Vulnerable, emotional, and seeking their happily-ever-afters, while you men are opportunists.” Pause. “You’re not here to score, are you?” she innocently inquired.

  He wasn’t taking advantage of anyone. He set her straight. “I’m not hitting on you, hon.”

  “Talk to me, not to my garter.”

  Busted. She was on to him, had caught him eyeing her legs. He liked her thigh gap. “I’ve got integrity.” On a good day.

  She glanced toward the beach. “There’s an amateur volleyball tournament going on near the lifeguard station. A Frisbee contest by the ice cream stand. Kite flying on the pier. Sand-castle sculpting by the shore. Yet you’ve chosen the bridal event.”

  “I’m tapping in to my feminine side.”

  Her gaze returned to his. “There’s nothing feminine about you.”

  He had a hard face, or so he’d been told. Dangerous. Intimidating. He played his features to his advantage. Several scars. A twice-broken nose. A death stare. “I like to browse.” Not necessarily through the bridal items for sale, but cruising for women gave him pleasure.

  “Browsing often leads to buying.” She tilted her head, thoughtful. Observed, “You’d need to shave before trying on any bridal veils, otherwise your whiskers will catch on the delicate lace. And you’d have to tie back your hair for both the Swarovski two-tiered circlet and the vintage chandelier birdcage.”

  Birdcage? That blew his mind.

  A few more thoughts emerged. “When it comes to wedding gowns, large men should stay away from ruffles and layers. I can picture you in plain silk. Ivory, maybe. Or blush. Go full-length, to cover the roll at your waist. Flabby thighs. Better choose low heels. You’re plenty tall.”

  Lastly, “You might also consider a manicure. Your nails look rough. Manscaping would clean you up.”

  Shave his chest and his pubic hair? Not happening. Lady was a fusion of sarcasm and sweet smiles. He didn’t know how to take her. Her suggestions sucked. Along with her attitude. She confused the hell out of him.

  No female had ever described him in a dress before. He had no words. She saw him as fat, when he was actually fit. He’d nearly killed himself off-season with endurance and weight training. He had single-digit body fat.

  She rose up on tiptoe, looked over his shoulder. “I need to locate my friend Lori.” She strained to look over the crowd. “I don’t see her.”

  “It’s just you, me, and the garters.”

  She flat-footed. “Lori wouldn’t walk off and leave me.”

  “You have a fear of being alone?” Rather disturbing.

  “I prefer alone,” she informed him. “My car’s with the mechanic, in need of repairs. Lori’s my ride.”

  Made sense. His day was open. He had free time. He foolishly found himself saying, “I could drive you.”

  “Drive me where?”

  “Wherever you need to go.”

  “California.” She was testing him.

  Farther than anticipated. He wasn’t crossing state lines or changing time zones for her. “Anywhere local?”

  “I don’t get into cars with strangers.”

  Stranger danger? Him? She had to be joking. He introduced himself, “I’m Joe.” His teammates and bar squad all called him Zoo. “You?”

  She scanned his T-shirt. “Not sure we need a name exchange. I play by the rules. You break them. I’d rather take a taxi.”

  A cab over him? He had a classic Jaguar XKE convertible in the parking lot. Mint condition. A chick magnet. Leather seats that molded to his body like a lover. A phallic long bonnet. Big engine. Top speed. Ground-hugging. Raring to go.

  Somehow she’d failed to recognize him. That bothered him. A little. He was high-profile. Rogues fans filled the stadium during spring training. The players were a significant part of the community. Available for interviews, charitable appearances, and bachelor auctions. He usually couldn’t cross the street without someone requesting an autograph. Without a woman asking him out.

  “Do you know who I am?” He needed his ego stroked.

  “I don’t watch cartoons.” Smile or smirk, he couldn’t tell.

  Harsh. He’d yet to figure her out. Women had numerous ways of catching his attention. Most were sweet, sexy, and feisty. But never this sarcastic. He racked his brain. They hadn’t met, as far as he could remember. She didn’t look the bar type. The Lusty Oyster and the Blue Coconut were his second homes.

  He’d tried to be nice, friendly, appear to have no ulterior motive. She was challenging, though, for no apparent reason. Their conversation was going nowhere. He gave her one last shot. “What’s with you?” he asked.

  “Ask yourself the same question.”

  Question himself? He was his own answer.

  She wrapped up with, “Leaving now.” Dismissing him.

  He had her blocked between the table and his body, and before he could step back, she squeezed by him sideways. Her foot ground down on his booted toe. Her raised knee came close to his boys. He sucked in air, inhaled her scent—light and as warm as sunshine. He smelled citrus, and he had the questionable urge to sniff her hair. Dumb-ass. Not cool.

  He tried to take in what had just happened. He honestly didn’t get it. She’d showed no interest in him. Not even a hint. “That’s it?” he called after her.

  “You expected more?” she tossed over her shoulder. “No time.”

  He had no idea what he’d expected. What he wanted. The fact that she’d left him standing there irritated the hell out of him. He’d complimented her garter in passing. She’d cut him off permanently. Her aversion to him was unsettling. Her tight smile disconcerting.

&n
bsp; He held back, refusing to go after her. Her loss. He needed to move on. He had a line of women waiting to date him. Less snark, more seduction. He was ready for a willing woman to have her way with him. To take him slowly and sinfully. All night long.

  “Shoplifter!” an older woman monitoring the accessories table shouted. She rounded the table, elbowing him and others aside, as she stormed after the person who’d just ripped her off. He’d been standing at the table, yet somehow he’d missed the five-finger discount. Boardwalk security joined the chase. Two men in khaki uniforms. Chaos ensued.

  Gutsy thief, Joe thought. Stealing in broad daylight, then fading into the foot traffic. He followed the charge at a distance. Curious. He stood a wide-shouldered six-foot-four, and his height gave him an advantage. He could easily track the action. He glimpsed the unfriendly blonde a few yards ahead. She was alone one second, then surrounded by security the next. Trapped. The taller guard gripped her upper arm. Detaining her. Nasty accusations flew. Loudly.

  Attentive, he took it all in. He hadn’t seen her lift anything. But then, he’d been staring at her legs. He might’ve missed something. Perhaps she’d taken an item prior to his arrival. Stuck it in her purse. He’d blocked her from the proprietor’s view. Until she could slip into the throng.

  He watched as the shorter of the guards drew a notepad from the pocket of his slacks. He flipped it open, went on to request the shop owner’s name. Joe had hearing loss in his left ear, thanks to his old man cuffing him as a kid. He strained to hear. Apparently Giselle was the accuser. Stewie was the blonde, from what he could detect. Odd name. She didn’t look like a Stewie. More like a Summer, Shayla, or Sienna. Skylar.

  Giselle pointed to the blonde’s thigh. Her hand shook, all righteous indignation. “She stole the garter. It’s under her skirt.”

  Stewie paled. She placed her hand over her heart, then said, “Not on purpose, I swear.”