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  CAPTIVATED

  SUSAN SCOTT SHELLEY

  Copyright © 2015 Susan Scott Shelley

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  http://www.susanscottshelley.com

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  Domingo Torres, star center fielder for the Los Angeles Riptide, needs to stay off management's radar after a Spring Training game ended in flying fists and bloodshed. He's ordered to keep a lid on his temper and a low profile for the rest of the season. Keeping his focus solely on baseball isn't a problem- until he meets his sexy new neighbor, and his thoughts shift to a lot more than his batting average.

  After years of complete control in handling every aspect of her brother's multi-platinum selling rock band, Irisa Rostov is ready to crack. And it doesn't help that the band is on the verge of self-destruction. Playing peacemaker and keeping them together for the last six weeks of their summer concert series is all that matters- until she meets Dom, and the feelings he stirs up causes the guards around her heart to weaken.

  Getting distracted by romance is the last thing Irisa wants, and being in the headlines is the last thing Dom needs, but their attraction is undeniable, their connection is immediate, and staying away is impossible.

  But when being captivated by each other causes their worlds to fall apart, they must decide whether they're better off staying on the bench and out of each other's lives, or if love can find a way to win.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  DEDICATION

  For Scott, my forever hero

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  DEDICATION

  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 SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  EPILOGUE

  THANK YOU!

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  CHAPTER ONE

  The last game of Spring Training should have filled him with excitement for the upcoming season. Instead, Los Angeles Riptide center fielder Domingo “Dom” Torres stood just off second base, sweating bullets and plotting murder. To his left, the opposing team’s second baseman, Marc Platt, made snide remark after snide remark every chance he got throughout the game, and Dom’s temper simmered closer to boiling with every word.

  They’d met in the minors. They hadn’t liked each other then. And after five years in the big leagues, they sure as hell didn’t like each other now. Trading barbs, edged sharp and aimed low, had become their ritual. He blocked out Platt, inched a little farther away from the base, and kept his focus on the pitcher. He was known for his fastball.

  Dom eyed his teammate Slade, in position to swing at the plate, and adjusted his stance, ready to run. The pitcher’s right foot stepped off the rubber, and then his body twisted lightning fast toward second base. Shit. Five feet separated him from safety. The ball came fast, a blurred white streak, gunning toward second in an effort to get him out.

  Arms outstretched, Platt prepared to make the catch.

  Dom scrambled for the base, headfirst, arms out. No way would he let that jerk tag him out. His hand crossed the base.

  Safe.

  Platt’s cleat stomped onto his hand, and his mitt slapped hard against Dom’s ribs. Pain seared from his arm and straight into his gut. Dom dragged his foot through the dirt and to the base. Making sure to keep contact, he jumped to his feet. “What the hell, asshole?”

  Platt smirked and lifted his hands. “Sorry. Didn’t see you.”

  “Like hell.” His fingers stung. He flexed them slowly. Thank God it wasn’t his throwing hand. Sweat rolled down his back and droplets dripped from his forehead and into his eyes. The burn only added to his irritation. He swiped away what he could.

  Platt stood close by, a wad of tobacco puffing out his cheek. “If you can’t take the heat, get out of the big leagues.” His mitt slapped against Dom’s shoulder.

  “Watch it, man.” The temptation to deck the overrated jackass overwhelmed him. Tension tightened Dom’s muscles and his hands formed fists.

  “What’re you going to do about it?” Platt smiled and spat out a stream of tobacco in a direct hit across the blue and green logo on Dom’s chest. “Looks like you got some shit on your jersey, Torres.”

  The simmer boiled over. Dom pulled back his arm, and then let his fist fly. Rage powered his punch. His knuckles slammed into Platt’s face. Landing one only released the desire to land more. Right, left, right, left; he kept swinging. The crowd’s cheering drowned out the blood roaring in his ears. Platt’s fist glanced off his batter’s helmet. Someone grabbed Dom from behind. He fought against the hold. Hands tugged on Platt, but couldn’t pull him away. More hands gripped Dom’s arms. Someone knocked the batter’s helmet off his head. He ducked Platt’s swing. More players jumped in. Both dugouts emptied onto the field, joining the fray. He focused on Platt amid the sea of Riptide blue and Rattlesnakes gray.

  Dom ignored his manager’s call to stop. The umpire forced his way between Dom’s fist and Platt’s face, and he had to lower his arm or risk punching an official.

  “That’s it. You’re done.” The ump’s yell carried over the noise. Glaring, he jerked his arm toward the dugout.

  Dom strode to the dugout, bypassed his teammates and screaming manager, and went directly into the locker room. He stripped and headed for the showers. Cold water pounded over his skin, washing away the dirt and sweat and slowly cooling his temper. He rested his head on the tile. No matter how angry he’d become in games over the years, he’d never fought on the field. But Platt spitting on his uniform had been the last straw.

  He wasn’t sorry for what he’d done, but he’d have to apologize to his teammates anyway. And endure the post-game phone call from his father, guaranteed to be more blistering now that he’d fucked up and lost his cool on the field. Fresh steam built, and agitation crawled over his skin. He dressed and watched the last inning on the monitor. Losing the game capped off the perfect end to a rotten day.

  His teammates filed into the room, some amped up from the fight, some pissed off about the loss, and all a sweaty, grimy mess. Dusty Martin, their manager, charged in like a bull chasing a red cape. “Torres.” He pointed a blunt finger in Dom’s face. “What the hell was that out there?”

  Dom shrugged. “He got to me.”

  “He got to more than you. Because of you, Slade’s hurt.”

  “What do you mean, he’s hurt?”

  “He was hit by a pitch after the fight. His fingers are too swollen. He can’t grip the bat. Doc doesn’t think he’ll be ready to play in the opener. He might be out a week, maybe even two.”

  Playing without Slade, their best power hitter and one of Dom’s best friends, would really hurt the team. D
om sat up straight and looked around the locker room. Adam, Cole, Mario, and Brent offered silent support. His gaze swept past his buddies and met every single teammate’s hostile stare. “Sorry, guys.”

  Dusty waved away the team’s murmurs. “Of course they’re going to tell you not to worry about it. Well, I’m telling you different, son. You pull another stunt like that and you won’t be starting at center field or anywhere else. You’ll be riding the bench from now until next season.”

  Shit. Being in the same division as Platt meant having to play his team more frequently. Keeping his mouth shut and his temper locked down would be damn near impossible. “I’ll try.”

  “You’ll do more than try. Think of this as strike one. You know what happens when you hit strike three.”

  Dom rested his head against the wall. He was in for one hell of a long season. And he’d never felt more like a loser.

  Struggling with her luggage, Irisa Rostov skirted the tractor-trailer parked in front of her apartment building. The doorman wasn’t at his station. Managing to keep hold of her belongings, she staggered into the lobby and barely missed colliding with the broad wall of muscle exiting the elevator. She jerked to a stop. “I’m sorry. I didn’t see you.”

  He reached out to steady her. “Need a hand?”

  “I’m fine, thanks. But can you tap the Up button for me?” Her gaze traveled up his chest to a chiseled face and eyes as dark as her favorite chocolate. Attractive didn’t begin to describe him. Sexy, with an energy smoldering below the surface, commanding attention and keeping her enthralled.

  A workman wearing blue coveralls exited the elevator and waved to him. “Dom, we’re ready to start unloading.”

  “Be right there.” The giant turned back to her. “That’s a lot of bags. You sure you’re okay?”

  “I can manage. Are you moving in?”

  He nodded and tapped the elevator’s button for her. The doors opened with a quiet ping.

  “Thanks. Welcome to the building.” She maneuvered into the car then watched him until the doors closed out her view.

  He was still on her mind when she finally set foot in her apartment, but exhaustion clouded her brain. She dropped her luggage onto the soft carpet. Ahhh. Blissful silence. Early morning sunlight drifted through the large windows, showcasing her view of L.A. Normally, she’d be waking up about now, but with traveling all night, she hadn’t yet been to sleep.

  Two months of life on the road with the band had been hard, but refereeing spats that had grown more frequent and heated was exhausting. As band manager, she tried to please everyone. As sister to the lead guitarist, she had to make sure she didn’t show favoritism. Doing both was a delicate balance that kept her teetering on an increasingly thinning tightrope.

  With two weeks until the next leg of the tour began, she intended to do as little as possible. Sleep, get a massage, then more sleep. Repeat.

  She toed off her shoes and then headed to the kitchen for a large glass of water. No matter how much water she drank on the road, dehydration never seemed too far away, thanks to air-conditioned hotel rooms and tour buses and the dry air in planes.

  The sound of ringing drew her into the living room, where her phone lay on the table by the door.

  Her brother, Zander.

  She’d left her him less than an hour ago. “What’s up? You should be sleeping.”

  “Check your email. Excite added a few more venues to the tour.”

  Her relaxed, happy mood vanished. “What? Oliver knows that’s supposed to be cleared with me first.”

  “I’m not happy about it either. We’re fucking exhausted and they go and add in five more shows to the end of the tour, with maybe more to come. We’ll be working through the whole summer at this rate.”

  Fabulous. The last thing the band needed was more time together. And this wasn’t the first time she’d had to butt heads with the label, or remind Oliver that he wasn’t the band’s manager. “I’ll make it clear that he can’t add on any more.”

  Burning churned her stomach and she dug through her purse for her roll of antacids. Dealing with Oliver always put her back up and her defenses on high alert. On top of that, five more shows meant five more hotels to book, and five more days of travel to figure out, all while keeping the band’s preferences in mind. Brendan hated staying on high floors, Landry was an occasional vegan who refused to stay in rooms with odd numbers, Luke had become a general pain in the ass, and in the last month, nothing had pleased her brother. Finding suitable accommodations would take hours. The only way she could ensure things were handled perfectly was to do them herself, but at times like these, she regretted her choice of full control. “I’ll start looking at hotels.”

  “I can help.” The offer was genuine, but he got so lost in his music that he often forgot to eat, sleep, or keep track of time.

  She chewed a strawberry-flavored tablet. “I’ll handle it. Don’t worry. Get some sleep. I’ll call you when I’ve figured it out.”

  Dull throbbing spread from her temples, across her forehead, and down to the back of her neck. She sat on the couch, sank into the cushions, and scrolled through her list of emails. Her phone pinged with texts from the rest of the band. They’d learned the news and weren’t happy.

  Banging came from the apartment above. Lots of banging. Hammering and heavy footsteps. Loud thunks. Deep male voices. A glance out the window confirmed what she’d heard. The large moving truck still sat open at the curb. Men in blue coveralls hauled off furniture and boxes. Mr. Sexy from the lobby lifted a chair over his head and strode into the building. Strong. Very strong.

  Crash.

  Her gaze flew to the ceiling.

  Perfect. Hoping they’d work quickly, she rubbed her temples and tried to focus on her work. Another crash sent a fresh stab of pain through her head and shredded her concentration. Aspirin and her forgotten water were in order. And maybe the kitchen would be quieter. After downing both, she surveyed the room. Raiding her stash of emergency chocolate would help her feel better until the painkiller took effect.

  When she opened the cabinet over the sink, the sight of colorful boxes and bags made her smile. She’d traveled all over the world with The Fury. The guys always teased her for collecting chocolate as a souvenir, but she found it to be the perfect reminder of the places she’d experienced.

  “Irisa?” Jayne’s voice came from the living room, followed by the front door closing. “Hello?”

  She set the chocolate aside and hurried to greet her friend. “Hey. I didn’t think I’d see you today. Your official plant-watering duties ended yesterday.”

  “I know, but when I got your text about your flight being canceled, I wasn’t sure if you’d get home today or not.” The redhead set her purse on the floor and then caught her in a hug.

  “We managed to get on a red-eye.” She winced as more stomping and banging came from overhead. “New guy moving in.”

  “The penthouse, hmm?” Blue eyes twinkled with Jayne’s smile. “Is he single? Cute?”

  “I don’t know about the single part.” He hadn’t been wearing a wedding band, but how could someone that attractive not be taken?

  Brows raised, Jayne grinned. “Aha. So you do know about the cute part.”

  “He’s…sexy.” Very sexy. “Why?”

  “It’s about time you had some fun, that’s all.”

  “I don’t have time for fun. Come into the kitchen. I need coffee.”

  Jayne took one longing look at the chocolate on the counter. “Problems? Or are you refueling from your trip?”

  Another email from Oliver rolled across her phone screen. Irisa couldn’t cover her sigh. “I’m going to kill the man.”

  “So, problems.” Jayne nodded and helped herself to a truffle. “What’s wrong?”

  “Oliver is overstepping again. I have to call him. I hate calling him.” Irisa pushed aside the fudge she’d been contemplating and downed another antacid. She could vent to Jayne. They’d been friends si
nce the day they’d met at volunteer orientation at the animal shelter, bonding over a mutual love of animals and similar careers in the music industry. “They just added on more tour dates, my head is killing me, and I have to figure out who is sleeping where, and how we’re getting there.”

  “You look exhausted. Did you sleep at all?” She didn’t wait for a response. “Let me help. I handle bookings all the time.”

  The offer was so tempting…but Irisa had always handled things herself. “The guys have pain-in-the-neck preferences.”

  “All artists do. I’m used to it. Just give me a list of what they need and I’ll solve the problem.” With a sunny smile and the no-fear, can-do attitude, Jayne became a beacon of light in a storm.

  And Irisa needed that light. Jayne was damn good at her job as tour manager for several different bands. She could count on her to at least book the hotels. “Well, if you don’t mind…”

  Side by side, they sat, Jayne armed with the hotel list and Irisa searching the tour bus companies and airlines. For the first time in a long time, she had fun, and the unease in her stomach faded away. When they’d finished, she turned to Jayne. “I wish I could take you with me.”

  “On tour?”

  “Would you want to come?” She looked at her to-do list and sighed. “I need to get through the next two months without blowing a blood vessel and I don’t think I can do it on my own.”

  “You’re serious.” Jayne set down her coffee and rubbed the back of her neck. “I don’t know. I’d planned on taking some time off. I’ll be working on Vendetta’s North American tour in July. They’re an exhausting group of guys.”

  “Please? I’ll pay you double whatever you’re currently making. And you can have as much chocolate from the European stash as you want.”

  A laugh tumbled out. “You must be serious if you’re willing to part with that.”

  “I am. Save me from the craziness of the tour.” Now that the idea had taken hold, it seemed to be the perfect solution. “Please.”