All Through The Night

“She has a real name, you know,” Sam said.

“Pierce,” Pete murmured. “Laura—or is it Nora? Or maybe it’s Nola. We’ve had a few conversations over the years. Once when I took her parking space, and another time when she accused me of stealing her stapler. I even kissed her once at a Christmas party. And I think I’m the only one in the sports department who reads her little memos. At least, before I rip them off the refrigerator door.”

He couldn’t really blame Prudence. As the San Francisco Herald’s only other syndicated columnist, she really didn’t fit into any of the other departments at the paper. Prudence was an orphan of sorts and had been given the only available office commensurate with her salary and her value to the Herald. That office just happened to be in the sports department, though both she and Pete were coveting a huge corner office about to be vacated on the other end of the floor.

Hell, she might have had more luck with her memos in Lifestyles. Or even at the city desk. But trying to whip a bunch of rowdy sportswriters and footloose photographers into a polite group of co-workers was a near impossible task. Still, she never stopped trying. Every month, she posted a new memo about office etiquette in the lunchroom; from refrigerator hygiene to coffeepot protocol, there wasn’t a rule of polite society that Prudence Trueheart didn’t try to enforce.

But the Bullpen was called the Bullpen for a good reason. And it wasn’t populated solely by bullheaded men. The sportswriters and photographers at the Herald, male and female, were an odd lot, stubborn and single-minded in their love of any and all sports—and in their distaste for common courtesy. To some outsiders, they might seem like a bunch of arrested adolescents. But Pete liked the laid-back atmosphere and the daily games that began the moment the noon deadlines had passed. They worked hard and they played even harder.

He pushed aside thoughts of Prudence Trueheart, chiding himself for bothering to waste brain cells on her, then turned his attention to today’s competition. On Thursday, they always played baseball. Other days it was hockey or golf or basketball. The diamond was laid out among the desks in the Bullpen, and a plastic ball and bat made the competition safe for windows and other breakable objects. Today, the competition would be against Sam Kiley and his motley crew of city beat reporters, easy marks for the money that was often wagered.

Glancing at the clock, Pete headed for the lunchroom to retrieve the ball and bat from a closet. As he grabbed the equipment, he glanced over at the refrigerator. A new note on crisp Herald stationery had been posted in Prudence’s precise style. He stepped over and scanned the text. “‘Property Rights for Food Owners,”’ he muttered. Apparently, Prudence had had some yogurt that had gone missing a few days back.

Pete grabbed the paper and crumpled it in his fist. “Bottom of the ninth, game seven of the series. The bases are loaded and the winning run is at the plate. Beckett steps up into the batter’s box and the crowd goes wild.” He tossed the paper wad up into the air, then swung the bat. Prudence’s memo went sailing across the room, hit the wall, then dropped into a wastebasket.

“Grand slam home run!” Pete held up his arms and bowed before walking out of the room. By the time he reached the Bullpen, the teams had assembled and were eagerly awaiting the start of the game. He tossed the ball at Sam Kiley and stepped into the batter’s box. “Loser buys the beers at Vic’s tomorrow afternoon,” he called.

Kiley let the first pitch fly, low and away, and Pete took a swing, connecting with the whiffle ball and sending a line drive across the Bullpen—and right into the open door of Prudence Trueheart’s office. An instant later a scream split the air, and Pete dropped the bat. The guys looked at each other and then at Pete.

He winced. “Hey, I didn’t do it on purpose. That was a perfect line drive to right field. Ramirez didn’t make the catch.” He pointed at the sheepish sports photographer. “Error,” he muttered.

Sam held up his hands in mock surrender. “You hit it, Beckett. You’re the one who’ll have to apologize.”

Pete cursed softly. The last thing he needed was to be verbally dressed down by Prudence Trueheart, especially when he’d so recently fantasized about her mouth. Maybe if he just ignored his faux pas, she’d write another memo. But then, they only had one whiffle ball, and the game couldn’t continue unless he ventured inside her office to retrieve it.

“I’ll go,” he finally said. He felt the same way he had as a kid, when Sister Amalia, his Catholic school principal, called him in to her office after he’d sent yet another wild pitch through the rectory window. “If I’m not out in five minutes, send a rescue party.”

He crossed the Bullpen and slowly approached the office door. When he peeked inside, Pete expected to find a glowering Prudence, pacing her office like a hungry tiger, ready to tear him to shreds. Instead, he found her sitting on the floor next to her desk, rubbing her left brow. He quickly bent down and touched her ankle. “Are you all right?”

She looked up through watery blue eyes and blinked. The moment her gaze met his, Pete’s lungs slowly ceased to function and breathing became impossible. He’d spent a fair amount of time speculating about the woman who occupied this office, but with her hair mussed and her glasses removed, he had to admit that she was much prettier at close range. Her complexion was flawless, her profile nearly perfect. Her full lips were parted slightly and her breathing shallow. She had a mouth made to be kissed, and kissed deeply—and had she been any other woman, Pete might have given it a try at that very moment.

Instead, he swallowed hard. “Nora,” he murmured, his gaze dropping to her long, shapely legs and her trim ankles. Her name was Nora Pierce. He’d always thought of her as Prudence Trueheart, but now, with the scent of her perfume wafting through the air and the heat of her skin beneath his palm, she didn’t seem much like a Prudence anymore.

Clearing her throat, she fixed her eyes on the spot where his hand rested on her leg, where his thumb idly stroked the inside of her ankle. Her gaze narrowed, and she picked up the plastic baseball and held it out. “Mr. Beckett. I believe this is yours.”

Pete forced a smile. He snatched his hand away from her ankle, then took the ball from her fingers, feeling as if he’d just stuck his hand beneath Sister Amalia’s habit. “Thanks.”

Her eyebrow rose every so slightly, disdainfully. “And?”

“And?” His mind raced. And what? Thank you very much? Was that what she was waiting for, some kind of superlative? He scowled, then glanced from the baseball to her cool glare—and the faint bruise growing beneath her eye. “Oh. And. And I apologize,” he ventured. “I’m sorry. Truly sorry.”

Her expression softened slightly, and he bit back a massive sigh of relief. “Thank you,” she said. “Apology accepted. And maybe next time you could close my door before you begin your game?”

“Um,” he murmured, letting his gaze drift over her body, taking in the buttons of her suit. They looked as if he could undo them in just a few seconds. Somewhere beneath that drab fabric was a woman’s body, and from what he could see, it didn’t deserve to be trussed up in such a conservative outfit. Pete clenched his fists and pushed the idea aside, returning his gaze to her face.

Nora rubbed her eye, then sucked in a sharp breath. As she tried to stand, he gently pushed her back down. “Here,” he said, carefully pulling her fingers back. “Let me look at it.”

“Am I bleeding?”

He stared into her eyes, such incredibly blue eyes. Why had he never noticed her eyes before? Wide and innocent eyes. Tantalizing. Alluring. A host of adjectives tumbled through his mind. A man could lose himself in those eyes. For a moment, he couldn’t concentrate on anything else but the way her lashes fluttered, the way her honey-blond hair fell across her forehead; the soft pulse point just below her jaw that would feel so warm beneath his lips. She cleared her throat again, yanking him back to reality once more.

“No, you’re not bleeding,” he said. “It’s not so bad. Just a little black and blue. You can hardly see it.”

“Black and blue?” Nora moaned. “That can’t be.”

He shrugged, then stared at it more closely, probing at the bruise with a gentle touch. “You can put some of that makeup stuff on it, and no one will notice.”

“But—but I can’t have a black eye!”

A sharp laugh slipped from his throat before he could stop it. “Why? Do you have some hot date tonight?” When he saw the flush of embarrassment creep up her cheeks, he cursed himself soundly. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have laughed.”

“No, you shouldn’t have,” she murmured. “It was very rude.”

“I just never think of you…I mean, Prudence…Well, you know what I mean. I never think of Prudence as having much of a social life, beyond quilting bees and pinochle club.”

“I’m not Prudence,” she said in a soft voice, the hurt evident beneath the surface. “And—and maybe I do have a date tonight. Would that be so hard to believe?”

He let his palm rest on her cheek for a moment before he sat back on his heels. “Well, you’re going to have a nice shiner, Nora Pierce, if you don’t put some ice on that eye.” Pete reached out and took her hand, then helped her to her feet. “I’ll get something from the fridge. Why don’t you sit down? And don’t rub it. I’ll be right back.”

Nora nodded and managed a grateful smile, as he strode out of her office. The boys were gathered in a small group, ready to mount a rescue mission. But he waved as he passed, tossing them the ball. “She’s fine,” he said. “Carry on. I’m going to get some ice. I hit her in the eye.”

Fear froze the expressions of his co-workers, and they quickly scattered, heading back to work before they might be implicated in the injury of Prudence Trueheart. Pete grabbed the closest thing he could find to an ice pack from the refrigerator and hurried back to Nora’s office.

He found her leaning back in her chair, her eyes closed and her slender legs stretched out in front of her, crossed at the ankles.

“Here,” he murmured, bending over her, bracing his hand on the arm of her chair. “This should help.”

Nora opened her eyes and looked at the small package he offered. “That’s a frozen burrito.”

Pete shrugged. “Someone forgot to fill the ice trays.”

She took the burrito from his hand and carefully placed it over her eye. “Another breach of office etiquette—actually, two. Stolen food and empty ice trays.”

He covered her hand with his and adjusted the burrito over the bruise. An errant strand of hair slipped from the knot at her nape and brushed the back of his hand. He was acutely aware of how soft it felt. It probably smelled good, too. “Yeah, I guess that memo you put up must have fallen off the refrigerator already.”

“You tore it down, didn’t you,” Nora accused.

“Not me,” he lied. “But you have to admit, sometimes you are a little…”

“Pushy?” she asked. “Overbearing?”

“I was going to say ‘prissy,”’ he replied, stepping back before he was tempted to run his fingers through her hair and scatter the pins that held it in place. Actually, he was going to say “autocratic and oppressive.” But the vulnerability he saw in her eyes made him amend his opinion. Suddenly, he much preferred Nora Pierce’s gratitude to her disapproval. “Sports guys don’t like rules. The only thing that should have rules is a game.”

“Civilized society needs proper etiquette,” she countered. “If we have to live together, we have to respect each other. Good etiquette is a measure of that respect.”

“And twenty-seven rules posted on an office refrigerator tend to make us a little crazy.”

She sighed softly, tipping her head back and closing her eyes. “I don’t mean to make you crazy. I was just trying to be…helpful.”