Diamond in the Rough. Marie Ferrarella

breath away. After all, this was Southern California, where more than a preponderance of beautiful women existed, many of whom held down “other” jobs in Hollywood. But this one was definitely in a class by herself. “Just an honest observation.”

      She looked at him for a long moment. He almost got the impression she was staring straight into his mind.

      “Like all your other observations?” she finally asked.

      Was that a smirk on her face? Why? They didn’t know each other. God knew he would have remembered meeting a woman who exuded what he could only term as barely harnessed sexuality. Her long blond hair was bound up with a few pins. He had a feeling if he pulled them out, like in one of those old, hokey, grade B movies, a storm of swirling blond curls would tumble down and all but overwhelm her face. He usually liked sleek hair, but on her, he would have bet his soul that curly would look damn good.

      Almost as good as those curves beneath the sensible navy blue jacket and matching pencil skirt.

      For some reason, he caught himself thinking of one of those fantasies, the ones that started out with a refined, scholarly looking woman who, with a little bit of coaxing, turned into a smoldering tigress.

      He definitely needed to get out more.

      The way she watched him made him feel they knew each other. But how? He would have remembered her, no question.

      “Do I know you?” he finally asked. Although it was tempting, he didn’t add that he knew he wanted to know her because that, too, sounded like a line. A pitiful one.

      Miranda deliberately took her time, enjoying that he obviously felt at a disadvantage. Her eyes slowly swept over the journalist. It was something she’d learned from observing her father. With every pitch, SOS had taken his time on the mound, sizing up the batter each and every time, unnerving him as he mentally selected just the right pitch to throw and bring the batter down.

      Rather than saying no, or drawing the moment out, she ended his quandary and replied, “I’m Miranda.”

      Like a drawbridge that had its chains severed, Mike’s mouth dropped open. His eyes widened as he stared at her in disbelief.

      “You’re Miranda?” So much for intuition, Mike upbraided himself. Unless this woman had an amazing plastic surgeon on retainer, she wasn’t any older than about twenty-five.

      Amusement highlighted her face. She enjoyed catching the man off guard, although she wasn’t exactly sure why he looked as surprised as he did.

      “Yes, I am.” Her line of work had taught her to go straight to the heart of the matter when it came to getting answers. “Just what were you expecting?”

      The image of a fanatical groupie chasing after Shaw in orthopedic sneakers instantly disintegrated. How had the man managed to attract someone so young into his camp? She was too young to have watched many of his games.

      “Not you,” he replied honestly.

      The words seemed to emerge out of his mouth in slow motion. Which happened to be the exact speed of his brain waves. This was an unusual predicament for him. Competition for jobs as a sportswriter was close to cutthroat. His lightning-fast brain—with a tongue to match—was what had landed him the position at the Times to begin with. So just how did one drop-dead gorgeous female negate all that without even trying?

      At any other time, Miranda might have been flattered. It had been a long time since she’d found herself in a social position, a long time since she’d been on the receiving end of a compliment. Test tubes and analytical data tended to be silent. But this was the man who had seen fit to mount a crusade against her father. Which made him unlikable, no matter how pretty his blue eyes were.

      “Baseball fans come in all sizes and shapes,” she informed him and then tried not to respond as she felt his eyes drift over her. His gaze couldn’t have been more intense if he were measuring her for a thong bikini.

      “Obviously,” he murmured.

      And they did, he’d be the first one to say that. It was just that he’d had a preconceived notion of what she, SOS’s champion, would look like. He’d met a few of SOS’s fans, the ones who continued to stick by him despite the betting scandal. This Miranda was far too young to be a fan. And yet, he thought back to the heated e-mail exchange. She was definitely a fan. But it made no sense to him. Most people Miranda’s age didn’t even know who—or what, for that matter—SOS was.

      He realized suddenly that he had completely forgotten his manners. Kate wouldn’t have been happy with him. Rising to his feet, he gestured toward the other end of the room, where round tables and chairs were sprinkled about. “Would you like to sit at a table?”

      Miranda gracefully planted her seat onto the stool beside his. “This is fine.”

      Mike sat down again, acutely aware that as he took his seat, his body was captivatingly close to hers. And that the room had become several degrees warmer.

      He began to raise his hand to signal the bartender. “What’ll you have?” he asked.

      Miranda didn’t miss a beat. “An apology would be nice.”

      Mike dropped his hand down again before the bartender looked his way. Turning on his stool, Mike studied the petite, intense woman beside him. It wasn’t only the reporter in him that was curious about her, but it made for a good start.

      “Your dad an SOS fan?”

      Miranda almost laughed then. If ever there was a man devoid of ego, it was her father. He wasn’t an easy man to know, keeping everything to himself, but she knew that much. In a world where people were eager to take credit for an accomplishment, her father had always tried to keep out of the limelight. He shunned publicity, both the good and then the bad, wanting only to play the game he loved.

      “No, not exactly a fan,” she finally acknowledged. If he’d admired his own work—or more importantly, himself—she felt he would have at least attempted to speak up in his own defense rather than stoically accept the commission’s ruling that he be barred from baseball. “But he understands the man.” As well as anyone could, she added silently.

      Her answer only raised more questions. He could see where his article would generate her terse response if her father was a diehard SOS fan and she’d been indoctrinated from the time she was a little girl, but obviously, that wasn’t the case.

      Mike tried again. “He a gambler, too?”

      The smile disappeared and her eyes, an incredible shade of sky-blue, darkened visibly.

      “No, he’s not.”

      As a matter of fact, except for that one incident that had brought him down, as far as she knew, her father never gambled. The one time she’d asked him about the details of the incident, he’d watched her for a long moment, then told her to leave it alone. She’d done as he’d asked, but that didn’t keep her from wondering.

      Mike felt as if he was trying to find his way through an elaborate maze in the dark. “So you just decided to champion Shaw on your own.” He leaned forward, creating an intimate space for the two of them. “If you don’t mind my asking, why?”

      That was why she was here, she reminded herself. “Because Steven Shaw doesn’t deserve to be remembered for one isolated moment of weakness, not when he had such an outstanding career from start to finish.”

      She had a point, but that didn’t change the way things were. “Human nature,” he told her philosophically. “People tend to remember the bad rather than the good. Especially when they feel they’ve been betrayed.”

      Miranda raised her chin defensively. He liked the way fire came into her eyes. “He didn’t betray anyone,” she protested.

      Now, there she was wrong. “His fans felt differently. They believed in him.”

      “And one transgression changes all that? What kind of fickle fans are