Strike Out: Mustangs Baseball #6 (3 page)

Which brought her to question number forty. He’d checked divorced under marital status on the first page, which made his inquiry regarding masturbation a bit more understandable. She stared at the number scrawled in the box. Seven. On average.

She vaguely recalled reading somewhere that men were prone to exaggeration when it came to their sex lives, but why would any man admit to masturbation being his sole sexual outlet, much less report taking matters into his own hand seven times a week?
On average
.

He hadn’t sounded as if he were bragging. No, he’d simply been stating a fact. One she couldn’t credit. Divorced or not, the man was beyond hot. He was also wealthy and a professional athlete. If he wanted sexual partners, he could have them.

Which meant he didn’t want them.

Was he still in love with his ex-wife? That would explain his solo sex for the last year or so. She made a note to herself to find out when he’d gotten divorced. The information didn’t matter to her research, but the idea of a virile man like Royce Stryker not pursuing natural inclinations was troubling. As a scientist, it was her job to explore every possible factor that could influence the results of her experiment.

She scribbled another note in her lab book
. Does masturbation = sex w/ partner? Does lack of sexual partners = decreased libido? Check testosterone levels on MTS1.

Under Observations, she wrote –
Casual observation does not indicate a lower than normal testosterone level. In fact, MTS1 exhibits physical attributes consistent with high levels of T hormone. i.e. pronounced Adam’s Apple, deep voice, pronounced facial hair mid-afternoon. NOTE: Could be from lack of personal grooming in morning. Requires further observation.

Tricia flipped the notebook closed.
Or I could just ask him.
Another first. She’d never felt compelled to ask any of her college-aged subjects if they’d shaved or not. A few of them had exhibited five o’clock shadows early in the day, but most of them probably could have skipped a day shaving and no one would have noticed. She doubted that was the case with Royce Stryker. She’d bet her next pedicure the man shaved twice a day.

She was still contemplating what his T levels could mean in terms of her research when MTS1 returned from his blood test. He walked with a confident gate, no sign of the distress he’d exhibited when he left for the innocuous procedure. Either he was supremely pleased with himself for surviving or he’d been somewhere else for the last half hour. Tricia narrowed her eyes at him.

“What?” he asked, stopping in front of her desk.

“Where have you been?”

“I went to see Mary Alice.” He stretched his arm out, revealing a cartoon bandage holding a cotton ball in place. “All done.”

“And you lived to tell about it. Amazing.”

“Hey, do not underestimate medical procedures. They can be dangerous.”

She couldn’t help it, she rolled her eyes. “No one has ever died from a blood test.”

“Can I see that in writing?”

She stood, reaching for the bag where she’d stored all the sensors she’d spent a good part of the day untangling. “No, you can’t. But you can take your clothes off.”

He froze, his eyes wide, cheeks flushed with color. “What?”

Assuming a stance she hoped conveyed a no-nonsense professional demeanor, she stared him down. “Should I have your hearing tested, too? I said, take your clothes off. You can leave your underwear on. It won’t be in the way.”

Expecting him to comply, she turned her back to him to dig in her bag for the box of self-adhesive electrode pads she’d brought. As she dug to the bottom, the rustling of cloth told her MTS1 was doing as she’d asked. Nakedness had never been an issue with previous test subjects, but the idea of this one disrobing in her presence did crazy things to her body. She forced her lungs to take deep, measured breaths, and though she’d easily located the small box, she continued to feel around in the bag, willing her out-of-control heart rate to go back to normal.

This is so not good. Get a grip, Dr. Reed. Be professional. He’s just a test subject—nothing more.

She’d just about convinced herself the man behind her was just like all the other men she’d tested in her research—then she turned around.

Holy bejesus!

Tricia reached for the desk behind her. Tossing the box of electrodes on the surface, she gripped the edge with both hands to keep from melting into a puddle of lust. MTS1 was definitely not one of the college subjects she’d tested. Holy crap, they were mere boys compared to the specimen standing before her wearing nothing but socks and the briefest briefs she’d ever seen. Shit. Her panties contained more cloth, or maybe it just seemed that way because his tented outward to cover….

Oh, Lord.

“See anything you like?”

Tricia snapped her gaze away from Royce’s impressive groin so fast her vision clouded. When she focused again, he was grinning at her as if to say, “I know, I’m perfect. Look all you want.” His arrogance was all she needed to remind her who she was and why she was there.

“No,” she said, forcing her gaze to travel down his magnificent chest, skipping the navy-blue cotton briefs to take in his thick thighs and muscular calves. Stifling a giggle at the hole in the toe of one of his socks, she returned her gaze to his. “On second thought, we can’t do this right now.”

“Why not?” He actually sounded peeved she wasn’t going to wire him up today then put him through his paces, though she conceded, he didn’t really have any idea what awaited him. He’d know soon enough.

She risked sliding to the floor by releasing her grip on the desk to wave a hand at his admittedly perfect body. “You’ll have to shave first.”

He rubbed his jaw, his eyes reflecting his confusion. “I shaved this morning.”

Scratch checking T levels. No problem there.
“I mean, you’ll have to shave…or wax….” She waved her hand up and down. “All of it. Chest. Legs. Arms.”

“You’re fuckin’ kidding me!” His biceps flexed as he placed his fisted hands on his hips.

She’d never told a subject to shave before, but then again, she’d never had one with so much body hair. Christ. He wasn’t a bear or anything, but jeez, if she attached the pads to him, they would be hell to get off. “I’m not kidding.” Finding her equilibrium in her superior knowledge on this subject, she reached for the box she’d dropped. Opening it, she pulled out an individually wrapped package, tore it open, and held the object up for his inspection. “These are like adhesive bandages.”

She pulled off the paper backing, showing him the sticky side of the pad. “I can put these on you, but you won’t like it when they come off. It’ll hurt like hell.”

His eyes widened as realization dawned on him. Pleased he’d, at last, come to his senses and would voluntarily do some hair removal, she was surprised when he just stood there.

“Well?” she asked.

“Well, what?”

“Aren’t you going to go shave?”

“No.”

“Why the hell not?”

He looked taken aback by the shrillness in her voice, and truth be told, it concerned her, too. But god or not, the man’s lack of cooperation was getting to her. Nevertheless, she needed him, so she cleared her throat and tried again. “Sorry. What I meant to say was, I don’t want to hurt you. Body hair won’t affect my research, as long as the pads adhere tight enough, and I’m sure they will. My concern is for you.”

She didn’t think he could make himself look more stoic, but he did, squaring his shoulders and fixing her with a stern look that dared her to question his manhood again.

“I’ve worn bandages before.” He didn’t even flinch as he said it.

“Okay, then.” She peeled the backing off the pad in her hand, and slapped it against his chest directly above his left nipple. The muscles were hard as rock beneath skin she found surprisingly warm. A smile formed in her mind, but she wouldn’t let it show on her face. The skin beneath the pad she’d just applied, and the next one attached to his right pectoral, was very sensitive. He was going to cry like a baby when she pulled those off.

He stood still as a monument while she attached the rest of the pads. His macho, I-can-take-it attitude jabbed at something inside her, and when she had a choice between a lightly haired section of skin, like the top of his calf muscle just below the knee joint, or the center of the same muscle, she chose the latter.
We’ll see how you like that, Mr. Macho Baseball Player.

CHAPTER THREE

“Are you about done?” She’d stopped sticking things to his body, thank God, and moved on to attaching things to the sticky things. As she clamped a gizmo to a pad attached to his right thigh, he glanced down. Wires hung from his chest, arms, and abdomen. He looked like an abandoned building wired for demolition. But that wasn’t what concerned him.

It was the woman on her knees in front of him. God, she was beautiful. Almost pixy-like in stature, but she was anything but fragile. He’d come up against her iron will a couple of times already, and shit, if seeing her mouth a few inches from his junk wasn’t enough to make him beg, knowing the strength contained in her petite body was.

He forced his gaze up to the white board mounted on the wall behind the desk, and in an effort to distract his mind—and his cock—from the female at his feet, he focused on the trainer’s schedule for the next week.

“What happens when we’re out of town?”

“I’m going with you. On your days off, we’ll do some basic stuff, like today. During games, I’ll monitor you remotely so I’ll have two sets of data to compare. Workout mode and game mode.”

“What do you mean, you’ll monitor remotely? I can’t pitch with all these wires hanging off me.”

“You won’t have to. You’ll still have the pads, but the electrodes will be wireless.” She stood and, going to her bag, produced a handful of microchips with tails attached.

“They look like alien sperm.”

Her husky laugh was a cattle prod to his groin. His dick responded, ready for action.
Shit.
And he had nothing to hide behind.

She sorted one from the bunch before placing the rest back in the bag. When she turned to him, a single example rested on her palm. “They do sort of resemble sperm, don’t they?” She flicked it with one perfect, but unpainted, fingernail. “These are a whole lot smarter than sperm, though. These can differentiate between a thousand different movements, whereas the real ones can only focus on one thing.”

He knew he was going to hate himself for asking, but the words were out of his mouth before he could stop them. “And what is that?”

“Being first in line.” She picked up the little guy by his tail, dangling him in the air while she examined it from all angles. “You see, it’s in their genetics to be first. First to penetrate the woman, whether they admit it or not, first to penetrate the egg, first in line, first to fly, first in space, first to cross the finish line, first, first, first. It never ends.”

“First to score.”

She smiled, palming the device again. “Exactly.” She placed her show-and-tell item carefully back in its place. “Everything is a competition with men, and if they aren’t first, then they’re last. Women are wired differently. At least, most women are.”

“Which way are you wired?”

“Me?” Her brows collided above her nose. “I guess I’m more competitive than most. My research is cutting edge, and I definitely want to be the first in my field.”

“And when you’ve done what you’ve set out to do?”

Her shoulders rose and fell. “I don’t know. I suppose I’ll find something else to focus on.”

She went down on her knees again, this time attaching wires to the pads at his ankles. He clenched his hands into fists and focused on the flickering fluorescent light overhead. Looking at the top of her head brought to mind too many things
he’d
rather she focus on, and that road was filled with potholes deep enough to swallow his career.

Get your mind out of the gutter, man.
He racked his brain for something to think about less likely to get him banned from the League.
What’s the formula for earned run average? Number of earned runs divided by number of innings pitched then multiply by nine. So my ERA this year is…?
Not knowing his own stats was reason enough to bench his ass, if not trade him. No wonder he had been chosen as the guinea pig. “Fuck!”

Dr. Reed sprang to her feet, concern and contrition in every line of her face. “Did I pinch you?”

“No. Sorry. I’m fine, really. How much longer is this going to take?”

“One more wire then it will take a few minutes to connect to my computer, and we’ll be good to go.”

“Go where, exactly? No one’s told me anything, except to show up here today. What do you hope to learn from all this?” He swept his hand through the air to indicate her handiwork.

She grabbed another wire from the pile on the desk and circled around behind him. He twisted to watch her lean over and clamp the wire onto a pad at the base of his spine. As she righted herself, her knuckles brushed over his left cheek. It was barely contact, but he felt it all the way up his spine to the tips of his ears. Ever on alert for opportunity, his cock twitched. The sizzle of electricity humming through his body had nothing to do with the wires attached to his body and everything to do with the woman wiring him up like a marionette.

He wanted her.

He hadn’t wanted another woman since Hannah walked out on him.

Jesus
.

He was going to have to figure out another way of doing this without her touching him. Otherwise, he was going to carry out an experiment of his own
. How many times can I make her scream in an hour?

“Mr. Walker didn’t fill you in on the basis of my research?” She talked while she dug around in her bag again, coming out this time with something resembling the controller for the model railroad set he’d had when he was kid, only this one could run all the trains going out of Grand Central Terminal.

“No.” Truth. Doyle seemed to be as in the dark as anyone. Why else would he have asked Royce to spy on her research? He eyed the sinister looking box while she collected the ends of his wires and popped them into the color-coded receptacles. “What’s the Frankenstein box for?”

“Oh. I’m sorry. I should explain.” She waved him closer. “This is a transformer, of sorts.”

“Oh, hell, no!” He grabbed at the wires, succeeding in pulling a couple free before her laughter stopped him. His loyalty to the sport only went so far. “What?”

Damn. Her face lit up like Reunion Tower when she smiled. He couldn’t help it, he smiled back. “What?” he repeated, laughing at himself now, too. “You’re laughing at me?”

“What did you think I was going to do to you? Shock you?”

He gestured toward the box with the wires dangling from his fist. “That’s what it looks like. You gonna tell me it’s not what it looks like?”

“I promise you, it’s not what it looks like.” She pried his fist open then punched the ends back into the box before reaching behind it. Seeing the USB connection on the end eased his anxiety somewhat.

“I’m still not convinced you aren’t going to electrocute me.”

“Royce.” His name rolled off her lips again, and he had a ridiculous urge to hear her say it when he was buried deep inside her. “This plugs into my computer. The box gathers data from the electrodes attached to your body, translates the information into graphs and other data sets, then sends it all to my computer for further analysis.”

“So, what are you expecting to learn from all of this?”

“My goal is to map your body at rest, and in routine motion, walking, sitting, stretching. Things you usually do. I’ll gather data while you work, too, which in your case is playing baseball. By comparing the various sets of data, I hope to identify ways to maximize your potential on the field by determining which muscles or muscle groups are either under too much stress or underachieving. If my theories hold true, I might be able to help you overcome whatever physical factors are affecting your on-field performance.”

He was speechless, which apparently, Dr. Reed took for interest in her project as she continued to talk. He picked up a few words. Theorem. Prototype. Groundbreaking. There were a host of others that sailed over his head like a homerun ball, high, fast, and impossible to catch.

Head spinning from information overload, he cut her off in mid-sentence. “Whoa! I don’t give a rat’s ass about any of those things. What I want to know is, what does it have to do with me?”

“I told you. You can’t fix something you can’t see. I understand you aren’t playing up to your potential. I believe the data I collect will show me where you are failing, and from there, we can work to improve your performance.”

“Sounds like a lot of bullshit to me.”

“I’ve spent four years of my life developing the hardware and software for this prototype. If the trials produce the results I expect, then I plan to market the system to sports teams worldwide. The money made off those sales will be used to provide free units to hospitals and military rehab centers. So you see, Mr. Stryker, it’s not bullshit to me.”

God, she was sexy when she was riled up! The civilized part of him hated that he’d pushed her buttons, but a more primal part was damn glad he did. He’d been too tuned-in to the passion in her voice to pay attention to what she said, but he got the gist of it. She was out to change the world, and he was her next step toward her goal. He could live with being a research subject, as long as there was no more bloodletting and electric shocks involved.

“Okay, okay. Simmer down.” It would be a shame if she did. He liked watching her breasts rise and fall with her rapid breaths. Hell, he hadn’t seen anything as entertaining in…forever, it seemed. But Miss Prissy Scientist was off limits. “Let’s just get this over with. What do you need me to do?”

“Nothing. Just stand there, for now.” She resumed hooking him up, jamming the business end of the wires into her machine like she was shoving needles into a voodoo doll. He would have laughed, but he still wasn’t sure she couldn’t flip a switch and turn him into a roman candle. Instead, he indulged in a bit of fantasy, allowing his brain to take him places he physically couldn’t go. She’d convinced him of her identity, but just because she was who she said she was didn’t mean she wasn’t connected to someone on the team.

“Why baseball?”

“It’s a non-contact sport, most of the time. The tech who designed the wireless electrodes for me insisted they weren’t ready for the kind of abuse they’d suffer in a full contact sport like football. He’s working to fix the problem.”

She inserted the last wire and turned to him. “All set. I’ll connect to my computer then I’m going to ask you to go through some simple motions so I can see if all the electrodes are working properly.”

He held his breath while she inserted the USB connection into a slot on her laptop. When no sparks flew, he blew the breath out.

After clicking away on the keyboard for a few minutes, she smiled up at him. “So far, so good. We’ll start with your left arm. Raise it over your head slowly. Hold it there for the count of ten then lower it back to your side.”

He hardly noticed the pad attached to his biceps, but the one on his forearm was another story. As his muscles shifted, so did the skin covering them. For the first time since she suggested he take the time to shave, he wished he’d listened to her. The pad tugged uncomfortably on hair follicles, and he could only imagine how painful removing the pad would be. Refusing to let her see his discomfort, he concentrated on keeping his facial expressions neutral.