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      About the Author

      JACKIE BRAUN is a three-time RITA^® award finalist, a four-time National Readers’ Choice Award finalist and a past winner of the Rising Star Award. She worked for nearly two decades as an award-winning journalist before leaving her full-time job to write fiction. She lives in mid-Michigan with her husband and their two sons. She loves to hear from readers and can be reached through her website at www.jackiebraun.com.

      For Brady Williamson and his new sister, Alexandria

      PROLOGUE

      ANGELO CASALI stood at the home plate with his feet planted shoulder’s width apart in the dust. The bat hovered in the air just beyond his right ear. It was the bottom of the ninth inning with two outs, and the Rogues were trailing by two. Anxious runners filled the bases waiting for New York’s Angel to work a miracle. They and the fans knew the team’s pennant hopes rested squarely on his shoulders.

      The opposing team’s pitcher glared at Angelo from beneath the bill of his cap. Kyle Morris had one of the best arms in the league. Only a handful of batters could touch his fastball. Angelo was one of them, which was why Morris had yet to bring the heat against him this game. In fact, the pitcher had walked Angelo his last two times at bat. Morris couldn’t afford to do that now, and they both knew it.

      The pitcher hiked up his leg and levered back his arm before bringing it around. The ball blasted free of his hand like a bullet clearing the barrel of a gun. Even so, Angelo was ready, his eyes tracking its trajectory. He timed his swing perfectly and put everything he had into it, shifting his weight to his right leg as he brought the bat around.

       Crack!

      The sound of red-stitched white leather meeting wood rent the air like gunfire. It was followed by a sickening pop! that only Angelo heard…and felt. Pain, wicked and white-hot, exploded from his shoulder. The crowd’s deafening roar drowned out his cry.

      It’s worth it, he told himself. It’s worth it.

      Even as he dropped the bat and started toward first base, he knew there was no need to hurry. The ball was riding high in the clouds and showed no signs of dropping.

      “And it’s out of here!” the announcer shouted.

      The fans were on their feet, clapping and high-fiving.

      “Angel! Angel! Angel!”

      Their jubilant chanting buoyed him. Along with the adrenaline streaking through his system, it allowed him to ignore the worst of the pain. He rounded the bases at a leisurely trot with his good arm raised in triumph. By the time he arrived at home plate, his teammates were out of the dugout, standing there en masse to greet him with whoops and careless back slaps that nearly sent Angelo to his knees. He kept his grin in place, enjoying the moment. How could he not? The Rogues had just sealed a berth in the playoffs. He was the city’s hero.

      Barely twenty-four hours, Angelo adjusted the ice pack on his shoulder and drank a beer in the solitude of his Upper East Side apartment. If he closed his eyes, he could still hear the crowd chanting his name as the video replayed on the big screen over the scoreboard. He’d watched it from the bench in the dugout, a spot he’d most likely keep warm for what little remained of the season. Most disturbing of all, though, was the thought that this time he might have to hang up his cleats for good.

      He sipped the pricey imported brew he’d acquired a taste for his first year in the majors. What would he do then? The question nagged at him more than the pain from his shoulder.

      His cell phone trilled as he debated having another drink in lieu of the medication the team doctor had prescribed. It was probably another journalist. Reporters were eager for an interview or even just a quote from the Angel. He snatched it off the coffee table, intending to turn it off. A glance at the readout stopped him. It was his brother, Alessandro.

      He grinned as he flipped it open. “Alex. Hey.”

      “How are you?”

      “Never better,” Angelo lied.

      “Except for your shoulder, you mean.”

      “Yeah.” He shrugged the body part in question and immediately winced. “Except for that. What are you up to?”

      “Drinking a beer. Been a long day.”

      “I’m doing the same. I know what you mean.”

      Angelo tossed the ice pack aside and started for the kitchen to retrieve another bottle. He wished his twin were there to share a cold one with him in person. It still amazed Angelo that Alex owned a ranch in San Antonio, Texas, and was as at home roping steer as Angelo was snapping up grounders in a major league ballpark. God knew their chaotic childhood hadn’t lent itself to either profession. For that matter, it was amazing either of them had amounted to much of anything.

      “So, is your shoulder as bad as the sportscasters are saying?” Alex wanted to know.

      Angelo made a dismissive sound. “You know how those vultures are. They’re milking the story to boost their sagging ratings.”

      His brother wasn’t fooled. “You won’t be back in uniform this season.”

      “No.”

      “And next year?”

      “Sure. After surgery and some rehab I’ll be as good as new.” Angelo’s shoulder throbbed, seemingly in contradiction. He silenced it with a gulp of beer and settled back into the leather recliner. “I’m too damned young to retire.”

      It was a lie and they both knew it. Thirty-eight wasn’t old by most standards, but in baseball it was damned near ancient. Before the injury, Angelo had remained a powerhouse, but his legs weren’t what they used to be. Things like that didn’t escape the notice of the guys in the dugout, much less the guys in management. This injury didn’t help. It was his second serious one in three years, and pulled tendons had taken him out for several games in June. No ball club wanted to pay top dollar for a player who’d ride the pine. Even his agent was getting antsy that when Angelo’s multimillion-dollar contract expired in a couple months the team would cut him loose.

      “Well, it sounds like you’ll have some time on your hands.”

      “Yeah.” He studied the label on his beer and scraped at the edge with his thumbnail.

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