His Sweetest Sin

By: Fiona Murphy


1




Amelia

Damn it, I know I saw the file in his office last week. Where the hell is it? Ethan is usually meticulous with his files; I can’t imagine he took it home knowing he was going on vacation. With him out of the office, his secretary is too, so I can’t ask her unless I want to call her at home. Although I’ll bother her before I call Ethan. He and Holly only go away twice a year, they deserve some peace and quiet.

Right now, Ethan and Holly are sunning themselves on a beach in the south of France and I’m realizing my brother is a total badass. I always thought he was, but since he and Holly got married three years ago, he’s done these crazy things like going from fourteen-hour workdays to ten. There were even days he was out of the office by six, something so out of character every time it happened everyone in the office wondered if he was ill. He also never came in on the weekends anymore, instead working from his home office, if he worked at all. Not seeing him in the office at all hours made it easy to forget how hard he worked.

With me handling his clients while he’s gone, I’m learning not seeing him in action, doesn’t mean he isn’t. It’s even more of an honor he asked me to handle his cases. In the last two years, he’s gone from seeing me as his baby sister to a trusted colleague. I cringe as I realize I cultivated my role as his baby sister because I was constantly going to him for help, looking for him to make things easier. Once I stopped running to him for everything he saw me as someone on his level.

“Hey sweetie, why don’t you be a good girl and run along and get me Ethan? I need to see him, now,” a husky voice drawls from behind me.

Excuse me? I look up from the filing cabinet drawer I’m bent over to find a man eying my ass like it’s a glass of water and he’s thirsty. The idea anyone is eying my ass already has me out of sorts. Then I realize, holy shit, it’s Chris Baldwin. The baddest boy in baseball, as the tabloids liked to call him. All I can think is, he is no boy. Baldwin is all man, and a damn fine one at that. His skin the color of rich honey has me drooling as I wonder if it tastes as sweet. Wait, what?

His eyebrows go up, as if he can hear my crazy thoughts. The coal black of the perfectly scruffy few days’ old beard matches his hair equally overgrown by several weeks, enough to make it glaringly obvious he refuses to conform to rules other than his own. My fingers are tingling to discover if his hair is as silky as it looks, if they’ll get tangled in it when I pull him down to me. Okay, seriously? Where are these insane thoughts coming from?

I don’t drool, I don’t have naughty thoughts about men. I’ve seen pictures of him in magazines and on the internet, where he’s swooned over. He first caught the attention of the media ten years ago when he played for a team in Pennsylvania and they won the World Series.

At twenty-five he was only three years into his baseball career—he’d been drafted out of college to play with a team in Michigan. He was the young, cocky stud with a diamond in his ear and tattoos appealing to young men and women, but he also had the goods with the stats to back it up, gaining fans who were lovers of the game. It won him endorsements from all the major companies.

In person, I finally understand his appeal. His high-carved cheekbones still manage to have the kind of dimples that just aren’t fair. With an aggressive jaw and a strong, thin blade of a nose he is already gorgeous, then factor in his eyes, a deep bright blue, and he catapults to stunning. Yet, it’s his mouth I can’t take my eyes off of. Clearly defined, perfectly molded, full and wide with a pouting bottom lip I’m dying to suck on—okay, what the hell was that? I understand how he’s made it into the 50 Most Beautiful People in People magazine, twice.

In all those pictures, in all those commercials, none of them captured the aggressive male air surrounding him. He’s in jeans with a dark blue wash to them and a black cashmere mock turtleneck. His body is sin, tall, lean, muscled without bulging. When my eyes flick back up to his, he’s smiling knowingly with a damn dimple showing.

Don’t blush, don’t blush, he called you a girl. He has a diamond in his left ear the size of a dime, a tattoo on the back of one hand of an old worn baseball, and on the other hand is a baseball glove, in a vintage style much different from those of today and also looking old and worn. I’ve never been into men with tattoos and earrings, or assholes who didn’t bother trying to remember a woman’s name and so called them all by something generic. I’m not generic and refuse to be treated as such.

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