Amber's Ace Read online

  The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of a copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by fines and federal imprisonment.

  Please purchase only authorized electronic editions and do not participate in, or encourage, the electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Amber’s Ace

  Copyright 2016 by Taryn Kincaid

  ISBN: 978-1-68361-056-4

  Cover art by Fiona Jayde

  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work, in whole or in part, in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Decadent Publishing Company, LLC

  Look for us online at:

  www.decadentpublishing.com

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Another Chance by Taryn Kincaid

  Dear Readers

  I hope you love Amber and Riley as much as I do. Writing them, especially Amber, was definitely a challenge. If you do, I hope you’ll also check out WOLF’S SONG, the story of Amber’s brother Brick; and ANOTHER CHANCE, the story of Amber’s brother Chance.

  And be sure and let me know if you think Amber’s twin sister, Garnet, needs a story of her own. You can find me on facebook and twitter and email me at [email protected] . I love hearing from readers!

  Black Hills Wolves Stories

  Wolf’s Return

  What a Wolf Wants

  Black Hills Desperado

  Wolf’s Song

  Claiming His Mate

  When Hell Freezes

  Portrait of a Lone Wolf

  Alpha in Disguise

  A Wolf’s Promise

  Reluctant Mate

  Diamond Moon

  Wolf on a Leash

  Tempting the Wolf

  Naming His Mate

  A Wolf Awakens

  The Wolf and the Butterfly

  Infiltrating Her Pack

  Omega’s Heart

  Rebel’s Claw

  Claiming the She-Wolf

  Worth Fighting For

  Dangerous

  Uncaged

  Promiscuous Wolf

  Disquieted Souls

  A Cougar Among Wolves

  Long Road Home

  A Mate’s Healing Touch

  Another Chance

  Broken Silence

  A Wolf’s Contract

  A Mate’s Redeeming Touch

  A Cougar Among Wolves

  Pleasure Me

  Craving His Love

  Jasmine Moon

  Winter Solstice Run

  Wolf’s Holiday

  Winter Magic

  Winter Secrets

  Winter Solstice Ménage

  Wolf in Winter Clothing

  Murder in Los Lobos

  Scent of Murder

  Scent of the Hunt

  Scent of His Woman

  Scent of Madness

  Coming Soon

  Secrets of the Hunt

  Salvaged Souls

  His to Protect

  Also by Taryn Kincaid

  Sleepy Hollow

  Lightning

  Thunder

  Frost

  Blizzard

  Heat Wave

  In From the Cold

  Wolf’s Song

  Rain

  Another Chance

  Her Captain

  Amber’s Ace

  Riley Morgan, the all-star ace pitcher of the world champion New York Kings, has long hidden his secret from his adoring fans and the clamoring metropolitan press. But when a long-distance mate call distracts Riley on the mound, he suffers a freak, career-ending injury that sends him back to his South Dakota wolf pack to heal.

  Stolen from her family along with her twin sister years earlier, Amber Northridge has been held prisoner and abused by the crazed former alpha and his henchmen since she was a teen, managing to survive through her resourcefulness and wit. Now, at long last, the pack has located them and set them free.

  Home in Los Lobos, Amber recognizes the hunky baseball player she’s seen on TV as her mate, but she doubts she can be with any man after all she has suffered.

  Can the romantic machinations of Los Lobos’ four renowned matchmakers unite the damaged pair?

  Amber’s Ace

  A Black Hills Wolves Story

  By

  Taryn Kincaid

  Chapter One

  Mine.

  The word echoed like thunder in Riley’s head. Shocked and shaken, he slipped off the rubber on the pitcher’s mound, releasing the full-count ball before he had a good grip on the seams. Like a slo-mo replay, the baseball wobbled toward the batter’s box. The crowd sucked in its collective breath. The horsehide sphere flew high and wide, soaring over the catcher’s head.

  “Ball four!” The umpire’s left arm shot out to signal the walk. Riley’s teammate ripped off his catcher’s mask and scrambled to recapture the errant pitch bouncing off the backstop.

  Shit and shineola. His perfect game, down the crapper. He hadn’t thrown a wild pitch in his last five outings and now he’d dealt three balls in a row, capped by the last frickin’ doozy. If he couldn’t concentrate better than this, he could kiss the New York Kings’ play-off hopes good-bye.

  The batter at the plate shrugged and trotted down the base path to plant himself on first. The crowd groaned, commiserating with Riley and disappointed at missing the chance to witness history in the making. The guy on first smirked at him and made a big show out of exchanging his batter’s helmet for his Philly Phantoms cap.

  The afternoon sun beat down on Riley, the dog-day, end-of-August temperature rising steadily from balmy to way past uncomfortable. Sweat trickled beneath the brim of his cap and dripped from his brow to the bridge of his nose. He took a swipe at the droplet, adjusted his cap, and glared into the television camera broadcasting his every move. What the fuck was wrong with him?

  Only four fricking outs away…then this. Beyond sloppy.

  He’d carried the perfect game into the bottom of the eighth inning, his stuff so strong and potent, even the other team’s superstar sluggers couldn’t touch him. His fastball had smoked over the plate at ninety-six miles an hour. He’d painted the corners of the plate like an artist with his slider and had great movement on his breaking ball, his location precise. His curveball sailed down and away from the batters at the last split second, barely catching the outer edge of home plate. He’d seemed unbeatable. In the dugout, his superstitious teammates had moved away from him on the bench, not talking to him or mentioning the perfect game he had going. No one wanted to jinx the miracle in the making.

  And then he’d let this meathead on?

  Maybe he’d been a tad too pumped. As the scoreboard ticked off each inning, more and more adrenaline had flooded through Riley. Making him too jazzed. Too strong. Too wild.

  That was the reason for the errant pitch. Had to be. Jittery excitement coursed through his veins, making him ready to jump at shadows and causing him to throw a little crazy. He had to regain contr
ol before he blew it.

  How could he hear anything over the roar of the crowd?

  Mine. Sheesh. He couldn’t have really heard that.

  A mate call? With fifty thousand fans in the stands, stomping, whistling, and cheering his name for all they were worth? No frickin’ way. They took up their chant with renewed vigor, trying to help him brush off the ruination of his perfect game.

  “Ri-ley! Ri-ley! Ri-ley!” Clap, clap, clap.

  He tried to shake off the error. The catcher came out to talk to him. Then the manager. A few ass and shoulder pats later, he stood alone on the mound again.

  He smoked one over the plate at ninety-six mph with satisfaction. Nothing was wrong. Even if he’d blown the perfect game, he still had a no-hitter going and, of course, a shutout if he could force the weird auditory hallucination out of his head and concentrate. All was not lost. The Kings were leading 3-0. He could still pick the runner off first or get this guy to strike out or hit into a ground ball double play.

  But jeez. A mate call? Really? In the heart of freakin’ New York City? After all these years? Yeah, the Big Apple was a celebrated melting pot and all, but how many wolves wandered around the teeming metropolis, anyway?

  Certain he’d heard something, Riley narrowed his eyes and looked toward the stadium crowd behind the dugout, searching out his most recent starlet girlfriend in the team’s family box. No way she was a wolf. Maybe he didn’t know much about pack or being a wolf, but he’d definitely have sensed her eligibility as a soul mate. He would have lolled in her scent when they tangled sheets together, absorbing it into his skin and wrapping the warm sense of homecoming and well-being around himself like a baby with his blankie. That’s what it was supposed to be like, right? He didn’t get the whiff of mate off her. Not even remotely. The expensive perfume for which she made commercials, yes. A strong, pungent scent that played havoc with his sensitive wolf’s nose, giving him pounding Excedrin headaches and making him dizzy and half-blind, a reaction so adverse he’d feigned an allergic reaction until she’d mercifully stopped wearing the stuff. But the kind of mate scent rumored to brand a wolf’s soul, to seep into every fiber and cell, to tear into his head and forever scramble his brains? No. He and Taffy had some good times together, but that was it. So, where had the gut-shattering word come from? Despite what he told himself, he remained certain he’d really heard it: A mate’s sweet, sure voice crashing into the depths of his being, shaking him to his soul.

  Mine.

  He was thirty-one years old and squeaky clean as ballplayers went, especially those who played in New York with all the decadent delights, temptations to sin, and notoriety the city had to offer. He’d been with the Kings his whole career, a rustic rube straight out of South Dakota, from the Kings’ farm clubs right to being called up to the bigs. And here he was, at the top of his game. One of the stars of The Big Show in baseball’s premier media market.

  The fans and press and admen adored him. “Upright Riley,” they called him. “Uptight Riley,” he guessed some of his Kings teammates probably muttered behind his back. He never even cursed out loud if anyone was around to hear him, though sometimes the pressure of keeping everything bottled up inside got to him.

  Fuck.

  More expletives exploded in his head. Sure, he’d dated his share of supermodels and movie stars, but he’d never embroiled himself or his team in scandal. No whiff of his secret ever swirled around him.

  He towered above other players, powerful, swift, and strong, but he was pretty sure no one had guessed he was a wolf. The media would have been all over even the faintest rumor, and worse. His mom had whisked him away from Los Lobos as a small cub three decades ago, and he had no memory of the place. His mother had explained some things to him, but not all. Sometimes, he felt a little like a fish out of water in the majors, but ever since hitting the bigs, he’d been vigilant about what he said to the press. He’d never been splattered over “Page Six” of the Post or the back pages of any of the tabloids, had never tested positive for banned substances. No hint of his lupine DNA ever showed up in random drug testing. No investigations ever tarnished his name. He’d never even held out on renewing his contracts, signing as soon as they came up, appearing regularly for the pitchers and catchers phase of spring training, one of the first on the team to do so.

  He was the face of the New York Kings, their poster boy and public-relations dream, awash in commercial endorsements, with his path to Cooperstown laid out in front of him, clear, straight, and within his grasp.

  At this stage of his life, he wasn’t looking for anything eternal…unless it was permanent enshrinement in the Hall of Fame with no asterisks next to his name. He went out with his share of celebrated, high-maintenance women…but none of them lasted very long. A month or two and over and out. He’d sure never dated a woman he sensed would be forever. He’d never found a woman who even whispered the barest hint to him of “mate.”

  So who was this Siren calling to him? Some painted jezebel in a skintight scarlet sheath, boobs spilling out of her bodice when she licked her crimson lips and tossed her ebony hair? Holy cow. Archaic language. And a fantasy image of Jessica Rabbit. He was totally losing it.

  Shake it off, Riley. Don’t think about that now. No-hitter’s on the line.

  He raised both hands to his face, the glove on his right hand hiding his left hand’s grip on the ball, and went into his windup, preparing to deliver his trademark slider and put an end to the lousy inning. To escape the torturous path his addled brain had started down.

  Mine.

  The ball slipped from his fingers again, this time headed straight toward the center of home plate, a big, fat pancake with just enough speed, all wrapped up like an early Christmas present for the Philly Phantoms, the Kings’ biggest rivals. The Phantoms’ shortstop uncorked a bullet.

  Craaaaaaaack.

  The other guy, a player with a plummeting batting average who was probably one out away from being sent down to the minors, got the thick part of the bat around on the ball and sent a frozen rope ripping straight back to the pitcher’s mound. Too fast for Riley to get any leather on it.

  Instinct had him fielding the baseball barehanded, trying to save two runs.

  Holy fucking shit!

  Fuck, fuck, FUCK.

  Pain roared through his fingers like a locomotive, shooting through his wrist and straight up his arm.

  Pop. Pop. Pop.

  Maybe he couldn’t really hear the sound of his tendons and ligaments bursting and shredding, what with the explosive clamor of the crowd and all, but he sure as shit felt it. Smash, crash, and burn. Excruciating pain lit him up, his whole fuckin’ Lloyd’s-insured left arm on fire. The force of the contact shoved him back on his ass, the fingers of his left hand yanked every which way, muscles tearing and rupturing. His dominant hand. His pitching hand.

  So much for the stellar career of the New York Kings’ renowned South Dakota Southpaw.

  Done.

  He writhed on the mound in agony, so sick to his stomach he retched, his injured hand jabbed by thousands of red-hot daggers. His inner wolf howled, trying to force him into a healing shift that could not happen. Not on national TV. Not with a mangled paw.

  The manager, coaches, and trainers raced toward him, followed by the team doctor. In another second, the dugout emptied and his teammates poured onto the field, surrounding him, their faces white, expressions grave. Even the Phantoms clambered onto the field. The boisterous crowd went totally silent.

  Fuck. He’d never even been on the disabled list in his entire career, always playing through his pain, never missing a game, his wolf able to heal whatever minor injuries he’d sustained on the diamond. He’d earned the respect of teammates and opponents alike, anyone connected to major league baseball. And most especially the fans. Year after year, he remained the fan favorite, their Iron King, ready and steady, always capturing far more All-Star Game votes than anyone else in either l
eague.

  Not this time. This time he’d disappoint them all.

  He shut his eyes. Blackness tugged at the edges of his consciousness.

  Chapter Two

  A warm, wet muzzle nudged Amber awake. Huddled in her wolf form under a threadbare blanket, she shivered despite the growing late summer heat in the hideaway she’d made beneath a narrow cot in one of the unoccupied huts in the compound. Maybe it was only psychological, but it always seemed cold here in the darkest part of the forest, no matter the season. Craving the forgetfulness of sleep, she wriggled and wrapped the ragged coverlet tighter.

  Her twin whimpered, the low whine at once fraught and urgent. Amber blinked open an eye as her sister’s jaws clamped around the frayed cotton. The red she-wolf tossed her head back and forth, trying to loosen Amber’s grip and drag the thin material from her slumber-slow body.

  “What is it, G?” She telegraphed the internalized growl in their secret twin language. “This place better be on fire, with Magnum’s sick and mangy hide kindling the blaze.” Older by four minutes, Amber had tried her best to protect her sister. But her best efforts had not been enough. Both had become prisoners of their crazed Alpha, Magnum Tao.

  She rolled toward Garnet, who moved away from the bed. Shaking off the last vestiges of uneasy sleep, she stood on all fours in the center of the rustic, nearly bare hut, ears up and alert. Surveying her sister, she sniffed at the air, trying to guess the problem that had Garnet rousing her from the usual fitful nightmares obliterating any semblance of peaceful dreams. No whiff of smoke. A weird energy seemed to crackle through the compound, though.