Bigger Than Beckham (14 page)

His question must have caught her unawares,
because Martha took her sweet time answering as she delicately
sipped Scotch and stared straight ahead at the liquor bottles lined
up behind the bar. Unfortunately, the lounge was jam-packed, so
they’d had to perch on ridiculously uncomfortable stools at the bar
instead of at a table where he could have met her gaze
directly.

In that and other ways, a quiet table in a
dark corner would have better served his purposes.

Tony cleared his throat. “Take your time,” he
said in a light tone.

His question put her in a tough spot. If she
said “not right now,” it would sound like a virtual promise of a
future yes. If she said “never,” it would mean exactly that because
he’d let her be from then on. He had no problem at all being
aggressive in pursuit of a woman—especially one as eminently
fuckable as Martha Winston—but he sure as hell knew how to take no
for an answer, too.

And if she didn’t want to grab onto either of
those alternatives, then whatever she said would lead to a
discussion, and probably an open door.

Or, of course, she could just put down her
drink and walk away.

Tony had no patience with that particular
thought.

Martha finally turned to face him. “Let me
just say this,” she started in a prim, schoolmarm tone. Then she
half-closed her eyelids and whispered the pink tip of her tongue
across her glossy lips.

With that, the erection he’d been fighting to
keep at half-mast finally won the day.

“You know that doing such a thing would be a
monumental mistake, Tony.”

Her words contradicted the silent message of
that lush red mouth, a mouth that promised to take him to heaven.
Yes, sleeping together might very well be a mistake, but all he
could focus on now was the fact that her answer sure as hell didn’t
sound like a no.

Best not to call her attention to that,
though. At least not yet.

“Because it would complicate…things?” he
asked, trying to sound like a thoughtful, sensitive guy. He
actually did think he was a pretty thoughtful guy, but right now
his little head was doing its best to run the show.

“
Things
are already complicated
enough, aren’t they?” she said, keeping her voice low. “Do we
really want to throw sex into the mix?” Her voice sounded so damn
sultry that it had the predictable effect on his aching dick.

“Hell, yes,” he said enthusiastically. Then
he frowned. “What mix?”

She sighed, as if he was as dense as the
polished counter she was leaning an elbow on. “At the moment at
least, we’re business adversaries. Or have you managed to forget
that?” Unbelievably, Martha dipped her gaze down toward his crotch.
“I can see you’ve got other things on your mind, but really.”

When she glanced up, meeting his gaze, her
eyes glittered with mischief. That look woke something up inside
him—the competitor, the part of him absolutely determined to win
the prize.

And Martha Winston was one hell of a
prize.

He put his hand squarely on her knee, lightly
stroking her through the tight black denim that showcased her
killer figure.

“Perhaps we can separate the two, Martha. If
we really want to.”
Christ
. His voice was so raspy he
sounded like he’d downed an entire bottle of bourbon. But she made
him hotter than he’d been in a very long time.

Which meant he had to be careful. At the
moment, he wanted her so badly he actually worried that he might
blurt out something stupid about backing off his pursuit of her
team. And that would be a lie, because tomorrow morning he would
wake up and want the team as much as ever, no matter what might or
might not happen between the sheets tonight.

Martha gently brushed his hand away, then
leaned both elbows on the bar, propping her face in her hands as
she stared straight ahead at nothing. For a moment, he couldn’t get
a read on her emotions and he wondered if he should apologize for
coming on so strong. But then she straightened, clear-eyed and with
a wry look on her face.

“Lord help me, I can’t believe we’re having
this discussion,” she said in her best southern drawl. “We only met
a few hours ago and the circumstances were hardly the best.”

Tony shook his head. “No, we met
again
, Martha. And, hell, I’ve been thinking about you for
two years and I don’t mind admitting it.”

She scoffed and waved a dismissive hand.
“Once or twice in the shower, I’m guessing.”

“Ha ha, funny girl. No, every time I hear the
word tennis. And in a few thousand other ways, too.” A slight
exaggeration, but true enough in essence. She’d crossed his mind on
so many occasions, and each time he’d regretted that he hadn’t
seized the opportunity that night in London.

With a lightning fast move she grabbed his
shirt at the neck, giving him a good shake before releasing her
grip. “Then for God’s sake, Tony, why did you never call me after
Wimbledon?”

He’d asked himself the same question more
than once, mulling over various possibilities, none of which seemed
to quite hit the mark. Because they lived on different continents.
Because he’d checked and found out she was involved with someone
else. Because
he
had a girlfriend at that particular moment,
though he knew the relationship wasn’t going to go anywhere.

“It’s not like I didn’t think hard about it,”
he said, feeling defensive. “But when I found out you were with
that violinist—”

“Vitaly Tarashenko?” Martha snorted. “Give me
a break, Tony. We dated for a while, that’s all. I didn’t think so
minor detail would deter a man like
you
.”

She tried to make a joke of it, but he
thought he heard a hint of vulnerability in her voice, and that
made him feel like a jerk. Truthfully, he didn’t really know the
full answer to her question. Maybe it even had a little to do with
her being a sportswriter. His relationship with the ladies and
gentlemen of the press had always been testy—sometimes to the point
of combustive hostilities—and that factor might have unconsciously
come into play.

Or maybe he even thought Martha Winston was
in a whole other class from him. Not that he was a complete lug,
but she was squired around by concert musicians, for God’s sake,
not jocks and dockworkers’ sons.

He resisted the temptation to shove a
frustrated hand back through his hair, giving her a wry smile
instead. “Then I guess my best answer, Martha, is to say I was a
total bloody fool.”

Damned if he’d let her see even the barest
hint that he might not be good enough for her, despite all his
wealth and success. Besides, he had a feeling that money and fame
didn’t mean much to her. After all, she’d come from a prosperous
background herself, and she had dated and dumped guys more famous
than him.

Martha’s eyes softened, but only for a
moment, and then she rose from her bar stool, a tall, slender
goddess. With a quick dip forward, she brushed her soft lips across
his cheek. “You snooze, you lose, pal. I’ll pick you up tomorrow
for the game.”

As she strolled from the lounge, at least a
dozen men turned around to follow the seductive sway of her
hips.

And none more so than Tony.

The morning sun slanted through the huge
windows, warming her back and fending off the chill of the air
conditioned conference room at First Coast National Bank. Martha
gazed across the table at five sets of hostile eyes. Barely halfway
through her presentation, she was putting a brave face on her
Nightmare on Elm Street
situation, but the suits were giving
her an unsubtle message that they’d seen the movie before and
didn’t like it.

Hated it, in fact.

Her throat parched from almost fifteen
minutes of non-stop talking, she interrupted her monologue to take
a drink from her glass of ice water. On her left, Kieran gave her a
sympathetic smile when she glanced his way for some much-needed
encouragement. On her right, her uncle Geoffrey stared straight
ahead, his hands folded over his belly. He’d shown little
expression so far, but if anything she thought he looked a bit
embarrassed.

“Sorry, y’all,” Martha said across the table.
“The old throat is as dry as my great-granddaddy’s peanut field in
a season-long drought.”

She gave the men her most endearing,
aren’t-I-just-a-cute-Georgia-girl grin, but not one of them cracked
even a hint of a smile. A parole board facing a serial killer might
be more sympathetic than what she was contending with.

Jameson Cockburn, senior vice-president of
the bank, glanced first to his right and then to his left.
Apparently receiving some kind of non-verbal assent, he held up a
hand. “You can stop now, Ms. Winston. I think we’ve all heard
enough.”

“But I haven’t…” She sputtered to a stop at
the look on his face.

“You clearly have nothing of substance to add
to what you put before us the last time we met,” Cockburn said in a
supremely cool voice. The man was handsome in a tight-assed sort of
way, with his hundred-dollar haircut and his perfectly-tailored
blue suit. But whatever charm offensive she’d ever tried on him,
he’d proven impervious to it.

“Your so-called plan to pull the team out of
this downward spiral apparently is to do even more of what hasn’t
been working,” he continued. “For example, you say you want to ramp
up your marketing spending, even though your past efforts have
produced little if any impact.”

Martha nodded, not about to quibble even
though she didn’t entirely agree with his assessment. “I know. But
as I said, our mission is to attract a whole new demographic to the
Thunder. Until now, our fan base has been dominated by the
over-forty generation. Young people are
playing
soccer more
and more in this country, but kids and young adults aren’t into
watching
it at the professional level. Not yet. And if we’re
going to succeed, we have to change that mind-set, here and all
over the league.”

“We couldn’t agree more.” Rance Malone leaned
forward as if he intended to take over the discussion. Malone, the
blond-haired, thin-faced CEO of Steam Train Breweries, had taken
over the top position at the corporation a few months ago, not long
after Martha inherited the Thunder. “Young adults are our target
demographic, too. But it’s not working for you. Frankly, your team
is about as attractive to young people as Lawrence Welk reruns.” He
chuckled at his lame attempt at humor. “You can spend all the money
you want on TV and print ads, social media and all that stuff. But
if the team on the field stinks, nobody’s going to pay to see them.
It’s as simple as that.”

Martha barely stopped herself from glaring at
them. “Y’all are telling me we need to field a better team? Well,
that’s hardly a news flash, folks. But we all know that the only
way to accomplish that is to rebuild around our key young players,
unload some deadwood, and lure a couple of good free agents here.
And that’s sure not going to happen overnight.”

“We can do the job, gentlemen,” Kieran
interjected smoothly. “I haven’t a shred of doubt about that. But
you need to give us more time. We’ve had a very bad run of luck,
which surely hasn’t helped, but most of all we need time to get rid
of the unproductive players and replace them with lads who’ll give
it their all, day in and day out.”

Cockburn shook his head. “Meanwhile, Mr.
McLeod, for however long that takes—years, probably—do you
seriously expect the bank to keep shoveling funds your way in the
hope
that you’ll be able to work this magic?” He switched
his cold gaze to Martha. “Frankly, Ms. Winston, what we’d hoped to
hear from you today was not a plan to spend even
more
money,
but a serious commitment to cutting costs.”

“That’s exactly what
we’ve
had to do
whenever the economy turned down and we faced a cash flow crunch,”
added Finley Roberts from SportsNet. The cable sports network was
the Thunder’s second biggest sponsor after Steam Train. “The
shareholders demand it. When revenue stalls or declines, you have
to cut your costs. It’s the only way to maintain a profit.”

Condescending bastards.
Did they think
she didn’t know that?

Martha gave them a phony smile. “I’m not
running a brewery, gentlemen, nor a cable company. And while I
understand the usual business response to a slowdown is to slash
costs, I’m not sure you can apply the same rules willy-nilly to a
sports franchise. Not when by far the biggest percentage of our
costs is player salaries.”

Her heart thudded against her breastbone as
she scanned the men’s eyes. Lord, she’d never encountered a bunch
of colder fish in her life. “We’re locked into player contracts,
and several of them are for multiple years. That means we have to
trade those guys, and it isn’t easy to do that.”