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Authors: Regina Hart

BOOK: Fast Break
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Pushing past her nerves, Jaclyn noted Sanford's excited energy and Mortimer's respectful silence. She called upon her cool negotiator's personae from her days with Jonas & Prather. But this negotiation was too personal. The outcome meant too much.
Jaclyn lowered her shoulders and straightened her back. “Our event revenue is up more than seventy-five percent over last season from ticket, refreshment and product sales. This season, we should double our income compared to last year.”
Mortimer crossed his right leg over his left and balanced the cup and saucer on his knee. “You said you
should
double your income. What would prevent you from accomplishing that goal?”
Jaclyn didn't blink. “We'll need to make it to the play-offs.”
“Play-offs?” Sanford looked from Jaclyn to Mortimer and back. “You're one and nine. It's last season all over again. How are you going to make it to the play-offs this time when you couldn't last season?”
Jaclyn felt the muscles in her neck and back tightening. “The season's still young, Sandy. We have seventy-three more chances.” Her heart beat loudly in her ears, almost drowning her words. Jaclyn switched her attention to Mortimer's gaze. She took a moment to slow her breathing. “The Brooklyn Monarchs and the Empire Arena have been partners since both organizations started.”
“That's fifty-five years.” Sanford's nod lent emphasis to his observation.
“That's right.” Jaclyn gripped the dainty teacup with sweaty fingers. “The Monarchs played their first game in the Empire the day the arena opened.”
“I remember that night as though it were yesterday.” Mortimer's sigh seemed to transport him and his younger brother to their opening night.
Sanford's laughter cracked the silence. He pointed a thin finger toward Jaclyn. “Your grandfather was so nervous. In the third quarter, I thought he'd put on a uniform and run some plays himself.”
Mortimer nodded. “He willed the Monarchs to win.”
Jaclyn leaned forward. “The Monarchs had a Cinderella run their first season. They didn't win the championship, but they made it into the play-offs. I know we'll have another Cinderella run this season. It's still early. I'm confident we'll make it to the play-offs. We have veteran players and a Hall of Fame coach.”
Mortimer scratched his chin. “Marc Guinn doesn't have any coaching experience.”
Jaclyn waved her hand in a dismissive gesture. “He has championship experience.” Adrenalin flowed through Jaclyn's system, replacing her nerves with energy. She spoke with more confidence than she'd felt in months. “The Monarchs and the Empire are more than companies. They're part of each other, and part of the community. I don't want to see that partnership end. Do you?”
Jaclyn waited for the Empire owners' response. She glanced between the two brothers. Was it her imagination or did they appear uncomfortable?
Mortimer exchanged a look with Sanford. His younger brother looked away. Mortimer met Jaclyn's eyes. “No, we don't want to see it end. But we don't have a choice.”
Jaclyn shifted her gaze to Sanford. The minority arena owner wouldn't meet her eyes. She looked again at Mortimer. “What do you mean?”
Mortimer sighed, staring into his teacup. “The day-to-day management has become too much for us. Our heirs have their own interests, which don't include the Empire.”
Shards of ice piled into Jaclyn's chest. “You're selling the Empire.” She made the statement with numbed lips.
Sanford spoke plaintively. “We don't want to, but we don't have any other choice.”
Mortimer sighed. “And, frankly, our books look more attractive without the Monarchs. Other events bring in a greater profit.”
“We're sorry, Jackie.” Sanford tucked his chin into his chest.
A weighted silence fell into the sitting room. Jaclyn's gaze dropped to her cup of tea. The deep brown liquid shimmered in front of her, like her hopes. She took a drink to compose herself. Right now, she would have preferred coffee, really strong coffee. “How much are you asking for it?”
Mortimer's asking price stole her breath.
Jaclyn sipped more Earl Grey tea. The uneaten lemon cream cookie was heavy in her left palm. “Will you still end our partnership when we make it to the play-offs?”
Mortimer hesitated. “Yes. The Monarchs have three losing seasons. For two of those seasons, we've been losing money.”
Jaclyn nodded at the older man's response. She sipped more tea to remove the lump in her throat.
Sanford slumped farther into the sofa. “We're sorry, Jackie. We don't have a choice.”
Jaclyn lowered her teacup. “I understand your decision. But I have to believe that there's always a choice.”
What were her choices? Finding another arena for the team or moving the Monarchs out of Brooklyn. Her heart squeezed in her chest. Were those really her only options?
 
 
“How did your meeting with the Empire Arena owners go?”
Althea's question pulled Jaclyn's attention away from her computer. She swallowed a spoonful of the chicken noodle soup she'd microwaved for her late lunch before answering. “Not well. How was your morning?”
Althea walked farther into her office. She fiddled with the silver decorative pin on her plum crewneck sweater. “I hate to pile more bad news on you, but you need to know the office gossip is at a fever pitch.”
Jaclyn placed her plastic soup bowl on her desk and spun her chair to face her executive assistant. “What are they gossiping about?”
Althea smoothed her midcalf, smoke gray skirt. “You and Marc Guinn.”
Jaclyn groaned and covered her face with her hands. “I can't believe I'd forgotten about that stupid picture.” Especially since that stupid picture had already caused problems for her and DeMarcus.
“You've had a lot on your mind.”
Jaclyn dropped her fists onto her desk. “I just wish I knew how that scum-sucking photographer knew to wait outside of Marc's hotel room.”
Althea clasped her hands together. “I think you were right. There's a leak in the franchise.”
Jaclyn leaned back in her chair, disgusted. “First our players were complaining about management to the newspapers. Now our front office is calling the media to give us negative coverage. Why would anyone on our staff do that?”
Althea shook her head. “I don't think the leak is contacting the media directly. I think the person she's talking to called the media.”
Jaclyn arched an eyebrow. “Do you know who the leak is?”
Althea shrugged. “My money's on Vanessa. Her tongue's been wagging the hardest about you and Marc.”
Jaclyn closed her eyes. She didn't want to believe it. “Nessa's been with us for four years. Why would she want to hurt our image in the community?”
“She was Gerry's executive assistant. I think she feels a stronger commitment to Gerry than to the franchise. And she's still upset about what she sees as a demotion.”
Jaclyn's mind was spinning. “But how would she know that I would be in Marc's room that night?”
Althea gave her a sarcastic look. “You and Marc are single and attractive, and you can scoop the sexual tension between you with a spoon.”
Jaclyn fought against a blush. She wasn't successful. “Why would Nessa betray the organization?”
“Maybe she doesn't consider it being disloyal to the team. Maybe she considers it being loyal to Gerry.”
Jaclyn pondered Althea's words. They made sense. Still, she wanted to hear the explanation from Vanessa. “I hate to think of anyone in our franchise family making us vulnerable to negative media coverage.”
“I'll keep an eye on her.”
Jaclyn's mind remained on Vanessa and Gerald. “Let me know what you find out. We can't have someone we can't trust on our staff.”
Jaclyn shoved aside the remains of her chicken noodle soup, spilling broth on a manila file folder.
She'd been right. Gerald had a spy. Why was he so determined to destroy their franchise? And what other schemes was he planning against them?
14
“Working late again, player?”
DeMarcus watched Jaclyn close his office door and walk toward him. She wore her power suit again. With whom had she met today? Her franchise partners or the Empire owners' lawyers?
The deep red jacket cinched her small waist. The matching skirt traced her slim hips and slender thighs. Her red stilettos made her legs seem even longer. He remembered the way those long, athletic limbs had felt wrapped around him.
DeMarcus stood, not caring whether Jaclyn noticed the effect she had on him. “You too.”
“As Anthony Chambers would quote, ‘There's no rest for the wicked, but the righteous don't need any.'” Jaclyn circled his desk, then cleared a spot on it to sit. She raised herself onto its corner and crossed her legs. “How was your day?”
DeMarcus sat again. He took a deep breath of her soft, lilac scent. “Uneventful.”
Jaclyn leaned forward. Her fragrance wrapped around him. Her cinnamon eyes hypnotized him. She brushed the fingertips of her right hand over his forehead, and the last of his tension drained away. “Are you sure? Because Oscar told me he had to restrain you this morning to keep you from knocking Jamal's teeth out of his head.”
His tension returned. “Oscar didn't have the right to tell you about that.”
“
You
should have told me.” Jaclyn maintained her soft, slightly amused tone. Her fingertips stroked over his forehead again. If she was angry, she was doing a damn fine job of hiding it.
“I had it under control.”
Her lush red lips curved. “You should have told me that, too.”
“You have enough, dealing with Gerry and Bert.”
Her expression sobered. Her hands dropped to his shoulders. “I need to know everything that involves this team, whether it's the condition of the training facilities or tension between players and coaches. As head coach, I expect you to tell me. Immediately. I don't want to hear about it from the media.”
DeMarcus searched her eyes. She wasn't flexing her authority or exuding her charm. It was a matter-of-fact statement that nevertheless didn't leave room for negotiation. “You're right. I'm sorry.”
Her hands linked behind his neck and she pulled him closer. She closed her eyes as she leaned in, covering his lips with hers. Her mouth nibbled at his, teasing him. He stroked his tongue across her lips, coaxing them to part. He'd been too long without her taste. Jaclyn moaned and opened for him. DeMarcus slipped his tongue inside her mouth to play and explore. He gripped her waist and plucked her from his desk, settling her onto his lap and into his arms. His body stirred.
Jaclyn shifted even closer to him. Her breasts pressed against his chest. Her bottom wiggled in his lap. DeMarcus groaned and pulled her tighter. She caressed his tongue with her own. DeMarcus's body heated. He caught his breath. He squeezed her thigh through the wool material of her skirt before moving over her hip and up her waist to cup her breast. The warm, soft weight against his palm brought images of their night together. Jaclyn trembled within his embrace. She pressed her hands against his chest.
DeMarcus leaned away. “What is it?”
Jaclyn kept her hand on his chest. “Could you take me home? I gave Herb the rest of the night off.”
“I—”
A low grumbling interrupted him. The sound quickly grew to an angry roar. DeMarcus's gaze bounced to Jaclyn's flat stomach, then back to her face. Her eyes had stretched wide. Her golden brown skin burned bright red.
An incredulous grin lifted DeMarcus's cheeks. “Have you eaten at all today?”
“Apparently not enough.” She bit her bottom lip.
Laughter grew from deep inside DeMarcus and burst free. His shoulders shook with it. He gathered Jaclyn into his arms and rocked her. Could he even remember the last time he'd laughed this hard?
Jaclyn punched his shoulder. “That's enough. It's not even funny.” The humor in her voice showed she was lying.
It wasn't easy, but DeMarcus controlled his amusement. “You shouldn't skip meals.” He cupped Jaclyn's shoulders and held her from him. “Before I take you home, we'll stop by my house and I'll make dinner. My father's been asking to see you again, anyway.”
Jaclyn's stomach murmured its approval. DeMarcus chuckled.
She pressed the heel of her left hand against her abdomen. “If you're sure it's not an imposition.”
He couldn't squelch another grin. He didn't even try. The situation was too comical.
DeMarcus inclined his head toward her stomach. “Listening to that all the way home would be an imposition.” He lifted her from his lap and rose from his chair. “We'll stop at the vending machine on our way out and get you a carton of milk.”
 
 
DeMarcus straightened from the dishwasher. He turned to reach for another dish and was hip bumped from the counter. He looked around.
Jaclyn gave him a winning smile as she placed more dishes into the machine. “Dinner was delicious. Thank you, Marc.”
He shook his head. “I told you my father and I would clear the table. You're our guest.”
She bent over the dishwasher, organizing the silverware into its holders. “I was a guest the first time. This time, I'd feel like a freeloader if I didn't help clean up.”
DeMarcus's gaze wandered to her well-shaped hips. He remembered the feel of her derriere in his hands—soft skin, firm muscles. His palms itched to caress her again. He raised his gaze and met Jaclyn's eyes. She'd caught him staring at her. The knowing twinkle in her eyes meant she'd guessed his thoughts. Her smile said she shared them.
His lips twitched. “Kitchen duty isn't my favorite chore.”
Jaclyn wiggled her bottom. “Think of it as foreplay.”
A slow smile stretched his lips. He could learn to like kitchen duty.
“This is the last of the dishes.” Julian's pronouncement preceded him into the kitchen.
DeMarcus met his father halfway and took the empty serving bowls and platter from him. “Thanks, Pop.” He turned and found Jaclyn standing between him and the sink.
She extended her hands for the serving dishes. “Your dishwasher's full. I'll wash these by hand.”
DeMarcus hesitated. “Thank you.”
Julian sat at the kitchen table. He stretched his legs and crossed them at the ankles. “Thanks, Jackie. I hate kitchen duty.”
Jaclyn carried the dishes to the sink. “It's a family aversion.” She let the water run over the dishes before scrubbing them with the soapy sponge. “Marc, your mother did a great job teaching you to cook.”
DeMarcus settled into the chair across from his father. He extended his legs, crossing them at the ankles. “She was a great cook.”
Julian's tone was nostalgic. “Brenda should have been a chef, but she loved teaching children.”
“So did you, Pop.” DeMarcus reached for the saltshaker in the center of the table, spinning it on the walnut wood surface.
Jaclyn pitched her voice over the sound of the running water. “I'd forgotten both of your parents were teachers. That must have been a lot of pressure on you in school.”
DeMarcus stilled his hand on the saltshaker. “Not really.” It was odd that someone with whom he was having a relationship knew so much of his personal life from media interviews. What had
he
read about
her?
“Marc always did his best,” Julian said. “He always gave two hundred percent. He graduated with honors from high school and magna cum laude from college. I'm very proud of him, and so was his mother.”
DeMarcus swallowed twice before speaking. “Thanks, Pop.”
The words weren't enough. He could never repay his father for everything Julian had helped him achieve. And he'd run out of time to thank his mother.
 
 
DeMarcus followed Jaclyn into her turn-of-the-century red brick mansion. The pentagonal entryway was tiled in the black and silver Monarchs colors. He slowed as he past the large, black and white framed photographs of historic Brooklyn landmarks adorning the white walls—the bridge, the museum, Prospect Park, Grand Army Plaza.
Jaclyn's stilettos tapped against the flooring as he followed her down a wide hallway to the kitchen. “Would you like something to drink? Ice water? Juice?”
He propped his shoulder against the archway separating the kitchen from the hall. “Water, please.”
Jaclyn took two beveled glasses from a cabinet. She filled each with water and ice, then crossed the kitchen to give him the drink. “You once told me it wasn't the salary that interested you in the Monarchs' head coaching position.”
DeMarcus winked. “I'm pretty sure my hourly pay is below minimum wage.”
Her eyes danced with amusement. “You have an odd sense of humor.”
“I think the same about you every time I look at my pay stub.” He drank the ice water. It cooled him from the inside out but couldn't douse the fire her smile had sparked within him.
The muscles in Jaclyn's throat flexed as she swallowed her water. “I think I've figured it out.”
DeMarcus dragged his gaze from her neck to eyes. He'd lost track of their conversation. “What?”
“You took the job with the team because of your mother. She'd always wanted you to come home and play for the Monarchs, but you were drafted to Miami and never left.”
DeMarcus gripped the cool glass in his fist. She had his full attention now. “What?”
Jaclyn's gaze bore into him. “Why else would a multimillionaire ex-NBA player without coaching experience take a head coaching position with a franchise he claims doesn't pay well?”
“You don't pay well.”
“I initially thought you wanted to coach the Monarchs because of your father. I thought you wanted to help improve the team because he's a fan.”
DeMarcus drained his glass of water. It bought him time and eased the sandpaper dryness of his throat. “So what?”
He surged away from the archway. He wanted to pace. He needed to move, but he didn't want Jaclyn to know she was making him uncomfortable. He thought she'd asked him to take her home for a very different reason, one that didn't involve clothing or psychoanalyzing him.
Jaclyn studied him like a lab experiment. “But your father knows you love him, and you know he's proud of you. I've seen that each time I've had dinner with the two of you.”
“What's your point?”
“You're not as certain your mother knew how much you loved and appreciated her.”
DeMarcus marched across the kitchen. He slammed the thick glass into the sink. With his back to her, he clenched and unclenched his fists. “Why do you care why I took the head coaching job?”
“Because I care about you.” Jaclyn's words eased the tension threatening to snap him in half. “And because I want to know you in and out of bed.”
He looked at her over his shoulder. She waited patiently in the corner of her silver and white kitchen wearing the same suit she'd worn the day she demanded his resignation. Their relationship definitely had taken a one-eighty.
DeMarcus leaned his hips against her sink and crossed his arms. “I thought I'd have time to show them how much I appreciated the sacrifices they'd made so that I could play in the NBA.” He stared at the marbled tile. “I bought them that house in Park Slope, convinced them to retire early so they could travel. I bought them vacation packages to Europe, Africa and the Caribbean.”
“I'm sure they appreciated that.”
“But I should have spent more time with them.” He faced her despite his shame. “When they were exploring Europe, I was playing in the All-Star game. When they were touring Africa, I was training for the Olympics. When they were sailing the Caribbean, I was working on my sports apparel deal.”
“Didn't they want to see those games?”
“They were at the games. But I was too busy before and after to join them on their trips.”
“I'm sure your parents understood.”
“Mom was disappointed.” He went back to contemplating the tiles. “I'd always intended to come back to Brooklyn after I retired. Twelve, fifteen years tops. Then I'd spend more time with them. Start a family of my own. But I ran out of time. Mom had a heart attack. I was in Miami when she died.”
Jaclyn went to him and took his hand. “I'm so sorry.”
DeMarcus felt her fingers, long and slender, in his grip. “At the funeral, her friends and family were whispering about how much money and time she and Pop had spent on my basketball training. They'd tried to discourage them, but my parents wouldn't listen. They believed in me.”

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