Power Play (Play Makers Book 4) (27 page)

Ugh . . .

Or maybe Kerrie would keep stalling and Sean
would break things off with her. If that happened, Johnny and Bam
would lock Darcie in a honeymoon suite with the handsome kicker and
keep them there until they were madly in love.

Oh, Sean,
she told him as she drifted
into sleep.
If only you were more sarcastic. Moodier. More
domineering.

Or if only she had just let Wyatt pull out
like he wanted—needed—to do. They could have been so happy
together.

At least until the next non-negotiable deal
breaker.

• • •

After seven frustrating hours of house
hunting on Wednesday, she cut her losses and flew back to LA, still
wallowing in broken-hearted misery. Not even her favorite fantasy
of making out in the Jag cheered her up. That Jaguar was a rental,
wasn’t it? Long since returned. Some other guy—or woman—had it now.
And hopefully had found good use for it.

When she trudged into her house at nine p.m.
she intended to go straight to bed, but had a brief moment of
excitement when someone knocked on her front door. Her brain knew
it wasn’t Wyatt, but the rest of her body responded so sharply, she
had to force herself to take a deep breath and peek through the
peephole before throwing the door open wide.

Which was a good thing since it wasn’t Wyatt
after all, just a delivery guy with a huge bouquet of yellow roses.
Undoubtedly an ax murderer with a romantic streak.

Pushing the intercom button she said
sternly, “Come back in the morning.”

“They wanted to be sure you saw these on the
porch. So they made me sit in my van until you got home. They said
to tell you:
Thanks for the hot appetizers.”

Laughing, she opened the door, thanked the
deliveryman and took the roses inside, where she gratefully inhaled
their fragrance. Then she laughed again, remembering Sean’s
ridiculous comment about his quarterback’s wife.

She smells amazing . . .

“Thanks, you guys,” she told him and
Bannerman softly. “I really,
really
needed this.”

• • •

She thought she had learned her lesson, but
when her PMA phone vibrated on the nightstand at five o’clock the
next morning, she bolted awake, sure it was Wyatt calling from the
East Coast, forgetting the time difference in his ardor. Who else
would call at this hour? Her family would use her personal cell,
wouldn’t they?

It had to be Wyatt, so she answered with a
breathless, fully awake, “Hello?”

“Hey, Darce,” Murf said softly. “Sorry to
wake you up this way but we’ve got trouble.”

“Is someone hurt?” she demanded.

“No, no. It’s the other kind of trouble. A
client imploding. I’d handle it, but I’m due in that O’Carroll
goatfuck this morning—”

“No problem. Just tell me who and
where.”

“I’ve got a car waiting outside your house
to take you to Santa Barbara. Just throw on some sweats, okay? But
bring a fancy suit just in case.”

“I can be showered and packed in fifteen
minutes,” she promised him, alarmed by the urgency in his tone.
Since Santa Barbara didn’t have an NFL team, she had a feeling this
fell in the category of “full service” by PMA. Maybe the guy needed
a lawyer.

“Who is it?” she asked again, bracing
herself for the answer.

“It’s Alexi Romanov, and trust me, he’s in
bad shape.”

“Oh, no!
He’s
injured?”

“Let’s call it a meltdown,” Murf drawled.
“Get dressed and I’ll brief you on the road.”

“Okay. Bye, Murf.” Already out of bed, she
headed to the bathroom while reviewing what she already knew about
Alexi. For one thing, he was the least likely person in the world
to have a meltdown, wasn’t he? The ultimate in cool by all
accounts. She had been aware of him for years, since he starred in
some scintillating Porsche commercials, where his seductive smile
and confident bearing had achieved nearly iconic status.

If she had been seated next to
him
instead of Wyatt that fateful day on the airplane, she would have
known him instantly. Not as “the Tsar” or even as a football
player.

But as another living god? Absolutely. His
face and body were everywhere, especially in the tabloids, at first
because he had reached international celebrity as a soccer star.
And then?

As the drool-worthy Porsche guy.

After dressing and packing quickly, she was
in the limo with minutes to spare, and used that time to pull up
Alexi’s PMA bio as background for her talk with Murf. Most of the
details sounded familiar, which made sense given his fame. The
grandson—by adoption—of a well-regarded professor of Russian
literature, Alexi had been raised in both Russia and in the States
depending on where his grandfather—Alexander Romanov—was teaching
at the moment.

He had had every advantage in the world, and
had already gained celebrity in the world of soccer before
transferring to Princeton for his junior year of college, where he
planned to continue that sport. He hadn’t given much thought to
American football, but the school’s coach had seen how he handled
himself and had convinced him to give it a try.

And to take a meeting with Patrick
Murphy.

The rest, according to his file, was
history.

Impressed but also wary, she dialed Murf’s
number.

“Hey, Darce. You’re on the road?”

“Please tell me he didn’t abuse any
women.”

“Alexi? Hell, no, he loves girls even more
than Sean Decker does.” Murf dropped the joking tone and explained,
“He got a speeding ticket.”

“That’s all? I mean, I get it,” she added
hastily. “It’s the Porsche thing, right? They want everyone to
fantasize about going a zillion miles an hour in their cars, but
their spokesperson shouldn’t be caught doing it. At least in
public. Which makes them total hypocrites.”

“It’s not just the Porsche deal. He’s
considered too wild for NFL tastes. The proverbial loose cannon.
They love the free publicity and the star power, but the best
coaches—and Alexi’s is one of the best—want their players to have
self-discipline. Not something our client is famous for. He hasn’t
ever gotten in trouble before, but he projects that image—the bad
boy. His fans love it. And the Cowboys do too. Up to a point.” He
exhaled in frustration. “Our job is to get top dollar for the kid.
But he makes it tough. And because the media loves him, they
photograph every wild party, every liaison with scandal-prone
actresses—and now this.”

Darcie nodded at the phone. “You’re saying
this will get a lot of publicity? And we need to help contain that?
Or at least put a good spin on it? Assuming they even hear about
it?”

“Check your messages. I sent you a link to
an amateur video of the traffic stop. It went viral within
minutes.”

“Oh, no.”

“We’re lucky the deputy who pulled him over
handled it professionally. So did Alexi. But the Sheriff’s Office
got bombarded by inquiries, so they feel forced to issue a
statement. I had a quick chat with them and they plan to release it
at nine a.m. They’ll shoot us a courtesy copy a few minutes ahead
of time. Oh, and as of now, they know you’re our point person, so
everything goes through you.”

“Okay. Will we be issuing a statement
too?”

“At the very least. Maybe even a press
conference, assuming Alexi can handle it.”

“Oh, that’s right! You said he’s having a
meltdown, poor guy. He always seems so super cool.”

“In all the years I’ve known him, I’ve never
seen him break a sweat. But he called me in a full-blown panic.
He’s young,” Murf reminded her. “Immature as hell, to be honest. I
forget that sometimes because of the bravado, but he’s just a kid.
Worried about what his mom and grandparents will think. What his
coach will think. His teammates. And yeah, the car company
too.”

“I’m on it,” she promised. “Just focus on
the O’Carroll contract.”

“Thanks, Darce. If it gets really bad, let
me know and I’ll reschedule this—”

“It’ll be fine, I promise. You already gave
the sheriff my contact info, right? What about the Cowboys? And
Porsche?”

“The whole world knows it’s you.”

“Okay, then, go do your thing. And I’ll do
mine. Starting with that amateur video.”

• • •

In spite of Murf’s briefing, Darcie still
pictured Alexi “the Tsar” Romanov as she’d seen him at the NFL
fundraiser. Tall and rangy with a gorgeous smile and a bad-boy
manner, especially toward women. He had been respectful of Darcie
that night, but still, she had felt the vibe and had responded to
it on a primitive, giddy level.

But it was a completely different guy—a kid,
just like Murf had said—who opened the door of the corner suite of
the beautiful Biltmore resort. His eyes were bloodshot, his posture
humble, his blue warm-up clothes rumpled.

“Hey, Darcie,” he said, listless and
forlorn.

“Hey, you.” On pure instinct, she pulled him
into an embrace. And while he was at least eight inches taller than
she, and muscular to the max, she felt him burrow against her the
way Zack or Brian Murphy would do if the whole world was
crumbling.

When he finally drew away, his expression
seemed a bit less bleak but his voice—and choice of words—told the
real story. “I fucked up.”

“Well, it’s not ideal,” she said with a warm
smile. “But no one was hurt. And there were no drugs or alcohol
involved, right? So on a scale of one to ten, I’d give this a
two.”

“Porsche is gonna dump my ass,” he corrected
her. “And my mom? She’s gonna kill me for sure.”

“Well, that’s her job, isn’t it? Meanwhile,
my
job is to soften the blow. So let’s get started, shall
we?”

He seemed surprised, then flashed a sheepish
smile. “Come on in. I ordered you some breakfast. I’m not hungry,
so just help yourself.”

She glanced at a cart laden with croissants,
jams and jellies, coffee, juice and tea. “I’m starving. And I don’t
eat alone. Do you want jelly on yours?”

“Nothing, thanks.”

“Humor me,” she said, buttering a flaky roll
and then slathering it with orange marmalade and handing it to him.
When he devoured it in two bites, she knew he was still a football
player. “Tell me about the ticket.”

“I fucked up,” he repeated, still
mournful.

“Were there a lot of cars on the road?”

He seemed surprised. “I didn’t think there
were any. But someone video’d it, right? And then there was the
cop. So at least three of us.”

“But basically it was a deserted road at two
thirty in the morning. Were you alone in the car?”

He nodded.

“And you didn’t have anything to drink? Not
even a beer?”

“No. It was just this great stretch of road.
And I was full of myself because”—he gave her an apologetic
wince—“I had just partied with these two sisters who used to ignore
me at Princeton. So I was feeling good.”

“You were driving a Porsche?”

“My baby,” he agreed reverently. “They’ll
probably confiscate her now.”

Her phone vibrated and she knew before she
checked that it was the press release from the Sheriff’s Office.
“Let’s see what the cops have to say about this. What did you think
of the officer?”

“He was cool,” Alexi assured her. “He said
he clocked me at eighty-three but usually reduced it by a few since
that stretch of road was a speed magnet. So he wrote me up at
seventy-five.”

“Did he recognize you?”

“Yeah, but he just did his job. I respected
that, so I didn’t give him any shit.”

“And you didn’t offer him anything? Tickets
to a game? An autograph?”

“No. He was one of those big, beefy
guys—like a linebacker—who aren’t all that impressed by guys like
me. You don’t mess with those dudes.”

“Okay, let’s see what they say.” Pulling up
the advanced copy of the press release, she read it aloud.

At two fifty-three this morning, Deputy Carl
Ames of the Santa Barbara County Sheriff’s Office pulled over a
driver on suspicion of speeding. It was a routine stop and the
driver cooperated fully. He was cited for doing seventy-five on a
stretch of road clearly posted at fifty-five miles per hour. The
driver was identified as Mr. Alexi Romanov, a wide receiver for the
Dallas Cowboys. It is our understanding that Mr. Romanov does not
dispute the citation.

“That’s bad, right?” Alexi murmured.

“Actually, it works for us,” she assured
him. And while she wished the statement included the fact that no
drugs or alcohol were involved, and that Alexi was alone in the
car, she couldn’t afford to be choosy, could she?

“How many speeding tickets have you gotten
all together, Alexi?”

“Me?” He shrugged. “This is the first
one.”

“Really?” She felt a surge of hope. “What
about other citations?”

“None. I’m not always an idiot,” he added
with a sigh.

“You’re practically a model citizen,” she
corrected him proudly.

“Tell that to my coach.”

“Maybe I will.”

He looked horrified. “No, Darcie. That’ll
just make him more pissed.”

“I’m not worried about your coach.
Or
Porsche. I don’t know your mom or your grandparents, but I can
handle everyone else. I promise.”

He stared at her, clearly disbelieving. But
he must have sensed something because a smile formed behind his
gorgeous brown eyes. “I think you can sweet-talk my grandfather
too. He’s a huge fan of smart females. Especially ones that look
like you.”

“The only guy I need to sweet-talk is Deputy
Carl Ames,” she assured him playfully.

“I beg your pardon?”

The old world phrasing charmed her and she
made a mental note to encourage it at the press conference. Then
she explained, “Deputy Ames is our biggest ally. Like you said,
no-nonsense and professional. I intend to encourage those
qualities.”