Bigger Than Beckham

by V. K. Sykes

  “He stepped out to the rest room. You sure you’re ready?”

  “Ready as I’ll ever be,” Martha replied with false bravado. “I’ve got my six-shooter taped to the underside of my desktop if he tries anything. And I’ll keep my finger on the trigger.”

  Jane chuckled. “Here he comes now. I’ll show him in.”

  Martha stood up. She smoothed her hair back and tucked a few stray strands behind her ear. She was glad she’d worn the black tailored suit that made her look like a kick-ass businesswoman. Most days she dressed pretty casually when she planned to spend the whole day in the office, but this morning something had prompted her to gear up in full armor.

  Which struck her as decidedly weird.

  As soon as Jane opened the door, Tony Branch strode through, a wide smile plastered on his ruggedly handsome mug. He nodded to Martha then turned to Jane. “Thanks for that excellent coffee, love,” he said with a sly wink. “Southern hospitality is legendary, but your welcome was simply outstanding.”

  To Martha’s annoyance, a blush pinked up Jane’s creamy complexion. When Jane—normally impervious to the most blatant come-on—batted her eyelashes at Branch as she backed out the door, it was all Martha could do to hold back a groan.

  Brimming with an overdose of testosterone-fueled confidence, Branch strode forward and extended a hand as he gave her an engaging smile. Martha shook it, gripping as strongly as she could manage, which was usually hard enough to make most men widen their eyes. But Branch matched her grip strength evenly. When he tried to let the shake linger, Martha was forced to pull her hand away.

  Damn the big, arrogant gorilla.

  Even if he was a gorgeous gorilla.

  “Please have a seat, Mr. Branch,” she said, trying not to sound flustered. “This is a surprise, to say the least.”

  He nodded and took the seat opposite her desk, crossing his legs. For a pretty big guy he was incredibly graceful, which spoke to his athletic background. His clothes fit him beautifully, too. Expensive but casual—a tan sports jacket, summer weight slacks and brown leather loafers that looked Italian and luxurious. His blue dress shirt, opened at the neck, revealed a little glimpse of a brawny chest and crisp, black hair. She figured he’d look good in anything, including a pair of ripped up jeans or even soccer gear, especially with the luscious tan that bronzed his skin to a dark golden hue.

  He’d look even better naked, her treacherous mind whispered. Martha clamped down hard on the distracting image.

  As she took her seat, Branch studied her with a calm intensity that belied his jovial manner with Jane. “Martha, I must again insist you call me Tony.”

  Then a flash of that disarming smile again, sending her further off balance. She truly needed to be on her guard with the man, drat him.

  “And I’m afraid you must think I’m a lunatic,” he continued in an easy tone.

  Martha pulled out her best Southern Belle smile. “Don’t flatter yourself,” she said sweetly.

  He laughed, and the deep sound of it slithered through her veins like hot sugar syrup.

  “You think I’m even worse than a lunatic? I see I have my work cut out for me.”

  Martha’s posture was always consciously upright, but she made very sure she sat ramrod straight, her hands folded in front of her and resting on top of her desk. Her palms were damp with perspiration, and she had to resist the temptation to rub them against each other, or on her suit.

  “You do if you came all the way over here just to pitch me after I told you flat out I wasn’t selling my team.”

  He gave her a lopsided little grin that probably had women handing him their panties. Strike that. Throwing him their panties by the truckload.

  “I don’t suppose you’d believe me if I said I just happened to be in the neighborhood?”

  “Tony,” she said with emphasis, “do I look like I just fell out of the back of a turnip truck?” She smiled in a way that probably looked like she was baring her teeth in a pit bull growl. “That’s a turnip lorry in Brit-speak, I suppose.”

  He studied her again for a few seconds, his dark eyes heating with amusement. And something else, if she didn’t miss her guess.

  “I wouldn’t have thought it possible, but you look even lovelier than when we last met, Martha. And you looked damn lovely then.”

  She had to fight against the ridiculous warm glow that prickled in her belly and slowly spread outward. One flattering comment and she was already in danger of succumbing.

  Bastard. He’d pulled out the big guns and they were barely getting started.

  “I doubt you even remember that little old minute or two of conversation. I barely do,” she said with all the false sincerity she could conjure up.

  He gave her a knowing smile, obviously not buying it for a second. “Trust me. I’d never forget a face like yours. Or anything else about you for that matter, Martha. Mere time couldn’t possibly change that.”

  Okay, this was getting to be a bit much, even for her. Still, Branch had never called her after Wimbledon, which had surprised her a little given the open, hungry way he’d scanned her from head to toe that night. In fact, he’d only called after he’d found out her team was on the skids. And for some insane, stupidly girlish reason, that thought incensed her even more.

  “Look, Tony, let’s not waste each other’s time. Please watch my lips,” she said, tapping them with a forefinger. She ignored the way his hot gaze dropped to her mouth. “I’m. Not. Selling. The. Thunder. Not to you, not to anybody. So, you can hop on that private jet of yours and go back to your own business.”

  He knitted his dark brows in a frown, looking slightly uncomfortable. “Do I really look like some kind of tycoon? Why would you assume I’ve got a private jet?”

  Martha arched her eyebrows in patent disbelief. “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe because you own one of the most successful football teams in England, plus a couple of profitable lesser lights. Not to mention the fact that you were one of the highest-paid players in the Premier League for many seasons. People like you don’t fly commercial.”

  “I don’t own a jet,” he said coolly. “I don’t waste money on toys. Or on anything, for that matter.”

  That surprised her. Branch was not only seriously rich, as far as she could tell he had a high media profile. People like him valued both the privacy and convenience of personal air travel. She shook her head a little, enough to loosen the recalcitrant strands of hair her nervous fingers kept tucking back, and opened her mouth to apologize.

  He cut her off. “I rent the private jet,” he said politely. “Time-sharing is great.”

  Then he shot her an easy grin that had her staring at him, dumbfounded.

  Before she could respond to that bit of mischief, he turned serious again. The way he could change moods on a dime—and take control of the conversation—was seriously beginning to annoy her, if for no other reason than she’d always been a master of the same type of tactics herself.

  “I’ll leave soon enough, Martha,” he said. “But not before saying this. If you would just sit down with me and my colleague, Rex Daltry, and lay out your true, current situation for us to review in depth—and I’m talking about full disclosure—then I would very likely end up making you an offer you might find compelling. Perhaps even irresistible.”

  It was all she could do to keep her jaw from dropping like some idiot. Again.

  An irresistible offer. What did that mean?

  Martha swallowed past a tightening throat, thinking of Geoffrey. If he got wind of the bombshell Branch had just dropped, he’d probably put a contract out on her if she refused to bite. If the offer turned out to be indeed “irresistible,” Geoffrey’s financial problems would be over as soon as the ink was dry on the contract. A powerful incentive for her uncle to line up against her.

  The silence between them lengthened as Martha rolled the implications through her racing mind. Branch must be pretty damn sure the Thunder could have a profitable future, despi
te its present disastrous situation. Why, then, if he was so sure he could do it, shouldn’t she be confident in her own ability to accomplish the same end?

  She swallowed past the persistent lump in her throat as that brief moment of hubris passed. Of course Branch could be confident. Unlike her, he probably had ocean-deep pockets—deep enough to ride out the storm and rebuild both the team and the fan base. Martha’s pockets were as shallow as a plastic kiddie pool with a tragic leak.

  This kind of predatory crap happened all the time in the corporate world, and professional sports teams were businesses, too. Big fish preyed on the small and weak, swallowing them whole. It sucked, but it was reality.

  “Glad to see you’re thinking seriously about it,” Branch said after what a seemed a good minute of silence. A long minute, where a thousand conflicting thoughts jumbled around Martha’s brain as she felt increasingly backed into a corner.

  She forced herself to snap out of it. “Actually, what I was thinking about was how early I’m going to have to leave today to beat the traffic on my way to Costco,” she said with all the insouciance she could muster. “It’s a bitch to get around in this town at rush hour.”

  Branch’s midnight eyes turned even darker. “Martha, let’s not be flip about this situation. I flew over here today because I’m determined to have your team, and I’ve given you a compelling proposal. All you have to do is sit down with us and go over your financials, and then give us a few days for due diligence. I’m sure you’ll be happy with the result. Especially considering your alternatives,” he added with unnecessary emphasis.

  He leaned forward in his chair, leaning an elbow on her desk as he studied her. Even though the broad slab of mahogany separated them, she felt his intrusion into her personal space. Tony Branch wasn’t some bulked-up, steroid monster, but he was still all alpha, an all-dominating male.

  “I can’t say it wouldn’t be a reasonable starting point for discussion if I was actually interested in selling the team,” she said in a sharp tone. “But since I’m not, what’s the point of your continuing to push like this?” She leaned forward herself, glaring at him from across the desk. “There are times you just have to take no for an answer. Or haven’t you had to figure that out yet?”

  Now she was being borderline rude, but he’d started to piss her off. Part of her wanted to throw him out of her office without another word.

  Branch gave a disbelieving shake of his head. “Martha, surely you can read the writing on the wall. Your team’s at least halfway to bankruptcy court, and any day now your backers will probably sink you with the stroke of a pen. Where will you be if it plays out like that? You might be lucky to get half of what I might be prepared to offer. If there’s even anybody around willing to buy a dead horse, since the league could very well fold the franchise entirely.” He settled back in his chair, crossing his brawny arms over his equally brawny chest. “And what would happen then to all the people who depend on the Thunder for a living?”

  She flinched under the impact of that final jab. Of course she’d thought about the worst case scenario, and its impact on the staff she’d grown to appreciate—Jane and Kieran, Sam Brockton and the coaches, all the front office staff, the trainers and equipment men. The players would land on their feet, getting picked up by other teams, but God only knew what would happen to the support staff. But even though she thought about those consequences every day, hearing the words come out of a rival’s mouth made it that much harder to bear. She was rolling the dice—Branch was dead right about that. And if she failed, she’d drag a lot of good people down with her.

  Branch gentled his voice, the bastard. He’d obviously become very good at reading her already. “I frankly don’t understand why you would take that kind of risk when I’m here to put a workable and smart solution in front of you.”

  With that serious, genuinely sympathetic expression on his handsome face, he managed to look more like a knight on a white horse than a marauding buccaneer. Martha felt some of her resentment start to dissipate. After all, instead of coming to her now, Branch could have waited until the team was effectively a corpse and then picked over the bones, grabbing anything left for mere cents on the dollar. Instead, despite his cautionary words about bankruptcy, she sensed he was in fact betting that she would be able to survive, and was stepping in with a generous offer in a pre-emptive strike.

  Huh. Maybe Tony Branch actually believed she could pull it off, and he thought it wise to put an offer on the table sooner rather than later. Somehow, that thought made her feel surprisingly good.

  “Well, Tony, let me ask you this,” Martha said, deliberately emphasizing his first name. “How would you feel about having to sell the Blackhampton Lions? Especially with people holding a shotgun to your head? Just think about that for a while and then maybe you’ll have an idea how I feel right now.”

  The slight rise in his brows and the ironic twist to his lips told her what he was thinking. How could he compare her situation to his? He’d spent virtually his entire life in football—from early childhood on—living and breathing it every single day. She’d come to the game late, and only because her father had died too young. Surely the loss of the Thunder couldn’t possibly compare to what he might feel at the loss of his beloved team?

  Fortunately, he had the sense not to respond like that, even if he was thinking along those lines. Instead, he gave her a genial nod. “I’d feel like a big part of me had died. I won’t pretend otherwise.”

  Martha held out her hands, palms up, as if to say, see?

  Branch smiled as he unfolded his long, buff frame and got to his feet. Martha rose with him.

  “I’ve put a credible, honest proposal on the table, Martha. Please take some time to think about it. I know you’re meeting with your bankers and sponsors very soon. If you want to talk after that, I’ll be around.”

  Martha almost gaped at him. “Around?”

  “I’ll be right around here,” he said, giving her a warm and utterly sexy smile. “In Jacksonville, or nearby. I’ve brought my clubs, so I’ll combine a little relaxation with business.”

  Okay, she’d read somewhere that he was a golf nut, but the thought of him lurking around her city for any reason scared the hell out of her. What did he have up his sleeve? Meetings with her bank, even, or her sponsors? Or even with her uncle?

  “Well, it’s a free country,” she said as casually as she could manage. “But don’t expect my answer to change while you’re tootling around the golf course.”

  Branch shrugged as if it didn’t matter. “I’ve always wanted to play TPC Sawgrass. That 17th hole is one of the wonders of the world, isn’t it? Ever play it?”

  Martha had hit her share of balls into the little lake on the 17th, trying to land her tee shot on that damnable island green. “It’s a wonderful course,” she said, suddenly envious of him. She’d been so busy the last few months she’d managed only a handful of rounds. God, what she wouldn’t give to be free of her problems and worries, just for a little while, and to be able to enjoy a few relaxing hours on the course.

  “I hear you’re practically a scratch golfer,” he said. “Why don’t you take the morning off tomorrow and join me?” He gave her a smile that would tempt the devil himself. “I promise not to say a word about business when we’re playing.”

  God, that prospect sounded like a tiny slice of heaven. She could take out her frustrations by pounding a golf ball, all the while enjoying the company of the sexiest, most interesting man she’d met in quite some years.

  Danger, Will Robinson!

  She repressed a sigh. “I can’t say I’m not tempted, but it’s just not possible.” The words practically stuck to the roof of her dry mouth. “Maybe another time. Under better circumstances.”

  Branch took a step forward and stuck out his hand. “Until we meet again, then,” he said with a look so full of masculine confidence she didn’t know whether to smack him or grab him by the ears and pull him into a smoldering k
iss.

  She compromised by gripping his proffered hand and letting him hold it as their eyes locked. Only when she finally averted her gaze did he loosen his grip.

  “I’ll see myself out,” he said with a wry smile.

  He strolled to the door, throwing her a brash wink over his shoulder before leaving. Martha collapsed back into her chair, suddenly exhausted. She should be relieved he’d finally gone, but somehow all she felt was regret.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Despite her jokes about lyin’ and dyin,’ Martha didn’t shrink from telling lies for good and sufficient reason.

  Some lies could be called little, or white, like her quip to Branch about having to fight horrible rush hour traffic on her way to Costco. Not that she had any intention of going shopping, and the drive from the office to her father’s home just on the other side of the river didn’t usually take more than ten minutes even with traffic backed up on the bridge. But she was so distracted by her encounter with Branch that she stuck to the right lane, forcing herself to focus on the brake lights of the car ahead of her.

  While that teeny lie was barely worth counting, she’d told him a whopper when she’d said she barely remembered their meeting at the Wimbledon dinner. What a laugh that was. How could she forget the way every nerve in her body had tingled when Mr. Sex on a Stick had made his interest in her so startlingly clear? And what was even more humiliating, she could vividly recall her disappointment when he hadn’t called her the very next day, or any day after that. She knew from the gossip columns that Branch wasn’t married or in a serious relationship, and neither was she. What had stopped the man from following up on what his eyes had revealed to be so evidently on his mind that night?

  Or maybe you just misread him, dopey.

  Maybe she had, because in her office he’d been all business. Sure, his eyes had flicked over her body with a couple of appreciative glances and he’d made the remark about how lovely she looked, but he’d given Jane more of a come-on than that. And didn’t it just beat all that his flirtation with her assistant had annoyed her so damn much?