by V. K. Sykes
“That confident, are you?” She shook her head in disbelief. Branch was right—she didn’t much like surprises, but she should have anticipated a bold move like this. The guy just didn’t take no for an answer.
She stared at him, trying to make up her mind. He simply shoved his hands in his pockets and waited her out, looking totally easy and totally at home.
Oh, what the hell.
It wasn’t like she had anything else to do, and she was getting pretty darn sick of her own company. “Go pay him off and save a few bucks, Branch. I’ll drive us.”
His brows lifted, but he had the brains not to argue, heading silently out to the curb to pay off the cab. When he returned, Martha led him into the kitchen. “I gather you like bourbon,” she said.
“God bless Kentucky,” he said, glancing around at the big, light-filled room. He focused on the back wall that was mostly windows with a patio door leading out to a garden that sloped down to the river. Her father had rarely cooked, but he liked to have friends over for barbecues and the occasional spaghetti dinner, so he’d had a state of the art kitchen installed when he bought the house.
“Nice place,” Branch commented as she rummaged around in the cabinets for a vase big enough to hold two dozen roses.
“Thanks. It was my daddy’s.” She pointed to the glass-fronted cabinet next to the fridge. “There are some tumblers in there. Pour us a couple of shots, if you wouldn’t mind. And there’s ice in the freezer if you want it.” She located a tall, sturdy glass vase and carried it over to the French-style butcher’s block in the middle of the room.
“I gather you take yours neat,” he said as he retrieved the glasses.
“Hell, yes.” She struggled a moment with the cellophane on the flowers, but managed to get it off without making too much of a mess. “By the way,” she said as she started to arrange the roses, “what did you promise Jane to get her to cough up the dope about the kind of flowers I like? Not to mention my damn address.”
“Don’t blame that lovely girl,” Branch said, handing her a glass. “We do our research thoroughly. I have no doubt Jane is as loyal and discreet as she is hospitable.” He finished up with an utterly charming smile.
Martha narrowed her eyes at him, afraid to think what else his research on her might have revealed. Silently, she led him into the living room and firmly pointed him to a silk-covered wingback chair, well away from the couch where she settled in, and tucked her legs underneath her. Despite the fact that she actually did want to have dinner with him, every instinct in her body screamed at her to tread ever so carefully.
“Research, huh? I’d call that a little alarming, Branch. Sounds damn intrusive to me.”
“Martha, if you don’t start calling me Tony, I’m going to have to bash my head through that big picture window over there. And as for alarming…please. There’s more spying going on in the corporate world these days than there ever was in the Cold War.”
“I suppose,” she said reluctantly after slugging back a hefty swallow of bourbon. “That doesn’t make it right, though.”
He tilted his head and studied her, his dark eyes probing. She had the feeling he was adept at reading people, research or not.
“Point taken,” he finally said. “Where would you like to go for dinner? I’m partial to Indian food, which I fear might be a stretch for this town. But I can eat anything as long as it’s not still moving.”
“Didn’t your spies tell you what I like?” she teased, giving him a saucy smile. Time to take back some control.
“You really want to go there, do you?” He shot her a sly grin. “Okay, let’s see. Your favorite food is Italian, and your restaurant of choice is Genotti’s, but that’s in south Philadelphia so it’s a little far for an evening outing. Though I’ll look forward to doing it another time.”
She jerked upright on the couch. He even knew her favorite restaurant? “Okay, this is starting to creep me out. Dare I ask what the hell else you’ve dug up about me?”
Tony lifted his hands in an open gesture. “It’s all harmless stuff, Martha, I promise. Besides, you’re something of a public figure because of the team, and you’ve gained some celebrity through your writing career, too. You know there’s been a fair amount of coverage in the gossip rags and newspapers.”
Martha couldn’t really argue with that. Aside from her professional standing, she’d garnered some media attention simply through a few of the men she’d dated over the years. During her affair with baseball superstar Nate Carter, for example, they’d been hounded off and on by various paparazzi. And then there was the short fling with the Symphony’s first violinist, which landed her in the gossip column a couple of times.
“I suppose you’re right,” she admitted, feeling a little better.
His warm, reassuring smile had a pool of warmth gathering in her lower body. Lord, the man was lethal, a fact she could never let herself forget.
“I haven’t thanked you for the flowers, I’m afraid,” she said politely. “I’m sorry about that.”
“My pleasure. Beautiful flowers for an incredibly beautiful woman.” He raised his glass to her.
His over-the-top compliment made her laugh. “You’re a real smooth talker for a jock. And it doesn’t take any research to know your reputation on the social scene.”
He quirked a lip before he answered. “Ah, you wound me, Martha,” he said in a sardonic tone. “But think about it. How much of what the gossip columns have written about you is true? Five per cent?”
Martha tilted her head as she pondered the question for a moment. “More than that, I suppose, but I’m just a lowly scribe, not a soccer mogul and one of the most eligible bachelors in England.”
Tony shrugged away her comparison. “Most of that stuff is pure bullshit. Some freelancer snaps a photo of me standing beside a woman I barely know, and the next thing I’m reading in some tabloid that we’re an item. And then a week after that we’re apparently throwing things at each other in a restaurant and calling it quits, according to confidential sources.”
Martha grimaced, knowing it was probably all true. “Sadly, a lot of people are stupid and gullible. Those kinds of rags will always thrive, while quality journalism is more and more on the ropes.”
“A sad reality indeed, but succinctly and nicely put, as one would expect from a fine lady scribe.”
She rounded her eyes, deciding to give a little of his own back to him. It was like poking a stick at a sleeping alligator, but she couldn’t seem to resist. “If you don’t mind my saying so, you speak awfully well for a working class lad from a tough part of Middlesbrough,” she said in a sugar-sweet voice.
His gaze turned sullen and smoky. A look like that shouldn’t be sexy, but it was—insanely so. Or maybe she was just a complete moron.
“Just because I quit school at seventeen to play professional football doesn’t mean I’m some yob. I read books, Martha,” he growled.
She held up a hand defensively. “I was just yanking your chain a bit. No offense intended.”
One corner of his mouth—and it was a very nice mouth—twisted a bit. “None taken.” There was a hint of apology in his voice. “I suppose I react that way because I still get looked down on in certain quarters.”
Martha raised a brow. “Quarters? Which quarters? You’re a freaking superstar.”
He shrugged. “You know. Quarters where they love you as long as you’re running your arse off on the pitch and heading balls into the net. But God help you if you don’t know your place.”
“Some people still resent your success as a team owner?” She shook her head. “That’s nuts.”
He shrugged again, like it didn’t matter a bit. But she suspected it mattered a lot.
“Ordinary Joes think it’s great. They like the fact that one of them made it to the top.” His mouth flattened a bit. “Or almost to the top, anyway. But, sure, there’s a lot of resentment out there. And I can be a bit rough around the edges at times.”
“Like the time you socked that other owner at a press conference?” she asked dryly.
“The bastard had it coming,” he replied in a hard voice. “He called one of my guys out for deliberately injuring his star striker, which was a load of slanderous crap. Then he called me an upstart and a disgrace to the game of football. I’m not thin-skinned, but that was too much.”
“I’d have slugged him, too,” she said, getting outraged on his behalf. That kind of vile snobbery had no place in sports.
“It cost me more than a quid or two in fines, I’ll tell you that. But I’m not sorry about it, and I’ll do it again if I have to.” He leaned forward slightly, his gaze dark and intent as it captured hers. “I take care of my own, Martha, and I’ll never apologize for that.”
She had absolutely no doubt that Tony Branch took care of his own, and God help anyone who got in his way.
* * *
While Martha was getting dressed, she wracked her brains trying to come up with an appropriate restaurant. The menu didn’t matter, the price didn’t matter, the atmosphere didn’t matter. She cared about one thing and one thing only—that no one in the restaurant would see her with Tony Branch and put two and two together about the future of the Thunder. Being seen with him in public was insane, and she knew it. As she raced through a quick change into a pair of skinny black jeans and a pink silk shirt, she still couldn’t believe she’d agreed to it.
But she had agreed to it because she wanted to go to dinner with Tony. Truthfully, she’d wanted it since the moment they met in England, and it had bothered her more than she cared to admit that he hadn’t followed up. But the wheel had now come full circle. The man had shown up at her door with an armload of flowers—a grand gesture if there ever was one—and a promise not to harangue her about buying the Thunder. Maybe this was all about stealing the team out from under her, but maybe it wasn’t.
As she fussed with her hair and touched up her makeup, the rational part of her brain lectured her that she was being naïve. Maybe, but there was only one way to find out. Her instinctive response to Tony came not from her brain but from somewhere far down inside her. Over the years, and especially after the death of her mother forced her to depend on her own judgment, Martha had learned to trust what came from that deep, quiet place.
Brushing aside Tony’s compliments on her attire—although she couldn’t help noticing the appreciative gleam in his eyes as his gaze flicked over her body—she hustled him out to her car. When they reached the restaurant a few minutes later, a little hole in the wall with amazingly good Chinese food, she was relieved to find it three-quarters empty. Even better, the waiters obviously didn’t recognize them. That hardly surprised her, since she was far from a recognizable figure to most folks in Jacksonville. Her picture had appeared in the sports pages of the Times-Union a few times, but who in this city of more than a million paid attention to anything about the Thunder other than a few thousand die-hard soccer fans? And while Tony Branch was an A-list celebrity in England, most people here wouldn’t recognize him from their lawn guy.
Tony picked up the little paper sleeve that contained a pair of fragile-looking wooden chopsticks. “Classy,” he said. “I love it.”
“Now, don’t you be getting all snooty like some English lord of the manor,” Martha said, wagging her finger at him. “I told you we’d have to go someplace where I’d be comfortable that we wouldn’t be recognized.”
“Well, I think you definitely accomplished that. Anyway, as long as everything doesn’t come to the table covered in some neon-colored sauce, I’m sure it will be more than fine.” He tore open the package and slipped out the sticks.
“The décor isn’t much, but the food’s really good here,” Martha said. “Though I admit I’ve only eaten it out of paper cartons to this point. But you’re a working class guy—you’re not much into fine dining, are you?”
He leaned back in the basic metal and vinyl chair and smiled at her. “My idea of fine dining is a fat sausage with mustard at the stadium, and a pint of Guinness afterward.”
“Amen to that, brother,” she sighed, thinking longingly of the wonderful sausage sandwiches she’d periodically indulged in when she’d lived near the Little Italy neighborhood in South Philadelphia.
The waiter brought them each a Tsingtao beer. After Tony suggested she order the dishes, Martha quickly reeled off a list of her three favorites.
As she finished, Tony said, “Speaking of the stadium—”
“Which we weren’t,” Martha interrupted with a warning scowl.
“…Rex and I are definitely going to take in your match with Nashville tomorrow,” he finished, ignoring her salvo.
When she glared at him, he held up his hand. “Yes, I know I’m breaking our rule tonight, but I did want you to know that. Since you’re not a fan of surprises, I thought I’d give you a heads-up.”
Martha hadn’t given the remotest thought to the possibility that he might want to attend a game while he was in town. Of course, it made perfect sense. But the last thing she wanted was Tony Branch sniffing around her team.
“Well, uh, fine, I guess,” she said lamely.
His mouth went flat in a disapproving gesture she was beginning to recognize.
Don’t be rude, Sugar,” her father’s voice whispered in her ear.
She dredged up a smile. “Actually, I’ll be interested in your opinions, if you care to share. God knows I can use all the help I can get.” And that made sense too, come to think of it. If she had to ask someone for advice or insights, she couldn’t pick anyone better than him.
He smiled at her recovery. “I hope you’ll get a better crowd than in recent matches,” he said, sounding genuinely concerned.
She waggled her hand in a maybe/maybe not gesture. “Advance sales aren’t great, but there’s usually a good-sized walkup on the night,” she said with as much perkiness as she could manage.
“I’m glad to hear that.”
Another thought occurred to her, one that had her wincing. “You’ll have to forgive me, Tony, my manners have truly gone begging. You’re not going to sit in the stands tomorrow night. No way. I simply insist that you and Rex be my guests in my owner’s suite.” She let out an awkward laugh, fidgeting with her chopsticks. “I’m sure you wouldn’t make me sit down in a grandstand at Blackhampton, now would you?”
Tony gave her another smile, one so warm and engaging that it made her head go a bit wooly. Well, maybe that was the beer on top of the bourbon she’d imbibed back at the house, but she didn’t think so. That would be much too easy an answer.
“No worries about that, Martha. You’ve got a standing offer to join me in my suite at Fenton Park, and I hope you’ll take me up on it soon. I’d love to show you around London. I mean that.”
His eyes went dark and smoky, like they had after she’d teased him about being a working class bloke. This time, though, she didn’t think he was annoyed.
She slowly nodded. “You never know.”
London, one of her favorite cities and sometime home of first-class asshole Colton Butler. He’d been in retreat there since his fall from grace last year.
As the waiter began bringing the food, she watched Tony from under her eyelashes, trying to gauge his true intent. Interviewing one of the world’s biggest golf stars by day and being squired around London by Tony Branch by night—now that sounded like a big slice of hog heaven, and a mighty powerful temptation to a lonely southern girl.
CHAPTER NINE
Martha watched her latest Big Problem demolish his plate of Lo Mein as if he hadn’t eaten for a week. “Food’s not too bad, huh, Tony?” she teased.
And wasn’t his first name just starting to slide off her tongue as smooth as silk? It surprised her how easy he was to be around, even though the man was trying to snatch her team.
“Bloody good, I’d call it,” Tony said, adding yet another spoonful to his plate. “It reminds me of a little spot my family used to go to when I was a y
oung lad. The owner could barely speak a word of English, but he treated everybody like royalty no matter if you were a ditch digger or a banker. And the food was as good as this.”
Martha pushed her plate to the side and rested her elbows on the table, chin propped in the palms of her hands. God, he was one handsome dude. She had a sudden, ridiculous urge to run her fingers through that wavy hair, and let her hand drift over the masculine stubble on his chin. Not exactly standard business behavior on her part, but she was as red-blooded as any healthy American female when it came to hot guys.
“What did your father do?” she asked, curious to know more about him. “I seem to recall reading he was a coal miner?”
Tony threw her a sharp, assessing glance. “No, Dad worked on the docks his entire life, from the time he was fifteen. But it’s true that we come from miner stock. In fact, he was the only one of his brothers not to work in the mines. Dad made it his life’s mission to make sure his sons never went underground, thank God.”
“Is he still alive?” she asked softly. Given how wrenching her own father’s death had been, she didn’t want to probe too deeply.
Tony gave a snort. “Oh, hell, yeah. He’s a tough old bastard. Seventy-eight next month.”
The sarcastic, almost harsh inflection in his voice prompted Martha to drop that particular subject. “What about your mother?”
“She’s in a care facility.”
He lowered his head as he took another mouthful of food, eating as if he was on auto-pilot. He also fell silent, sending out waves of back off. The change startled her, since he’d been both charming and talkative before now, telling one funny story after another about his trials and tribulations in the soccer world.
Martha knew she should mind her own beeswax, but her curiosity about his life—his personal life—got the better of her. “Brothers and sisters?”
Another sharp glance up from his plate. “Four of each, but one of my brothers is dead.”
