by V. K. Sykes
“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.
CHAPTER TEN
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 wa
nt 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.”
Malone sighed audibly. “We understand that, Martha. Which is why, in the immediate period, you need to slash your other operating costs to the bare minimum. Get rid of all but essential staff, for starters. And knock off most of the marketing. There’s no point in splashing out more advertising until you get a decent product on the field.”
Martha bristled both at Malone’s use of her first name and at his clammy, patronizing tone. When it came to products, she wanted to tell him that his beer sucked way worse than her team, which it surely did. Malone wouldn’t know a “decent product” from horse pee.
“The bank agrees,” Cockburn said sonorously.
“As does SportsNet,” Roberts piled on.
Martha thought she finally understood what a quarterback felt like after getting brutally sacked on the opening play from scrimmage. Slash costs? She and her staff had already gone through that exercise, paring in non-essential areas. What did they expect her to do? Fire Jane and the rest of the office staff? Axe the marketing director and his people?
She nudged Geoffrey with her elbow, and for the first time he looked at her directly. But she could read no message of support in his expression, and he seemed to have no intention of speaking this morning at all.
“Well, what kind of cuts would satisfy you?” she asked, feeling more helpless by the second.
Malone looked at Cockburn, who nodded. “Whatever it takes to balance your income and expenses, of course,” Malone said. “And to meet your loan payment obligations.”
Martha knew exactly what message was being delivered. And they hadn’t even had the courtesy to let her finish her presentation.
She fixed Cockburn with a cold stare. “Let’s cut to the chase, then, shall we? Do I take it to mean that First Coast National is not inclined to extend our line of credit?” Even saying the words made her stomach cramp. Despite the dire situation, she’d held onto some hope the bank and the sponsors would give her team a few more months to turn it around. Now, it looked like all might be lost.
“Let me say this,” Cockburn said, as pompous as a judge delivering a verdict. “The bank wants to avoid a bankruptcy filing as much as you do, Ms. Winston. Once you have prepared a plan for an immediate and major reduction in costs, we will sit down again with you to discuss extension of the line of credit for the remainder of the season. I would ask you to have a fully fleshed-out plan in that regard ready by no later than this time next week. But unless we find that plan to be fully satisfactory, I have to advise you that the flow of funds from the bank will cease as of that day.”
Cut or die was the clear message Martha heard.
Martha started to respond, but Cockburn spoke over top of her. “Before you say anything, Ms. Winston, my strong advice to you, on behalf of the bank, is that you seriously consider trying to sell your franchise to an owner with the financial means to actually carry out the kind of turnaround plan you’ve spoken of.”
“While the team’s still worth something,” Finley Roberts said with something like a smirk.
Out of the corner of her eye, Martha caught her uncle’s nod toward Malone. It was a barely perceptible movement, but she understood what she saw.
Squashing the flare of useless anger, she kept her eyes fixed on the executioners in front of her. The discussion with Geoffrey would come later.
“Martha, there’s one more thing we need to discuss before we end the meeting,” Malone said.
Martha bared her teeth in a parody of a smile. “Then lay it on me, boys. I’m all ears.”
Malone huffed as if she’d actually called him by the uncharitable name that had shot to the tip of her tongue. “I regret to tell you that you’ll be getting a letter tomorrow from Steam Train Breweries containing formal notice of termination of our sponsorship agreement.”
She blinked rapidly several times, trying to absorb the final hammer blow.
Thirty days. That was all she had. The contract Will Winston had signed with Steam Train stipulated that either party could terminate the agreement on thirty days’ notice. But thirty days was two weeks before the season was even over. She couldn’t understand why Malone would pull out with two weeks to go, other than to be ridiculously punitive.
Losing Steam Train not only exacerbated the current crisis, it left a huge hole to fill for the following season. If there was even going to be a following season, she thought bitterly, her stomach so sour she could have swallowed a whole bottle of Maalox on the spot.
She reacted with pure instinct. “That’s a game misconduct for unnecessary roughness,” she snapped, jabbing her finger at the brewery boss. “Head to the penalty box, Malone.”
Finley Roberts actually chuckled, drawing an ice cold glare from the Steam Train CEO.
Martha was through playing nice. She’d come to the meeting in good faith, as a humble supplicant in fact, and had been prepared to endure skepticism and even condescension if it would earn her team a reprieve from the executioner’s blade. But as far as she was concerned, her professional approach and her humility had been met with only rigidity and cool nastiness.
“Did you guys work out the details of this little gang-up in advance, or does it just come naturally to y’all?” She met the eyes of each of the five men individually, but reserved a particularly venomous stare for Rance Malone. “Why do I get the feeling there’s something going on here that your side of the table is in on, but not ours? What’s the hidden agenda, people?” She sneered at them. “I may be just a little slip of a thing who inherited her daddy’s business, but my woman’s intuition tells me you folks are up to no good at all.”
“Nonsense,” Cockburn said, looking a little uncomfortable. “We’re simply protecting our shareholders, as is our duty. You make it sound like our position is personal,
Ms. Winston. I can only imagine what your father would say if he could hear you spouting such rubbish. Will was an honorable man, and his word was his bond. If he’d been faced with the choices confronting you, I have no doubt we could have worked together closely to solve this problem.” He stood, followed immediately by his assistant and then the others.
Shut up, little girl, and follow orders like your daddy would have done.
That’s what the bastards were saying to her. She glared after them, thoughts of murder and mayhem racing through her brain.
“Let it go,” Kieran said gently when she didn’t rise from her chair. “There’s nothing for us here today.”
In despair, Martha watched the backs of the five suits as they trooped out of the conference room. As bad as she’d imagined the outcome of this meeting could be, she’d never envisioned anything as devastating as what they’d just suffered.
As both Kieran and Geoffrey got up, she stayed glued to her chair, staring straight ahead with unseeing eyes. In her mind, all she could see was Tony Branch’s ruggedly handsome face. Tony Branch, the man she’d have taken to her bed in a heartbeat last night had it not been for the team. Tony Branch, the man who, ironically, might be the only one who could save the Thunder.
One phone call to Tony could end the misery. And get Geoffrey off her back at last.
Martha finally grasped Kieran’s outstretched hand. Kieran was about the same age as her father would have been now, and there was even a tiny bit of resemblance between them, especially in the kindness of their gazes. As she stared at her GM, she thought she could even see Will Winston. He was giving her a puzzled smile, and she could imagine her daddy’s thoughts.
Wasn’t I crystal clear, sweetheart? I didn’t just ask you to promise to save the team. I asked you to make a solemn vow that you’d keep the team in our family. That the Jacksonville Thunder and the Winstons would remain synonymous.
