by V. K. Sykes
Martha tried not to make it too obvious how desperately relieved she felt. But she did give him a grateful smile. “Thank you for being so understanding, Tony.”
He didn’t return her smile. In fact, his jaw was every bit as tight as it had been, and his mouth was still a grim line. What the hell was wrong with him, anyway?
“But, Jesus, Martha,” he said, “we’re talking about Colton Butler. And that’s where my understanding comes crashing to a full, hard stop. The man’s a bastard—a bloody abusive bastard with the morals of a rutting baboon.”
Martha’s mouth went dry, making her have to swallow twice before she could answer him. “My God, Tony, I’ve known Colton Butler for quite a while. And, yes, he’s far from being a prince among men. But I didn’t think he was quite Satan, either. So, exactly what the hell are you talking about?”
The jet braked to a smooth stop and the pilot shut the engines down. It threw the passenger cabin into near silence. The flight attendant hurried back through and Martha heard Rex stand up.
Tony jerked his head away and reached for his seatbelt. “We’ll continue this at my place,” he said gruffly. “In private.”
* * *
Martha and Tony had barely exchanged a word on the limo ride into the city, first dropping Rex off at his flat in South Kensington and then fighting through the dense, rush hour traffic to Tony’s home in St. John’s Wood, the lovely neighborhood above Regent’s Park. Both Tony and Rex had made a point of looking engrossed in whatever was on the screens of their smartphones, while Martha simply took in the sights of the city she loved, her mind still analyzing Tony’s vitriolic screed against Colton.
The morals of a rutting baboon? She kind of got that part, though she’d never have thought such a thing about Colton until the scandal broke. The Colton Butler she’d met years ago had for sure been something of a freewheeling stud, but a few years back he’d married a sweet young British stage actress and they’d appeared to the world to be a darling, happy couple. Last year, though, Colton had done his best to top Tiger Woods, and not in terms of the golf legend’s on-course exploits, either. No, Colton had been caught in a cell phone shot with his pants down, literally, and that sickeningly indiscreet shagging of a New York party girl had quickly proven to be just the beginning of a series of revelations of tawdry liaisons that stretched around the globe from California to France to Singapore. Coming not all that long after Tiger’s humiliation, Colton’s horror show had thrown professional golf into turmoil once again.
Tony had every right to be judgmental about the side of Colton that those revolting episodes revealed. But, like Tiger, Colton had vowed to clean up his act and work hard to restore the public’s faith in him. Even though his marriage had fallen apart, there had been no hint of questionable relationships since the scandal. Colton had lived quietly, and there were reports that he was now deeply into meditation and other kinds of new-age stuff. Martha remained as skeptical as all get-out, but her own religious faith affirmed that redemption was possible for any sincerely repentant person, including a jerk like Colton Butler.
Tony’s scathing description of Colton’s morals hadn’t been what shocked her the most. What had knocked her for a complete loop was his use of the word “abusive”. Tony hadn’t just spewed out the charge in some careless rant. No, it had been the first thing out of his mouth, coming even before he compared Colton to a rutting baboon. So, what did Tony know that she—and apparently the rest of the world—did not?
When they pulled up in front of his house, Tony graciously handed her out of the limo after the liveried driver held open the door. She emerged into dull, late afternoon sunshine, heavily muted by the leafy trees that lined the charming, narrow street. As a wrought-iron double gate closed automatically behind them, sealing the property behind a five-foot high stone and iron fence, Martha caught her first good look at Tony’s estate. Though the dark brick, two-story Georgian manor house spoke of quiet, understated elegance, her first impression was that it could hardly be called a mansion in London terms. In fact, among the homes they’d passed on their way through St. John’s Wood, Tony’s would have to be judged as rather ordinary.
Because she knew he was a rich man, at least in terms of the estimated worth of his soccer assets, Martha had expected rather more splendor. What she saw before her was a pleasant surprise, though, and it warmed her to realize he didn’t live like some new-money jerk intent on splashing out his wealth for the world to see. As they stepped into the foyer, she could see that the inside of the house seemed just as nice as the outside, with a clean, bright style offset by dark, masculine furniture. Spare but tasteful, although entirely lacking in, well, a woman’s touch. It fit Tony perfectly.
“This is Mrs. Ocampo,” Tony said, introducing a small, pear-shaped woman in black who emerged from somewhere at the rear of the house. “She’s my wonderful housekeeper. Mrs. Ocampo, this is Miss Martha Winston.”
“I’m so pleased to meet you, Mrs. Ocampo,” Martha said warmly, extending her hand. Try as she might, she couldn’t help wondering how many other women the diminutive housekeeper had greeted like this.
The fifty-something woman’s eyes rounded with surprise, but took the offered hand and rewarded Martha with a toothy smile as she inclined her head ever so slightly.
“I’m sure Mr. Branch must be quite a trial for you,” Martha teased, glancing at Tony.
That remark elicited a raised brow from Tony as he set down her small, hard-case valise. She’d decided to bring along a minimum of clothes, figuring she’d hit some of the Oxford Street shops tomorrow before the match.
The housekeeper shot Martha a startled look, her mouth rounding in an unhappy oval. “Oh, no, Madam,” she said, obviously misunderstanding Martha’s jest. “Mr. Branch is very easy to work for. And very, very kind. He’s the best,” she finished.
“Oh, yes, I’m sure he is,” Martha said quickly, trying to recover. The man sure had devoted employees if she was to go by Rex Daltry and Mrs. Ocampo.
“Please show Miss Winston to the guest room that overlooks the garden, Mrs. Ocampo,” Tony said. “Martha, I’ll leave you some time to get settled in. Let’s have a drink on the terrace in half an hour, and we’ll pick up on our conversation then.”
Because his words sounded almost like marching orders, she couldn’t help bristling and gave him a cool smile in response. But if he noticed her reaction, he didn’t show it.
Leaving his small bag at the door, Tony disappeared down the hallway. Martha watched him stride away, her stomach sinking clear down through her heels to the damn basement. It looked like her fabulous London weekend might be dead on arrival.
* * *
“Your room is comfortable?” Tony asked, handing Martha a glass of white wine.
She took a grateful sip, hoping the little shot of alcohol would settle her nerves.
Tony, a Scotch already in hand, waved her further into the enclosed terrace at the back of the house. The glass-fronted room was similar to what was known as a lanai in the South—an extension of the house—and had clearly been designed to serve as both a conservatory and a room to relax, eat and enjoy the view of the expansive English garden at the rear. A hedge about ten feet high surrounded his yard, and a symmetrical gravel pathway formed a curvy, “Y” shape, dividing the lawn and plantings into roughly-equal segments. Not everything was blooming in October, but Martha was sure that in spring and summer Tony’s garden would be a truly spectacular mix of colors and scents.
“Very comfortable, thank you,” she said, not mentioning that she was still a bit shell-shocked to find he’d installed her in a guest bedroom. She rationalized that he was probably just giving her some comfortable space of her own and that the arrangement signified nothing regarding his desire for her, or lack thereof.
Tony nodded but didn’t say anything more.
Her face surprisingly warm in the cool room, Martha’s heart rate kicked up another notch. He seemed distant, and in her tired, more-frazz
led-by-the-minute state, that sent her nerves jangling again. She gulped the smooth Sancerre, desperately searching for something appropriate to say.
“Do you enjoy gardening?” she finally managed. Maybe a few minutes of small talk would be an antidote to the frostiness that had settled in between them.
Tony gave a little snort. “I enjoy what my gardeners create, though I don’t spend a fraction of the time at the house that I do at the stadium, of course.”
He pointed toward a furniture grouping of a sofa, a chaise longue and two matching chairs, indicating that she should take a white, cane-backed chair that looked out toward the garden. After she sat, he adjusted the other chair so he could face her directly across a narrow table that sported an empty but colorful Chinese vase with a tiny chip in its rim. Antique, her mind absently registered. Pretty rare and pricey too, if she didn’t miss her guess.
She still had on the lilac-colored suit she’d worn on the plane, but it had become so thoroughly wrinkled that she suddenly regretted not changing. She’d decided to keep the suit on for now because she’d have to haul out her LBD to meet Colton, who’d booked a reservation at a restaurant in Chelsea. She felt like she was a complete mess, though, while Tony looked cool and casual in khakis and an expensive-looking golf shirt.
Martha ran her hand over the skirt as if she could somehow smooth out the creases by the sheer pressure of her sweaty hand. Tony’s pissed-off attitude left her teetering between resentment and regret. Whatever he had against Colton Butler, it had to be colossally important—at least in his own mind—for him to sit her down as if he were her father about to deliver her a stern lecture.
Might as well get on with it, pal.
She’d listen to what Tony had to say, but she’d also send him a clear message that she’d make her own judgments about Colton Butler. And about everything else, for that matter.
“It’s time you told me what’s going on, Tony.” She made a point of glancing at her watch. “I’m meeting Colton in less than an hour, and I’ve still got to change and call a cab.”
He glowered at her before draining the remainder of his whiskey.
Letting out an exasperated sigh, she set her glass down on the coffee table with a sharp click. “To say Colton is abusive is a hell of a charge. I hope you’re going to explain that, and back it up with some proof.”
Tony’s nostrils flared like a bull about to charge. “If I could bloody well back it up—legally, that is—the son of a bitch would have been behind bars in Wormwood Scrubs years ago.”
“Please, Tony, just spell it out,” she said through clenched teeth. “Because this discussion is making my head spin.”
He shot her a brooding look and rose to his feet. He refilled his glass from the side tray of liquor and wine bottles before answering her. “Did you ever meet Butler’s ex-wife?”
Martha grimaced. “No, but I know the two of them pretended to have a storybook marriage in public while they fought like Ali and Frazier at home. Colton admitted as much to me before the mess broke publicly.” When he was still trying to get in my pants.
Tony sat down, slumping into his chair without his usual masculine grace. His posture and the deep grooves around the corners of his mouth suggested he was either worn out or dejected. Maybe both.
“I knew Ginny Cross for years before she ever met Butler,” he said. Then he shook his head. “No, let me be straight with you about that. I’d known Ginny through family friends for several years before we started to date.”
“Really?” Martha said, startled by the connection. She gave herself a mental kick for sounding so dumb.
Tony nodded. “Before that, I’d always thought of her as a kid. A lovely young lady, true, but still a kid. When she was twenty, and at university, that all changed fast. I was twenty-five at the time, and had started to make it big in the football world.”
“And you two became lovers,” Martha said, stating what had become obvious to her. She’d seen it in his eyes the moment he uttered the woman’s name. Tony had been in love with her. God, could it even be possible he still was?
She had to repress the impulse to curl up in a defensive little ball.
His mouth was a hard, tight line. “Yes, for some months. Then things happened.” He shrugged. “Something more permanent wasn’t meant to be, and we both knew it. But I still care for her very deeply, and we’ve remained friends. Close friends, really, even after she took up with Butler.”
Martha nodded, trying to think like the reporter she was and not simply like a jealous twit. “What did Colton think about that?” Knowing that jerk, he probably hated it.
“She said he couldn’t stand it, which always made me wonder. Until I met him a couple of times, that is. But his attitude didn’t stop Ginny and me from keeping in touch. Sometimes we’d actually meet up, but we always made sure to keep it secret from Butler.” Tony swirled the Scotch around in his cut crystal glass. “She claimed to be happy for the first couple of years with Butler, but I knew her too well to fall for the act. When I started to press her, she began to open up, bit by bit, about what things were really like at home.”
As intrigued as she was, Martha found her gut tightening with a sense of foreboding. “Did Ginny know even then that he was screwing around behind her back?”
Tony gave a grim nod. “She told me later that she knew it in her heart. Almost from the beginning, I suspect. She wouldn’t admit it, though. Not to me, not to anyone.” He took another hefty swallow. “Better not to know for sure, she said later.”
Another brooding silence fell between them. Martha studied Tony’s face, trying to decipher the emotions that pulled his features into a tight mask of contempt.
Suddenly, she got it. “Did Colton abuse her physically?” she asked, almost wishing she didn’t have to hear the answer.
“He sure as hell did,” Tony said bitterly. Then it was like the flood gates opened. “The sodding bastard would hit her in places on her body where it wouldn’t show. Or, if he really lost it and smacked her square in the face, Ginny would stay home until she healed, or she’d camouflage the bruises with heavy makeup.” The fingers on his right hand curled around into his palm, like a claw. “She covered it up time and time again. She even convinced herself that their troubles were actually her fault. Or that her poor, stressed-out husband was fighting his demons under impossible pressure, so he couldn’t really help himself. And of course Butler would always be contrite afterward, and he’d swear he was going to change. To be the husband she deserved.” He grimaced. “What a sick joke that was.”
“Oh, dear God in heaven.” Martha pressed a hand over her belly, her stomach lurching with revulsion.
“It went on and on,” Tony continued in a harsh voice, “because Ginny wouldn’t ask for help. She confessed to me, about some of it, anyway, but she couldn’t bring herself to go to the police or even see a counselor. No matter how many times I told her to do it.”
Martha swallowed against the impulse to vomit. “A lot of abused women will always keep hoping their husbands will change, no matter how bad things get,” she finally said. “But didn’t she say anything to her parents?”
He shook his head. “She claimed she couldn’t. Said her father would murder Colton, and she was dead serious. She only talked to me—the first time in a moment of weakness, as she called it—because she said she needed to confide in someone who had once loved her.” He rested his head on the back of his chair and stared blindly at the ceiling. “Jesus, I felt like I’d failed her when she said that.”
“I’m sure you didn’t,” Martha said quietly, her heart breaking for him. “You were there when she needed you.” She knew exactly how Ginny must have felt, because Martha had the same kind of relationship with Nate Carter. Things hadn’t worked out between them either, but Martha knew Nate would cut off his pitching arm for her if she needed him to.
“I try to tell myself that,” he said, sitting back up. “At least I finally managed to get her to see a
psychologist friend of mine. A counselor who works with abused women like Ginny—women who wouldn’t go to the police or leave their husbands.”
Martha nodded. “And it helped?”
Tony made a “so-so” gesture with his hands. “Some, Ginny told me. But in the end, she never blew the whistle on Butler, did she?”
“But in the end, she did leave him,” Martha countered. “And she did that because you got her help.”
He managed a little smile. “Yeah, I guess.”
“No guessing about it, mister,” she said firmly. “She must have had an awful lot of trust in you.”
He nodded. “Ginny always said she could open up to me because she knew for certain that I’d keep my mouth shut.”
“Okay,” Martha said, treading carefully. “But you’re telling me her secrets now.”
Tony’s lean face got that closed-down expression again. He got up and moved to the windows, looking out into the garden with his hands shoved into his pockets. Martha remained silent, giving him the space he seemed to want.
Finally, he turned to face her again, this time more confidently, as if he’d made a decision. “I had to think hard about whether I wanted to finish the conversation we started as the plane landed. I wasn’t sure how, or even if, I could explain what I’d blurted out about Butler.”
She stood up but kept her distance. “Because you weren’t sure you could trust me, right?”
No wonder he’d pulled away from her. After all, she was a reporter but that didn’t mean his wariness didn’t hurt.
Tony simply stared at her, his dark eyes steady and calm. And still holding back.
Martha swallowed hard, her chest tight under a wash of conflicting emotions. “Does this mean now you are?” She gave her head a shake. “I mean, you’re sure you can trust me?”
His expression finally broke, and a genuinely warm smile lit up his handsome features. Martha sagged with relief.
