Bigger Than Beckham

by V. K. Sykes

  “Strangely enough, I am,” he said. “Though we barely know each other, I do trust you, Martha.”

  The way he said it…it felt incredibly important.

  With deliberate slowness, not saying a word, Martha approached him. When he responded, opening his arms to enfold her, she leaned into the comforting strength of his body and slipped her arms around his back. He hugged her for a moment before drawing back a little—just enough so that their gazes met. When Martha tilted her head and smiled, Tony didn’t hesitate, claiming her mouth with a kiss that was at first tender and then hungry.

  She stroked her hands up and down the hard, smooth muscles of his back as their tongues danced with a slowly spiraling heat. She forgot about Colton Butler and the Jacksonville Thunder and every damn thing in the world except the man who embraced her with so much strength and gentleness.

  His body pressed up against her, already demanding and insistent. As desire coiled in her belly and spread hot and low between her thighs, Martha slid her hands down to grip his tight athlete’s butt.

  With a groaning laugh, Tony pulled back. “You are insatiable, woman.”

  “Guilty as charged,” she replied in a voice much lighter than she felt.

  Shaking his head, he gripped her around the waist and pushed her gently backwards onto the plush, cushioned chaise. Suddenly, he was draping her from head to toe with his lean, hard body.

  With a contented sigh, Martha gave herself up to him. When he cradled her face between his big palms and nuzzled her lips, a heart-wrenching pang brought tears to her eyes. God, he was such a good man. She knew she was more in danger of falling for him with every second that passed.

  Tony’s voice was deep and hot beside her ear. “I’m afraid you’re going to be keeping Butler waiting for a little while, darling.”

  She gasped and locked her arms around him when he bit her softly on the neck. “Let the bastard wait.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Her talkative cabbie—and Martha loved the incredibly knowledgeable London taxi drivers—had dropped her off in front of an impressive red brick building on Chelsea’s Royal Hospital Road. Looking skyward at the five story edifice, she guessed it may have once been the home of a wealthy family but at some point had been divided into luxury flats. The restaurant Colton had chosen for their get-together occupied what she thought of as the basement, although the entrance was only a few concrete steps below ground level. Since Martha’s handbag was bigger than the eatery’s sign, she’d thought they were at the wrong address until the cabbie pointed her to the stairs leading down.

  She pulled open the heavy, windowless door and entered a dark-paneled foyer that made her think the place might be more of a private club than a public restaurant. But the maitre’d recognized her before the door closed, giving her a crisp bow.

  “Good evening, Miss Winston,” he intoned in a solemn voice, one much deeper than his thin, middle-aged frame belied. “I trust you had an enjoyable trip from America. Please allow me to show you to Mr. Butler’s table.”

  Martha smiled, but couldn’t help teasing the fellow. “Y’all are just too kind over here. I always feel just a teensy little bit like royalty whenever I’m in London. Let me tell you, a girl could get used to that right quick.”

  The man’s eyes practically bugged out but he quickly recovered his poker-faced demeanor. Martha wasn’t sure why she had an instinctive tendency to put on a southern magnolia persona when confronted by starched formality. Was it some deep-rooted insecurity? She hoped it was just her delight in yanking the chains of the stuffy.

  “Please follow me, miss,” he said, leading her through another closed door. A scene right out of some PBS historical series opened up in front of her.

  The darkness in the room, relieved mostly by small table candles, was almost impenetrable to eyes not fully adjusted to it. The white cloths on the tables appeared to be the only things not made of heavy, dark wood and other equally majestic but gloomy materials. The chairs, while gorgeously ornate, looked ancient and uncomfortable, and that was yet another incentive for her to keep the encounter short. She longed to head straight back to St. John’s Wood and into Tony’s arms. It had been wrenching to leave him, especially knowing what she did now.

  And the clubby feel of the place didn’t exactly make her feel welcome, either.

  Following the maitre’d, she moved past a half-dozen tables toward the farthest corner of the room. In the shadows, she made out Colton rising as they approached.

  “Miss Winston, sir.” The maitre d’ made a sweeping motion with his arm as he spoke to Colton.

  Colton beamed at her. “Martha, you look absolutely incredible. Then again, you always do, don’t you?”

  The way his eyes feasted on her figure in the short black dress before returning to her face left little doubt as to the sincerity of his compliment. Martha instantly wished that she’d worn a more business-like outfit even though the LBD, which had long sleeves and a modest neckline, hardly qualified as a sexy frock as far as she was concerned. Not the way most chicks dressed these days.

  “How can you tell, Colton? Hell, it’s darker than blackstrap molasses in here, and just about as thick,” she drawled.

  Colton chuckled, tugging on the little goatee he’d recently affected. It looked a little sparse for a studly guy and kind of dumb as far as Martha was concerned. But he was still a handsome man for all that. Tall, blond, blue-eyed and powerfully-built with broad shoulders tapering to a trim waist, Colton Butler had the kind of slightly scruffy good looks that a lot of women found irresistible these days. Martha, though, much preferred Tony’s rugged but well-groomed sexuality.

  Martha sat as the maitre d’ pulled out the chair next to Colton’s. As best she could tell in the dimness of the room, Colton seemed positively in the pink. He was thirty-three now, a bit older than her, but he’d always looked younger than his age. That youthful appearance, along with his undeniable photogenic qualities, had helped propel him to lucrative endorsement contracts even before his play on the course merited such massive, seven figure rewards. And though his star status would probably never return to what it had been before the scandal, he clearly wanted to salvage as much of it as possible.

  Hence, the reason he wanted to see her—at least on the surface.

  After a too-lengthy dialogue with the sommelier, Colton ordered a bottle of wine that had the expert nodding with pleasure. After the sommelier left, she and Colton chatted briefly about the recently-concluded London Olympics, and how sad it was that Colton was forced to miss out on the biennial Ryder Cup, a premier golf event that pitted Europe’s best against the top Americans. When it came time to order, Martha let Colton select for both of them, hoping her deference would loosen him up even more. Obviously pleased, he picked sea bass for the entrée and arugula and endive salads to start, which worked nicely for her.

  But by the time the waiter refilled their wine glasses, Martha had decided to press ahead with business, particularly since her subject’s eyes were already looking slightly glazed. Colton had always had a reputation as a hard drinker, though he now claimed to have cleaned up his act in that regard, too.

  “Colton, you know I’m a straight shooter, right? I like to get right to the point with folks I’m interviewing.”

  “And I admire that, Martha. Your honesty is one of the main reasons I wanted you for this,” he said with a straight face.

  Martha took that with a giant fistful of salt since she had a good idea he had another unspoken reason. But they’d get around to that eventually. “Okay, then. Let me ask you something straight out before we even start to discuss the practicalities of this potential story—or anything else, for that matter.”

  He waved a hand deferentially.

  “Martin James told me you want to open up. To lay it all out, no holds barred.” She locked her gaze on his gauzy blues. “Is that true? And don’t even think about trying to snow me, Colton.”

  His mouth curled down in an irr
itated curve. “You really do like to get to the point, don’t you?”

  Martha held her silence.

  “Fine, then. I told James two things,” Colton said, sounding a little snappy. “First, I said I’d only talk to you, as he must have told you. And, second, I told him that I want to be open and candid about my past mistakes, but I also want to tell people about how fundamentally my life has changed. How I’ve turned things around, and become a better person as a result.”

  When he tried for a soulful look, Martha almost gagged.

  “I’m not interested in some bullshit story,” he continued. “I want to bare my soul publicly—as hard as that’s going to be—so my journey can be an inspiration to others.”

  Now she really wanted to puke. In fact, her insides were clenched so tight with revulsion she could barely breathe.

  Oh, yeah, you’re an inspiration all right—for whoring reprobates and wife beaters, maybe.

  “One can only hope,” she said, sitting rigidly on the edge of her seat. “So, give me the gist of what you mean by that. How you’ve turned things around and become a better person.” Martha braced herself for a verbal tidal wave of self-serving crap.

  “By finally getting in touch with my inner self, Martha. By working to cleanse my chakras and find my inner peace,” he said glibly. “That’s pretty much it in a nutshell.”

  “Uh-huh.” She’d heard that he’d gone all Eastern, all organic, all green. A model new age man. “That’s certainly intriguing. But come on, Colton, you can be more specific.” She gave him an encouraging nod. “I’m sure my readers will be fascinated by something so… so…positively transcendental.”

  Visions of Tibetan monks sitting cross-legged in their flowing garments floated before her eyes. Colton Butler was not seated among them.

  “Sure, you’re skeptical,” he said, his tone now breezy. “I get it. Hell, I was skeptical, too. But I’m transformed, Martha. I’m at peace now with myself and the world. And that peace is going to make it possible—no, easy, in fact—for me to get back to number one in the world ranking. I guarantee it.”

  Martha had to choke back a laugh. He guaranteed it? Oh, sure. She really should suggest he check that one out with Tiger or Rory McIlroy or any of a dozen or more superstars who would have a large say in determining who was the top ranked golfer on the planet.

  But what fried her even more than his inane boasting about future glory was his startling claim to be at peace with himself and the world. Since Tony’s revelation, Martha had been imagining what Ginny Cross’s face had looked like after running headlong multiple times into Colton’s fists. She couldn’t help but wonder if he was at peace with himself about that, too.

  Still, she couldn’t even mention the alleged wife abuse. Though it made her rigid with frustration that she wasn’t able to go after him with claws full out, she’d promised Tony that Ginny Cross’s secret would remain just that, and it was a promise she meant to keep.

  But, oh, how it tempted her to bust Colton in print if she possibly could. The type of celebrity comeback story Martin had commissioned would no doubt propel her career onward and upward, but an exposé on Colton Butler’s spousal abuse would be nothing short of front-page news across the world. More importantly, it would be justice for Ginny Cross, and for any other woman who might have encountered Colton’s abusive behavior. That meant a hell of a lot more than giving her career a boost.

  If she could get it past the Post’s libel lawyers, who would demand that such serious, damaging allegations were provable in a court of law. She knew that meant Ginny Cross would have to step up to the plate, or it would be a no-go.

  But what were the chances of her doing that? Not great, according to Tony.

  Colton regaled her for a few long minutes with testimonials to his new personal trainer as well as a London ashram he currently favored. Since her eyes were now starting to glaze over—with boredom—Martha turned the conversation to the practicalities involved in producing the story if she were to agree to take it on. “If, and I emphasize if, I’m going to do this, Colton, I’ll only have about three weeks or so. That’s not much for a feature like this, believe me.”

  He shrugged. “That’s for you and the paper to work out.”

  “Sure, but I’m going to have to somehow find the time to do extensive interviews with you while still managing to run my ball club.” She shot her hand out to cover the top of her wine glass when Colton moved to top it up. With a slight snort, he filled his own glass three-quarters full.

  Colton started to say something about the Thunder, but then caught himself and regrouped. “Actually, I’d been thinking about how I want to work with you on those interviews even before I talked to Martin James. About where we could spend some private, quality time together.” He flashed her a shit-eating grin.

  Stunned by the sudden admission, Martha made sure to clamp her jaw shut. Better to let him say his piece, and then she could decide whether or not to smack him down. Figuratively, of course.

  “My first tournament isn’t until next month,” he said, “but I’ve got a heavy schedule of endorsement shoots and sponsor get-togethers before then. Plus, I have to find time every day to hit both the course and my gym, and for yoga and meditation, too.”

  “Oh, of course,” Martha said between clenched teeth, dreading where he was going with this.

  “So, here’s what I’m thinking,” he said. “I’m pretty sure I’ll be able to squeeze in all the interviews you’ll need if you come with me to Paris and Stuttgart at the end of next week. And maybe even to Switzerland the week after that if you can swing it.”

  Lord in heaven above. Martha gaped at him. “Are you serious? You really expect me to spend two weeks flitting around Europe with you?”

  Colton’s happy smile indicated he’d read in her expression that she was excited at the prospect. Actually, she was gobsmacked, and sure as hell not in a good way.

  “Why not? I’ve got commercial shoots for LVMH in Paris, and Mercedes in Stuttgart. Then I’ll be working with my swing coach for a few days in Crans-sur-Sierre, Switzerland. Everything’s all set to go.” He looked so revoltingly self-important that Martha wanted to throw her half-empty wine glass at him.

  “Ah, the lives of the rich and famous,” she said dryly instead.

  Colton put down his wine and leaned forward conspiratorially, his elbows planted on the pristine white tablecloth. “Don’t tell me that it doesn’t sound like mad fun, Martha. Hell, you can run your team via the phone and Internet, can’t you? Everybody does business that way these days. And the rest of the time you can pamper yourself in some decadent hotel spa or shop your sweet ass off until I get through with my commitments.” His gaze had morphed into a virtual leer in a heartbeat. “And at the end of the day, after we’ve done your interviews, we can enjoy some fine dining and, well, who knows what else?”

  He relaxed back in his chair, smiling as if he’d just offered her the juiciest plum in the history of all the world’s orchards.

  Martha steepled her hands as if praying, and rested her chin on them.

  Lord, give me strength.

  “Colton,” she said sweetly, “that proposition is one of the more inventive come-ons I’ve heard in some time. But, really, don’t you think your dick has already landed you in enough hot water to last an entire lifetime?”

  His eyes widened and his mouth dropped open. His reactions would have been almost comical but for the fact that he also gripped his knife so tightly that his fingers were white. “Jesus, Martha,” he growled, “I’m not bloody married anymore, am I now? And I don’t know of any law against having a little fun while you’re working.”

  He carefully laid down his knife and then quaffed about half a glass of wine in one long swallow while Martha remained silent.

  “Just think about it, will you?” he finally said, wiping the back of his hand across his lips. “Think of how much an article like this could do for you.”

  Was he seriously saying
“my way or the highway”? It sure sounded like that to her ears. Well, she was about to find out for sure.

  Martha took her turn at planting her elbows on the table, narrowing her eyes in her best Steel Magnolia glare. “You really want me to write this article, Colton? Well, then, you’re going to work around my availability. And I’m damn well not running my business from frigging France or Germany or Switzerland. No, pal, nothing in that schedule works for me. But, hey, I’ll tell you what.”

  She paused, pretending to study him, making him wait her out. “I’m prepared to meet you here in London once more after today.” A good compromise, since it meant more time with Tony. “But I insist we conduct the bulk of the interviews in Jacksonville.”

  Colton goggled at her. “Jacksonville? Are you fucking kidding me?”

  Martha did her best to look genuinely puzzled. “Well, why not? Bring your caddie and your sticks with you so you can play TPC Sawgrass a few times. You’ve always had trouble there at the Players’ Championship, so it’ll be a damn good challenge for you. And, hey, you can get your swing coach to mosey on over, too. God knows you can afford it, what with all those sweet endorsement deals you just talked about.”

  Martha did want to write the article. She wanted to put Colton on the hot seat with a brutally frank interview, grilling him to find out the truth about what he did to Ginny. But she would dictate the terms, not him. He knew an article by her would be well-received in the sports world, so if he really did want her for that reason, he’d put up with her insistent stance. But if the whole point of dangling the carrot in front of Martin James had been as much to lure her into his bed as write a puff piece, then she’d cut bait and scoot right out of there before the dessert menu showed up.

  Colton’s flat-out grimace wordlessly relayed what he thought of her proposal. “Even if I wanted to blow off LVMH and Mercedes, I couldn’t afford to. They were the only major sponsors who stuck with me through the bad times. I owe them.”

  Martha moved in for the kill. “Then let’s compromise. Go do your shoots on the continent and fit in a couple of trips to Florida in between. That shouldn’t be too hard for a powerful guy with his own jet airplane, should it?” She smiled sweetly across the table.