by V. K. Sykes
“I’m not a man of words, so I’m afraid I may be too blunt,” Tony finally said. “But please let me finish before you react.”
Her gaze remained clear and level, but she said nothing.
He took that as a yes. “I’ve told you how determined I am to buy the Thunder. On the other hand, you’ve made it perfectly clear that you’re determined to hold on, despite the current…difficult situation, if I can call it that.”
“Sure you can,” Martha said. “But that’s like calling a Perdue chicken factory a little barnyard coop.”
Tony frowned, unsure of the reference.
This time she did roll her eyes. “Sorry, I guess y’all aren’t familiar with Perdue chicken over here.”
“Ah, no, I suppose not. Anyway, Martha, I’ve tried to figure out what’s really important to you. What you want to accomplish by retaining ownership of the team. And while I don’t pretend to understand everything, I think what might weigh most heavily on your mind is your concern for the people you see as dependent on the team.” He paused for effect. “And on you.”
After several fraught seconds of silence, she nodded. “Okay. Keep going.”
“I admire that about you. If you check my record, you’ll find that I value my employees bloody highly, too. Rex and I have dealt more than fairly with all the people I inherited from teams we acquired. Whenever we had to let someone go it was for good reason, and we gave them a generous package to help tide them over until they found other positions. But almost all those new people are still with us.”
“Except the general managers and field managers, of course,” Martha interjected.
Surprised, Tony said nothing. Sweat prickled his brow, and he raked a hand back through his hair to get rid of it.
“I do my research, too,” she said.
“I’d have expected nothing less,” Tony managed, though it had actually never crossed his mind. She’d been so determined to reject him from the outset that he was surprised she’d bothered to dig up information on his past. Again, he’d underestimated her. “But that’s different, Martha. You must realize that. The general manager and the field manager are the key cogs in the organization. The pivot points. And if a club is failing—like all the clubs I’ve taken over were—then it’s a sure thing those fellows haven’t been doing a proper job.”
Martha’s brow knitted into a frown. “So, since the Thunder are sucking in monumental terms right now, you’re saying that Kieran McLeod and Sam Brockton must surely be useless losers, right? You’d send them off to the chopping block, would you? Come on, Tony, just be honest about that.”
Tony felt the ground wobble beneath him. As he’d feared, Martha was going straight for his throat, not giving him a chance to lay everything out in the way he wanted.
He made a point of sitting back in his chair and doing his best to look relaxed, though it was a hell of a long way from how he really felt. Every muscle in his body had tensed and he noticed his breathing had become shallow. Forcing a couple of deep breaths, he stretched his legs and flexed his fingers to help him relax.
“Martha, do you mind if we take a step back before we get to that?” He made sure to keep his voice low and even.
She gave a casual shrug, her face a polite, beautiful mask.
“Okay, then,” he continued. “What I’m trying to say is that if I’m fortunate enough to buy the team, I intend to keep as many of your staff as I possibly can. In fact, I’ll commit to specifics as part of the written agreement. And if there are people I simply can’t live with, then they’ll receive substantial settlements. You can be sure of that.”
Martha started to respond, but Tony held up a hand. “My offer is more generous than you’re going to get from anyone else if you’re ultimately forced into a sale. Or if the team is broken up in bankruptcy court. You know that’s true. And that’s why you should consider my overall proposal very, very carefully.”
Her mouth took on a mutinous line. “I don’t know anything for sure about that.”
But Tony could tell by the way she briefly shifted her eyes that he’d hit the mark. “Well, can you be sure anyone else will offer Jane, that lovely, efficient assistant of yours, a guarantee of continued employment?” he said. “I’ll make that offer. She can have a job with me as long as she wants one.”
Martha gave a dismissive snort. “Great, but I don’t worry about Jane. She can get a job at the Post tomorrow.”
Jesus. She was a tough nut to crack. “What about all the others, then?”
“Of course I want to make sure my people are taken care of,” she said with no hesitation. “It’s absolutely critical for me. And I’m not denying that your commitment in that regard is attractive, Tony, though I’m not much liking what I’m picking up about Kieran’s and Sam’s futures.” She sat up straighter, tugging her skirt down as she locked a deadly serious gaze on him. “But let’s leave that for the moment. Now it’s time for you to drop the other shoe, isn’t it?”
Tony was pretty sure she wasn’t going to like that particular shoe one little bit. But he’d done his best to convince her of the sincerity of his commitment to her staff, so now all that remained was to make her the concrete proposal she was clearly waiting for.
“For the first time in my career, Martha, I’m prepared to go into partnership. And I want you to realize how big a step it is for me to even think about something like that.”
He let those words sink in for a few seconds, but she didn’t react. Not even a nod.
“Specifically,” he continued, noticing his fists were clenched, “I’m prepared to buy enough shares from you, or from you and your uncle both, to give me a bare fifty point one per cent of team ownership. That means you’ll continue to hold virtually half of the team. I will commit to collaborating with you on all contracts, and on all other major business decisions other than on-field, player personnel issues.”
Unnervingly, Martha showed virtually no reaction. To Tony’s ears, his pitch had sounded too stiff and cool, but at least she seemed to be thinking about it if dead silence was any indication.
“Excuse me, please,” Martha finally said, breaking the tense, uncomfortable pause. “I really need a few minutes alone.”
She got up, brushed past him and headed through the suite’s door, leaving Tony rooted to his chair and stunned.
* * *
Thank God the hallway outside the suite was deserted, since Martha let out a string of curses that would have shocked any passersby. Some of her words even shocked her, but if there was ever a moment for colorful swearing it was right now.
She’d tried not to get her hopes up when Tony first tantalized her with the offer of a partnership, but the bitter disappointment she felt now told her she hadn’t succeeded. To her, the word “partnership” had always conjured up the image of two people sharing something equally, whether it was in a bridge game, a doubles tennis match, or a medical or legal practice. Or even a marriage, for that matter. Partners were equals. Wasn’t that how it was supposed to be?
Martha glanced down at her shaking hands. She’d started to feel the first tiny trembles as he said the words “fifty point one,” and soon she knew she had to put some space between the two of them before her fraying self-control completely blew apart.
When Tony delivered his pitch and spelled out the terms, tears had actually prickled her eyes. But volcanic anger had quickly overwhelmed the incipient water works. To make matters worse, the jerk had shown very little emotion and even less sensitivity as he’d calmly described his bombshell scheme to wrest control of the Thunder from her. And because Martha instinctively knew that rage would make it impossible to sort out her true feelings, she’d decided to flee the room and give herself time to cool down before she gave Tony an answer.
An answer consisting of two short words starting with the letters “F” and “O” seemed a justifiable counter under the circumstances, but despite her anger she wouldn’t treat Tony in such a cavalier or juvenile fashion.
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She let out a weary sigh, leaning against a concrete support post. At least there’d been no trace of glee in Tony’s attitude. In fact, there hadn’t even been much confidence, though he appeared to be trying hard to insert a good measure of it. If anything, he’d looked tentative, having to fight his nerves. Certainly not the self-assured man who had swept her off her feet and into bed the previous night.
But how could he imagine she’d ever agree to give him total control of her team? Because total control was in fact what he’d proposed, no matter how he tried to sugar coat it with that ridiculous layer of consultation bullshit. Fifty point one per cent might as well be ninety-nine point nine per cent as far as she was concerned. Tony could cross his heart and promise to consult her until Georgia stopped growing peaches, but in the end he would call the shots. All the shots.
Because that was exactly what fifty point one per cent meant.
Aside from the solemn promise she made to her father, the offer didn’t even make sense to her. She had no desire to own a minority stake in a struggling soccer team, continuing to tie up her inheritance with nothing to show for it. It would be better to simply sell the Thunder outright, pay off the team’s debts, and pocket whatever funds were left. Maintaining a big investment in the team in the absence of any real control sounded like the worst of both worlds.
Should she tell Tony what her idea for a partnership was? That she might have been prepared to accept a straight fifty-fifty split, with him buying out Geoffrey’s twenty and adding thirty per cent from her share? Unfortunately, she had absolutely no doubt that the concept of equally sharing control with her was a non-starter for Tony Branch.
Tucking back a couple of wayward locks of hair, she ineffectually smoothed her wrinkled skirt, inhaled a deep breath and pushed open the door of the suite.
Tony shot to his feet immediately as she entered, looking worried and grim. “I’m sorry I upset you, Martha,” he said cautiously. “I seem to have handled this whole thing badly.”
She sat back down and crossed her legs primly. “Oh, hell, it could have been worse. You could have sprung it on me in bed, I suppose.” She managed to crack a small smile despite feeling like she might throw up. “But that might have been dangerous to a couple of things you surely hold dear.”
Tony sat too, leaning his forearms on his knees. “I’ll keep that in mind for the future,” he said in a dry tone.
What future? Martha couldn’t help asking herself the question. “Tony, let me ask you something. How would you have reacted if I’d made you the same offer—in reverse?”
Tony rubbed his five o’clock shadow. “I can’t give you a specific number for what I’m prepared to pay for your shares,” he said, ignoring her question. “But Rex and I can sit down and have something for you in a few hours. I’ll pay more than current fair value, I can promise you that.”
Sure, because fair value might be a sack of raw peanuts at this point, Martha thought gloomily. “No,” she said.
He sat up straight and frowned. “No, what?”
The man who’d massaged her back in bed this morning after doing all those deliciously unspeakable acts last night, had morphed into Mister Hard-Ass Businessman. Their pact not to discuss the Thunder during the weekend had been well and truly shattered. The problem had started with a single, seemingly off-hand remark and the situation had rapidly slid into what her father had liked to call a sweet Jesus mess.
Martha found herself wanting take Mr. Peabody’s Wayback Machine an hour into the past, but what was done was done. Tony remained so determined to get her team that she didn’t see how they could go on with what they’d started a few days earlier in her suite at JaxBank. In fact, they hadn’t even managed to go a whole weekend without diving headfirst into the quicksand she’d run away to London to escape.
“I mean no, you shouldn’t bother running numbers, because I won’t sell you a controlling share of the Thunder,” she said with all the firmness she could manage. Too bad her stomach was crawling into her throat. “Period,” she added for good measure.
He blew out a heavy breath and spread his hands in a gesture of frustration. “Well, I can’t do any better than what I’ve offered. If I can’t control the team and its future, there’s no point in me owning any part of it.” His gaze was shot through with hardened steel as he leaned forward, his hands clasping his knees. “Here’s the bottom line, Martha. I’m an owner, not an investor. And I’m sure not going to be your banker, either. That’s a reality you’re going to have to accept.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Martha had chosen the small Mayfair hotel for both its location and its reputation for discreet and attentive service. On a quiet street in one of the swankiest parts of central London, the Bell Tower’s low-key style certainly suited her mood if not her price range. But despite its understated elegance and cozy simplicity, it felt lifeless. She realized, though, that her judgment was unduly harsh, and represented a comment more on the state of her bruised and enervated spirit than on any shortcomings of the hotel.
She had acknowledged to herself hours ago that she desperately missed the comforting cocoon of Tony’s home. Even more, she missed the man, though it burned her to have to admit it after yesterday’s gruesome clusterfuck at Fenton. But what choice had she but to flee after that humiliating scene?
The soft, mid-morning sun poking in through her lace-covered window promised a glorious autumn Sunday, but Martha had woken from a fitful sleep to find she had less appetite for remaining in the city than she’d originally thought. Dashing out of the stadium yesterday—after asking Tony to pack her suitcase for her so she could send a cab for it later—she’d gone straight to the Bell Tower. Incredulous at first, Tony had tried to talk her into remaining with him for the rest of her stay, even if it meant not sharing his bedroom. But she’d been adamant in her determination not to set foot in his house or even his car. Her refusal hadn’t been based on pique. Well, maybe some pique. Mainly, though, it had reflected her gut instinct that if she didn’t get away from him instantly, her traitorous body might betray her resolve to put distance between her and Tony Goddamn Branch.
Though she could have taken a commercial flight out of Heathrow first thing this morning, she couldn’t yet face the long and lonely trip back to Jacksonville. Instead, she’d booked a flight for Monday that would have her home by late afternoon. Once he’d reluctantly accepted her decision to leave, Tony had offered his timeshare jet to ferry her home. It was kind of him and tempting, but it hadn’t felt right to accept. Anyway, the Delta flight tomorrow would get her back in more than enough time to stew about Tuesday’s dreaded second meeting with the bank and the sponsors.
Her room order eggs Benedict arrived perfectly prepared and warm inside a gleaming stainless steel salver, but she’d spent the last quarter-hour pushing them around her plate while she stared out the window at Charles Street.
It made her crazy that her fabulous London weekend had become collateral damage of the dust-up in Tony’s stadium suite. But she’d seen no option at the time, and still didn’t. Not after his hard-assed comment that he wouldn’t be her banker, a final nasty blow to her pride. That particular shot of his had occasioned two minutes of barbed words tossed back and forth between them before she’d hurried her way out to a taxi line. Tony had tried to reason with her—as he’d called it—but she was having none of his patronizing crap. If his proposal truly reflected his idea of what a partnership between them would have to look like, Martha had known she’d have to make it clear to him by deeds as well as words that he was—to use another of her father’s favorite phrases—pissing up a rope. And she had.
Not that she wanted to completely burn her bridges with Tony. Besides the fact that she had a major crush on him, dammit, he was the only human on the planet with a hope of getting Colton’s ex to break her silence about the abuse she’d suffered. The inescapable and unpleasant truth was that Martha needed Tony’s cooperation on Ginny more than Tony needed her coo
peration on the Thunder. In fact, he now had a free hand to bide his time and pick up the pieces if and when she could no longer keep the team alive. She, on the other hand, had no hope of writing a truly blockbuster Colton-Ginny story without Tony’s committed help.
Good luck with that one now, girl.
She glanced at the clock on the bedside table and decided she could safely call Martin James at this hour. Martin, a devout Christian and unfailing churchgoer, would have finished his weekly post-service brunch with his wife. And she could sure use to hear a friendly voice right about now.
Martin answered his cell phone on the first ring. “Hey, it’s pretty early over there, sunshine. Are you in the hospital or something? Or are more riots breaking out in the street?”
“Hell, the morning’s already half gone, Papa Bear,” Martha said in the brightest voice she could manage. “And all is calm and well in London Town if we are to believe the television news, which of course no respectable print journalist ever would.”
Martin chuckled. “Tell me something I don’t know, and make it fast. I’ve got a mani-pedi booked this afternoon.”
Now it was Martha’s turn to chuckle. She knew for a certified fact that Martin James had never set foot in a spa in all his grumpy years. No one with nicotine-stained nails that looked like they’d been chewed by a pack of starving rats could possibly have done so. “Okay, then, here’s something you don’t know, my esteemed editor and mentor. I am calling to tell you that I’m leaning toward accepting the Colton Butler feature assignment you so graciously offered me, bless your crusted-over, ancient heart.”
Martin exhaled a long whistle. “Ah, Colton impressed you, did he?”
She grimaced at the phone. “Yeah, he’s as charming as a water snake. But I have to say he was more cooperative than I’d expected. Maybe it’s all that new age woo-woo he claims to be into these days.”
