The driver was pulling away from the curb in front of one of London's hottest new nightclubs before she even had the door completely shut. Well trained, she thought, wondering just what kind of Glass Slipper clients he'd shepherded around town before. A phalanx of paparazzi poured in the street behind them, some giving foot chase for a healthy block or two before giving up. Thankfully none of them opted to follow via car. No, there were bigger targets of opportunity still dancing the night away inside ZSpot. A photo of her exiting alone wouldn't fetch all that much these days, anyway. She'd need something studly and preferably famous on her arm, to be worth chasing en masse.
"Wexley House, please," she informed the driver, then slumped back against the seat, only partly relieved that no chase had ensued. Not because she missed that. She didn't. At all. It was dangerous as all hell and the thrill of being hotly pursued by crazed maniacs with cameras had worn off very early in her career. But being pursued also meant seeing her face splashed across celebrity columns on a minimum of two continents. She needed to maximize that face time if she was going to convince any of the narrow-minded, blowhard company reps that she was still a marketable commodity.
She'd been in town a full week now and had hit the pretournament social circuit like the regular she used to be—both the corporate-sponsored gigs for the tennis crowd and the ones favored by celebrities in general. She intended to avail herself of a blitz campaign of free publicity, showing up in all the right places, with all the right people. Yesterday's news, my ass, she thought as she kicked off her heels. She'd be damned if they'd make her into a has-been. All she needed was one endorsement deal from a major company and her immediate concerns would disappear. Companies wanted what other companies had. She could parlay one good deal into a string of smaller ones, maybe get a commercial or something out of it. From that point she could springboard herself into…
She blew out a long breath and blinked at the uncustomary and quite sudden stinging at the backs of her eyes. "Yeah… springboard yourself into exactly what?" Visions of performing a perfect dive off a platform, only to realize too late she was headed down into an empty pool, swam through her mind. "Swimming pool roadkill."
"Beg pardon, miss?" the driver politely inquired.
She waved her hand. "Nothing, just talking to myself."
Which she might as well get used to. The social hot spots had provided her with ample media opportunity, but they weren't exactly panning out as well as she'd hoped. Or at all, really. The interest was definitely there, but there was nothing new to get them going. She just had to decide what she was willing to give them in order to get what she wanted.
Bobby's wedding was news now, at least in the tennis world, but with the Championships coming up, all of England was abuzz with anything and everything tennis. Wimbledon was a cherished, almost sacred event among the Brits. She should be able to capitalize on that. But the fact that the groom's father was a U.S. senator and Bobby was marrying an Englishwoman who also happened to be a relatively well-known sports designer, made him front-page news on both sides of the pond. "Yeah, my baby brother is getting better press than me and he doesn't even want it."
"Pardon, miss?"
She just waved her hand at him.
She was truly happy for Bobby and Andrea, but admittedly their upcoming nuptials were cramping her style a wee bit. She could have easily plotted something scandalous and gotten all the coverage she'd ever desired and then some—because, really, why not? Everyone expected that from her anyway—but she didn't want to do anything that might ruin Bobby's special day. And given her rapidly approaching marketability expiration date, she doubted future sponsors would appreciate that kind of publicity at this point.
But her fistful of grand-slam titles were nothing but statistics now, trotted out during the "compare and contrast" portion of current event commentary. So, dammit, what the hell was she supposed to do to get a little attention? She was the international wild child, the bad girl of tennis. Fiery temperament and spicy scandal were her m.o. Or had been. So what if she was as tired of all of that as her former sponsors were? Being the good girl sure as hell wasn't getting her anywhere.
She'd already attended several glittery affairs, looking for the right industry insider to hook onto, but so far, nothing was popping. There was too much fresh blood for them to scent and track. No one was cutting through the crowds to make their way to her table. In fact, it was humiliating to admit, but she'd had to make the rounds of several parties herself.
"Wexley House, miss."
Tess fought a yawn as the car rolled to a stop in front of the sumptuous London digs of one Sir Robin Hargrove, complete with a private drive and huge iron gates to keep out trespassers. I do manage to land on my feet once in a while, she thought. Between her dad footing the plane tickets and Aurora extending her hospitality, along with her limo, Tess couldn't have asked for an easier entree to all the London prechampionship hoopla. "Thanks, Davy," she told the driver. "Don't get out. I'll get my door."
"Thank you, miss. Have a lovely evening."
She glanced at her watch after waving Davy off. "Just past midnight." A smile ghosted her lips as the gates opened to let the limo exit. "And my coach didn't even turn into a pumpkin."
She should still be out, making the rounds. But she simply didn't have it in her tonight. She refused to admit defeat, but she was a bit disheartened at what she'd accomplished so far. Tomorrow Bobby and Andrea were throwing a dinner party for family and a few close friends. The wedding was the following day, on Saturday. The Championships began a short week later. Not exactly her honeymoon of choice, but to each his own.
She rolled her shoulders and fought another yawn as she turned toward the wide marble stairs leading to the front door. Not even thirty and she was already a party pooper. It was then she spied the other car parked a bit farther along the drive, in the deeper shadows cast by the west wing of the mansion. It was a dark, two-door sedan. Apparently, Aurora had company. She looked up, but didn't see any lights on in the east wing where Aurora's rooms were. Her lips curved then. "Well, well.'' Aurora might not be much for staying out late, but apparently her social life wasn't suffering because of it. "You go, girl," she murmured.
Tess climbed the stairs and, when one of Sir Robin's many employees didn't open the door in anticipation of her arrival as they usually did, she shrugged and pulled open one side of the pair of massive oak-and-cast-iron-studded doors herself. The thing weighed a ton, as it turned out, and was almost twice her height. "Just what the hell were they afraid was going to break in here, anyway? A Trojan horse?"
The dazzling crystal chandelier that hung overhead glowed softly—who knew you could dimmer switch those things?—and the hand-painted, gold-leaf sconces dotting the walls between the doorways were also turned down so the entire foyer was cast in little more than a golden glow. She'd always thought her home in Boca was ridiculously large for one person. But Sir Robin's foyer alone could be subdivided into comfortable housing for a family of four.
When nobody emerged from the shadows to take her shawl and purse, she turned toward the staircase. Maybe Thursdays were the help's night off. Which was fine by her. She liked her five-star amenities, sure, who didn't? But she'd never grown accustomed to having paid help hovering about. She was halfway up the stairs when she heard the sound of voices coming from the rear parlor. The house had three off the foyer alone, two front, one to the rear right-hand side, leaving room on the rear left for the curving mahogany staircase that wound up to the open second-floor atrium.
"I appreciate the dinner, Aurora, really I do," came a man's voice.
"Don't forget the cognac," Aurora replied.
"Of course. You're a gracious hostess, as always, and you know I appreciate the personal touch."
Tess grinned. Nice voice, deep, well modulated, confident. "Not bad, Aurora. Not bad at all." Despite being intrigued—okay, curious bordering on downright nosy—about Aurora's gentleman caller, Tess continued her climb
up the stairs.
"But you're going to have to give me something a lot stronger and get me quite drunk if you want me to agree to this insane idea of yours," the man finished.
Tess paused again. Hmm. Business meeting!' Or indecent proposal? Had it been Vivian dePalma back there in the rear parlor, Tess would have bet all the money she used to have on the latter. Given that it was Aurora, she reluctantly had to go with the former. Although what kind of business Aurora was conducting at home, this late at night, was beyond her. "Ah, well," Tess sighed, resuming her climb. She'd just pry it out of Aurora in the morning over breakfast. Unless Mr. Deep Voice showed up at Sir Robin's knights-of-the-round-table—sized dining-room table alongside Aurora, which would answer most of her questions right there.
She grinned. Although it would admittedly spark a number of new ones.
"It's, what, ten days before the opening round?" the man went on, his tone slightly less conciliatory. "Gabrielle will be in the main draw for the first time. I came to you because I thought she could use a little help in getting a grip on the demands that are being made of her at such a young age. I'm doing the best I can, but she's growing up fast, and, well, I thought she needed a woman's influence. But not that kind of influence, and definitely not that woman. Besides, her game is fine. Yes, she's between coaches at the moment, but that's okay. We don't need help with her game."
Tess froze. Championships!' Wimbledon? The hell? Gabrielle who? And who was this guy? Her father? Manager? Agent? Tess's little voice instructed her quite firmly to go on upstairs. Obviously this didn't concern her or Aurora would most definitely have asked for her help. After all, she had someone living under the same roof who had a wealth of knowledge about the game and the pressures presented by the tour. But she hadn't asked, so Tess wasn't going to get involved. Lord knew she had enough of her own problems.
"I wasn't insinuating her game was somehow lacking," Aurora responded gently. "But you said yourself she lost her coach quite abruptly. She is young, and this is a very important event with more media coverage than she's ever had to deal with. You're right, she needs more than you can give her right now." Aurora's voice softened to that soothing, nurturing tone she used to such good advantage in her work. "Which is why you came to Glass Slipper. And I'd be remiss in doing my job if I didn't at least float this idea in your direction."
"I appreciate that, but with all due Tespect, Aurora, it's insane." He sounded like a man of conviction, Tess thought, but he was also still standing in the parlor. Which meant he was thinking about the offer. Whatever the hell it had actually been.
Tess was creeping back down the stairs before she'd even realized she planned to eavesdrop. Okay, so she never listened to her little voice, no matter how rational and sane it sounded. And honestly, this was just too good. Not that she planned to intrude into what was obviously a private meeting, but if she heard something that indicated she might be of some use? Tess would be remiss if she wasn't willing to do something to help repay Aurora for her kindness and hospitality. Right?
It was all the rationalization she and her little voice needed. She slid out of her heels and tiptoed closer to the parlor door.
"I understand, and I'm not ungrateful, I know most would consider this a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity," Mr. Deep Voice agreed, "but I can tell you without a single doubt that the very last person Gaby needs mentoring her in any capacity right now is—"
"You stated quite clearly that you wanted to help her learn to deal with the off-court pressures of the tour, am I right?" Aurora interrupted. "Here we are at one of the tour's biggest events, and I'm offering you the chance to give Gabrielle every advantage possible, Off court, and on, if you're so inclined. All in one package."
Tess frowned. What in the hell did Aurora know about tennis coaches or sports shrinks? Shit. Maybe she was assuming Tess would hook her up with whomever it was she had in mind. Although it didn't seem like Aurora to promise something to a client that she hadn't set up first. But if she already had a coach or shrink lined up for this young girl, why not even mention it to Tess during the chats they'd had while she'd been staying here? Get her take on things? Client-godmother privilege.
Then again, maybe this client represented a lot of money to Glass Slipper and he was threatening to take his business elsewhere. Maybe Aurora was securing his continued patronage by making promises up front that she hadn't exactly backed up yet. Except, well, no. Because, first off, the godmothers were rolling in it. At this point in their lives, they only worked because they truly loved what they did. About which, one thing was very certain: They didn't roll over for anyone. Secondly, there was no other place like Glass Slipper for this guy to turn to instead. And yet… it was past midnight and Aurora was obviously quite serious about wanting to make things work out with this man and his protégée.
Tess wondered if maybe popping in and seeing what was what would be a good idea after all. She could go back and open and shut the massive front door again, call out as if she'd just gotten in. Aurora would certainly come out to welcome her home and Tess could work the conversation a little, get a feel for what was really going on.
"I have to think about Gaby," Mr. Deep Voice was saying, "and I just think the match you're suggesting couldn't be more problematic. It's not like mixing oil and water, it would be like mixing oil and a lit match."
"You honestly think she would be a detriment to your sister? Encourage her bad behavior? I think the exact opposite would be the case. You don't know her, Max."
His sister, huh? Tess was scooting back to the front door while still trying to hear what they were saying.
"I know enough," he said. "Everyone does. And how can we not when she's been on the cover of every pop-culture magazine, every tabloid, every—"
"Propaganda, Max. You know better than to believe everything you read."
Tess had already frozen in place. No. Oh, hell no. Aurora would not do this, would never promise—would she? Because, honestly… Tess Hamilton, the bad girl of tennis, mentor to the youth of today? What the hell was in Aurora's cognac? was what Tess wanted to know.
"I don't have to believe everything I read," this Max person responded. "I can go just by what I've seen in the accompanying photo spreads to know this would be a disaster in the making."
" 'A disaster'?" Tess murmured, finding herself somewhat affronted by this stranger's negative opinion of her, despite the fact that she essentially completely agreed with him.
A tennis coach?
She'd never considered it. Quite a few of today's best coaches were former ranked players on the tour, albeit rarely as accomplished or highly ranked as she'd been. In her case it would almost seem… a step down of sorts. Mostly because players of her stature didn't have to work that hard to make a good living after retirement. "The ones who invested wisely, anyway," she muttered.
Still. She shook her head. No. She just wasn't seeing it. Not that she was averse to hard work. No one had worked harder on her game than she had. She wasn't afraid of work. But she'd pictured things like the charity benefits her father had suggested, or something similar. A spot on the board of directors, an ambassador of goodwill, that kind of thing. Even working with some sports company or other to help develop a new line of gear, or… well… something. Her face and name alone had been responsible for selling a lot of rackets and tennis skirts over the years. Surely she could turn that into something profitable now.
But coaching?
And even if she did know a thing or ten about the game, Aurora was also marketing her as some kind of spiritual mentor or head shrink or something to this kid. Was she crazy! Please. Tess might be tired of her own bad-girl image, but even she acknowledged that she was very likely the last person who should influence today's youth when it came to managing their off-court life. Hell, she couldn't even manage to hang on to her own fortune!
Oh, shit. It all began to make a sickening kind of sense. Had that been where Aurora had gotten this harebrained idea? Had Bobby sa
id something to Aurora at the party last week about Tess losing her Nike deal? If so, she was going to have to kill him. Which was a shame, really, with him only days away from his wedding and all. But honestly, if he'd sold her out…
Okay, so she couldn't even work up a good mad where Bobby was concerned. She knew if he had meddled, his heart had been in the right place. But that didn't help her much at the moment.
"Max, hear me out," Aurora pleaded calmly.
"If even half of what they've printed since she left the game is true, she's been far too busy hopscotching around the globe, spending her fortune by day and partying by night, to be interested in having an actual job, much less one as demanding as what you're proposing."
Tess stiffened. It was one thing for her to question her own viability as a coach, but who the hell did this guy think he was, dismissing her like that? He didn't even know her, for God's sake! Which was the other downfall of celebrity. People saw a few photo spreads, read a few articles, and felt like they were her best friend. Or worst enemy.
"Perhaps you weren't listening to me, dear," Aurora said, ever the unflappable one. A skill Tess was rapidly wishing she had developed somewhere along the way. Steam was already rising. "I wasn't proposing that Tess be involved with Gaby in any long-term relationship. Although if things worked out and you all wanted to continue on beyond Glass Slipper's involvement, far be it for me to stand in your way."
Tess had been ready to storm into the room and give them both a piece of her mind—a more gentle piece where Aurora was concerned, but a piece nonetheless. However, Aurora's last statement had her pausing just outside the door.
"I'm only offering you her guidance during your sister's stay at Glass Slipper."
"One week? What can Tess possibly offer her in such a short time?"
"Insight."
There was a pause, then Tess heard a long exhalation. Max's, no doubt. "She has to prepare. This is her second slam on the pro tour and—"
Not So Snow White Page 7
