by Mel Curtis
“I was at that game.” Cora struggled to keep her voice even and her smile in place. “With my dad.”
“No shit?”
“No shit.” She and Daddy had taken two foster kids to the Rose Bowl.
Foster kids? Not effing likely.
Something hot and desperate injected itself into her veins, pounding urgently: go, go, go. But she had no destination. No outlet for her frustration. “Whatever happened to that player of yours who broke his leg on the winning touchdown? Did he make it to the NFL?”
“He never returned to that level of play. I think he’s a farmer in Georgia now.” Archie swallowed the last of his drink. “I know I just met you, but I’d like you to meet someone. Someone important to me.”
“Your son?” Cora asked politely. No amount of good looks could make up for his son’s saintly, plain as dry toast character.
“No. Mary Sue Ellen.” Archie cleared his throat again. “She’ll be my wife come Christmas. We’re expecting.”
“I heard something about that.” A successful football coach in his sixties hooking up with a woman one-third his age? Who hadn’t heard? It was her father all over again. She tried to a smile. “Congratulations. How’s Trent taking it?” Badly, if he was anything like Cora.
The old man had the decency to blush. “He’s…uh…warming to the idea.”
Cora had a sudden burst of compassion for Trent. Her gaze found his rigid back in the living room.
As if reading her mind, Archie said, “Trent’s had a stick up his ass ever since his mother died.” Archie’s gruff voice rumbled into a lower, more fragile octave. “Wanted me to live alone the rest of my life. Didn’t understand me dating. Didn’t understand the women I found attractive.” His voice dropped to a rumbly whisper. “Didn’t understand me. I’m hoping working for him will change things. It’s important to Mary Sue Ellen that we get along.”
Cora made sympathetic noises, although she clearly had one idea in common with the Reverend. Archie needed a good kick in the ass. If only someone had done that to Daddy.
Just thinking about her father had Cora’s Dooley Foundation training kicking in. Who was she to judge who Archie slept with? “You have to choose your own path, Archie. Your choices don’t require family approval.” Her smile found a setting that felt more natural. “Half the time, my family doesn’t approve of me.”
“I bet you’re a hell-raiser.” He flashed her a kindred-spirit grin.
“Takes one to know one.” She nodded toward the group surrounding his son. “Now, your son…”
“Do you want to meet him? He could use a little welcome to the NBA, if you get my drift.” Archie’s cheeks pinkened again, bringing out the gray in his hair.
What the hell? He’d called her a bimbo earlier. Was he suggesting she use her hoo-ha as a welcome mat?
“I didn’t mean that like it sounded,” Archie rushed on, lowering his voice. “I just think it’d be good if Trent met a woman with balls.” His cheeks turned a ruddy red and he shook his glass, rattling the ice. “I meant balls in the best sense of the word, because I don’t think you have a pair.” He glanced furtively in the region of her invisible panty line. “I mean…A man can drink with a girl like you and not watch what he says.” And then he gave her a grin so like the mischievous ones her dad used to bestow that she couldn’t help but smile in return. “Can I get you anything before I put my other foot in my mouth?”
She declined and watched him walk to the bar, wondering…If Daddy had told her about other siblings when she’d been younger, would it have hurt any less?
She wanted a drink. She stayed where she was, clutching her water bottle.
At her feet, Brutus sniffed her heels, giving them a tentative lick before Cora gave him a stern warning, “Sink one tooth in these shoes and you’ll die.” Not that she’d ever hurt Brutus, but the little dog gave credence to her threat. He sighed and looked away.
Vivian Gordon snagged Trent Parker’s arm and drew him out to the pool deck to mingle with the players. She looked runway chic in the latest DKNY – a red lace sheath dress and studded booties. By contrast, Trent was a Fashion Don’t. He wore a sports jacket that fit like he’d purchased it at a discount store. On clearance.
A shame since he was hot in a diamond-in-the rough sort-of way. Built like a tall UFC middle-weight fighter, Coach Parker moved with a confident detachment, ignoring the way the players put down drinks and straightened up when he came near. He had close-cropped, brown hair, large hands, sharp eyes, and a crooked smile he’d inherited from Archie, although it lacked the older Parker’s wicked charm.
After what seemed like forever, Amber managed to cut Vivian from the pack and brought her over to Cora. This was it. The moment Cora found out if Viv knew or cared who her estranged husband had slept with.
“Viv, you remember my sister, Cora.” Amber’s overly-bright expression was a silent cue for Cora to perform.
And perform, she would. As if she’d never seen Viv’s husband naked.
“Nice to see you again,” Viv said with a gloss of I’m-better-than-you frost.
“And you,” Cora said. She’d take frost over accusations of impropriety any day. Cora picked Brutus up, tucking him into the crook of her arm. “Can we set a date for – ”
“Let’s not play games. Jack believes you can convince me to sign divorce papers.” Vivian glanced through the open French doors to the throng around Jack. Her expression softened. Or she could have swallowed back a small belch, because in a blink the ice-queen mask she’d been wearing returned. “Does your plan for me include legally castrating my husband?”
“We were thinking something more along the lines of balance,” Amber said, straight-faced. “Something to help you deal with the stresses of life.”
“Here’s the deal, ladies.” Vivian turned her attention back to them with a swish of blond hair. “I want Jack to suffer.” Viv tacked her gaze on Cora. “And you’re just the life coach I need to make that happen.”
She knows.
Cora’s heels felt too high. Jagged and off-kilter, years of self-defense training kicked in. Subtly, she widened her stance, preparing to block whatever Viv threw at her – a punch, a water bottle, designer footwear. There’d be a scene, recorded via multiple cell phones, and posted on multiple social media accounts. Amber would be upset. Blue would be disappointed.
When Viv didn’t take a swing, Cora said, “I like to make a man suffer as much as the next gal – ”
“But that’s not what we’re here for.” Amber’s smile was as smooth as her words.
“Why don’t you let me be the judge of what you’re here for?” Viv’s disdainful attitude was aimed at Jack. Not Cora.
No fangs were bared. No claws drawn. Viv was just one unhappy woman blowing off steam.
Cora forced herself to smile, feeling as fake as a Coach bag for sale on a New York street corner. “I’ll call you Monday and we’ll work things out.”
“She understands me.” Viv waved gracefully toward Cora. “Don’t call. Meet me at the Flash’s fitness facility Monday morning. Seven a.m. Bring your workout gear. You can tell me what you have planned, and I’ll tell you what we’re going to do.” She glanced back at Jack. Her expression closed up tight, except for a brief blink of longing.
That look…
It made Cora feel like the other woman. She hadn’t broken up the marriage. She’d just been one of a string of women Jack had impersonal sex with while separated. He was just another example of the failure of the institution of marriage.
She needed a drink. For too many reasons.
When Viv left them to mingle, Amber lowered her voice. “We’re being paid by Jack. We do what he wants.”
Viv still loves Jack.
Cora stroked Brutus’ soft fur. “Blue was right.” Pushing Viv to sign divorce papers was hopeless, because Viv had already wed her perfect man and she didn’t plan on letting him go. “But don’t worry. I know just the man for her.” Jack.
“The face is back.” Amber studied Cora closely. “I’m having second thoughts about assigning you to Vivian. Are you sure you and Jack never – ”
“Don’t take me off this account. I know exactly how to handle Viv.” She knew how to school Viv in getting a man’s attention. Hell, she knew how to get Jack’s attention. “You need to land the hockey account. Blue’s busy with his matchmaking reality show. And if I’m successful, you’ll get your wish about finding Daddy’s little bastards.” A drink was definitely called for.
After her sister returned to her husband’s side, Cora drifted to the bar and ordered a long overdue shot of tequila. Exes. Siblings. Love-struck clients who refused to sign divorce documents. Cora’s body was a bundle of tension in need of an outlet – a strong buzz, a deep tissue massage, sex. “Impossible.”
“Impossible is nothing.” A deep, rich voice with a swirling, Southern twang interrupted her thoughts. “We weren’t introduced earlier. I’m Trent Parker.”
The NBA’s newest coach was sexier up close. His body bigger. His whiskey-brown eyes more intense. His presence was a double shot of vodka and Red Bull that made her heart race. Her lips curled upward and her body blazed to life in ways it shouldn’t, because he was the Reverend and that jacket of his was so very hideous.
“I’m Cora.” A rebellious streak notched her smile into a provocative invitation. What was tee-totaling Coach Parker going to do? Call her bluff?
Damned if he didn’t.
That smile of his turned as crookedly mischievous as Archie’s. His eyes stroked and weighed and measured, like a lover trying to decide which part of her he’d consume first. Of their own accord, her nipples stood at attention, volunteering for the lead in a multi-course meal.
Cora blinked. She had to be reading him wrong. Coach Parker didn’t cuss. He didn’t create scandals. He hadn’t breathed a bad word about his failed marriage. This was not the kind of man interested in hot sex with a stranger.
His crooked, I’m-no-threat grin contradicted his take-no-prisoners grip. “Who’re you here with, Cora?”
He was asking who she was sleeping with. Her being ringless and showing cleavage, the good Reverend thought Cora was a bimbo.
It had been a bitch of an afternoon and was turning into a bitch of an evening. Cold anger flooded her veins, dousing the flames of desire.
News Flash: Cora didn’t have big enough boobs to be a bimbo. And Trent Parker didn’t have big enough balls for her to let that go unpunished.
Her smile hardened. “I’m here with all of them.”
Chapter 4
Trent’s mental file cabinet slammed shut, just as he’d been about to file Cora in a “Find Out Who’s Girlfriend She Is” folder.
How could he not? She held a fluffy little dog with a rhinestone collar and she’d packaged herself in form-fitting fashion that accented her slender curves. Dark brown hair fell in soft waves across her shoulders, just as carelessly as it would across some lucky man’s pillow. One dark brown lock had settled teasingly across her breastbone, pointing to her cleavage. Her eyes were so dark they were almost black, with a depth a man could get lost in.
She wouldn’t be a disappointment in bed. If anything, he’d be the one who’d struggle to keep up with her appetites. A challenge he hadn’t experienced in his marriage to Rachel, who favored darkness and the missionary position.
He didn’t need Cora’s kind of trouble, especially if she was the team’s plaything.
Which was hard to believe. Like Vivian Gordon, Cora seemed the type of woman who wouldn’t want to share or be shared. But hey, this was L.A. and the NBA, not the South and a strict Baptist college. In either case, he wasn’t the type of coach to allow a disturbance like her around his players – because by God, she disturbed every fiber of his being.
In one week, he’d be cleaning the Flash of chaff, riff-raff, and distractions. Trent allowed himself another good look, annoyed when he couldn’t immediately drag his gaze away.
The bartender set a shot on the counter. Cora put the Rottweiler-snack she called a dog on the ground. The black bit of fluff sat in front of Trent, wagging his tail.
“I suppose it says something that he likes you.” Her lips tilted up ever so slightly, even as her glance made its way leisurely down his body.
She was toying with him.
The heady, sudden, blood-rush of arousal – missing from his life for too long – shuttered the Reverend away and made Trent laugh. “You had me.” She very well could have him.
“Southerners.” She tsked. “You should know never to assume a woman is with someone just because she’s wearing a low-cut blouse.”
It wasn’t only the way she dressed that had him thinking she was someone’s sex toy. It was the way she held herself, the sexy vibe she presented that said, “Take me home. Now.”
“Lesson learned, sugar.” He hadn’t called a woman sugar since college. He ordered tonic water.
She arched a slender brow that said he wasn’t man enough to drink alcohol.
He was man enough to picture her naked. Man enough to feel the magnetic tug of arousal at the mental image of her legs spread and her hands guiding him home.
Be careful what you wish for, Reverend.
Of all the beautiful women he’d met today, no one had this effect on him. He cleared his throat and bent painfully to pet her pooch. “I’m driving.”
She nodded, shifting her weight on spiky zebra heels. “And the Reverend doesn’t drink.”
“That, too.” He gazed longingly up the length of her shapely, bare legs, needing to stop looking at her if he ever wanted to battle back his hard-on.
Cora gestured toward the players clustered around the pool. “You’ll be looking for a shooting guard, one who can rotate with Antoine.”
He was looking to trade Antoine.
“And a meatier center. Everyone loves Ren, but he needs to put on thirty pounds of muscle.”
Fifty was more like it.
Cora wasn’t the first to offer unsolicited advice and she wouldn’t be the last. Arm-chair coaches were a job hazard. Trent didn’t discuss strategy with anyone but his boss and his inner circle. And not even Randy and his father knew what he and Jack had planned for the team – their own form of moneyball.
The crotch of Trent’s pants was suddenly roomier. He stood, more determined than ever to file her away. “Why are you here?”
“I’m from the Dooley Foundation.” Her tone took on a familiar note. The one high school parents had used during recruiting trips when trying to convince Trent their son didn’t have bad ankles or a history of concussions. “In addition to helping our clients discover happier, more productive lives, we help professional athletes establish a confident foundation for a higher level of play.”
“You’re a Rule.” His package gave one last pulse of defeat.
“You don’t have to sound like it’s the end of the world.” Her voice hardened. “We’re not a cult.”
He wasn’t buying it. He’d spent too many years between the guideposts of his father’s religion (football), his college’s religion (Jesus), and his wife’s religion (her father’s lucrative televangelist corporation). Trent was living life within his own guideposts now. Or at least he planned to in a couple of months, when Randy and Archie had established their credibility.
“Ahh.” Cora drained her shot glass. “The awkward pause indicating you disapprove.” She ordered another shot. “Unlike you, I’m a believer in the power of drink.”
So was he. Rachel hadn’t let him drink in public and frowned upon him drinking at home. Everyone here expected Trent to abstain.
“Coach Parker, great choice of assistant. Randy Farrell is going to be fantastic PR for us, with a storyline that mirrors your father’s BCS win.” Jack Gordon slapped Trent on the back, albeit weakly. The guy looked to be in serious need of vitamins and rest. “Have you met everyone?” Jack’s gaze passed over Cora as if she was no one.
Cora’s jaw thrust out. She
picked up her dog, who was growling at Jack. And then she smiled sweetly at the Flash owner as if she hadn’t noticed the slight. “Trent’s met everyone, including the little people, like your admin, Nina, your assistant, Zach, and me.” Cora sidled closer to Trent, weaving her free arm through his. She smelled of warm vanilla, when he’d expected dark, seductive musk.
While his brain struggled to surface past her scent, Cora looked up at him with a flash of S.O.S. in her eyes.
Save me, those eyes said.
Fuck me, his dick said.
By the thunderous look gathering on Jack’s face, Trent knew Cora had made an enemy in the Flash’s owner. The last thing Trent needed was to anger his new boss about something as trivial as this woman. And yet, he threw her a life preserver. “I was just asking Cora how the Rules of Attraction worked with the team.”
“And I was about to tell him that the pressures of the NBA can be hell on a man’s game.” Cora didn’t miss a beat. “Sometimes you have to look your opponent in the eye and say I choose to beat you, and I trust in the feeling of total domination. I’ll reinforce that with some smack talk, and I welcome the power that validation gives me.” She smiled as if she hadn’t just tossed a gauntlet on the ground.
Trent’s boss didn’t pick it up. “Are you interested in the Rules, Parker?”
Hell, no.
Cora edged closer to Trent, pressing her breast against his arm. His dick decided a vote was in order. His dick was voting to do whatever it could to keep Cora by his side, Reverend, be damned.
Before Trent could answer, Jack said, “Fine. Consider yourself a client of the Dooley Foundation. I’ll add you to our corporate account. I’m sure Amber will take good care of you.”
“Amber is closing a deal with the Los Angeles Kings.” Cora’s voice was firm. Her smile didn’t waver. “And Blue is busy shooting his matchmaking reality show, which means I’m going to be handling the majority of the Flash assignments for the next few months, including coaching your wife.”
