A door opened behind her as Bridgett rubbed away another tear.
“Bridgett?”
She turned automatically at the sound of Jay’s voice before realizing he no longer had the power to give her comfort.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” she snapped, angry at her traitorous body for wanting him to soothe her. “I have something in my eye.”
He muttered something profane and angry before slamming the door behind him and wrapping his fingers around her forearm.
“Hey,” she said. “I’m fine. I don’t need your help.”
Jay ignored her as he pulled her around the corner and punched a code into a keypad located beneath the molding on the wall. A nondescript door that would normally blend in with the wall opened and Jay yanked her inside the room. Except it wasn’t a room, exactly. Instead, it was a cubbyhole located between the owner’s box and the skybox beside it. Like the skyboxes, this one opened to seating along the railing, presumably close to where Brody’s seats were located. If she stepped out ten yards, she would be visible to anyone in that section, just about three feet below their seats. A band played the first few chords of “The Star-Spangled Banner” and sound filled the small room.
“You’re not fine,” Jay said after closing the door behind them. “You’re crying. What happened?”
Bridgett’s head was spinning again. If she wasn’t careful, he might trick her into believing that he really cared about her.
“Leave it to you to have a hidey-hole in the stadium,” she said, evading his question and his gaze by glancing out toward the field. The stadium shook as a trio of jets sliced through the air above them. “It’s almost kickoff. You should probably get back to your guests.”
In an instant, she was pinned up against the wall. The cheering of the crowd echoed in her ears as Jay’s deep voice rumbled against her breasts. “My guests can go to hell. Who made you cry?” he demanded.
Her nostrils twitched at the distinctive scent of Paco Rabanne cologne. Jay was dressed as casual as he allowed himself these days, in slacks, a Ralph Lauren button-down shirt, and a matching tweed jacket, its silk threads soft beneath her fingertips. His face was so close to hers, she could make out the scruff of his dark beard coming in along the line of his jaw. Bridgett’s lips went dry as his hovered just above them.
“Why do you care?” she whispered.
She watched in awe as his eyes dilated a fraction right before his mouth took possession of hers. This wasn’t the hungry all-consuming kiss like he’d given her the other day. Today his lips were gentle and comforting. The kiss was sweet, yet it made her toes curl with its intensity. She clutched his jacket with her fingers, trying not to melt along the wall, his mouth was so intoxicating. A whistle sounded in the distance and Jay quickly pulled his lips from hers. He jogged over to the railing and peered out as the crowd roared.
Bridgett steadied herself against the wall, trying to recover her breath and her scattered wits while Jay mumbled something that sounded like at least the sonofabitch can kick off. When he turned back to her, his eyes had returned to normal. He took a few steps toward her before apparently thinking better of it. With his hands on his hips, his suit jacket was pushed to the sides, allowing Bridgett to see exactly how uninterested he was in the football game at this point.
“You didn’t recuse yourself,” he said.
“I wasn’t given much choice.” She crossed her arms under her chest.
His nostrils flared as his eyes raked over her. “No, you weren’t.” She wanted to smack the arrogant little grin off his face. Or maybe kiss it.
“I don’t understand,” she admitted.
“Don’t you? The other day. In my conference room. It was eye-opening.”
“Eye-opening? What’s that supposed to mean?”
A roar went up from the crowd and Jay looked over his shoulder before turning back to her. “You still want me.”
Bridgett slammed her head against the wall in frustration. It was hard to refute his words since the other day—not to mention a few minutes ago—she’d had her tongue down his throat and her hips pressed invitingly up against his.
“In case you were wondering, the feeling is mutual,” he said. The smug look on his face made her angry.
“Oh really? If I was actually as interested as you seem to think, I’d be insulted by the underage party heiress hanging on your arm.” Too late, Bridgett realized she’d just given him reason to think she might be jealous. Stupid, stupid, stupid. She tapped the back of her head against the wall as Jay took a step closer, his mouth now turned up into a grin that would have looked pleasant on him had it not been so arrogant.
“Good to know. But you have no reason to be jealous of Charlie.”
“I doubt Princess Charlotte would appreciate you calling her Charlie.” Her stomach clenched just thinking that the girl probably let Jay call her anything he wanted and enjoyed it.
“Bridgett,” Jay said, his quiet voice refocusing her attention on his blue eyes. “She’s Princess Charlotte to the tabloids, but to me, she’s always been Charlie.”
He studied her face as her mind worked through his statement. “Your sister Charlie?”
Jay nodded solemnly. The crowd roared again as the stadium announcer shouted that the Blaze had recovered a fumble.
“But that’s Charlotte Davis, the heir to Lloyd Davis’s fortune,” Bridgett said as her mind tried to make sense of what he was telling her. Charlie was a freckle-faced girl with big blue eyes and Pippi Longstocking–like pigtails. At least she had been thirteen years ago. Jay had carried her picture in his wallet, proudly showing it off while dragging Bridgett to various stores, museums, and stalls on the street to find classic dolls that he’d then send home to his baby sister. “But Lloyd Davis . . . ?”
“Not my father.” He shook his head.
“Wow. Just how many secrets were you keeping that summer?”
“Do you really want to bring up how both of us evaded the truth, Bridgett?”
Her body tensed in anger and, truth be told, pain at his accusation. She gave her own head a little shake, hoping to clear her jumbled thoughts. “No. In fact, I don’t want to discuss anything with you ever again.” She pushed away from the wall headed for the door. Listening to her sisters discuss her dismal personal life was preferable to trying to have a conversation with Jay.
“Aren’t you forgetting that I’m your client?”
She turned to glare at him as the crowd roared again. “Seriously? Is that why you insisted I take this case? So you could browbeat me into sleeping with you again?”
Jay had the decency to keep his face in a stoic mask.
“I know how you hate to lose, but you made a gross tactical error on this one,” she informed him. “I don’t get involved with clients. Ever.”
“And if I weren’t your client?”
“I wouldn’t sleep with you then, either.” She could feel her skin breaking out in a betraying flush just thinking about sleeping with Jay McManus again.
“Too bad your body says otherwise.”
Bridgett didn’t have an opportunity for rebuttal because the door to their little hideaway flew open and a young man dressed in a Blaze golf shirt and black slacks came charging through the door.
“Whoa,” he said, a mischievous grin forming on his face. “Sorry, boss. Security got an alert that someone had opened the door. I’ll just leave you two alone.” He started to back out the door but Bridgett grabbed it before he could close off her escape route. “Oh hey, boss, did you tell her about the interview with the cheerleader on Tuesday?”
“What interview on Tuesday?” She spun around to face Jay and just as she did, his sneaky assistant closed the door again. Bridgett heaved a frustrated sigh.
Jay crossed his arms over his chest, tucking his hands beneath his armpits, and leaned a s
houlder against the wall. “Miss Knowles, the cheerleader. We’re meeting with her on Tuesday.”
“You can’t do that!”
He arched an eyebrow at her. “Why not?”
“Because you’re”—arrogant, intimidating, annoying, and sexy as hell—“not a lawyer.”
“Her lawyer will be there and so will ours. Stuart and I just discussed it. You should have come to my box when you were invited instead of hiding among your family.” Bridgett suspected she should have just avoided the Blaze stadium altogether the way this day was going.
“Fine,” she snapped. “Stuart can cover your ass and make sure you don’t ruin the entire defense.” She headed for the door again, only to be stopped by Jay’s words.
“I think you’re forgetting something, Bridgett.”
She glanced over her shoulder, her core heating up at the intensity of his gaze.
“You’re the lead attorney for the team’s defense. I made that patently clear to your boss and everyone else involved.” The crowd behind them was jeering a bad call by the referees.
“I already have a pretrial meeting scheduled for Tuesday,” she said, relieved that it was the truth.
Jay stepped away from the wall, one corner of his mouth turned up in a smirk. “Yes, you do. In Virginia Beach. Danny Boy, your earnest associate, can handle the two tax-dodging chicken farmers.” He reached for the doorknob behind her, his breath fanning her ear. “My limo will pick you up at seven thirty. We’re taking my plane.” The crowd roared as the announcer called a touchdown caught by her brother, Brody. “See, here’s your opportunity to be a team player like your little brother.”
With his hand resting on the small of her back, he guided her out of the small room and into the hallway. Bridgett didn’t bother looking back at what was surely his self-satisfied face. Instead she quickly walked away from him—and the warmth of his hand on her body—headed for the insanity that was her family. At the moment, it was the lesser of the two evils tormenting her.
Five
“Tell me what you’ve got on the two bozos Charlie brought with her,” Jay asked Linc sometime during the game’s second half. They were seated in the far corner of the owner’s box. While the rest of the crowd mingled and ate from the spread of food laid out on the wide tables in the back, Jay and his assistant spoke quietly. Bartenders were hovering with drink refills, discreetly checking for a signal from Jay as to whether one of his guests had imbibed too much and should be cut off. Despite the women waving placards outside the stadium, the mood was festive on the bright, sunny September afternoon.
The Blaze were up by two touchdowns and Jay was feeling relaxed and victorious, not only about the game, but also about his earlier encounter with Bridgett. She’d proven a worthy opponent, dodging him all week while she sent the shiny, eager beaver Dan to do her work for her. But Jay had seen through her tactics almost immediately and countered with the interview in Virginia Beach. Donovan Carter had tracked the Sparks cheerleader down and insisted on a face-to-face meeting. Stuart had practically snorted fire out of his nose when he found out, but since Jay was writing him and his firm a very large retainer check, there was nothing for the lawyer to do but acquiesce. And offer up the lovely Bridgett as a token of his loyalty.
Jay bit back a grin just thinking about having her to himself on Tuesday. Based on the way she’d responded to him a second time, he’d have no trouble convincing her to fall into bed with him. Her mouth may be saying one thing, but her body was definitely speaking his language. He shifted in his seat in an attempt to ease the ache in his jockey shorts.
One thing bothered him more than he wanted it to, though: She’d been crying earlier and Jay hadn’t discovered the reason why. Bridgett would never own his heart again, but he still felt uneasy seeing her unhappy. Or for anyone else to be the cause of her sadness. But emotions had no place in what he planned for the two of them, he reminded himself. If they were to rekindle their relationship, Jay was determined to keep it strictly between the sheets. He was pretty sure he could bring her happiness in sixty seconds flat once he got her naked. But that was the only pleasure he was willing to guarantee her.
“Boss, did you hear anything I just said?” Linc asked, redirecting Jay’s thoughts back to the more pressing matter of who was the father of his sister’s baby.
Jay waved a hand at his assistant. “Sorry, I was listening to what was going on down on the field.”
“Uh-huh. It’s the end of the third quarter and we’re in a TV time-out. Unless you’re listening to the Sparks cheer, which I guess is necessary research—”
“You really are mouthy and insubordinate, Lincoln,” Jay interrupted him. “Why the hell haven’t I fired you yet?”
Linc gave him a face-splitting smile that Jay had seen reduce the women back at McManus Industries into sputtering idiots. “Because I’m so pretty. Not quite as hot as our counsel for the defense, though. And I still say she doesn’t like you.”
Jay leaned his head back against the wall behind his chair, working to suppress the grin that threatened. “She likes me just fine.”
The kid had the nerve to snort. “That woman looked at you like you were the scum beneath her cute little Manolo Blahnik shoes.”
“Her what?”
Linc shook his head in what appeared to be disgust. “Shoes, boss. Ms. Janik was wearing Manolo Blahniks. Very expensive, but she was definitely rocking them.”
Jay gaped at his assistant, wondering how a mere eight years of age difference could feel like a gulf in the universe. “I’m sure I don’t want to know the answer to this question, but how would a guy like you know this?”
“From women. And girls. Heck, old ladies, too. They love shoes. I worked at Barneys in New York city the summer between high school and college.”
“Let me guess, in the women’s shoe department.”
“Boss, it was on my résumé.” Linc sounded a little put out that Jay hadn’t committed his life history to memory. “Where did you think I got my style from?”
Fortunately, the ref blew the whistle signaling the start of the fourth quarter, bringing an end to this absurd conversation.
“Charlie’s swains,” Jay said, nudging the file folder in Linc’s hand with his knee.
“Sure, boss. Bachelor number one”—Linc nodded toward the guy with sleeves of tattoos on both arms and scruffy blond hair, who’d been nursing the same bottle of beer for the entire second half—“goes by the name of Blaine Porsche.”
Jay pinched the top of his nose between his fingers. “Is that even a real name?”
Linc flipped through some papers and handed one to Jay. “According to his Colorado driver’s license.”
Jay scanned the page. Blaine was twenty-five, scrawny, and, apparently, not a natural blond. “What’s his story?”
“Daddy is in oil. Third generation. Lots of money and lots of stepmoms. As best as I can tell, he met Charlotte when they were both at the Dwight School in New York City.”
“She was fourteen the year she went there.” It was actually the longest she’d lasted at any school. “This guy would have been . . . eighteen.” Jesus. Jay’s temple began to throb. “What does he do with himself now?”
Linc hesitated. Never a good sign. “He’s into herb.”
“Herb?”
“Legalized marijuana. He actually fronts a chain of stores in the Boulder area. It’s a pretty profitable business.”
The throb in his temple was close to becoming a full-blown aneurysm. “It’s not a business I want my niece or nephew involved in,” he said through tightly clenched teeth.
Linc nodded. “Moving on to bachelor number two.” He pulled another file from the stack he had in his backpack. Jay glanced over to the smartly dressed dark-haired man seated next to Charlie. She’d been laughing with him all day. It was the first time he’d seen her relaxed since she’d ar
rived on his doorstep earlier in the week. The guy was friendly enough, for being a pipsqueak. He barely stood tall enough to reach Charlie’s shoulder. Although at five foot eleven, his sister towered over a lot of guys. “Spenser Campbell. He comes from Boston money, made from selling steel to shipbuilders during the First World War. His license lists him as being twenty-two. He graduated from Brown in May and works for a Providence real estate firm. They met when they were both at the Gunnery School in Connecticut.”
“At least he went to college.”
Linc smirked. “Yeah, so did Blaine. He’s a University of Chicago grad, just like you.”
The crowd groaned as the Blaze’s new kicker missed a relatively easy field goal. “Still,” Jay said. “Bachelor number two gets my vote so far.”
“Yeah, except there’s a little bit more to the story.”
There always was. “Spit it out, Linc.”
Linc shifted in his chair. Jay had never seen the kid look this uncomfortable. “Do you know how many weeks she is?”
Jay shook his head. His sister’s pregnancy wasn’t something he was comfortable discussing, least of all with Charlie.
“Well, according to Customs, neither of these two has been out of the country in the past three months. Surely if she’s further along than that, she’d . . . you know”—Linc cupped his hand over his stomach—“show more. Wouldn’t she?”
How the hell would Jay know? It had been twenty-two years since his mother was pregnant with Charlie. And the last pregnant woman he’d known . . . He wasn’t going there right now.
“You think neither one of these two is our sperm donor?” Jay asked Linc.
“If I was a bettin’ man, I’d say no.”
And that was the reason Jay kept the mouthy pup around: Linc had great gut instincts. “So who are these two and why are they here?”
“Friends?” Linc shrugged. “Maybe she’s test-driving step-baby-daddies?”
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