by Regina Hart
Julian looked bewildered. “You’ve already won two.”
DeMarcus shook his head. “I wanted to win this one with your team. You’ve been a Monarchs fan all of my life.”
“Longer than that.” Julian cleared his throat. “I appreciate that, son. But I’m glad you didn’t stay. I hope they don’t find anyone to help them with their scheme. The franchise founders are probably spinning in their graves.”
“The four men who started the Monarchs in 1956?”
Julian nodded. “Four friends who loved basketball and loved their community, so they formed a team as a way to give something back. Their investment in the community brought excitement. More importantly, it brought jobs. And, until about four years ago, they were one of the elite NBA teams.”
“It amazes me that black men owned a competitive basketball team back then.” DeMarcus leaned forward, propping his forearms on his thighs. “That was during Jim Crow.”
“And the start of the civil rights movement and the Harlem Renaissance,” Julian pointed out. “But it helped that one of the friends, Gene Mannion, was white.”
“What happened to Mannion’s heirs?”
“He didn’t have any. In his will, he left his franchise shares to Jackie Jones’s grandfather, Franklin Jones. When her grandfather died two years ago, those shares went to Jackie.”
DeMarcus straightened in surprise. “She’s the majority shareholder?”
“She has forty-nine percent.” Julian tipped his graying head back as though remembering that time and the way the news had traveled through the community. “Franklin Jones didn’t think one partner should own half of the franchise, so he sold one share to Cedrick Tipton, Bert’s father. Combined, Gerry and Bert have fifty-one percent of the franchise.”
“That’s how they’re able to outvote Jackie on franchise decisions, like moving the team out of Brooklyn.”
“And personnel decisions that have caused the team several losing seasons.”
“Why didn’t Gene Mannion split his shares with all of his partners? Why did he give them all to Franklin Jones?”
Julian shook his head. “After a couple of seasons, Quinton and Cedrick lost interest in the Monarchs. Gene and Franklin were the only ones who still cared what happened to the team.”
DeMarcus frowned. “Why?”
Julian seemed to collect his memories. “Cedrick used his profits from the franchise to build a department store.”
“Tipton’s Fashionwear.”
“Quinton’s story was different. He seemed to be jealous of all the attention Gene and Franklin were getting for the Monarchs’ success. He started drinking more. Alcoholism eventually ruined his marriage. It also killed him.”
DeMarcus lifted his right ankle to his left knee. “I feel sorry for Jackie having to deal with Quinton and Cedrick’s descendants when she’s trying to save her team.”
Julian angled his head. A light danced in his dark eyes. “Have you ever seen Jackie Jones play basketball?”
“A few times.”
Julian winked. “My money’s on her. She’ll find a way to keep the team in Brooklyn.”
“She’ll be devastated if she doesn’t.”
Julian sobered. “She’s not the only one. If the Monarchs leave Brooklyn, the whole community will be devastated.”
Jaclyn sat forward in the backseat of the Bentley as Herbert Trasker stopped the automobile in front of the Guinns’ residence. “This is the address. Thank you, Herb.”
Herbert turned sideways in the driver’s seat and ducked his head to study the four-story, single-family mansion through the front passenger window. “I’ll park here and wait for you.”
Jaclyn gave the driver a wry smile. “This will probably take a while.”
He gave her an ironic look. “Or it may not.”
Her cream midcalf skirt rose slightly as Jaclyn scooted forward on the backseat. She laid her hand on Herbert’s shoulder. “It’s almost six o’clock. Go home to your family. I’ll call you when I’m ready to leave.”
Herbert climbed out of the car and opened the back passenger door for her. He watched her step onto the sidewalk. “Are you sure?”
Jaclyn let Herbert’s concern help steady her nerves. He worried over her like a parent. “Positive. I’m not going to be tossed out of the game that easily.”
“All right, Ms. Jones.” Herbert touched the brim of his black leather cap. “I’ll wait for your call. Good luck.”
Jaclyn mounted the steps to the Guinns’ house and pressed the bell. She looked over her shoulder to see Herbert leaning against the Bentley, waiting with her. Moments later, the locks turned and the door opened. She faced an older version of the Mighty Guinn.
Jaclyn waved to Herbert to let him know someone had answered. Then she turned back to the gentleman. “Good evening. I’m Jaclyn Jones from—”
The stranger opened the door farther. “I know who you are, Ms. Jones. I’m Julian Guinn, Marc’s father. Please come in.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Guinn.” Jaclyn extended her hand as she entered the residence. “May I speak with Marc, please?”
“Of course.” DeMarcus’s father led her down the polished mahogany hallway. A staircase wound upward on her right. A cozy den beckoned her to the left. “He’s cooking dinner.”
Jaclyn stumbled over her feet. Julian reacted, his right arm shooting out to steady her. Jaclyn gave him a tentative smile. “Now I know where Marc got his catlike reflexes.”
His startled expression replaced his concerned frown. The twinkle in Julian’s coal black, almond-shaped eyes—so like his son’s—invited her to smile with him. “The idea of the Mighty Guinn wearing an apron knocked you off your feet, didn’t it?”
Jaclyn’s face warmed. “No, I didn’t—”
Julian laughed, a warm rumbling sound that swept away her unease and coaxed a chuckle from her. “You should see your face.” He kept his hand cupped around her elbow. “He’s a very good cook. You should stay for dinner.”
The elder Guinn escorted her across a formal dining room to the kitchen doorway. The scene stopped Jaclyn’s mushrooming embarrassment. DeMarcus stood in profile to them at a large, rectangular ash wood island. A salad bowl perched in front of him. A tomato, cucumber, celery and two types of peppers surrounded the chop block on which DeMarcus was slicing a fat red pepper.
Julian released her elbow. “You have company, son.”
DeMarcus’s contented expression tensed when he saw Jaclyn. “What are you doing here?”
Julian sighed. “We now know why they didn’t nickname you the Charming Guinn. I’ve asked her to stay for dinner.” With that pronouncement, his father left them alone.
Jaclyn surveyed the large, octagonal kitchen hoping to distract the nerves bouncing in her belly. Stainless steel appliances stood on white counters. The walls, cupboards and shelving also were white. The wide gold trim separating the walls from the ceiling was a warm hug in the cool room.
She shifted her weight from one leg to the other. “I’m sorry to interrupt your dinner with your father. It’s nice that the two of you get together to share a meal.”
DeMarcus gave her a curious look. His black gaze bore into her. “It’s not that hard. We live together.”
“Oh. That’s nice.” The Mighty Guinn lived with his father. “That’s lovely.”
DeMarcus returned to slicing vegetables. His long, brown fingers braced the red pepper with a firm but delicate touch. “I moved in after I retired from basketball.”
That was the season after his mother passed away. Jaclyn’s nerves settled and her heart softened. Who’d been in more need of the other’s company, father or son? Probably both, but it didn’t matter. What mattered was that DeMarcus had cared enough to come home.
“There’s more than enough room for the two of you.” Jaclyn watched DeMarcus slide the red pepper slices from the chop block to the salad bowl. There was something intensely sexy about a man who knew what he was doing in the
kitchen. “I moved back in with my grandfather after I finished law school.”
DeMarcus glanced over his shoulder. “Franklin Jones was a remarkable man.”
“Yes, he was.” Like Julian’s home, her grandfather’s house was large enough to give each of them privacy, but they’d enjoyed each other’s company. Now that he was gone, his mansion was too large. She felt lost in all of that space. But, somehow, she felt at home in the Empire.
DeMarcus sprayed fat-free oil into a pan and adjusted the heat to low. His muscles flowed across his back and shoulders as he sautéed the vegetables. His silence was disconcerting. Jaclyn laid her hands flat against her cream skirt to keep from wringing them.
Her gaze swept the room’s perimeter with its multitude of white cabinets, shelves and counter space. The rainbow of Tupperware sitting on the shelves added whimsy to the otherwise staid room. “Your kitchen is spotless.”
He didn’t turn around. “It should be. We prepare food in here.”
“What are you making?”
DeMarcus turned up the heat under a nearby pot. “Curried chicken, couscous, chickpeas and salad.”
Jaclyn blinked. Her gaze moved over his lean, six-foot-seven-inch frame clothed in a long-sleeve, green and blue Miami Waves jersey and black warm-up pants. His large, dark feet were bare. The image of the Mighty Guinn heating a can of soup was odd. The idea of his cooking an exotic meal stretched the bounds of credulity. It also was a reminder never to judge a book by its cover—or an athlete by his image. “Sounds delicious.”
DeMarcus moved to the range and lifted the lid from the skillet. Mouth-watering fragrances exploded into the kitchen—curry, cumin, paprika and more. “Did you get my message?” He checked the stewing chicken, adding the sautéed vegetables, before resetting the lid.
“Yes, I did. Thank you.” Jaclyn wandered farther into the kitchen, her low-heeled, cream suede pumps tapped against the small, gold and white square tiles that patterned the floor.
DeMarcus glanced at her over a broad shoulder. His expression wasn’t readable. “Are you here to gloat?”
Jaclyn’s stomach was jumping. Her heart did a pick-and-roll in her throat. Sheer willpower restrained her from twisting her fingers together. “I’m here to ask you to reconsider your resignation.”
DeMarcus’s eyes widened. His lips parted. “Yesterday you stormed my office demanding my resignation.”
“And, today, I realized I made a mistake.”
DeMarcus stirred the couscous, then turned up the heat under the chickpeas. “When I wanted to stay, you told me to leave. Now that I’ve left, you want me to stay. Lady, you need to get your head together.”
Jaclyn appealed to his back. “I thought you were working with Gerry and Bert to ruin the team.”
“You should have asked me. I would have told you you were wrong.” DeMarcus checked the chicken again.
“You’re right. I’m sorry. I jumped to conclusions. But the fact you chose to resign rather than go along with their plan means you’re committed to winning. I need someone with that level of commitment.”
DeMarcus covered the chicken, lowered the temperature and checked the time. “What level of commitment do you have?”
“I’m fully committed to winning.”
DeMarcus leaned his firm glutes against the nearby counter, finally facing Jaclyn. “Your team didn’t start losing yesterday. The Monarchs have been getting worse over the past four years. Where were you while this was happening?”
The question, though fair, stung. “Gerry and Bert blocked many of the operational and personnel decisions my grandfather thought would benefit the team. When my grandfather became ill three years ago, we weren’t able to give the franchise the attention it needed.”
“Your grandfather’s illness gave Gerry and Bert free rein to destroy the franchise.”
“It seems that way.”
DeMarcus gentled his voice. “Your grandfather has been gone for almost two years. What have you done to help the team?”
Jaclyn clenched her fists. “We need a majority vote to approve major decisions. They’ve formed a solid block against me with the intent of driving the franchise out of the city.”
“Troy kept referring to Gerry as the interim general manager. Who’s the GM?”
Jaclyn closed her eyes briefly, realizing where DeMarcus was taking her. “I am. I’ve given notice at the law firm and I’m taking back the GM responsibilities tomorrow.”
DeMarcus cocked his head. “It took you two years to make that decision?”
“I realize—”
“Do you see why I don’t think you’re committed to the team? I need management support to save the Monarchs.”
Jaclyn dragged her fingers through her hair. The glint in DeMarcus’s eyes made her wonder whether he was enjoying the frustration he was visiting on her. Was this his payback for her attacking him yesterday? If so, she’d pay it gladly. For her grandfather, she was prepared to beg. “Marc, I know this looks bad.”
“It is bad.”
Jaclyn wished he’d stop interrupting her. “I know I should have been more engaged sooner. I’m trying to fix my mistake. Will you help me?”
DeMarcus felt himself responding to her plea. He stared into Jaclyn’s cinnamon eyes. She spoke so sweetly, but did she understand what she was asking him? He straightened away from the counter. “The team is on a losing slide and two of the three partners want to throw away the season.”
“I know it won’t be easy. Will you help me?”
DeMarcus’s gaze dipped to the silver and black Monarchs lapel pin fastened to the collar of her cream suit jacket. Was it the same pin from yesterday or did she have one for each outfit?
He turned to check the chicken and chickpeas. He stirred the couscous. The pot spoon moved in time with his thoughts. There was too much to lose. “I’d have to make changes with the team and with the coaches. The team will resist it. The coaches will resent me. And Gerry and Bert will side with them.”
“But I’ll side with you. You have my word.”
DeMarcus considered Jaclyn’s earnest expression. She could make him a believer. Almost. “When? In another two years?”
She bit her plump lower lip. “Before my grandfather died, he warned me Gerry and Bert don’t have the same commitment to the franchise that he and I have. He said I’d have to fight to save the team.” Jaclyn shook her head. “I never imagined they’d try to take the Monarchs away from Brooklyn.”
DeMarcus was hesitant to end the heavy silence. “I can’t guarantee you a winning season.”
“No one could make a promise like that.” Jaclyn stepped closer to him. Her voice was urgent. “I know you have doubts about the team, about the coaches—about me. But I’m not giving up. I can’t. There’s too much at stake.”
He sensed Jaclyn willing his gaze to meet hers. He raised his eyes. “I can’t help you.”
“Please, just think it over.” She hesitated. “You don’t have to answer tonight. You can call me tomorrow.”
The extra time must have cost her. Preseason was twelve days away. She’d asked so sweetly, still she’d asked too much. DeMarcus didn’t want to think it over. He wanted to walk away. The Monarchs were a disaster from the basketball court to the front office. It would take a miracle to realize a winning season.
He hated himself. Still he couldn’t be the one to steal the hope from her bright eyes. “I’ll think it over.”
Jaclyn’s face glowed with pleasure and relief. DeMarcus stared at her radiance and lost his train of thought. He felt like a hero, like he’d made the winning basket at the buzzer.
She reached out and wrapped her long, slender hand around his forearm. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me. I’ve only agreed to think about it.” DeMarcus returned to the range, breaking the spell Jaclyn had cast over him. “Dinner’s ready. You and my father can wait in the dining room. I’ll bring the food out.”
“Oh, but—”
He looked
over his shoulder. “Aren’t you staying for dinner?”
Jaclyn’s eyes shifted between him and the pots on the range. Her consternation disappeared and she smiled again. “I’d love to. Thank you.”
DeMarcus watched her walk out of the kitchen. His gaze slipped over the flow of her long, slender figure, the sway of her firm, rounded hips. Somehow he had to find a way to resist the Lady Assassin’s lure or risk losing his focus on what mattered most.
5
DeMarcus hadn’t heard his father laugh this much in almost three years. Not since his mother’s sudden death. For this, he could thank the woman sitting across the table from him, on his father’s right.
Jaclyn was still grinning at a comment Julian had made. Her riot of dark brown curls framed her face and cascaded around her shoulders. She looked like an angel in her cream two-piece outfit. Where was the avenger who’d stormed his office in a blood red business suit? Angel or avenger? Which was the real Jaclyn Jones? He needed to find out.
Jaclyn scooped coucous with her fork and smiled at him. “The meal’s delicious. Where did you learn to cook like this?”
DeMarcus’s shrug masked his pleasure at her words. “It’s a hobby. Cooking relaxes me.”
From his seat at the head of the table, Julian grunted. “If only he could bake.”
DeMarcus arched a brow. “Pop, if you want pastries, you can make them.”
Jaclyn drank more iced tea. “My cooking skills aren’t in your league, but I would like to try baking.”
Julian winked at her. “You can try your recipes on us.”
DeMarcus sipped his iced tea. “Be careful. Pop has a sweet tooth.”
Julian sobered. “Why did you leave the WNBA to practice law?”
Her smile had a trace of mystery. “Judges don’t penalize you if you argue in court.”
DeMarcus’s laughter joined Julian’s. There was more to the Lady Assassin’s reason for retiring from the game she loved. He was sure of it.
