Dex approached, and though Nate appeared furious enough to overturn the table, he let the man take a seat and have his say.
Charlotte wasn’t immune to empathy or whatever emotion compelled her to come within inches of covering his hand with hers, wrapping her arms around him, promising to wait for him to emerge from what hell would come. As Dex recounted hearing players say “Payday!” to the teammate who had with a hard tackle sent Santino Franco off the field on a cart, Charlotte retreated.
“I gotta go.” She rushed out of the Mahogany Lounge, moving quickly and zigzagging through so many clusters of guests that she lost her way and sought the nearest exit.
And was confronted with an alleyway, which meant the parking garage was on the opposite side. She’d go in later, pick her way to the valet, claim her vehicle and escape. At least out in the open, surrounded by battered asphalt, she could breathe and try to wash away the memory of the wrath in Nate’s expression as Dex’s words registered and Nate realized that his father had paid for the illegal play that had ruined Santino’s NFL career.
Navigating the concrete steps, Charlotte gripped the rusted handrail and gulped in a breath of the night air. As the thick glass door swung open, she turned and was face-to-face with Nate.
“I’m leaving,” she said, sparing him from ordering her off the premises. “If coming here with Dex seems like an ambush, then okay. I can’t be sorry for that.”
She hadn’t meant to touch him, but he made a move to go left and she went right, and she lost her sense at the moment of contact. One of his hands twisted her hair, bringing her face to his. The other settled on her hip, squeezing, imprinting, as he drew her down the last two steps.
Charlotte hooked herself to him, taking what his kiss offered until they hit the wall and reality invaded. Easing away, she sank to one of the steps with no regard to the pristine elegance of her dress.
“Why didn’t you go to the front office? The commissioner?” Nate asked.
“I know what it’s like to be blindsided.” She rose to her feet, pulled open the door. “And it’s time we both take a look at where our loyalties lie.”
*
Nate went straight to his father’s Lake Las Vegas mansion, but he had zero recall of the drive. There was only the concentrated anger that had saturated him since the revelation about his father’s deception took hold. Even without indisputable evidence in front of him, he knew that Dex Harper and Charlotte had been laying down the truth. And you just don’t ignore what makes too damn much sense.
Hooking a turn into the driveway, he saw his brother advancing to his own sports car. He flashed his high beams, got out and said to Santino, “Don’t take off. I need to talk to Dad…and you need to be there when I do.”
The men trooped into the house. Al sat alone in the extravagant game room, at the custom-built poker table with chips, cards and a bottle of port at his fingertips. At Nate’s terse “I have business with you, Dad,” Al flicked a glance his way. Upon catching the simmering fury Nate couldn’t mask, the man fished a cigar from his jacket pocket.
“Business with me. Then why is he here?” Al pointed the cigar at Santino.
Nate approached the poker table. “Damn it, Dad. I know, all right? I know. Now Santino’s going to know, too. You’re going to tell him.”
Al slumped against his chair as realization dawned. “Gloria wouldn’t have let this happen. She wouldn’t have let me hit the bottom.” He swore. Then, with his stare fixed on the scatter of cards, he started talking.
At the words “I paid cash for that hit—the one that brought you down, Santino,” Santino crossed the room fast and had Al by the collar, hauling him up from his chair. “You wanted a star!” he growled. “I gave you that, and you screwed up my career.”
Nate shouldered his way between them, shoving his brother back. “It’s not your fight, bro. Not mine. It’s Dad’s fight, against himself.”
“I built my entire life according to his fucking blueprints for me, Nate,” Santino said coldly. “I lost everything—and that man right there jumped it off.”
Nate wouldn’t ask his brother to brush off the rage, to ignore the betrayal. “Blame him, then, Santino. But don’t be like him. Be better than that.”
Al swept up his cigar and made for the door, only to have Bindi block his path.
“I heard everything, Al.”
“Sì? Hear this. It’s over. Be out by morning, and leave the house key.”
“We had an agreement. How could you gamble away our future?”
“You were never a part of my future,” Al seethed, pushing past her.
The devastation on Bindi’s face was familiar to Nate. It glinted in his brother’s eyes, even now as Santino sought out the minibar.
Nate strode out of the room. He’d let an incredible woman slip out of his life, all because he’d been chasing someone else’s dream—someone else’s blueprints for him.
His father was right about one thing. It was over.
*
Cleopatra’s Barge was more than a nightclub…more than a Las Vegas tourist attraction with a kick-ass floating craft and no cover charge. It was an inspiration. At least, it was to a woman who constantly fantasized about drifting off to a brand-new life.
Bindi hunkered down on her stool at the bar. She’d better get comfortable—the Franco men had a habit of keeping her waiting or not following through at all with their end of an agreement. And she wouldn’t be surprised if Charlotte Blue ignored the message Bindi had left with Desert Luck Center’s receptionist.
The bartender knew her by name and Bindi didn’t have to ask for the whiskey sour he brought to the end of the bar. She crossed her legs, relishing the way the denim hugged her. She’d missed jeans. Al had preferred her in clothes that showed off her legs.
“Cheers.”
“Toasting to waiting again?” Charlotte took the stool beside Bindi. “We’ve gotta stop meeting like this.”
The woman’s words were light but there was seriousness and warning in her voice that Bindi didn’t want to poke at. “The things I did…the reasons why…were wrong. I’m sorry for setting you up. I had a stake in Al getting the team back and it’s all I could think about—even when I’d started to realize his story about your father threatening him was suspect. In the beginning Nate was in it with me, but he backed out. Because of you.”
Charlotte watched her in silence.
Well, what had Bindi expected? An “Apology accepted! Let’s be BFFs!” and air kisses? She went on and could blame the whiskey for jarring loose words and emotions that should’ve hardened in her heart long before now. “I fight dirty. It’s just how I survive. My parents chopped this apple off the family tree a long time ago.”
“We’re a lot more alike than you know, Bindi. If you’d put on the brakes during your quest to publicly humiliate me out of my career, you might’ve realized it.” Charlotte abandoned her stool while fishing into her purse. “This is yours.”
Bindi waved away the pig flashlight. “Keep it. Or at least toss it in the trash when my back’s turned. I gave that to you in kindness. I’d like to think I did something in kindness.”
“Goodbye, Bindi.” Key chain in hand, Charlotte left.
Another whiskey later, Bindi swiveled on her stool to see Santino making his way to the bar. “Coffee. Cream, sugar.” But when the bartender presented him with a steaming cup of java that looked hot enough to have been brewed in hell, Santino remained standing, as if he had no intent to stay and drink that coffee.
“Give this to Al,” she said, removing the engagement ring from her finger. “I don’t know if you’re speaking to him after what we found out. But he needs to know I sold the dresses and skirts and didn’t keep his ring.”
“For you.” Santino slid the coffee toward her. Then he scooped the engagement ring from her palm. “Done with Las Vegas?”
“I was going to take this city. That was the plan. Instead it took me—hard—and it’s not done yet. Inv
estigators are going to want to keep me close to see what I know about Al’s extracurricular activities.” Bindi cast a glance about the room. “On the upside, I have this place to keep coming back to. I can blend in with the crowd.”
“I don’t think that’s possible.”
Cynicism aside, she supposed he was right. In red four-inch heels, skinny jeans and a black lace top, with diamond daggers hanging from her earlobes and her hair pulled back into a neat blond bow, she did sort of stand out.
“Wherever you end up, try doing things differently,” he said.
“Follow your own advice.”
“My father—the man I idolized—destroyed my career. Everything I was fighting for was a goddamn lie. Yeah, things can’t exactly go back to the way they used to be.”
“When you put it like that, I guess maybe you’re worse off than I am.” Shouldn’t that fact make her feel even a smidgen better? It didn’t, and she felt agitated because of it. Life was simpler when she could view Santino and Nate as adversaries and nothing more.
“Is that all, Bindi?”
“I’m keeping the Lamborghini.” With that, she took off in a quick stride, weaving around patrons and servers until she reached the exit—
Where the devil was her purse?
With an annoyed sigh, she revolved slowly, peering back through the packed lounge to where she’d left Santino with that untouched coffee. Except now he was holding up her crocodile coin purse, watching her with an expression that was…amused? No way. The man was too damn serious to crack a smile.
“I’ll take that.” She reclaimed the accessory with a snatch, then hesitated as she considered the coffee. It was a pool of dark emptiness. It’d chase her whiskey but wouldn’t give her prospects or perspective. Even so, she met Santino’s eyes, took a healthy swig from the cup, set it down.
And walked away.
Chapter 14
I hope this got so out of hand that you ended up hurting yourself.
Charlotte’s words stuck with Nate. Revenge backfired, all right. He knew that now. Somehow he’d gone too far, gotten way too cocky thinking he was resilient against passion that could distract and love that could cut if snatched away too quickly. From the get-go he’d gotten it wrong, because Charlotte Blue had never been his enemy and didn’t deserve to be collateral damage of his victory-at-all-costs mission to reverse the sale of an NFL franchise that wasn’t, in fact, his be-all and end-all.
As furious as losing claim to the team had made him, Nate was more affected by the betrayal he’d seen in Charlotte’s eyes when he’d come clean. By playing her, he’d played himself.
For what? Validation and a pat on the back from a man who’d lost himself to his own weaknesses? Envy and vengeance were part of Al’s game. He’d gambled with people’s lives, manufactured lies to protect himself.
But in the end Nate was responsible for his own choices. It had been his choice to chase Al’s approval, to be loyal to his father and not himself. Now he was choosing to back out of the game.
Nate entered the staff lounge with two confidential letters secured in the interior pocket of his dark Italian blazer. One was a full disclosure addressed to the NFL commissioner; the other a statement of resignation to Marshall and Temperance Blue.
“Where’s Kip?” he asked one of the assistant coaches after scanning the room.
“Meeting with Whittaker and Charlotte.” The man’s sharp stare was fixed on the congregation at Royce Davis’s locker.
Nate’s instincts had him joining the group in time to hear one of the men gibe, “Those tits, that behind—damn. Ain’t sayin’ I wouldn’t want to tap that, but I’m not dumb-ass enough to actually do it. I like having a job.”
“Hardly touched her, but they got me packing my shit anyway.”
“Touched who? Charlotte?” Nate waited, his face void of emotion, his arms loose. But he was ready to within a moment’s notice put a fist in Royce’s face. His imagination was wild, taunting him with scenes of Royce putting his hands on Charlotte.
“You know it,” Royce answered, shoving clothes into a duffel bag. “Should’ve bent her over when I had the chance.”
Nate’s hand closed around the man’s throat. Royce staggered, caught by surprise as he hit the adjacent locker. The metal rang at the force of impact. If Nate was fined, so be it. Men surged forward, hollering, cursing, pulling at his shoulders.
“We’re just talking, aren’t we, Royce? We can talk about Charlotte Blue, or we can talk about what I know you did under old management.” Just as quickly as he’d gripped the man’s throat, he let him go. “Stay away from Charlotte. Touch her again, and I will find you.”
Royce’s eyes turned flinty; his thick lips pressed together in a firm line. But he didn’t speak until the other men jostled them apart, and, turning, he saw Kip, Whittaker and Charlotte crowding the doorway.
Charlotte slapped a palm to her forehead. “Really, Nate?”
“He put his hands on you, Charlotte.”
“And we were handling it,” she said, gesturing to Kip, Whittaker and herself. “It’s not your place to step in.”
“Franco. Davis. I’m going to need to see you both in my office in five,” Kip bellowed. “Get your stuff.”
Royce Davis wouldn’t be returning to camp—everyone knew that. Nate wouldn’t be, either, because his resignation was effective immediately. No one but he knew that yet.
As he was being escorted into the hall, he muttered to Charlotte as he passed, “You may not want me to protect you, but it’s what I have to do.”
In Kip’s office Royce refused to discuss the incident and left without saying a word when the coach finally told him to get the hell out. Then Kip told Nate, “I see things around me that people think I don’t. They all might have the impression that you went off on Davis because he put his hands on a woman. I think you went off because he put his hands on your woman.” Frowning now, he added, “What are you going to do about the situation?”
Nate knew his decision would be met with protest, especially from Kip and Whittaker, who valued his expertise and believed it took not just winning players but a winning staff to claim victory. “I have a document for Marshall and Temperance Blue.” He shook Kip’s hand. “I wish the Slayers luck.”
The Blues kept him waiting for over twenty minutes, during which Nate sat in the reception area turning over and over in his hand the envelope addressed to the owners. With each minute that passed, he felt surer about the contents.
Finally, he was summoned into the office where he’d once been welcome without requiring permission. Another reminder that life had forever changed. This was no longer his family’s legacy. The formal investigation into his father’s misconduct hadn’t yet begun, but there would be no going back to the days in which the Las Vegas Slayers franchise was the Francos’ kingdom.
A new era—dynasty—had begun.
Marshall sat at a massive glass table, his wife polished and regal at his side. He crooked an eyebrow at the envelope in Nate’s hand. “That a formal apology for the hell your family brought on my daughter?”
“No, it’s not. But if we’re talking about Charlotte, I know for a fact that she’s faced every obstacle without you. In spite of you.”
“Hold up, now,” Marshall began, pushing back his chair. He stood and his size seemed to absorb the room. “Folks on my payroll don’t speak to me or my wife like that. Now, Charlotte hasn’t made the most…strategic…decisions.”
“Sir.” Nate lowered his head; the envelope burned his fingers. “This game is only part strategy. The rest is heart. Charlotte’s got so much heart that she didn’t tell you Royce Davis overstepped with her.”
“Davis?” Marshall asked, a note of death in his voice.
“She handled Davis without enlisting your help. There’s a reason for that.”
“Excuse me,” Tem interrupted. “Are you accusing us of leaving her to work through her troubles at camp alone?”
“Ma’am. I d
idn’t say she was alone.”
Tem dropped back with a gasp, clutching at her husband’s shoulder. “What the—? What is this?”
“This,” he said, pointing to himself, “is the man who held her when you shut down the progress she was making with Dibbs. I’m the man who knows she needs more than tough love. I’m the man who screwed up and lost her.” He let the letter drop onto the burgundy blotter in front of Marshall. “This—” he jabbed the envelope “—is my resignation.”
*
Nothing good could come of being called from Mount Charleston to her parents’ luxury suite at the stadium in Las Vegas smack in the middle of a jam-packed training day. That in mind, Charlotte resolved to be calm, reserved and professional with a capital P.
A solid plan.
Passing her sisters, who surveyed her as if they detected something different about her but couldn’t be sure what, she walked into the owners’ suite.
Tem was pacing, wearily rubbing the back of her neck with one hand and gesturing wildly to Marshall. “Charlotte.” She stopped as crisply as a soldier at attention. “Why didn’t you confide in us about Royce Davis? He resigned, depriving us of the joy of firing his ass.”
Hmm. This was no ordinary Temperance Tantrum. Her picture-perfect mother had just said the ass-word.
“I handled it. Coach and HR helped me take care of it. Davis cooperated. There was no further incident, no need to drag you and Pop into it.” Charlotte smiled encouragingly, crossing the room to touch Tem’s shoulder. “Chill, Ma. Who even brought this to you?”
The tension in the room seemed strong enough to shake the foundation they stood on. Tem nudged Charlotte’s hand off her shoulder. She twirled and the skirt of her daisy-yellow summer dress floated around her legs. “Tell us, Lottie. If you were to write a ‘what I did at summer camp’ list, would the name Nate Franco appear on it?”
A shuffling sound came from the hall where Danica and Martha waited. Charlotte ignored it. Now she was pissed with a capital P. “Oh, it’d top the list.”
Night Games Page 18
