by V. K. Sykes
As for his invitation to play golf, he probably just wanted to give himself another opportunity to chip away at her determination regardless of his promise not to talk business. Mr. Tony Big Shot Branch would do whatever it took to wrest the team from her. Even if it took a few days of pillow talk to get it done, she had no doubt that would be more than fine with him.
And maybe fine with her, too?
Martha clenched the wheel in an unforgiving grip, thrusting aside the tempting whispers provided by her sex-deprived brain. She had a business to run—and a promise to keep—and had no time for fantasizing about Tony Branch or anybody else.
As she wheeled into her driveway, she gloomily thought of ordering takeout—again. And spending the evening rehashing her bank presentation—again. What else could she do to blunt the loneliness of the long evening and night ahead? She had nobody in Jacksonville to spend time with other than Jane, and her friend had a bridge game, of all things. Martha had expected to be lonely as she got settled into her new job and life in Florida, but the solitude was killing her. In Philadelphia, she’d had an active social life, with close friends like Nate and Holly, and Maddie and Jake—not to mention a steady stream of would-be beaus. Down here, she felt like the proverbial wallflower, rattling around her father’s big, lonely house, unsettled and increasingly unsure about her future.
Even worse, she was actually beginning to feel sorry for herself, and that she hated more than anything.
* * *
Tony stared down at the St. John’s River from his 17th floor suite at the Hyatt Regency, his eyes dry and sore. His grueling fitness regimen rewarded him with great stamina, but the jet lag pulled at his very bones. It was going on eleven p.m. in London, and his body was yelling at him to get some sleep. But that wasn’t going to happen anytime soon.
Traffic crawled over the bridge below as lines of tinker toy cars crossed the still river at a snail’s pace. The city spread out in a snarled haze of snaking roadways, and he thought about Martha’s jest about the traffic, wondering where she might be at that moment. Perhaps stuck on that very bridge below him, which seemed like a damn waste of a beautiful woman. A woman who could be spending time with him instead.
She’d proved every bit as stubborn and hard-headed as he was. But even though her stance was stupid, he couldn’t help admiring her dogged determination to keep hold of the franchise despite the long odds she faced. Her question about how he’d feel if he had to give up the Lions had surprised him, because he’d never really thought about it before. The depth of his attachment to the Blackhampton team, its players and its fans couldn’t be adequately described in words. At least not by any Tony had in his vocabulary. Then again, he’d given his life blood to the Lions for more than four years, while Martha’s attachment to the Thunder could be measured in months on the fingers of one hand.
Still, it was a useful illustration of her emotional state and how invested she was in her team, so invested that she’d even rejected his proposal to play golf with him at beautiful Sawgrass.
That response had him shaking his head. He knew Martha was crazy about golf and could shoot the lights out, so her refusal had to mean that she wanted to stay as far away from him as she could. That was a problem, since getting her out on the course was part of his strategy for dealing with her. Unless she had a bad day, she’d have beaten him by three or four strokes, and that couldn’t help but make her feel proud and powerful, not to mention casting him in a humbler light. He would have shown some self-deprecating humor and made sure she knew how much he admired her game. And after a few drinks in the clubhouse and hopefully dinner later, who knows what could have happened?
Besides, riding around in a golf cart on a sunny, hot day with one of the most stunning women he’d ever met was a sure winner no matter the outcome of his campaign. She’d thrown a spanner in the works, but he was a long way from giving up on Martha Winston.
The phone in the suite’s living room rang. Tony dropped onto the plush leather sofa and answered.
“I’ve got Cole Tate in my suite,” Rex said, “and I think you’ll want to hear what he has to say directly from him.”
Cole Tate, of the Tate Group in Atlanta, was Rex’s “man on the ground.” A specialist in corporate takeovers, Tate had the financial pulse of every sports franchise in the country, and especially those in the southeastern states.
“Let’s meet here, then,” Tony said, his curiosity ramping up.
“We’ll be right there.”
A minute later, Tony ushered Rex and Tate into the suite. Tate took the sofa and Tony dragged over a hard chair from the dining table, turned it around backwards and straddled it. He rested his arms along the high back and locked his eyes on the consultant.
“Drinks?” Rex said, moving to the suite’s well-stocked liquor cabinet.
“Bourbon, neat,” Tate said.
Tony nodded for the same, then gave Tate a friendly smile. “It’s good to finally meet you in person, Cole.”
“I wish it was under better circumstances, though. The news isn’t particularly good, is it?”
Tony shrugged. “Realistically, I didn’t expect to get much out of Martha at the first meeting. I’m just getting started.”
Rex brought the drinks and took his seat on the opposite end of the sofa from Tate, who took a sip of the Knob Creek and then set it on the low coffee table in front of him. “Rex filled me in on what happened with her. But I wasn’t talking about Martha Winston’s reluctance to sell you the team.”
Tony frowned, not touching his drink. “Go on.”
“I’m afraid you’re not the only one trying to buy the Thunder, Tony. There’s another prospective buyer. A serious one. A real heavy hitter.”
Fuck. That was a complete surprise, and Tony didn’t like surprises. “You just found this out now?” he said, letting his irritation show.
Tate winced. “Unfortunately, yes. They kept their goddamn cards close to their chest. I had no—”
“It’s Steam Train Breweries, Tony,” Rex interjected, clearly wanting to get down to business.
Tony let long seconds of grim silence pass before he spoke. “Martha’s primary sponsor. I’m sorry, but weren’t we speculating that Steam Train might pull the plug and let the team sink? And now you’re saying they want to bloody well buy it?”
“Until yesterday they’d given no indication of any interest in buying up a dying franchise,” Tate said. “But a new CEO took over recently, and he’s something of a shark. I think he’s looked around at other companies that have bought up sports franchises so they can fully control how the team, the stadium and the TV rights are used to market their products. It works, and they don’t really have to make a profit on the team’s actual operations if they’re able to capitalize on the marketing.”
“But that’s not exactly an earthshaking discovery, is it?” Tony groused. Christ, this entire situation was turning into amateur hour.
Tate shook his head. “No, but it looks like Steam Train’s new guy may have been the first one there to figure it out. He obviously knew Martha Winston had no intention of selling, but the team’s slide in the last couple of months probably made him think she’d soon have no choice. I suspect he wants to force her into a position where she’ll have to let the franchise go for peanuts.”
“Bloody bottom feeders,” Rex said in disgust, a disgust Tony shared. As partners, they had always prided themselves in offering fair market value for any team they were interested in.
Tony shook his head. “Still, I can’t see why she’d be any more likely to sell the team to a damn brewery than she is to me. Especially since our offer will be better.”
“We’ll see,” Tate said, his skepticism evident. “At the very least they’ll be a complicating factor. I’m betting that they’ll announce soon that they’re withdrawing their sponsorship of the Thunder when the contract expires at the end of the current season.”
“Just a few weeks away,” Rex said. “You told
us Steam Train’s a heavy hitter. Fill Tony in on that, please, Cole.”
Tate nodded. “Steam Train’s one of the strongest regional breweries in the whole country, with deep roots in Florida and most of the South. A very successful family owned business. They’re happy as a dominant regional player and they do a lot of sports marketing, like most beer companies.”
“You think they’ll bid high if they have to, then?” Tony said, fearing the worst. “I’m prepared to make Martha a bloody good offer, but I’m not going to jeopardize everything I’ve worked for just to get this team.”
But the truth was he wanted the Thunder so badly that his gut twisted at the thought of losing out to some sodding big corporation. The Jacksonville team remained his best chance to get into the American soccer market, and God only knew when another opportunity would present itself. Rex had made it clear that the other struggling franchises had no interest in selling, at least in his price range, and the league was highly unlikely to expand anytime.
Tate looked thoughtful as he ran a finger around the rim of his glass. “Anything I could say to you on that score would be just a guess. But I can tell you this, Tony. Steam Train sure as hell has the capacity to outbid you if the owners decide they want to. They like controlling the sports market in this little corner of the world. And who knows? They might even feel it’s their patriotic duty to keep the ownership local, rather than let it slip into the hands of some Englishman.”
“God, no,” Tony growled. “Not an Englishman.”
“Just raising the possibility,” Tate said, holding a hand up defensively. “You don’t know these people.”
“No, but I know plenty in England who are just like them.” Tony looked at Rex. “You think this changes our strategy?”
Rex sat forward, leaning his forearms on his long, thin legs. “Only to the extent it makes it more urgent that you come to an agreement with Martha. The longer it all plays out, the weaker the team will be, and the weaker she’ll be. And once she’s truly backed into a corner, who knows what could happen? People can do unpredictable and stupid things when faced with imminent catastrophe. Not to mention the fact that the Steam Train people already have a connection to the team, which might give them a psychological leg up.”
Tony pondered that for half a minute while the other two waited quietly for his response. Finally, he leveled a narrow gaze on Tate. “You need to keep us apprised of every move both Martha and Steam Train make. But this bullshit makes it even more clear that our success lies in convincing Martha that I’m the man—the only man—who can make the team into what she always hoped it would be. When push comes to shove, if I can’t convince her that she’s better off selling to me than to some bloody corporate hack who knows nothing about the game, then I don’t deserve to have the team.”
* * *
Martha rarely went off her feed and could usually eat like a farm hand while never gaining an ounce of weight. But tonight she couldn’t even bring herself to pick up the phone and order takeout from one of the half-dozen places she relied on in her little corner of the city. Despite the bravado she’d displayed at the prospect of facing down her financial backers tomorrow, her insides ached every time she pictured herself on the hot seat. Sure, she’d put the best face on the team’s dire situation, but it practically killed her to know that the fate of the Thunder—its staff and players—rested in the hands of a bunch of suits who didn’t seem to give a damn about anything other than money and profits.
Gloomily, she pulled a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc from the fridge and poured herself a glass. Apparently gone were the days of the pioneering spirit when banks actually took on risks and helped forward-looking men and women build the country. Today, it was all about the sure bet. The recession and housing crisis, a truly awful spectacle in Florida, had washed away any appetite for a venture that had even a sniff of risk.
And the Thunder had a lot more than a sniff.
She wandered into the living room and sat on the sofa in front of the enormous gas fireplace, staring up at the portraits of Mama and Daddy. Though her father’s presence remained everywhere in the house, Martha had never felt lonelier. Or less in control. She missed her friends in Philadelphia, she missed her job at the Post, and she missed having a social life.
Right now, capitulating to Tony Branch and running back to her old life couldn’t have been more tempting.
And like a song stuck in a repeating loop, she couldn’t help wondering what her father would do in this situation. Would he be able to find a way to save the team, a way she hadn’t yet been able to discern? What would he think of how she was trying to carry out his wishes? Would he even regret leaving the team in her hands after all?
All useless questions, really, but that didn’t stop them coming at her like high, rolling surf, tossing her up and down and barring her from moving forward.
And damn Tony Branch for bringing it all to a head, and for causing her to doubt herself. The sexy British bad boy had offered her an easy way out, no question. All she had to do was say yes and the team’s future would be secured. Her staff—some, anyway—would hold onto their good jobs, the fans and the media would no doubt be thrilled, and her uncle would be dancing in the streets. As for her, she could hustle her butt back to Philly with a boatload of dough, and say goodbye forever to a town that was starting to make her feel like a failure.
Branch had asked if she thought he was a lunatic, but Martha was beginning to think she was the nut case.
Frustrated and angry, she resisted the urge to refill her wine glass and drown her sorrows. Why did she even care what Tony Branch thought of her? She certainly didn’t owe him any explanations. And while his tenacity was almost flattering, she resented that he wouldn’t take no for an answer. Would he have treated her father with such arrogance, or any other male team owner, for that matter?
Actually, he probably would have, and that thought—coupled with the image of his uber-confident attitude—pulled a reluctant smile to her lips.
Determined to shake off her grim mood and get something to eat, she was hauling her sorry ass off the couch when the doorbell chimed, startlingly loud in the cool silence of the house. Sighing, she set her wine glass down on the end table and headed to the door, expecting to politely chase away some earnest guy who wanted to sell her gutter helmets or let him power-wash her house. Other than the food delivery men, those were about the only people who ever rang her bell, which only served to illustrate the current state of her social life.
When she peered through the spyhole in the sturdy oak door, she jumped back as if someone had poked her in the eye with a stick. “Jesus, Mary and Joseph!” she let out in a squeaky, convent girl gasp.
Tony Branch was standing out there on her stoop, and he was holding the biggest batch of pink roses she’d ever seen. He’d looked directly at the spyhole and plastered an ear-splitting grin onto his devil-face, obviously anticipating her reaction.
And the pink roses—how the hell did Branch know her favorite flower and favorite color?
Jane.
The traitor! She’d obviously been bowled over by Branch, and the sexy snake must have charmed her into giving him Martha’s damned address, too. The minute she got into the office she was going to—
“Martha, I know you’re home,” Branch called through the door. “Your car is in the driveway, love. I’ll just leave the flowers here, if you insist, but it really would be nice to see you again. And I promise I won’t say a word about buying the Thunder. Scout’s honor.”
Martha thunked her forehead lightly against the door, trying to ignore the quivery feeling in her thighs. She’d immediately flushed from head to toe, which told her everything she needed to know about her instinctive physical reaction to the man. That was a weakness she could not afford.
“I upset you today, I’m afraid,” he continued in a coaxing voice. “I want to try to make up for it. I was hoping you’d let me take you out to dinner.”
She peeked out the
spyhole again. Branch was looking both soulful and charmingly sheepish, which was a hell of a trick. Martha was convinced he did it deliberately, certain she would be peering out at him intently.
Dammit, dammit, dammit.
Giving in to the inevitable, she cracked the door open and stuck out her hand quickly as if to snatch the roses from him. Surprised, he took a half step back. She snickered as she finally swung the door open. “Gotcha,” she crowed, mustering up a carefree air.
Branch snorted, and then swept her a deep bow before handing her the roses. “It’s delightful to see you again, Martha,” he purred in his delicious Brit growl. “You are utterly gorgeous.”
“And you are so full of it, Branch,” she retorted, rolling her eyes.
Gorgeous? Hell, she was still wearing the sweat pants and tee shirt she’d thrown on when she got home. But then she realized just how tight that particular tee shirt was, and how his gaze was currently arrested at her boob level. Flushing, she pressed the bouquet against her chest.
“Well, I suppose you might as well come in,” she said. “I’m not normally this rude, but you bring out the worst in me, it seems.”
“You must not like surprises,” Branch said. “You reacted the same way this afternoon, but I decided I had to take the risk of incurring your wrath once again.”
Refusing to rise to that bait, Martha waved him in, giving him the once over as she did. He had on the same outfit as a few hours earlier, except for sunglasses that he now took off and slid into an inside pocket of his jacket.
He smiled. “I’m an impulsive man—at least in some ways. And I do enjoy taking risks.”
“Really? I never would have guessed.” She glanced out to where a taxi was parked in front of her walkway. “I presume that’s yours, but why is he still sitting there?”
“Ah, I asked him to wait. He can drive us to dinner whenever you’re ready.”