Bigger Than Beckham

by V. K. Sykes

  And if so, how could she even blame him, since she’d intended to use this weekend to determine exactly that.

  After last night’s wild sexual romp, they’d talked for hours before making love one last time and finally letting sleep take them as dawn approached. She’d felt a surprising connection to Tony, one unlike anything she would have ever expected. He’d revealed an innately modest and yet entirely masculine sincerity that she thought he likely never showed to the world—perhaps not even to his friends. Some kind of bond seemed to be forming between the two of them, and it had been enough to get her to consider abandoning the pact not to talk about the Thunder. Maybe even to have a no holds barred discussion to figure out where they were going with the whole thing.

  She planted her feet in her absurdly frivolous sandals and returned his gaze with as much determination as she could muster. “Maybe running a team isn’t my life’s ambition, Tony. But it’s my job, and it’s an important one. I made a promise to my daddy, and I’m damn well going to keep giving it everything I’ve got, for as long as I’ve got.”

  The crowd below erupted again. Both she and Tony turned their eyes to the jumbo screen for the replay. It showed the Blackhampton goalkeeper making a stunning, leaping save by tipping a long shot just over the top rail of the net.

  “Too bloody close,” Tony said, blowing out a relieved breath.

  Martha whistled softly in admiration. “Wow. It’s totally wild out there. Kind of makes me wish I could be down in the stands with those crazy fans.”

  This kind of wild scene—tens of thousands of screaming, chanting, totally ramped-up spectators—this had been what her father so desperately wanted. Had it been an impossible dream? Would it always be one? She couldn’t even imagine anything in Jacksonville that would come close to the inspiring scene unfolding below her.

  But she could feel herself starting to want it. Badly.

  Tony set down his beer and grasped her bare arm. “So, let’s go then, love.”

  Martha jerked her head back. “Are you serious?”

  “Why not? Rex and I do it all the time.”

  She grinned at him, glad to relinquish the tension that had flared up between them. “Lead the way, sir.”

  They made their way to a private elevator and through a narrow hallway where they emerged onto a concourse in the grandstand. As Tony ushered her to a set of steps leading down, fans around them stood and started to cheer.

  “Ton—y! Ton—y!”

  Tony slapped extended hands as he and Martha carefully descended the stairs.

  She gripped his arm tightly as she navigated in her high-heels. “God, Tony, this is freaking inspiring.”

  He leaned his head down until she could feel his hot breath tickle her ear. “I promise you, Martha, it could be like this in Jacksonville. Someday soon, too.” He paused for just a split second. “We could do it together.”

  Martha stopped cold, right on the steps, surrounded by thousands of boisterous fans. “Hon, it’s so loud that I don’t think I heard you right. Say again?” she yelled.

  Seeming to ignore her shout, Tony got her moving again with a gentle push, and they sat down in seats on the aisle, not too far above field level. A man sitting directly behind them gave Tony an little appreciative pat on the back, earning him a smile as Tony turned and nodded.

  Impatient, Martha poked her finger into Tony’s chest, meeting a hard wall of resistance. “I want to hear that again, buddy. What you said before we sat down.”

  Tony’s intense gaze caught and held hers. “I guess what I’m saying, Martha,” he said, leaning in close, “is that if you really do want to stay in the game, why don’t we become partners?”

  Her stomach did a series of Olympic-caliber back flips as she stared up at into his confident grin. Oh, Lord. What new game he was about spring on her now?

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  As Martha sank down in her seat, her short skirt slid up to reveal so much of her tanned, slim thighs that Tony’s heart pounded with a beat that almost drowned out the roar of the crowd. He didn’t know whether to laugh at himself or smack his head against the chair in front for his relentlessly cock-driven thoughts. He’d just hit Martha with the proposition that had been on his mind for the past twenty-four hours, and yet his sodding, sex-addled brain was fixated on how fabulous her long legs had felt draped over his shoulders last night as he sank himself inside her sweet, sweet body.

  Forcing his eyes back to her face, he confronted the shock plainly written on her tight features. She stared straight out at the pitch with her mouth slightly open, clearly surprised. But was she surprised pleased or surprise horrified? He couldn’t read her yet and his body had tensed in response.

  Finally, she tilted her head and brushed back an errant lock of glossy blond hair before catching his eye. “This is a hell of a place to propose a big-time business deal, Branch.”

  Tony let out a big breath, his muscles starting to relax in response to Martha’s wry smile.

  “I can be impulsive at times,” he said with a self-deprecating shrug. “Maybe I just got caught up in all this excitement.”

  He shot a quick look around them. Even though he figured no one could overhear their conversation in the midst of the continuing din, he kept his voice low. “But now I’ve said it, so I suppose I can’t take it back.”

  “I know exactly how impulsive you can be.” Martha impatiently pushed her hair back again after the wind blew it across her face. “Hell, you’re the guy who hopped on a business jet with your buddy and flew all the way across the Atlantic Ocean on the off chance I might actually listen to what y’all had to say.”

  She reached into her bag and fished out a pair of stylish red sunglasses. “By the way, I’ve been meaning to tell you that your carbon footprint sucks.”

  Tony had to laugh at the deft way she was able to poke a needle into him while maintaining a perfectly deadpan expression. But was she just stalling for time?

  “So, what do you think?” he prompted. He glanced down again and noticed that despite her breezy tone, her hands were gripping the arms of her seat tightly enough to whiten the skin across her knuckles.

  Martha thrust her chin out in an unconscious defensive gesture he was beginning to recognize. “What do I think? Well, I think that if you’re really serious about this and not just playing me, Tony, it would be a very good idea if you made it clear exactly what you mean by a partnership.”

  He took a moment, sitting on the edge of his seat and watching intently as the Lions passed the ball back and forth in midfield, patiently preparing to launch another attack. He’d thought long and hard about how to make this deal work, especially during the frustrating three hours when she was in the clutches of that prick Butler. He figured it all came down to what she wanted from continuing to own the Thunder. And since she hadn’t exactly been forthcoming in that regard, he had to make some educated guesses.

  Was it all about her pride? Martha Winston had pride by the boatload, and though she could be self-deprecating at times, everything Tony had seen so far made him believe she hated like hell to fail at anything. Even her jest about how her pro basketball career had tanked over her inability to hit the three-point shot had been laden with enough wounded pride that only a dolt could have missed it.

  Maybe her ego couldn’t stand failing at the challenge of running a pro team. After all, she lived and breathed sports and, like him, had spent her life immersed in that intense and prideful world. Screwing up at something that important could impact everything else she did in her career in future.

  If pride and ego really were the basis of her motivation, Tony knew his chances of gaining control of the team were as thin as his self-control whenever Martha started to stroke his cock.

  But there was another factor in play. One he was coming to believe was more important to her than anything to do with her ego. That factor was the fate of the people she cared about—her general manager, her office staff, the coaches, trainers and
at least some of the players. That group probably even included Geoffrey Winston. Though Tony had detected little affection between uncle and niece, he was dead certain Martha nevertheless felt a certain degree of responsibility for her father’s brother.

  If protecting those people was paramount in her mind, then he might just have a shot. He could give her everything she wanted—well, almost everything—and she could still be deeply involved in the team while focusing on her journalistic career. After all, she’d just admitted that journalism was still where her ambition rested.

  “I think we should go back up to the suite if we’re going to talk about this right now,” he finally said.

  “Agreed,” Martha said with a nod.

  They started slowly back up the steps, with Tony waving to the fans all the way up. As they reached the concourse, he groaned as three photographers hurried to block their path and started shooting. Tony could hear the auto-drives of their big cameras, audible even over the crowd noise.

  “Is this doll your new girlfriend, Tony?” the photographer in the middle tossed out.

  Recognizing the pudgy tabloid veteran, Tony ignored the idiot’s question and kept moving forward as he held firmly onto Martha’s hand. He had a sinking feeling from the way the photographers stood their ground that he might wind up having to elbow his way through.

  “Let us pass, lads,” he said affably.

  None of them moved. The cameras clicked relentlessly.

  “What’s your name, sweetheart?” the guy directly in front of Martha said. When Martha ignored him, he said, “How long do you think you’ll last with Tony? Two weeks seems to be the record so far,” he said, chortling.

  Tony didn’t recognize that particular asshole, figuring him to be some jerk-off freelancer, but he had to fight a strong urge to slug the guy. But lashing out at a tabloid dope would be a really bad idea. He’d learned—in a rough and tumble way—that with rare exceptions it was a big mistake to react to stupidity or even mild abuse from the media. Still, he drew the line at some son of a bitch insulting Martha. For everybody’s sake, he hoped the guy wouldn’t utter one more word.

  He shot the photographer a threatening glare but Martha, obviously sensing he might be about to explode into action, pinched his fingers hard and then let go. As Tony turned to her, she gave the man a smile so iced over that his pathetic balls must have been flash-frozen.

  “Well, well, now. My family raised Georgia hogs with better manners than you three,” she drawled. “If y’all must know, Mr. Branch kindly invited me, a fellow owner of a football side—as y’all say over here—to see this fine match and this lovely stadium as his guest for the afternoon. Now, I’d ask y’all to please step aside like good boys and let a lady pass.”

  “Fuck me!” blurted the third man, a stringy-haired, weedy twenty-something with rimless glasses and a challenged complexion. “That’s Martha Winston, the American reporter.” He raised his camera and continued shooting as if his life depended on it.

  “Oh, hell, Tony,” Martha growled in his ear. Furious, Tony shoved a path through the cluster of men and headed inside the grandstand to the elevator.

  “Those damn pictures are going to be splashed all over tomorrow’s tabloids,” Martha said, exasperated, when they got up to the suite. She flopped down into a leather chair, looking pissed. “We should have known better,” she grumbled.

  Tony pulled two more beers out of the fridge, uncapped them and held one out to her. He didn’t quite get why she was that angry. Yeah, it was annoying, but nothing to flip out over. “I’m sorry those wankers were rude to you, but I loved the way you cut them down at the knees.”

  Martha gave him a stony glare.

  Now he started to get pissed off. What was the big deal, anyway? Why was she so bloody reluctant to be seen with him in a photo?

  “You shouldn’t let it get to you, love,” he said calmly. “This sort of thing happens all the time here. There might be a little gossip, but nobody really pays it any mind.”

  “Crap.” She blew out an obviously frustrated breath. “Don’t you get it, Tony? Somebody we know is going to pay it mind. I’ll give you three guesses, but you’re as good as brain-dead if it takes more than one.”

  Confused, Tony sat down opposite her. It didn’t take long before he got it. “Ah, shit. Bloody Colton Butler.”

  “Give the man a prize,” Martha said—uncharitably, he thought.

  “Hey, take it easy. I can see why you’re upset, but do you really think Butler’s going to go off on you just because I invited you to watch a football match?” Unless, of course, Butler had already figured out her little deception. “You don’t think he knows more than that, do you?”

  Martha shook her head. It made her hair flop down again across her face. She pushed it back in place with an angry gesture. “All I know for sure is that he hates you, apparently with about as much passion as you hate him. If he finds out about us, it could completely blow the deal. He’ll have no trouble getting somebody to write his story. Or maybe he’ll even kill the whole idea.”

  Tony didn’t like the way the conversation was heading. “You’re right. Coming here turned out to be a mistake after all.” Even though he loathed the idea of her spending more time with Butler, he sure didn’t want to be the one to sink the deal for her. That could lead to nasty complications for both of them.

  But the hell of it was, being with Martha felt like anything but a mistake. He counted every minute he spent with her as among the best minutes in his life. Even as flushed and steamed as she was now, she was the most desirable and engaging woman he’d ever met. Her combination of beauty, sex, charm, and brains surely didn’t come along often in any man’s lifetime.

  Martha made a little grimace, but then some of the tension seemed to drain from her body. “Yes, going down into the stands was a mistake, but that one’s on me. I can’t blame you because I know exactly what the tabloids are like over here. You just can’t take any risks, and I took a dumb one.”

  Tony gave her a grim nod. “The bastards are worse than roaches. At least you’re allowed to exterminate roaches.”

  “We could have used an industrial-sized can of Raid out there, that’s for sure.” Martha managed a tiny smile. “But what’s done is done. If shit happens tomorrow, I’ll just have to deal with it. Maybe the papers won’t run the photos. Or maybe Colton won’t see even them, since he’s in Scotland for the weekend.”

  Tony figured the chances of the photos hitting the papers were high. It had become a way of life to see pictures of him and his dates displayed across the gutter press, though fortunately they tended to show up on the gossip pages, not the front of the papers. He was a middle-level celebrity, he supposed, but in a city overflowing with royals, rock gods, stage and screen stars, and politicians who did unspeakable things, he was rather small beer in comparison.

  Still, a shot of Tony Branch squiring a bombshell American journalist and soccer team owner around Fenton Park would not go unnoticed.

  “Maybe,” he said, reluctant to add to her angst.

  She gave an endearing little wriggle of her shoulders, as if shaking the ugly moment off. “Let’s try to forget about all that for now and get back to business. You dangled that partner thing in front of me out there in the stands, so what’s the deal, Tony? Were you serious?”

  Hell, yes, he was serious. He’d barely been able to think about anything else other than finding some way to get what he wanted—and he wanted both the Jacksonville Thunder and Martha Winston. He didn’t have a clue where this thing with Martha was leading, but he’d been asking himself the question—was he willing to go to war with her if it came down to that?

  Tony hadn’t reached any sort of conclusion on that score, but he was becoming less sure every minute they spent together that he wanted to get into a battle with her—a battle that would leave the loser bloodied and enraged. Still, he wanted the team as badly as ever, and he damn well wanted Martha, too. He had a delicate wire to dance a
long, and delicacy had never been his forte. “Of course I am. I don’t joke about business, and I’m certainly not going to play games with you, Martha.”

  Her finely arched eyebrows lifted. “Those are mighty fine words, pal, but you’ve never had a partner in your life, at least not as far as I know. And let’s face it, you’re pretty doggone famous as an unrepentant control freak.”

  Tony stared at her, pushed back by her bluntness. Yes, he’d made it clear in past deals that he had no desire to ever share ownership of a business—much less control—with anyone else. And maybe he was a control freak, whatever that ridiculous American phrase meant. Regardless, it didn’t mean he was too stupid or stubborn to know when he might have to adapt.

  He gave her a placating smile. “There’s a first for everything in life, isn’t there?”

  That platitude was the best he could do, at least for now. What else could he say? That the prospect of a relationship with her—business and otherwise—had rocked him to his very core? That he could scarcely believe someone like him—someone with his reputation—was falling insanely hard for a woman he’d only just met? He could hardly fathom it himself, and no way was he exposing that kind of vulnerability to anyone. And especially not to her.

  “Sure, and progress is good,” Martha said in a bland voice. Tony had a strong sense she was mentally rolling her big blue eyes. “I’m listening with rapt attention, but are you going to make me find a horse and pack of foxhounds so I can chase down an actual proposal from you?”

  As usual, her quirky humor caught him off guard. But he stifled a laugh because he knew how serious and important the next few moments were going to be. Choosing his words with care had never been his long suit, but he knew that now was the time to choose them carefully indeed, despite Martha’s impatience for answers.