“Probably because we’re not.” Waverly didn’t want more walls between them, more obstacles to get in the way of her shedding light on the truth. “Jeremiah, he was telling the truth. The team—your father—set him up to fail.”
“Thought sabotage wasn’t your thing. You’re a Greer and you’re above that, right? So why come at me with this?”
“I’m coming at you with what the FBI considers the truth,” she whispered. “Simon was set up, and it was all under your father’s orders. Luca offered a bounty. He paid his guys to injure opponents and to piss on their quarterback’s plays.”
Simon approached, and though Jeremiah appeared furious enough to overturn the table, he let the man take a seat and have his say.
Waverly 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 Simon recounted hearing players say “Payday!” to the teammate whose hard tackle sent Milo Tarantino off the field on a cart, Waverly retreated.
“I have to 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 Jeremiah’s expression as Simon’s words registered and Jeremiah realized that his father had paid for the illegal play that had ruined Milo’s NFL career.
Navigating the concrete steps, Waverly 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 Jeremiah.
“I’m leaving,” she said, sparing him from ordering her off the premises. “If coming here with Simon 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 ass, squeezing, imprinting, as he drew her down the last two steps.
Waverly hooked herself to him, taking what his kiss offered until they hit the wall and reality invaded. Easing away, she sank onto the steps with no regard to the pristine elegance of her dress.
“Why didn’t you go to the front office? The commissioner?” Jeremiah 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 rethink where our loyalties lie.”
* * *
Jeremiah 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 Simon Smith and Waverly had been telling the truth. And you just don’t ignore what makes too much fucking 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 Milo, “Don’t take off. I need to talk to Dad…and you need to be there when I do.”
The men entered the house. Luca 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 Jeremiah’s terse “I have business with you, Dad,” Luca flicked a glance his way. Upon catching the simmering fury Jeremiah couldn’t mask, the man fished a cigar from his jacket pocket.
“Business with me. Then why is he here?” Luca pointed the cigar at Milo.
Jeremiah approached the poker table. “Damn it, Dad. I know, all right? I know. Now Milo’s going to know, too. You’re going to tell him.”
Luca slumped against his chair as realization dawned. “Anne 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, Milo,” Milo crossed the room fast and had Luca by the collar, hauling him up from his chair. “You wanted a star!” he growled. “I gave you that, and you fucked up my career.”
Jeremiah shouldered his way between them, shoving his brother back. “It’s not your fight. Not mine. It’s Dad’s fight, against himself.”
“I built my entire life according to his fucking blueprints for me, Jeremiah,” Milo said coldly. “I lost everything—and that man right there set it in motion.”
Jeremiah wouldn’t ask his brother to brush off the rage, to ignore the betrayal. “Blame him, then, Milo. But don’t be like him.”
Luca swept up his cigar and made for the door, only to have Izzie block his path.
“I heard everything, Luca.”
“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?”
“An empty-headed bitch like you would never be a part of my future. I was after your beautiful cunt,” Luca seethed, pushing past her. “Now I don’t want even that.”
The devastation on Izzie’s face was familiar to Jeremiah. It glinted in his brother’s eyes, even now as Milo sought out the minibar.
Jeremiah strode from 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.
Izzie hunkered down on her stool at the bar. She’d better get comfortable—the Tarantino 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 Waverly Greer ignored the message Izzie had left with Desert Luck Center’s receptionist.
The bartender knew her by name and Izzie 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. Luca had preferred her in clothes that showed off her legs.
“Cheers.”
“Toasting to waiting again?” Waverly took the stool beside Izzie. “We’ve got to stop meeting like this.”
The woman’s words were light but there was seriousness and warning in her voice that Izzie 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 Luca 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 Jeremiah was in it with me, but he backed out. Because of you.”
Waverly watched her in silence.
Well, what had Izzie 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, Izzie.”
“We’re both blonde.”
“It’s more than that. If you’d put on the brakes during your quest to publicly humiliate me out of my career, you might’ve realized it already.” Waverly abandoned her stool while fishing into her purse. “This is yours.”
Izzie 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, Izzie.” Key chain in han
d, Waverly left.
Another whiskey later, Izzie swiveled on her stool to see Milo making his way to the bar. So he hadn’t stood her up after all. “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, Milo remained standing, as if he had no intent to stay and drink that coffee.
“Give this to Luca,” 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.” Milo slid the coffee toward her. Then he scooped the engagement ring from her palm. “Done with Las Vegas?”
“I was going to fuck this city. That was the plan. Instead it fucked me—hard—and it’s not done yet. Investigators are going to want to keep me close to see what I know about Luca’s extracurricular activities.” Izzie cast a glance about the room. “On the upside, I have this place to keep coming back to. I can blend into the crowd.”
“I don’t think that’s possible.”
Cynicism aside, she supposed he was right. In four-inch marigold 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 slightly better? It didn’t, and she felt agitated because of it. Life was simpler when she could view Milo and Jeremiah as adversaries and nothing more.
“Is that all, Izzie?”
“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 Milo 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 Milo’s eyes, took a healthy swig from the cup, set it down.
And walked away.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
I hope this got so out of hand that you ended up hurting yourself.
Waverly’s words stuck with Jeremiah. Revenge backfired. He knew that now. Somehow he’d gone too far, gotten way too cocky thinking he was resilient against sex that could distract and love that could cut if snatched away too quickly. From the get-go he’d gotten it wrong, because Waverly Greer 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, Jeremiah was more affected by the betrayal he’d seen in Waverly’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 Luca’s game. He’d gambled with people’s lives, manufactured lies to protect himself.
But in the end Jeremiah was responsible for his own choices. It had been his choice to chase Luca’s approval, to be loyal to his father and not himself. Now he was choosing to back out of the game.
Jeremiah entered the staff lounge with two confidential letters secured in the interior pocket of his blazer. One was a full disclosure addressed to the NFL commissioner; the other a statement of resignation to J.T. and Joan Greer.
“Where’s Finn?” he asked one of the assistant coaches after scanning the room.
“Meeting with Whittaker and Waverly.” The man’s sharp stare was fixed on the congregation at Royce Davis’s locker.
Jeremiah’s instincts had him joining the group in time to hear one of the men gibe, “Those tits, that pussy—damn. Not saying I wouldn’t want to tap her, but I’m not dumb-ass enough to actually do it. I like having a job.”
“She’s probably had a train before,” someone else said, prompting laughs.
“I hardly touched her, but they’ve got me packing my shit anyway.”
“Touched who? Waverly?” Jeremiah waited, his face void of emotion, his arms loose. But he was ready to within a moment’s notice put a fist in Royce Davis’s face. His imagination was wild, taunting him with scenes of Royce putting his hands on Waverly.
“You know it,” Royce answered, shoving clothes into a duffel bag. “Should’ve fucked her when I had the chance.”
Jeremiah’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 Jeremiah 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 Waverly Greer, 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 the fuck away from Waverly. Touch her again, and I will find you.”
Royce’s eyes turned flinty; his lips pressed together in a firm line. But he didn’t speak until the other men jostled them apart, and, turning, he saw Finn, Whittaker, and Waverly crowding the doorway.
Waverly slapped a palm to her forehead. “Really, Jeremiah?”
“He put his hands on you, Waverly.”
“And we were handling it,” she said, gesturing to Finn, Whittaker, and herself. “It’s not your place to step in.”
“Tarantino. Davis. I’m going to need to see you both in my office in five,” Finn bellowed. “Get your shit.”
Royce Davis wouldn’t be returning to camp—everyone knew that. Jeremiah 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 Waverly as he passed, “You may not want me to protect you, but it’s what I have to do.”
In Finn’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 Finn told Jeremiah, “I see things around me that people think I don’t. They all might have the impression that you attacked Davis because he put his hands on a woman. I think you attacked because he put his hands on your woman.” Frowning now, he added, “What are you going to do about the situation?”
Jeremiah knew his decision would be met with protest, especially from Finn 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 J.T. and Joan Greer.” He shook Finn’s hand. “I wish the Villains luck.”
The Greers kept him waiting for over twenty minutes, during which Jeremiah 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 Villains franchise was the Tarantinos’ kingdom.
A new era had begun.
J.T. sat at a massive glass table, his wife polished and regal at his side. He crooked an eyebrow at the envelope in Jeremiah’s hand. “That a formal apology for the hell your family brought on my daughte
r?”
“No, it’s not. But if we’re talking about Waverly, I know for a fact that she’s faced every obstacle without you. In spite of you.”
“Son,” J.T. began, pushing back his chair. He stood and his size seemed to absorb the room. “People on my payroll don’t speak to me or my wife like that. Now, Waverly hasn’t made the most…strategic…decisions.”
“Sir.” Jeremiah lowered his head; the envelope burned his fingers. “This game is only part strategy. The rest is heart. Waverly’s got so much heart that she didn’t tell you Royce Davis assaulted her.”
“Davis?” J.T. asked, a note of death in his voice.
“She handled Davis without enlisting your help. There’s a reason for that.”
“Excuse me,” Joan interrupted. “Are you accusing us of leaving her to work through her troubles at camp alone?”
“Ma’am. I didn’t say she was alone.”
Joan 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 Beckham. I’m the man who knows she needs more than tough love. I’m the man who fucked up and lost her.” He let the letter drop onto the burgundy blotter in front of J.T. “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, Waverly 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.
Joan was pacing, wearily rubbing the back of her neck with one hand and gesturing wildly to J.T. “Waverly.” 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.”
The Penalty Page 18