She took off her glasses and covered her face with her hands, wanting to disappear, but then couldn’t help but peek. She saw the player stride gracefully, like an athlete, toward the building, his gluteus muscles flexing under the tight slacks, revealing a perfectly shaped ass.
He stopped a few steps from the building, respectfully allowing an elderly, slow-moving gentleman in a suit to cross in front of him. Derek squinted back over his shoulder and once again caught her staring, this time through her fingers like a child cheating at hide-and-seek. The blood left her brain as she jerked her hands down.
He shook his head at her and sidestepped around the old man, making it to the doors in two long strides. The young, handsome ballplayer disappeared inside without another glance.
Hara had half hoped he’d turn back to her again, though she didn’t know why. She’d made an ass of herself, sure, but he’d offered her no grace, instead making her feel even stupider. He’d been polite to an old rich guy, but he’d definitely been a jerk to her.
She lifted her chin and sat up straight, having established a proper response to Derek Darcy. Then she checked her throbbing temple for blood.
* * *
The massive brick residence on Beacon Street probably wouldn’t properly be considered a mansion, since it was closely flanked by smaller but luxurious urban homes on the banks of the Charles River. But the gated complex had a large landscaped courtyard that led to the garages, and a private garden in the back, complete with docks and a small boathouse. Mr. O’Donnell’s house boasted two elevators, five fireplaces, numerous bedroom suites, a library, a gym, and a living room with grand proportions.
This she knew because Madeline Bingley had been talking about the residence ever since leaving the administration building, making Hara think fondly back to when Madeline had been on her phone, ignoring her.
“The architecture and interior design have been featured in numerous magazines, including Living, Dwell, and Architecture. The O’Donnells have a small staff caring for the family and the home, including an on-site superintendent, so don’t hesitate to ask if you need something.”
The driver took her luggage from the car and began to wheel it inside.
“Oh, I can do that,” said Hara.
“It’s his job, it’s fine,” said Madeline, waving him on, and then running a hand over her white-blonde pixie cut.
“Let me get you back to your rooms.” They pushed through the front door, a solid slab of satiny carved wood bigger than most of the walls in the Isari farmhouse. “You have a few hours before the guests start to arrive.” Madeline raked her eyes over Hara’s rumpled airplane clothes for the second time that day and lifted an eyebrow. “Do you have any questions about attire? Can we provide you with anything?”
Oh, you and I are not going to be friends, bougie. But Hara was amused by the condescension, Madeline reminding her of a classic Mean Girl. “No, I’m set. I have a dress. And my notebook with the approved questions. How long into the party will I be meeting Mr. Butler? Will we have a place to sit down for a few minutes?”
“Yes. I will come get you when Mr. Butler is ready, after he’s had a chance to make his rounds. Shouldn’t be too long.”
“Will I have a chance to talk to any other players?”
Madeline’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t think so, not officially. This is supposed to be a piece about our lead player, is it not? Mr. O’Donnell was quite clear.”
“Okay…”
“You don’t have a mic with you, do you? No recordings. You and your editor have already agreed to that. I don’t need to take your phone away, do I?”
“I’m not planning on breaking our deal. I hope Mr. O’Donnell knows how grateful I am he picked me for such an honor.” Hara really wanted to answer with a wisecrack but quickly realized this woman was only going to be pleasant if Hara was submissive and pliable; she rolled out her meek, oh-you-are-so-amazing act, just temporarily.
“Yes, well, I know the owners thought your contest entry was impressive or you wouldn’t be here. They need the basketball commission to see that the Fishers’ star player will be compliant with the rules, that he will talk to the press this year. Starting with this exclusive. It’s important you get it right.”
Following the assistant down a long hallway on the second floor, Hara glared at her back. But then the reporter noticed the line of paintings on the wall; there were beautiful landscapes and abstracts mixed in with gloomy portraits of old people straight out of a horror movie. She was 95 percent certain that one of the paintings with an old Victorian woman clutching a parasol had moving eyes. Probably one of Madeline’s minions behind the wall, watching Hara’s every move.
Hara let her face grow impassive, but then almost lost it again when she realized that one massive painting was of a pagan orgy. She slowed her steps as she approached, trying not to be obvious.
The painting showed a field lit by moonlight, ringed by massive oaks and alders and fir trees, done in the finest detail. But Hara doubted the majority of viewers even noticed the needles on the fir boughs—there were dozens of cherub-figured men and women, naked and pale, writhing under and over each other, next to a massive bonfire, in the field of sown wheat stalks and in the tree line. She peered closer. Some were actually up in the trees. The bodies, coupled or in groups, were as painstakingly detailed as the leaves on the trees, and the imaginative positions … Hara gulped, suddenly flushed. One complicated entanglement showed a woman down on all fours, being used as a table by a very sweaty couple. But the table-esque girl didn’t seem to mind, an O of delight on her lips.
“Uh hmm.” Madeline cleared her throat.
Hara hadn’t realized she’d stopped completely, leaning in, trying to decipher the many tangled limbs and crazy angles. She stood straight, pushed her glasses up, and pretended to be blasé. “Well, I’ve seen better.”
“Oh, I’m sure.” Madeline smirked and moved on.
Who hung something like that in a guest hall? Maybe Carter had been right, maybe she should have stayed at a hotel. Hara would for sure be locking her bedroom door that night.
At the end of the hall, which had begun to feel like an interminable death march to the young reporter, Madeline finally stopped outside a door. “Here you are. Like I said on the phone, everyone will respect your privacy. But let one of the employees know if you need something.”
Hara was left to her own devices in a light-filled room spacious enough to feel sparse, even with a plumbed bar, two couches, a massive desk, and a fireplace. The separate bedroom was almost as large. The bathroom reminded her of an expensive spa setting. I can get used to this, she thought, unpacking her toiletry bag. She also took the time to check out her head where she had cracked it against the car. It was still tender but there was no cut, thankfully. The only residue was her embarrassment at having a handsome, famous man witness her idiocy.
It didn’t take her long to finish unpacking her small suitcase. The little black dress with subtly embedded sequins Carter had picked out for her sparkled in the light of the infinite closet.
Her boss did not live, or dress, like the average, barely-scraping-by journalist, thanks to family money. And, it was clear, he’d inherited not just his mother’s riches but also her habit of being a label whore. When he’d first held up the expensive sequined dress, Hara insisted she wanted to exude professionalism, so Carter had layered the clingy cocktail gown with a silk blazer. Then, he told her he wanted to make sure she could hold her own with the moneyed crowd—and handed her a pair of embellished Christian Louboutin red sole pumps that fit like Cinderella’s slippers.
As they’d peered into Carter’s full-length mirror, the dress and shoes glittered against Hara’s skin and accentuated her slight curves and toned limbs. They agreed, the combo was a hit.
“You sure you need these back? Louboutins are a must for the next office picnic.”
Carter had put an arm around Hara’s shoulder and squeezed. “Honey, honey … why in
the world do you keep that bosom under wraps?” He adjusted a strap. “Your mom will be thrilled. You’ll be beating them away with a stick.”
“I have no interest in hooking up. Too much drama for little payoff. And I definitely am not looking for a boyfriend; I don’t have time to train some idiot to be a good partner.” The truth was, she was lonely. But she refused to be desperate.
“Oh, I get it, believe me. Men can be such assholes.” Carter patted her shoulder. “But wait and see. You just haven’t met the right man yet. Though, you never will if you write everybody off before you even talk to them.”
Now, standing in a closet in O’Donnell’s luxurious Boston home, about to conduct an interview that could change the course of her life, she let the soft material of the sexy dress run through her fingers.
What in the hell am I doing?
* * *
Derek Darcy blew out his breath hard enough to create a small circle of fog on the windshield in front of him and then stabbed at the screen on his dashboard until the two radio disc jockeys shut up.
What in the hell am I doing?
Why was he letting these guys and their amateur hour get to him? He couldn’t do much about his father, unless he wanted to walk away from his family completely, but he didn’t have to give credence to strangers. Let them riff—the media would be singing a different tune at the game tomorrow night.
Unconsciously, Derek reached down and rubbed his knee. He’d torn his meniscus at the start of the season last year; it was now long healed, but the surgical scar had not gone away. There was a line of tissue he could feel through his tuxedo pants, a constant reminder of the bullshit he’d had to put up with last year, as the rookie who rode the bench. And, apparently, still had to put up with. Imbeciles with a microphone or a pen loved to trash-talk Derek, but not for long. He was going to change all that, come hell or high water.
He jumped out from behind the wheel and slammed the door. Charles was supposed to have met him on the curb ten minutes ago. When his teammate had texted and asked Derek to pick him up at his mom’s house, Derek was at first annoyed. But, surprisingly, Charles’s mother still lived back in the old neighborhood and the thought of returning made him oddly sentimental.
Not that it had been his neighborhood, not really. No, he didn’t have a community growing up. Instead, he’d had a waitstaff and absent parents, and resided in a historical manor that was ridiculously huge for three people and a couple of maids.
Derek met Charles Butler when they were in second grade, attending the same basketball camp. Charles had kept the bullies away and showed Derek how to play with confidence. And joy—something his father could never understand. They grew up together, shooting hoops and eating dinner at Charles’s mom’s house. Right here. This was where he’d found love and acceptance, in an old, rickety house on a long street of old, rickety houses and cracked sidewalks. It had been a while since he’d been here; he hadn’t realized how much he missed it.
The curved sidewalk, lined with fall flowers and foliage, led to a newly refurbished Colonial-style veranda. Not old and rickety-lookin’ now, Derek thought, noticing the new windows and siding. He rang the bell and heard Charles shout out, “Come in!”
Walking down the short hallway into the living room, he was amazed at the changes: Walls had been knocked out, a new fireplace and tigerwood floors had been put in.
“Wow! What happened in here? Your mom must have found herself a remodeling fairy godmother.” He spoke to Charles, who sat on an extra-wide ottoman, tying his shiny black dress shoes. “Why didn’t you just buy your ma a new house?”
Derek hoped that didn’t sound rude. He didn’t mean it that way. A lot of the players used their first-year contract to help set their families up. Especially the ones who came from low-income homes, like Charles, whose single mom had worked in the cafeteria of an elementary school.
“Oh, don’t you go diggin’ at him, I wanted to stay here,” said Ms. Butler, coming into the room. “I fixed this place up a few years ago when he went to college, and it’s just how I like it.”
“Ma,” Charles grumbled.
There was an edge to his voice that made Derek look around. Maybe he had insulted him.
“It’s just Derek!” She paused, and then clicked her teeth, fluffing pillows on the couch, avoiding Charles. After a second, she said, “I don’t have any intention of leavin’ my neighbors behind. I ain’t uppity. I got everything I need right here.”
Charles sighed heavily and then squinted at Derek, not saying anything.
It hit Derek then, what his friend was worried about. Ms. Butler on her part-time salary had somehow managed to overhaul the house while Charles was in college … before Charles had an NBA contract …
Derek frowned, put a halt to that train of thought before it could go any further. She’d lucked into an inheritance or something. That was it.
She came to Derek then and gave him a squeeze. “Look at you! You a college man, and a big baller. Keep this guy close, Charles, he good for you.”
“Yeah, okay.” Charles stood up, towering above them. “Cuz we just sufferin’ when he ain’t around.” He grinned and clapped Derek on the shoulder. “Sorry I’m late. Ma won’t stop talking.”
“I can hear you, Charlie.” His mother’s voice floated over from the corner, where she straightened magazines on a side table.
“Why am I givin’ you a ride, anyway?” asked Derek. “What happened to your boys?”
Charles tugged his pant cuffs over his shoes and stood up. “Ain’t you my boy?” He smiled. “They’re not invited to this party. O’Donnell runs a tight ship.”
“Besides, I wanted to see you!” Ms. Butler pinched Derek’s cheek, making him blush. Then she brought a phone out of the pocket of her big cardigan. “You stand right there, let me take a picture. So handsome!”
“Christ, it’s not like we’re going to prom.”
“Do not take the Lord’s name in vain, young man! Now smile, dammit.” She took a few pictures while Derek and Charles fidgeted with their ties and suit jackets, like nervous teenagers rather than wealthy athletes.
“We gotta go, woman.” Charles bent down and gave her a peck on the head. “Thanks for dinner.” He gestured to Derek then loped out the door.
Derek gave her a hug goodbye, clasping the older woman for a beat longer than necessary. There were very few people in this world that he loved, much less liked. “Nice to see you, Ms. Butler.”
“You come back, you hear? I’ll make your favorites for dinner.”
His own mother and father preferred to eat at restaurants, the fancier, the better. They were regulars at their snooty club, had their own balcony at the opera house. They were too worried about money and appearance to spend many nights at home with their son. He realized the hypocrisy of these judgments, however, climbing into his GLS 550 Mercedes SUV wearing a Ralph Lauren tuxedo, but he also knew his materialism didn’t rule him. That he could be grateful for the kindness shown him, even if it was from someone else’s parent instead of his own.
“How’s my tie look?” Charles asked from the passenger seat, as Derek backed out of the driveway. The big man’s fingers fumbled with the material.
Derek laughed. “You’re a hot mess. I’ll retie it for you when we get to O’Donnell’s.”
“Listen…” Charles sat up straight, his head scraping the roof of the cab. “You’re not going to say anything about Ma’s house, are you? I forgot you haven’t been out here since high school.”
“Why would I? To who?”
“Never mind.”
“Are you talking about the remodel? I was just kidding about buying her a new house. It sounds like she’s happy…” He did not want to have this conversation. College scandals and payouts to student athletes were rampant these days, and the crackdowns were harsh. There was no way Ms. Butler would do something so wrong. Derek was determined to leave it at that.
“Yeah, you’re right,” Charles said, then clear
ed his throat. He clearly felt the same way about the conversation, abruptly asking, “Man, are you ready for tomorrow? How you feeling?”
“I’m more worried about surviving this party tonight than I am tomorrow’s game. I hate having to talk to people. Especially ones I don’t know. Okay, and most of the ones I know.”
“Why you bein’ a grouch? You twenty-three. Live a little. Boston loves us.”
“Boston loves you.”
“People might love you a little more if you actually said more than five words at the press junkets. And didn’t have such a sour look on your face all the time.”
“Oh-ho! If I talked to the press! You full of shit. The club had to make you do this interview tonight. The association has been bitching at you for a year.” Derek glanced at him. “It always surprises me, you dodging the press. You’re not some wilting flower. You actually like talking to people.” He shifted down and changed lanes. “And now, you doin’ this three-sixty with this big interview.”
“Yeah.” Rolling down his window, Charles let a light rain spatter on the inside of the car and on his face, staring out at the passing scenery.
They sat quietly for a few moments, each trapped in their thoughts.
“I—” Charles started to say something, but then stopped, his eyes dark when he faced Derek. “Man, I—” He cut himself off again with a deep sigh.
“What’s up?” Derek had not expected the change in mood.
Slowly, as if choosing his words carefully, his teammate said, “O’Donnell hasn’t wanted me talking to the press. But now the association is making a big stink about me not meeting contract expectations, so he’s got this exclusive set up, to appease the powers that be.”
“I don’t get it. Why doesn’t he want you to talk to the press?”
Charles wouldn’t meet his eyes.
Derek gripped the wheel. “All right, man, what’s goin’ on?” First the house, now this shady business.
“It’s nothing.” Charles shrugged and then tried to lighten the mood. “It’s okay, everything will be fine. No big deal. I just hate O’Donnell controlling my reputation with the public.”
The Wrong Mr. Darcy Page 3