The Wrong Mr. Darcy

by Evelyn Lozada

  Derek’s glance was roving over the crowd, but then slid back to her. His eyes widened. The breath in her throat caught as again, the bold color of his eyes stunned her, the long black lashes framing brilliant, burnished-maple irises. Pinned in place, she had yet to breathe. Did Derek Darcy remember her? He stared and she couldn’t look away, unsure of what to do.

  Hara blinked, and then blinked again rapidly, her eyes painfully dry; that broke the spell.

  He nodded, almost sternly, and then moved on. It took a second to catch her breath and let her heart settle back down.

  A young woman about Hara’s age stepped close. “Did he smile at you?” she asked dreamily, following the players with her eyes as the two men melted into the crowd.

  “Who?”

  “Derek! Oh my gawd, that man is fire,” the girl said, fanning her face dramatically. She might have arrived straight from a photo shoot, wearing a neck scarf and a strapless, plunging jumpsuit that defied physics, with her nutmeg hair perfectly shaped in an au naturel puff. She was so well put together that Hara felt like a brace-faced, pimply kid standing next to a superstar.

  “He didn’t smile.” Hara paused. “He did nod, though.”

  The girl pouted her perfect lips, shaded red, and said, “I like him. Even though he never talks to me. Or anybody.” She reached out a hand to Hara. “I’m Naomi. Who are you?”

  “I’m Hara. I’m a reporter out of Portland.”

  “Ah, lobsters and such. Do you love it there?”

  “No, I’m sorry, I’m from Portland, Oregon. We’re more about the salmon.” Hara laughed. “So, you know Derek Darcy?”

  “Kinda.” Naomi fingered her scarf and continued to stare after the players. “I’ve been hanging with this crowd since I dated a player last season, but he was cut. Which was a bummer, but not really. I mean, so many fish in this sea.” She smacked her red lips, humming at a cluster of men she spotted across the room, including Butler. Quietly, she said, “And Charles is the biggest fish.”

  Hara tilted her head. “You know Charles, then? Are you guys dating?”

  Naomi’s Afro bobbed as she whipped her head around. “Shhh. Tina will kill me, kill both of us, if she thinks we after her man.”

  She suddenly looked much younger than Hara, once Hara could see past her glamour.

  God, hopefully Naomi is at least eighteen if she is roaming free in this crowd.

  “Hey,” Hara asked, trying to change the subject, “weird question, but do you have Visine in your clutch? My contacts are killing me.”

  Instead of answering, Naomi shifted her focus to a point behind Hara.

  Madeline Bingley stood at her elbow. “Hara? Are you ready?” The sleek blonde woman eyed Naomi but didn’t say a word to the girl. The assistant was fierce, and slightly frightening, with smoky noir eyes and an outfit Hara recognized from the cover of Elle, a Getty lambskin fit-flare dress and matching stiletto booties. “Charles wants to do this sooner than later.”

  Hara followed in her wake, with Naomi gaping at her. She gave a little wave, as if she were in control of the situation.

  CHAPTER 5

  You may ask questions which I shall not choose to answer.

  —Pride and Prejudice

  Approaching a set of double doors at the edge of the living room, Madeline abruptly swung around to face Hara. “Remember the rules. No recordings. Stick to the approved questions.” She sniffed, her pointy nose in the air. “And for God’s sake, get your quotes right.”

  As they’d crossed the room, Madeline had been accosted repeatedly by the well-to-do offering hearty hellos and asking her how she was doing; O’Donnell’s assistant acknowledged most with little more than a tilt of the chin. Men in expensive suits created a deferential path for them.

  Hara’s first impression of the woman had in no way changed, but the reporter realized something: Madeline was definitely more than a glorified secretary. People were treating her as if she had power. Hara put on her respectful face. And you will stay respectful, do you hear me, Hara? Do not screw this up.

  Madeline tapped her foot, waiting for her to respond.

  The reporter shoved her ego into a box. “Yes. Of course. I understand.”

  “We have you set up here, in the library.”

  Hara nodded, but her doubts about the process crept in. She’d handed over her notepad and pen earlier, ostensibly so Madeline could put it in the library for her, but she’d seen the assistant flipping through the pages as she walked away. Probably checked the pen for a bug, too. Why was it so important Hara not go off-script? What were they worried Butler was going to say? He might get a little sexist, probably even misogynistic, but how was that shocking for a cocky athlete? She shook away the train of thought. They just wanted to control the narrative, like all ball clubs. Hara knew that when she agreed to this. It was fine. She either did it their way, or there was no way.

  As the assistant moved toward the library, Hara buttoned her jacket with trembling fingers, covering her cleavage. She refused to use her sexuality to keep Charles Butler’s attention. It was a tool in her toolbox, for sure, but not in an important moment like this.

  A defining moment.

  I’m in control. Pretend you’re a competent adult, Hara. Use his name, keep steady eye contact, do not hunch. Project charisma and confidence. You got this, girl.

  Madeline pushed open the heavy panel doors, which slid smoothly into the wood-paneled walls, and then threw open her arms like a game show host. “Charles! You look fantastic! Are you ready for tomorrow?”

  The star player for the Fishers was sitting on a leather sofa in front of a low-burning fire, drinking a bottle of Perrier, but unfolded his lanky body into a standing position when they entered. He towered over the executive assistant. With a tug on his lapel, he said, “Do you mean I look fantastic in Armani? Because that’s true.” He grinned. “Or we talkin’ on the court? Because that is also true. Chicago’s goin’ down tomorrow.”

  “Yes, so true,” Madeline said, nodding. “Thank you for being here. Let me introduce you to the reporter, Hara Isari.”

  O’Donnell didn’t give Hara a chance to speak. From across the room where he stood in front of an enormous bay window, the team owner butted in, “Hara’s a whippersnapper, Butler, be careful of this one!”

  The old man’s tone had been lighthearted—but his lip stuck to yellowed teeth as he smiled, and the skin around his eyes tightened. The odd response confused Hara. Was he unhappy with his choice of reporters now?

  Behind O’Donnell, the window framed a rosé-colored sunset, the rays sliding over the misted riverbanks just past the family’s gardens. The quality of the light touched something in Hara, helped her take a breath, find a center in the swirling chaos of thoughts and emotions trying to overtake her.

  There was another man standing by the window, staring out. He turned and she was again face-to-face with Derek Darcy. She almost laughed aloud at his double take; he hadn’t known she was the reporter, of course, until just now.

  She offered the handsome rookie a smile but his surprise had quickly been erased, replaced by smooth indifference. Wow, Mr. Personality, she thought with disappointment. Yet, as before, she couldn’t look away, entranced by his strange, brooding eyes. Another flash of nature’s beauty to appreciate.

  His gaze was emotionless but intent, and did not shift past her or through her. It was as if this gorgeous stranger, a young man cresting on fame, was trying to peer inside of Hara. She felt seen.

  But what did he see?

  Luckily, Madeline broke the awkward stare, sliding in front of Hara. “Hara Isari, this is Mr. Darcy.”

  Hara, leaning to see past Madeline, offered a small wave but he didn’t respond, only inclined his head and continued to regard her with an intense gaze.

  The assistant didn’t waste any more time on Hara. “Derek, I didn’t know you’d be in here.” Madeline’s voice dropped to a fangirl purr. “You were on fire at training camp. I loved watching you.�
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  “Thank you. I didn’t know you were there,” Derek responded in a polite monotone.

  The timbre of his voice did something to Hara, sending a slight quiver down her spine. Derek Darcy had the sexiest voice she’d ever heard. She wondered what he sounded like when he laughed. If he laughed.

  Madeline said, low and throaty, “I try to make all the practices…”

  Hara, happy for the distraction, touched a fingertip to the corner of her eye, trying to readjust the contact, sticky to the touch. Dry plastic felt like grit rubbing against her cornea. Blinking did absolutely no good.

  The assistant stopped her babbling finally and shifted her attention back to Charles, the reason they were there. “Isn’t that right, big guy? Talk about being on fire!”

  “Yeah, okay, Madeline.” The star player twisted his lips in amusement. “Maybe we should get this show on the road.” Charles stepped toward Hara and held out his hand. “You’re a lot better lookin’ than Eddie, the guy who normally covers the team. Hara, right?”

  She forgot about her dry eyes. “Yes. Hello, Mr. Butler, pleased to meet you.” Hara was much taller than Madeline but still had to lift her chin to look up at the basketball player. His massive hand enveloped hers, which she prayed he didn’t notice was shaking. His handshake was firm. Not trying to crush her bones. Not touching her like a delicate flower. She smiled and said, “And no worries, I’m almost past the whippersnapper stage.”

  His snort startled her, making her jerk back slightly, and then they both laughed, his demeanor easy and comforting. “Good for you, girl. We don’t need no whippersnappers round here.” He gave one final shake and let go of her hand. “Call me Charles. I’m not even sure what the hell a whippersnapper is.”

  She decided she liked him. He seemed so … normal. She’d been expecting a resistant, petulant asshole. More like Darcy. Her knees felt a little less wobbly.

  Good, good, keep him on your side. Ooze that charm, Isari. “According to my grandma, it means I’m acting bigger’n my britches. But I was never exactly sure what that meant, either.”

  “Let’s get you two started, shall we?” said Madeline, grimacing at Hara.

  The assistant directed them to a pair of wingback chairs in front of the fireplace, then swayed over to Derek. A small, ornately carved table sat between the chairs, bearing Hara’s notepad and the sheet of paper containing the questions. She lowered herself slowly to the edge of the deep cushion, arranging her dress so as not to let it ride up on her thighs. Then she tucked her legs to the side and crossed them at the ankles, making sure there would be no panty flashing. No one needed to see her Spanx.

  Charles, on the other hand, took off his suit jacket, let himself drop into his chair, and settled back with a big sigh, loosening his tie. “What paper you say you’re with? You don’t look familiar.”

  “I’m—”

  “She’s vetted, Butler. Don’t worry about it,” O’Donnell said over her. “She’s good at what she does. You read her entry for the contest.”

  The player shrugged. “All right. Whatever. Just makin’ polite conversation.”

  Obviously, there was to be no chitchat.

  Hara took a breath and dove in. “Let’s start big picture, Mr. Butler. Charles. You guys suffered such a heartbreak loss in the championship game last year. Any predictions for your team in the upcoming season?”

  “That’s goin’ big picture, all right.” His dark eyes were earnest as he put a hand on his heart, as if swearing-in at court, and said, “I predict we’re going to be a force this year. Our new guys are young but they fit right in, filling the holes. The depth of this group is somethin’ … it’s the most talent I’ve been with at any level. My boys worked hard these past months. The veterans, every one of them, are stronger and more amped than ever before. I know I am. Look at these guns!”

  She glanced up from her notebook, in which she’d been frantically scribbling in shorthand. She didn’t stop writing as his long fingers unbuttoned a cuff on his dress shirt, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t paying attention.

  Yeah, okay, roll up that sleeve, she thought, biting her lip to keep a straight face. Men were ridiculous. What did she care if he wanted to flex his sexy bicep at her? She’d seen a hell of a lot more than that being flexed at the prison, and those guys were usually missing teeth or covered in flaming skull tattoos.

  O’Donnell coughed. Loudly.

  Derek, from where he stood at the window, made a scoffing noise. “Come on, man, totally unnecessary. Get on with it.”

  “You just jealous.” Charles sucked his teeth at his teammate, but let his sleeve go and instead leaned forward, toward Hara. Energy rolled off him. Good energy. “I’m proud of my team. You wait and see, Boston is going to go crazy when we beat L.A. in the finals.”

  “All right! You’re a league MVP and considered the floor general for your team. How do you feel about that kind of leadership role when you’re so young and relatively new to the team?”

  “I work hard to deserve it. I’ll make MVP again. But I do have a ton of talent who keep my ego in check. We’ve got personality skirmishes, sure, but we respect each other, and we bring each other up.”

  Hara wrote what he said and waited a moment for him to continue, but he didn’t. She was surprised at how generous the young All-Star was being toward his team, and he wasn’t nearly as egotistical as she’d expected.

  “Any standout players this year? I mean, besides you, of course.” She smiled. Sarcasm, even teasing sarcasm, was a risk, but she sensed he enjoyed banter and wanted to keep him tuned in.

  Madeline shot her a look. Hara blinked. She’d asked an approved question. She blinked again, cursing her dry eyes.

  “Uh huh, cute.” Charles chuckled. “If I’m going to talk about someone who’s almost as good as me, then I’s got to bring up my brother Derek. Wave hello, Wreck.”

  Derek, not bothering to uncross his arms, rolled his eyes.

  Charles continued, “Yeah, seriously, that grumpy bastard over there is the man. Thank God the rook is off the bench this year, he’s the yin to my yang. With my shooting and Darcy’s defense, we just can’t be beat.”

  Hara pressed her lips together as she continued to jot down his words. She wanted to ask about Derek’s recovery from his injury at the start of last season. He had to hate it that he had to endure another year of being called rookie.

  But no follow-up questions were allowed. She had been so stupid to agree to that. Hara couldn’t even ask Charles if he wanted to add anything.

  Luckily, he went on without prompting.

  * * *

  The interview lasted ten more minutes.

  “Well, that was my last question,” said Hara. “Thank you so much for taking the time to sit with me, especially the night before the first game. I’ll let you get back to it.”

  Charles sat forward, puckering his lips. “That’s it? Wasn’t as painful as I thought it’d be.”

  “I think she has everything she needs,” said Madeline, stepping into their space. “Isn’t that right, Hara?”

  “I … I guess? I mean, yes, I’m good.”

  “Not that good,” muttered a melodic voice from across the room.

  She stiffened, the handwriting on the notes in her lap going fuzzy.

  Did Derek Darcy just throw shade at her?

  Charles stood up gracefully, despite his great height. “Congratulations on winning the contest, Miss Hara. Good luck out there.”

  “Right back atcha.”

  O’Donnell and Madeline fretted around their star, pulling him off to the side, a tree among the shrubs. There was a rush of whispers.

  Hara gathered her belongings nonchalantly, trying to hear the hushed conversation while appearing not to have a care in the world. No use. They sounded like Charlie Brown’s teacher. Wahn wahn wahn. Without looking around, she moved slowly toward the door. Disregarding Darcy’s snide comment, she felt pleased with herself. Nailed it, she thought, suddenly fl
ush with gladness that she had brought her résumé. City Gazette, here I come.

  “Ms. Isari.”

  It was Madeline. “You did well.”

  Hara was surprised at the compliment. “Thanks.”

  “Before I forget, your press pass for tomorrow’s game was delivered to your room. Don’t lose it.”

  Hara had been so caught up in psyching herself up for the face-to-face interview, she hadn’t even processed the extra thrill of getting to sit in an actual press row at an actual NBA game. The residue of Derek Darcy’s insult washed away with the influx of new excitement.

  Charles came up beside her, shrugging back into his suit jacket. “Don’t mean to be rude, but apparently”—he glared at Madeline though softened when he shifted his glance to Hara—“I have to leave before I say something to ruin your opinion of me. Let me know if you need anything else.” He threw a wave over his shoulder and headed for the door, where his teammate waited for him.

  Derek’s copper eyes matched up with Hara’s once again, and once again, an electric zap made her shiver. Though ten feet apart, she felt like he was touching her, holding her in place, peering into her. She’d never experienced anything like it before. If only his demeanor matched his appearance.

  He turned his gaze away. The players left the room.

  The energy dissipated; Hara could swear the lights dimmed.

  “Hey, Madeline, do you think I could sit in here for a bit? I want to finish writing out my notes before I forget something.”

  “Good idea.” Madeline sniffed. A pause. “Just so you know, the players will be leaving soon. They’ve got a curfew, according to their contract. I’d appreciate you giving Charles and the others space until then. They’ve got to focus on their game tomorrow.”

  Hara blinked silently in response. She’d been considering how to fit in more candid questions if she was to “accidentally” get into a conversation with one of the players out at the party. She needed to work on her poker face.