by Alison Kent
Which, of course, she did. “You know what I think?” Darcy said. “You’re making too big a deal out of this.”
“Oh, really?”
Darcy leaned back in her chair and pushed a strand of bright red hair behind her ear. “You’re only in town for a couple of months, Hayden. What’s the problem with having some fun in the sack while you’re here?”
“What happened to your one-night-stand speech?”
“Apparently it isn’t working out for you.” Darcy shrugged. “But you seem to believe it’s black and white, one-night stand or relationship. You’re forgetting about the gray area between the two extremes.”
“Gray area?”
“It’s called a fling.”
“A fling.” She said the word slowly, trying it on for size. She’d never been a casual-fling girl, but then again, she hadn’t thought she was a one-night girl, either. Maybe a fling with Brody wouldn’t be so disastrous. It wasn’t like he wanted to marry her or anything; he just wanted to burn up the sheets for a while longer, continue the fantasy…
But if she agreed to let their one night lead into a fling, who’s to say the fling wouldn’t then lead to something more?
“I don’t know,” she said. “Brody is a distraction I can’t deal with at the moment.” She paused, her mouth twisting ruefully. “But my body seems to have a mind of its own whenever he’s around.”
“So take control of your body,” Darcy suggested.
“And how do I do that?”
“I don’t know, next time you get the urge to jump Brody Croft’s bones, try an alternative. Watch some porn or something.”
A laugh tickled Hayden’s throat. “That’s your answer? Watch porn?”
Darcy grinned. “Sure. At least you won’t be thinking about Mr. Hockey when you’re busy getting turned-on by other men.”
“Right, because the men in porn are so wildly attractive,” Hayden said with a snort. “What’s the name of that guy who used to be really popular, the chubby one with the facial hair? Ron Jeremy?”
“It’s not the seventies, hon. Male porn stars have come a long way. Trust me, just take a long bubble bath, put in a DVD and go nuts. You won’t think about Brody even once.”
“This is possibly the most ridiculous conversation we’ve ever had.” Hayden rolled her eyes. “If I watch anything tonight, it’ll be the van Gogh special on the Biography Channel.”
Darcy released an exaggerated sigh. “A man who cut off his own ear is not sexy, Hayden.”
“Neither is porn.” She glanced at her watch, eyes widening. “Shoot. I’ve gotta go. I’m supposed to give a deposition today about Sheila’s state of mind when she signed the prenup.”
“Sounds like a blast. Unfortunately I left my party shoes at home so I can’t come with you.”
They got up and wandered over to the door. Darcy unlocked it and held it open, her attention straying back to the flowers poking out of the wastebasket. “At least your guy only wants sex,” Darcy said, looking envious.
“Brody is not my guy,” Hayden responded, hoping if she said the words out loud she might convince her traitorous body of it. “Are we still on for dinner tonight? I’m down as long as I get home in time to watch that biography.”
“And I’m down as long as it’s Mexican. I’m feeling spicy.” Darcy waved as Hayden left. “Enjoy the deposition,” she called out after her.
“Enjoy the flowers,” Hayden called back.
She turned just in time to see her best friend flipping her the bird.
“THANK YOU, Hayden,” announced Diane Krueger, Presley’s divorce attorney. “We’re finished here.”
Hayden smoothed out the front of her knee-length black skirt and pushed back the plush chair, getting to her feet. Next to her, her father stood as well. On the other side of the large oval conference table of the Krueger and Bates deposition room, Sheila Houston and her lawyer were huddled together, whispering to each other.
Hayden couldn’t help but stare at her stepmother, still as startled by Sheila’s appearance as she’d been when the woman had first strode into the law office. The last time Hayden had come to town, Sheila had looked as if she’d stepped from the pages of a fashion magazine. Long blond hair brushed to a shine, creamy features flawless and perfectly made up, expensive clothes hugging her tall, slender body.
This time Sheila looked…haggard. Much older than her twenty-eight years and far more miserable than Hayden had expected her to be. Her hair hung limply over her shoulders, her normally dazzling blue eyes were distressed, and she’d lost at least fifteen pounds, which made her willowy shape look far too fragile.
Though she hated feeling even an ounce of sympathy for the woman who was making her father’s life hell, Hayden had to wonder if Sheila was taking this divorce process a lot harder than Presley had let on. Either that, or she was devastated by the thought of losing that yacht she’d forced Presley to buy.
“Thanks for doing this, sweetheart,” her father said quietly as they exited the conference room. “It means so much that you’re going to bat for your old man.”
For the third time in the past hour, Hayden noticed her dad’s slightly glazed, bloodshot eyes and wondered if he’d had something to drink before coming here. His breath smelled like toothpaste and cigars, but she got a wary feeling when she looked at him.
No, she was being silly. He was probably just tired.
“I’m happy to help,” she answered with a reassuring smile.
He touched her arm. “Do you need a ride back to the suite?”
“No, I’ve got my rental.”
“All right.” He nodded. “And don’t forget about the party on Sunday night. Gallagher Club, eight o’clock.”
Shoot, she’d already forgotten. There was a huge shindig at the prestigious gentlemen’s club of which her dad was a member. And apparently her appearance was necessary, though she had no clue why.
Her father must have noticed her reluctance because he frowned slightly. “I’d like you to be there, Hayden. A lot of my friends want to see you. When you were here over the holidays you declined all of their invitations.”
Because I wanted to see you, she almost blurted. But she held her tongue. She knew her father liked showing her off to his wealthy friends and boasting about her academic credentials—something he didn’t seem to care about when they were alone.
She swallowed back the slight sting of bitterness. Considering they’d just spent an hour with the woman determined to bleed him dry, Hayden figured she ought to cut her dad some slack.
“I’ll be there,” she promised.
“Good.”
They said their goodbyes, and she watched her father hurry out of the elegant lobby onto the street as if he were being chased by a serial killer. Not a stretch, seeing as the law firm was called Krueger and Bates. Hayden wondered if she was the only one who’d made the connection.
“Hayden, wait.”
She stopped at the massive glass entrance doors, suppressing an inward groan at the sound of her stepmother’s throaty voice.
Hayden turned slowly.
“I just…” Sheila looked surprisingly nervous as she plowed ahead. “I wanted to tell you there are no hard feelings. I know you’re trying to protect your father.”
Hayden’s eyebrows said hello to her hairline. No hard feelings? Sheila was in the process of sucking the money out of Presley’s bank accounts like a greedy leech and she wanted to make sure there were no hard feelings?
Hayden could only stare.
Sheila hurried on. “I know you’ve never liked me, and I don’t blame you. It’s always hard to watch a parent remarry, and I’m sure it doesn’t help that I’m only two years older than you.” She offered a timid smile.
“We really shouldn’t be talking,” Hayden said finally, her voice cool. “It’s probably a conflict of interest.”
“I know.” Sheila ran one hand through her hair, her features sad. “But I just wanted you to know that I still c
are about your father. I care about him a lot.”
To Hayden’s absolute shock, a couple of tears trickled out of the corners of Sheila’s eyes. Even more shocking, the tears didn’t look like the crocodile variety.
“If you care, then why are you trying to take everything he owns?” she couldn’t help but ask.
A flash of petulant anger crossed Sheila’s face. Ah, here was the Sheila she knew. Hayden had seen that look plenty of times before, usually when Sheila was trying to convince Presley to buy something outrageous and not getting her way.
“I’m entitled to something,” Sheila said defensively, “after everything that man put me through.”
Right, because Sheila’s life was so unpleasant. Living in a mansion, wearing haute couture, not paying a dime for anything…
“I know you think I’m the bad guy here, but you need to know that everything I’ve done is a result of…No, I’m not going to blame Pres.” The tears returned, and Sheila wiped her wet eyes with a shaky hand. “I saw that he was spiraling and I didn’t try to help him. I was the one who sent him into another woman’s arms.”
“Pardon me?” A knot of anger and disbelief twined Hayden’s insides together like a pretzel. Sheila was actually insinuating that her father had been the one to stray? Her dislike for the woman quickly doubled. That she could even accuse a man as honorable as Presley Houston of adultery was preposterous.
Sheila eyed her knowingly. “I guess he left out that part.”
“I have to get going,” Hayden said stiffly, her jaw so tense that her teeth were beginning to ache.
“I don’t care what you think of me,” Sheila said. “I only want you to take care of your father, Hayden. I think he’s started drinking again and I just want to make sure that someone is looking out for him.”
Without issuing a goodbye, Sheila pulled an Elvis and left the building.
Hayden watched as her stepmother disappeared down the busy sidewalk, swallowed up by Chicago’s afternoon lunch crowd.
She couldn’t will herself to move. Lies. It had to be lies. Her father would never break his marriage vows by hopping into bed with another woman. Sheila was in the wrong here. She had to be.
I think he’s started drinking again.
The comment replayed in Hayden’s brain, making her toy nervously with the hem of her thin blue sweater. She’d thought her father’s eyes had looked bleary. Fine, maybe he did have a drink or two before coming here, but Sheila’s remark implied that Presley’s drinking went beyond today. That at some point in time he’d suffered from an alcohol problem.
Was it true? And if so, how hadn’t she known about it? She might not visit often, what with her hectic schedule at the university, but she spoke to her father at least once a week and he always sounded normal. Sober. Wouldn’t she have suspected something if he had a drinking problem?
Lies.
She clung to that one word as she pushed the strap of her purse higher on her shoulder and stepped through the doors. Sucking in a gust of fresh air, she headed for her rental, forcefully pushing every sentence Sheila had spoken out of her mind.
BRODY LEFT the locker room after a particularly grueling practice, wondering if he’d made a big fat mistake by pretty much telling Hayden the puck was in her end, the next move hers.
It had seemed like the right play at the time, but today, after two hours of tedious drills topped off by a lecture from the coach, he was rethinking the action he’d taken. Or more specifically, regretting the action he wouldn’t be getting. His body was sore, his nerves shot, and he knew a few hours in Hayden’s bed were all the medicine he needed.
He also knew she wouldn’t call.
You got cocky, man.
Was that it? Had he been so confident in his ability to turn Hayden on that he just assumed she’d want him to do it again?
Damn it, why hadn’t he taken her home with him? He’d seen the lust in her gorgeous eyes, known that all he had to do was say the word and she’d be in his arms again, but he’d held back. No, pride had held him back. He hadn’t wanted to go to bed with her knowing he’d coerced her into joining him for that drink. He’d wanted it to be her choice, her terms, her desire.
It was almost comical, how this conservative art history professor had gotten under his skin. She was so different from the women he’d dated in the past. Smarter, prettier, more serious, definitely more pigheaded. She annoyed him; she excited him; she made him laugh. He knew he should just let her go since she obviously didn’t want to pursue a relationship, but his instincts kept screaming for him not to let her out of his sight, that if he blinked, she’d be gone, and someone very important would be slipping through his grasp. It made no sense to him, and yet he’d always trusted his instincts. They’d never failed him before.
He kicked a pebble on his way to the car, feeling like kicking something harder than a rock. His own thick skull, perhaps.
He pressed a button on the remote to unlock the doors, then swore when he realized his wrist was bare. Shoot. He must have left his watch back at the practice arena. He always seemed to misplace the damn thing. He hated wearing a watch to begin with, but it had been a gift from his parents in honor of his first professional game eight years ago. Chris and Jane Croft were ferociously proud of their son, and he witnessed that pride every time he went back to Michigan for a visit and saw them staring at that watch.
Sighing, he turned around and headed back to the entrance of the sprawling gray building. The Warriors practiced in a private arena a few miles from the Lincoln Center, a little un-orthodox but Brody found it somewhat of a relief. It meant the media never filmed their practices, which took the pressure off the players to always be on top of their game.
The double doors at the entrance led to a large sterile lobby. A blue door to the right opened onto the rink. To the left were the hallways leading to the locker rooms, and when Brody strode into the arena he immediately noticed the two people huddled by the locker-room corridor. Their backs were turned, and Brody quickly sidestepped to the right, ducking into another hall that featured a row of vending machines.
“You shouldn’t have come here,” came Craig Wyatt’s somber voice.
Brody sucked in a breath, hoping the Warriors captain and his companion hadn’t spotted him.
He’d sure as hell spotted them, though.
Which posed the question: what was Craig Wyatt doing whispering with Sheila Houston?
“I know. I just had to see you,” Sheila said, her voice so soft Brody had to strain his ears to hear her. “That meeting with the lawyers today was terrible…” There was a faint sob.
“Shh, it’s okay, baby.”
Baby?
Deciding he’d officially heard enough—and that he’d return for his watch another time—Brody edged toward the emergency exit at the end of the hallway. He turned the door handle, praying an alarm wouldn’t go off. It didn’t. Relieved, he exited the side door of the building and practically sprinted back to his car.
The drive to his Hyde Park home brought with it a tornado of confusion that made his head spin. Craig Wyatt and Sheila Houston? The player rumored to be having an affair with the owner’s wife was Wyatt? Brody would’ve never expected it from the straight-laced Mr. Serious.
If it was true, then that meant the idea of bribes exchanging hands in the franchise might not be a lie after all. Craig Wyatt might have the personality of a brick wall, but he was the captain of the team, as well as the eyes and ears. He frequently kept track of everyone’s progress, making sure they were all in tiptop shape and focused on the game. If he suspected anyone had taken a bribe, he would’ve investigated it, no doubt about it.
Jeez, was Wyatt the source Sheila had referred to in that interview? Had he been the one to tell her about the bribes?
Or…
Shit, had Wyatt taken a bribe himself? No, that didn’t make sense. Sheila wouldn’t draw attention to the bribery and illegal betting if her lover was one of the guilty parties.
<
br /> Brody steered into his driveway and killed the engine. He reached up and pinched the bridge of his nose, hoping to ward off an oncoming headache.
Damn. This was not good at all.
He didn’t particularly care what or who Craig Wyatt did in his spare time, but if Wyatt knew something about these rumors…
Maybe he should just confront the man, flat out ask what he knew. Or maybe he’d ask Becker to do it for him. Becker was good at stuff like that, knew how to handle tough situations and still keep a clear head.
He rubbed his temples, then leaned his forehead against the steering wheel for a moment. Lord, he didn’t want to deal with any of this. If he had his way, this entire scandal would just disappear; he’d play out the rest of the season then resign with the Warriors or sign with a new team. His career would be secure and his life would be peachy.
And Hayden Houston would be right back in his bed. A guy could dream, after all.
“I WILL NOT WATCH porn,” Hayden muttered to herself later that night, stepping out of the enormous marble bathtub in the master suite of the penthouse. She reached for the terry-cloth robe hanging behind the door, slipped it on and tightened the sash around her waist.
Not that there was anything wrong with porn. She wasn’t a nun, after all—she’d watched a few X-rated videos in her twenty-six years. But she’d never used porn to get over a man before, and besides, she’d had six orgasms in two days. She should be thoroughly exhausted by now and not thinking about having sex at all.
Unfortunately, she was thinking about sex, and it was all Brody Croft’s fault.
At dinner, Darcy had again pointed out that a fling wouldn’t be the end of the world, but Hayden still wasn’t sold on the idea. She got the feeling that if she gave Brody an inch, he’d take a mile. That if she suggested a fling, he’d show up with an engagement ring.