by Jianne Carlo
“Paxton, if she doesn’t agree to legalize your relationship soon, I’m in there like a dirty shirt.”
Halfway through the doorway, Sarita halted, turned around, and said, “That’s flattering, Suresh, but Rolan’s my son’s father. I think I have to go with him.”
And with those words all the tension left his body, all the bunched muscles unclenched in his neck, and his shoulders relaxed. He flashed her a grin, and their gazes met and held.
“Say you’ll marry him, Mom,” Tony piped up, and he winked at Rolan, a sidelong us-males-together gesture.
Rolan gave his son a thumbs up while studying Sarita’s flushed face.
“Hush, Anthony,” she retorted, eyebrows slashing together over her nose. “Not another word.”
“Why don’t you join us for dessert, Sarita?”
“Great notion, Paxton. Hang on, I’ll nab a chair from the dining room,” Suresh said, jumping to his feet.
“I’m sorry, I really don’t have time. As soon as I finish dessert, I have to start the canapés for this evening.” Her forehead puckered and she bit her lip. “Suresh, Tony and I missed Phagwa this year. We plan to celebrate it over the next couple of days. Tomorrow Terry, the Glory Captain and owner, is taking us to a private beach where we can have a bonfire. Would you like to join us?”
“I’d be honored, Sarita. Thank you for inviting me.”
Puzzled, Rolan’s gaze shifted from one to the other. “Phagwa? What’s Phagwa?”
“Phagwa, or Holi, is the Hindu Festival of Colors. It’s the celebration of the defeat of the demoness, Holika. Holika believed herself immune to fire, and she plotted to kill her own nephew because of his devotion to Vishnu, the heightest of the Gods. She took her nephew into a bonfire. He survived and she didn’t. Turns out she was only immune to fire if she entered the fire alone. You have to understand, there are many versions of this story, and what I’m describing now is sort of an amalgam of the majority. At any rate, the fesitval takes place over a two-day period. On the first day, which is called Kama dahanam, people light bonfires to celebrate the victory of good over evil.” Suresh explained.
“Yeah, the first night’s fun, but I like Dhulhendi better. I always get Mom good.” Tony imitated throwing a football. “It’s the great arm, ya know.”
“Dhulhendi?” Rolan scratched his temple. All at once, he remembered Hindus believed in many gods. A culture gap as high as Everest erupted. He had a mountainous hurdle ahead of him, but for Sarita and Tony, he would adapt.
“The name of the second day of the festival,” Suresh replied, his mouth curving. “People throw water and colored powders at each other. You usually end up covered from head to toe in the stuff.”
“The powders are actually ground herbs, which are used in the practice of Āyurvedic medice. You know what spring is like, the way flus run rampant. Celebrating Holi or Phagwa may have the added benefit of boosting immune systems at a time when viruses are multiplying.” Sarita shifted the tray from one hand to another.
“Are you a practicing Hindu?”
“I was baptized and raised in the Catholic faith, Suresh, but, my father was a practicing Hindu. He celebrated all the festivals and taught me about the religion. I celebrate the festivals for two reasons, to honor him, and to teach Anthony about his heritage.”
Rolan’s bunched neck muscles relaxed, the gap had just narrowed.
“And I should warn you, living in the Bible Belt meant I had to adjust. Instead of throwing the powders and water separately, I combine them. It was more accpetable to have the equivalent of a water balloon fight rather than have Tony, Doc Cavanaugh, and I throwing strange powders at each other. Our neighbors kept a close eye on us.” She sighed, a long audible breath, and gave a little shake of her head, as if clearing her thoughts. “Are you very orthodox?”
“Not at all. I don’t suppose you’ll have any thandai tomorrow night?” Suresh lifted one eyebrow, and rested his hands on his hips. “With bhang?”
“Suresh!” Sarita gave a little shake of her head, and crossed her eyes in Tony’s direction. “I’d better hustle.” She shot the Internet billionaire a schoolteacher’s scold over one shoulder and stalked away.
“What was that all about?” Rolan asked, sotto voce, taking a seat.
“Thandai is a traditional Hindu drink for the second night. It sometimes contains bhang, aka cannabis,” Suresh whispered.
Sarita didn’t surface for the rest of the meal. They devoured the entire coconut pie. Rolan had most of it, having played with the fish and gulped down only the food he recognized, peas and rice.
The whole team had reservations at the Hotel de Paris. Most of the guys would be arriving today. The young billionaire had meetings scheduled with the coaching team, so he took his leave in a hurry. Rolan offered him the Reverton and Suresh accepted the keys with a grin.
About to head to his cabin, Rolan paused at the sound of roaring engines, swept his eyes to the dock, groaned aloud, and cursed.
Jimmy Rizzo.
Sporting a spanking gleaming Reverton, the 2008 model, not the 2007 Rolan owned. Signed to a three-year deal for a record-breaking, mind-numbing thirty million, and a cool five million bonus, superstardom loomed in the athlete’s future. The cocky youngster relished an audience’s attention, loved the cool toys now available to him, and even more, savored one-upping Rolan.
He’d deliberately set Rizzo’s invite for an hour later than the rest of the team. Why the hell was he here now?
Chapter Four
Jimmy Rizzo’s long muscular legs unwound from the gleaming black metallic Lamborghini and hit the sidewalk with a thump. Of Italian descent, the youthful athlete radiated the heat of a primed stallion bristling to display his measure. Dark chocolate eyes assessed the boat and Rolan, and came to a conclusion.
He glanced at Rolan, hooked a thumb over a shoulder, and quipped, “Just picked her up. Last one Lambhogini’s making. Cool to own a car only nineteen other people in the world own. Want to take a spin?”
Exhibiting not one ounce of tact or diplomacy, the young cockerel brazened onto the deck, taking the ramp in two extended strides. “So this is how the rich and famous live? Not bad, not bad at all for a senior citizen.”
Rolan’s hands balled into fists, but remembering Suresh’s condition for a coaching job, he clenched his jaw and asked, “What are you doing here?”
A bus crawled up the hillside, emitting a stream of gasoline and exhaust. Afternoon sun lit the bay and hit the steel building opposite, turning Rizzo into an outline. Even squinting, Rolan couldn’t make out his adversary’s features.
“Suresh says we have to make nice, even if it’s only for the paparazzi. So, here I am. Not a bad yacht. Ordered one two weeks ago. This is what, a hundred and sixty feet? Mine’s one eighty.”
“Bully for you,” Rolan muttered, raking the twenty-two year old from head to toe. Jesus. What a day, reconnecting with Sarita, finding out about Tony, making his first foray into retiring, and now having to deal with his rival.
Tony careened around the deck’s corner and collided into Jimmy. Seconds elapsed, Rolan holding his breath, hoping Rizzo would tumble into the murky Mediterranean, but with his usual deft grace and nimbleness, Jimmy straightened both himself and Tony. He surveyed the boy and his jaw dropped open.
Rolan closed his eyes and counted to ten. Before he hit nine, Rizzo’s deep baritone broke through the perpetual Monte Carlo traffic background of honks, revving engines, and bleating whistles.
“Whoa! You two are obviously related.” Jimmy’s thumb scraped over his five o’clock shadow and his gaze darted from father to son. “Younger brother? Nah, I’ve read your file. You have a pack of sisters, no brothers.”
“And how the hell did you get access to my file? You’ll pay for that, Rizzo,” Rolan snarled, enunciating each word. “Go below deck, Tony.”
“Why? Mom said I should get some fresh air. This is the guy who subbed for you at the end of last season.” Tony crossed h
is arms and scowled at Rizzo. “My dad’s the best receiver in the league. So what if you set a record for the forty.”
“Dad? Now if this doesn’t slice it wide,” Jimmy said, a broad beam curling the pouty lips that had graced the cover of countless magazines. “Deep dark secrets in your past, Paxton. Wait till this hits the rags. That’ll shatter your clean-cut reputation. Suresh know about him?”
“That’s none of your business, Rizzo. Tony get below deck, pronto.” When his son didn’t respond at once, he cut him another sharp look only to find the young boy’s feet planted wide apart, arms akimbo, dusky eyebrows slashed to a V. A burst of pride raised the hairs on Rolan’s arms and the urgent need to shield his own made him bark, “Below deck. Now!”
He ignored the slash of color staining the boy’s cheeks and swiveled to face Rizzo. “You leak this to the newspapers and I’ll ensure you’re injured early this season. And don’t think I can’t do it. I’m owed a lot of favors.”
“Are you threatening me?”
“Damned right, I am. Now get off this boat. I don’t want to see your face until ten tonight. Got that?”
“You’re a complete waste of time, Paxton.” Jimmy threw his hands up in the air. “At least I can tell Suresh I tried. What the hell are you going to do when I tell him you kicked me off the boat?”
“I don’t give a damn how much you curry favor, Rizzo. I’m still the man. Get off this boat.” Fists balled, shoulders and neck muscles tighter than a rattlesnake poised to strike, Rolan stayed on deck and watched the Lamborghini peel off the quay, swerving in and out of traffic.
Lost in thought, he didn’t hear Terry approach until the Irishman cleared his throat.
“That was the famous Rizzo, I presume.”
“Yeah. He’s threatening to leak the news about Tony and Sarita to the press.”
“Stogie?” The big Irishman held out a torpedo-shaped cigar, an exact duplicate of the one clamped between his teeth.
Rolan nabbed it and accepted a light from Terry’s pen-shaped black lighter. He puffed a couple of times and the port-flavored stogie gave off a pungent, smoky aroma.
“The crew’s gossiping about the two of you. Rumor has it Sarita was your high school sweetheart.”
“Yeah.”
“Kind of obvious now I see the two of you together that Tony’s your son.”
“Yeah.” Rolan cut to him, assessing his expression.
A notorious womanizer, Terry O’Connor had two goals in life: captain his own ship, and screw hard, often, and with variety. A good four inches taller than Rolan’s six-one, Terry had a thicker Hulk Hogan build, all solid hewn brawn. The Irishman had been in charge of the Glory, the only female to whom he’d ever been faithful, since his friend, Geoff Stanford, purchased the yacht six years ago. The men were like brothers and had schooled together, each slated for different professions, Terry for the Royal Navy, Geoff for legal corporate manna.
“Ever thought of having kids?” Rolan mused.
“Hell, no. Not for me. I like my freedom too much. How old were you when…?”
Terry didn’t have to finish the question; Rolan knew the way he thought.
“Two days after I turned nineteen. Sarita and I had gone to school together for years, but I never noticed her until we were sentenced to detention in the same room. After four Saturdays cooped up with her in that tiny room, all I could think about was getting her naked. And then she waitressed the prom. I’ll never forget that little black skirt and the white apron. It drove me wild. I’d been sexually active for years and I always used a condom, at least until that night.”
“What’re you going to do?”
“I asked her to marry me.”
They strolled along the deck to the bow, propped feet on the railing, and gazed at the Royal Palace nestled into the greenery of the far cliff face. Nautical crafts of all shapes and sizes crowded the bay, coating the Mediterranean like a shipyard carpet, only this rug rocked and swayed as the sea lapped at the coastline. Afternoon sun dappled the far horizon and the azure waters glinted silver.
“That’s a bit drastic, isn’t it?” Terry tilted his jaw up and blew a series of perfect smoke rings.
“The timing seems right. I figure on retiring at the end of this season. It’s time for me to settle down anyway and he is my son.” His tone rang in a sudden lull of the ubiquitous Monte Carlo traffic, strident, possessive, certain, cementing his determination.
“And Sarita? Where does she fit in?”
She’s mine, all mine, but he didn’t say the words aloud.
“She’ll be my wife. It’ll work out. She can entertain, that’s obvious. She’s a little shy, but she’ll shape up.”
“And other women?”
“It’ll be a while before I even notice another woman, and I definitely don’t want a repeat of my parents’ marriage, or divorce.” He shuddered.
“You intend to be faithful?”
“I intend to try to be,” Rolan replied.
“Boyo, that’s a foreign concept as far I’m concerned. Jaysus, the notion makes me nauseous,” Terry said, and his shoulders shifted. “Think about it. Waking up next to the same woman for the rest of your days. Uh-uh, not a possibility. Not for me.”
“My parents’ divorce was splattered all over Orangeville’s newspaper. Dad left Mom for an eighteen-year-old two days after his fiftieth birthday. To make it worse, she was a classmate of mine. Mom got Dad back by screwing the gardener. I will not put Tony in a position like that. For three years, I was the butt of every nasty rumor, every sick joke. If keeping my cock in my pants means my son will never have to go through that, well, I’ll take it one day at a time.”
“Better you than me, boyo.”
“I’m going to go into town, Terry. I have a few things to arrange.” He stubbed the cigar out in an ashtray conveniently located on the mosaic counter. “Catch up with you later.”
Rolan took the steps down to the kitchen two at a time. He found Sarita cleaning up and couldn’t resist hauling her into his arms, nuzzling the sweet base of her neck.
She went still, rigid. “Stop, Rolan. What if Tony comes in?”
“The boy isn’t stupid, Sarita, as evidenced by his comment this morning. He knew exactly what we were doing. Besides, he has to get used to us.”
“There isn’t any ‘us.’ I haven’t committed to anything,” she said, her voice clipped.
“I have to run some errands in town. I’ll take Tony with me. Has he seen Monte Carlo at all?”
She squirmed out of his arms, but he resisted her withdrawal, tightening his arms around her waist. “What’s wrong?”
“You’re like a bulldozer, Rolan. And it’s irritating me. It took me ten years to get to this spot, independent, relatively financially secure, I don’t want you taking over. I don’t like it.”
“I missed ten years of Tony’s life. So screw me if I want to make it up big time. He’s my son and I haven’t got a clue as to what TV shows he watches, if he likes to read, what he does in his down time. Do you know how that makes me feel?”
She turned around in his arms and her caramel eyes held pools of moisture. “You want to know him.” Gentle fingers caressed his cheek. “You like him.”
“It sounds corny, but yes, not only do I like him, I love him. He’s my son Sarita, part of me, and it’s like a whole new world has opened up. I watch him and it’s like watching me at ten.” He closed his eyes and hugged her tighter. “He’s our son, you’re his mom, I’m his dad. What else matters?”
“This is so scary. For so long it’s just been me and Tony. I don’t have the lifestyle you do, Rolan. We live simply. And I don’t want that to change. I want him to have normal values. I’ve read about you in the papers, the Playboy Mansion, all the movie stars. I won’t let you change him that way.”
“And I don’t intend to. Think about it, you’re not exactly living in the lap of luxury. I am, and I can afford to provide the best of things for the two of you. I want to.” H
e read the mixture of fright and temptation in her wonderful eyes. “Let me spoil you. Let’s take a chance and focus on forming a real family, you, me, and Tony. We already know we’re compatible sexually. Give us a chance.”
“I’m so damned confused. Give me a little time, Rolan. Let things sort of sink in.”
“Done, Sarita honey, you think all you want and I’ll start the ball rolling.”
Unable to resist, he ate at her mouth, nibbling the plump bottom lip, sinking his teeth into the sweet flesh, licking it until she moaned, doing that little throaty thing he loved. Focused on getting a taste of her breasts, he tugged her tank top down, fiddled with her bra, exposed pearl pink nipples and areolas, and sighed in wonderment.
“Jesus. I can’t get over how much they’ve grown. They were pretty before, but now they’re provocative as hell. How about a T-shirt instead of this tank top? It drives me nuts knowing that other men can see your cleavage.” Dipping his head, he drew one taut point into his mouth and grazed it with his teeth. She leaned into him and burning desire surged. He had to be inside her. Now.
“Mom, stop that.”
Rolan groaned.
“Cut that out, you two. Hey you, get your hands out of Mom’s shirt.”
He leaned his forehead against hers. “I guess this goes with the territory.”
Setting Sarita away from him, Rolan swiveled, shielding her, and contemplated his bristling son. While a parent’s role might be foreign to him, Rolan knew that establishing clear lines of authority early in any relationship laid the groundwork for the future.
“Number one,” he said, raising a finger. “You do not speak to your mother like that. Number two, get used to it. We’re getting married and married people are affectionate with each other. Three, you can address me as Dad, and four, I will not tolerate any snarky remarks. Five, we’re leaving for Monte Carlo in about half an hour. Go get ready. We’ll be out for at least a couple of hours. I’ll meet you on deck in twenty-five minutes, precisely.”