The guilt boiled up inside her. They’d all be right, too. What the hell had she been thinking? Lost Chris his dream so that he could get snubbed in the desert, thousands of miles from here.
The World Series, the championship, was more than just one match. It was life. It was the ring you wore forever. It was the Hall of Fame. Lose it, and you might sink into alcoholism or despair. Would that happen to Chris? Would their relationship even survive?
She bit her knuckles. Every inning he failed to connect was a new chance the manager would pull him. In Tepes’s place, she’d have pulled him!
Leo Olsen—first up. Single.Thank God. Sally clapped wildly. Even if Chris couldn’t do it, it wouldn’t matter as long as the Dodgers won. His performance thus far would make him man of the series—even with a terrible last game.
Next, Rick Angelo. Swing and a miss. Ball. The crack of the bat, connecting—she could hardly look. No—no good, no good! He popped it up, and the Boston shortstop caught it with ease.
Another Dodger came up to the plate—hit a flyout, just shy of that magic wall that would have added two runs to their total.
That meant Chris was next. Sally shut her eyes tight.Then she opened them. She couldn’t miss this, she had to share in his pain. That was her punishment.
And she thanked God she did, because a second later the in-ground cameraman found her and flashed her face up on the jumbotron screen, next to a still shot of Chris’s face.
The crowd booed. Sally wanted to shrink in her seat. As far as the fans were concerned, she was public enemy number one.
Then the cameraman found Chris, at the plate. He was listening to them booing Sally. His face, his handsome, square-jawed face, looked monumentally angry.The Dodgers fans shut the hell up.The Red Sox fans cheered even louder.
Holding his hand up to the pitcher, Chris turned round, looked up in Sally’s general direction, and blew her a kiss.
The knot in her stomach melted; his protection, his salute, was like a shot of hot buttered rum against the cold.
The umpire shouted something.The pitcher, eyes cold, wound up and swung forth with a deadly fastball—
—and Chris connected, not off pitch like the other two, dead in the middle of the bat. She could hear the crack in the stands. The ball was soaring, higher, deeper; Chris’s bat had shattered; he flung it from him and raced to first base; Olsen was already at second….
But the ball wasn’t stopping … it arced high, long, and into the stands at left field.
Home run!
Sally blinked, hyperventilating. Home run! A two-run hit! And Boston had already replaced most of their hitters, slicing through the roster in a desperate search for firepower. Olsen and Nelson raced around the bases. The Boston fans sat in stunned silence as the Dodger fans went nuts.
The jumbotron had fixed on Sally again. She waved, she smiled—she blew a kiss back down to Chris.
The fight trailed out of Boston. When the Dodgers’ closer, Ramiro Sanchez, came up to the plate it was a foregone conclusion. Two strikeouts.
And just to add a little sugar to the cake, Chris unerringly caught the final out; a pop-up direct to the shortstop.
Sally could not stop shrieking. She raced down the stairs, down through the tunnels reserved for the players, and rushed out onto the field, mixing with the other wives, the children, the girlfriends; Chris was just being lowered to the grass by his teammates who had hoisted him around; he caught sight of her, ignored the forest of microphones shoved in his face, put his arms around the small of her back, and bent her into a slow, powerful kiss that had every housewife in America fanning herself.
“Don’t you think you should sleep?” Sally asked, as they settled into the small private jet parked on the tarmac at Logan Airport.They had just come from a riotous postgame dinner, yet Chris had refused more than a single glass of champagne, and had told Sally not to have anything, either. “We have a suite at the Victrix … we could just go back, make love all night …”
“I don’t want you listed as my girlfriend for one more minute.” Nelson shook his head.“This has been the most spectacular day of my life and I don’t want it to end.”
“But going back to L.A. now …”
“We’re not going to L.A. We’re going to Vegas. We’re getting married. I have it all arranged.”
CHAPTER 14
Sally gasped. “Married?”
Chris bent forward, kissing her lightly on the lips.“I decided that in the seventh-inning stretch, win or lose. Called the owner on my cell; this is his jet. Screw the party, we can do that, too, but I want to elope. Just you and me. No damn guests. No protocol. It’s the fairy-tale night, baby. Anything’s possible.”
“Oh, God!” Sally burst into tears. “I love you, Chris!”
“Glad to hear that,” he said.“I love you, too, honey. And it’s a good thing, because I have nothing else to do with myself now except make love to you and bring up the rugrats.”
She blinked. “Why?”
“I’m quitting baseball. I’m thirty-five; at the top of the game …” He grinned. “World champ. Hit the winning homer. Caught the last out.You know what every last athlete does? They hang on, they try to repeat, one more season.They wind up getting less and less dough, watching their stats slip, being booed off the field and playing in the minors or retiring from injury after a losing season with the damn Detroit Tigers.” He shook his head. “Not for me. I don’t need the cash or the back problems.You be the star now, ’cause I’m looking forward to a long, anonymous retirement, as rich as Midas and getting laid every day.”
Sally wiped away the tears and started to laugh.
“You know you’re crazy as hell.”
“Not gonna try to talk me out of it?”
“Hell, no. I want to be Sally Nelson. And I want you there, not halfway around the country.”
She moved closer to him, sensing his warmth, slipping one hand inside his shirt; he was aroused, she could tell just by looking at him.
“No,” he growled, batting her away. “Insatiable little minx. If I can wait, so can you.”
He’d done it perfectly: the honeymoon suite, an enormous bed covered with rose petals—white, her favorite; no tacky Elvis chapel, just a black-robed justice of the peace, with an off-duty cop as a witness; fruit juices, bagels, crisped bacon laid out in their suite, so they didn’t have to interrupt themselves to get the door for room service. The management, sensing a coup, had somehow managed to obtain some World Series Champion memorabilia, and decorated the suite; the TV was replaying the game when they walked in the room.
After they were legally wed, Chris politely shook hands with the judge and the cop, then half shoved Sally into the nearest elevator. He rode it in silence to their suite, and unlocked the door. Then in one strong motion, he swept her, squealing, into his arms and hoisted her unceremoniously over his shoulder, head down, long hair streaming, and he carried her into the suite and flung her down on the bed.
“Evening, Mrs. Nelson,” Chris said, straddling her and pinning her down with a kiss.
Sally moaned; it was four in the morning, but she had never felt so alive. She reached down, fumbling, for the buttons of her shirt.
“No time,” he said, yanking down her jeans.
Eventually, three hours later, sweating in each other’s arms, they surrendered to sleep as the sun came up over the desert.
“I’ve got to call Mom,” Sally said, when they woke at noon.
“That can wait. You’ll be just as married tomorrow,” Chris said. “Come here.”
They stayed in the honeymoon suite for three days, ordering room service, leaving only for a dip in the rooftop pool; Sally sent orders via the bellhop, and fresh clothes were delivered to the suite; they had packed nothing. It was pure bliss. Mona, once told, didn’t even mind; Chris’s parents were mad, but managed to swallow it for the sake of family harmony, especially when he reassured them the big wedding party was still on.
Sally was
bruised in the best way; she decided she loved it; Chris couldn’t get enough of her. And to hell with protection. If she got pregnant now, all the better.
Finally, even Chris wanted to go home; it was fun being cheered every time he set foot outside his rooms, but even poolside they wanted his autograph.
“That eighty-acre plot in Beverly Hills is starting to look real good.”
“Told you,” Sally said smugly.
He patted her on the ass. “Watch yourself, Mrs. Nelson.”
“And I want to get back to work, as well. Jane Morgan’s left several messages on my voice mail. She’s flying down for a meeting.” Sally looked at him out of the corner of her eyes to check if he was annoyed, but Chris just shrugged.
“Like I said, knock yourself out. I’ll be the one taking laps in the pool. And lying on the couch with the remote.”
Sally beamed. Haya could eat her heart out; he was the perfect man!
The GLAMOUR boardroom was a beautiful thing. Architect-designed in the new extension, it said that the company was owned by women. Sally had been meticulous. A long table and chairs, Scandinavian blond woods. Some of Haya’s finest tapestries framed on the walls; a few select magazine covers—Sally on the cover of Time, Jane on the cover of Fortune. Fresh flowers, daily, just in case. Soft Aubusson carpets.The latest in audiovisual equipment. And a terrific view of the Pacific from the huge windows, tinted against the ferocity of the sun.
Not that they needed all that space. Jane had insisted that nobody be there except Sally and herself. No secretaries. No lawyers.
“But if it’s a board meeting, don’t we have to notify Haya?” Sally had asked.
“It’s not a board meeting. I just want to talk to you.”
“Fine.”
Sally had hung up, intending to be there. She still liked Jane, but she no longer trusted her.
And now here they were. Adults; beautiful women. Jane would never be as sexy as Sally, but she definitely had something: fiery New York chic.That hard casing, though; it would put men off—all but the toughest. Sally wondered what Jane had to prove. She had a suspicion she was about to find out.
“I want to take the company public,” Jane said.
Damn, Sally thought. No chitchat. No pleasantries. Jane meant business.
“Why? Financing?”
Jane nodded. “We can go global. And we can still retain enough shares to have a controlling interest.”
Sally nodded slowly.
“You asked Haya if you could buy her shares.”
Jane flushed. How did Sally know that? She saw the flicker of anger in her partner’s spine, and stiffened. Jane had underestimated Sally, perhaps. But it didn’t make any difference.What she was doing was just.
“She wouldn’t sell them to me.”
“But why didn’t you tell me?”
Jane’s dark eyes narrowed. “Did you ask her the same thing, Sally?”
Sally nodded slowly.
“For the same reason you didn’t tell me, I suppose.” Jane gave a great sigh; she was glad, cards on the table. “I know both of you have made a huge contribution, and I’d never force you out, and you’re both rich. But GLAMOUR is mine. I’m at the stage where I want to control it. I think it would be best for me and the company, and you guys, too. Haya can get on with being a princess, you can be a star. I’ll take care of the dollars and cents.”
Sally was furious.What blatant contempt!
“Um, excuse me, Jane, but GLAMOUR is mine. My designs, my image. Being a star, as you put it, is what sells this store. I could get anybody to do the financials, any damn firm in New York. That’s backroom stuff.”
There was a long pause.
“Don’t let’s fight over this.”
“I think that ship has sailed,” Sally responded.
Jane twisted her fingers. “Do you have the other shares, then? Did Haya give them to you?”
“No. And I think she’s being a total dog in the manger about it. She doesn’t even want to stay involved. At least you and me both live it.”
Jane nodded, hugely relieved. There was still a chance, then. “We can force her to go public.You and I, together, can vote for that with two-thirds of the shares. That way things are on the open market. If you can get control, good for you.You know I’m going to try to. I value our friendship, Sally, you know I do. But this is apart from that and it’s my life.You’ve got Chris, Haya’s got a whole new life …”
“So what’s Craig Levin? Chopped liver?”
Jane had to smile at the New York expression. “My ex-boyfriend,” she said, simply. “We broke up.” She blushed, and admitted, “He sold me his shares.”
“God damn you!” Sally shouted, jumping to her feet. “You never even told me …”
“Less of the histrionics,” Jane responded sharply. “Same way you never told me you had decided to elope to Vegas? We both think our way is best. Let’s not make this personal.”
“It’s always been personal. GLAMOUR is me. Not some random brand. Me. In a store. It’s what America loves.”
“If we go public, you have a chance to compete for those shares. So do I. I want to form my own company now, aimed at taking over GLAMOUR. Morgana, Inc. It’ll have financial offices everywhere. And no partners.”
Sally sat down again, slowly. “I want to make Nelson a company, too. My own brand of cosmetics, as well as GLAMOUR’s Lassiter brand. And I want to mop up whatever’s out there.You can do just as well with any stock, Jane; to you it’s just money.”
Jane swallowed the insult.Tempers were high. If she said what she was thinking, she could lose Sally’s friendship for good.
“If we don’t go public, it’ll be eternal stalemate.You and I on each other’s nerves. Both of us resenting Haya. No good for us or the company.”
“I agree with that.”
“I’ll never sell up to you, nor you to me.”
“And Haya’s sitting tight. No—it’s the only way. I see that.” Sally nodded.“I’ll call our lawyers and vote my stock with yours. So long as we have seats on the board and a controlling stake.”
“Of course.You want to tell Haya?”
Sally thought of the wedding, of Haya’s haughty attitude, the waitress thrusting a shawl over her carefully chosen dress.
“You better do it.
“You two fallen out?”
“Not fatally. We seem to have drifted apart a little.” Sally felt a pang; anger, relief, regret, she wasn’t sure.“Same as you and me. Same as all three of us.”
Jane was silent then, her dark head bowed.
“I’ll make you a very generous offer for your shares, Sal. I can get the money.Then this wouldn’t come between us.”
Sally stood up. “At the end of the day we are friends, not sisters. Things happen. Life happens. I want GLAMOUR, Jane. I hope you get even richer any which way, but I want this store.”
Jane nodded sadly. “I’ll call Haya. And I’ll be in touch. We should do it fast. I’m looking to float in six months. In the meantime, I can still work with you?”
Sally laughed. “You kidding? I’ll be tripling the promo. We want this to be the biggest launch ever. When GLAMOUR floats, I want it to be a proper global chain.”
Jane reached across the table and offered Sally her hand; after a second’s hesitation, the blonde girl shook it. She gave Jane a knowing smile.
“I think you Brits might say, ‘May the best girl win.’ ”
“It’s beautiful,” Haya said. “Thank you.”
She gave the little Moroccan girl a hug and a kiss; her parents looked on, beaming with pride; they called down God’s blessings on Her Royal Highness.
Haya lifted up the little picture, clumsily drawn on paper in bright felt-tip pen, showing Haya standing beside a GLAMOUR store that resembled a large bazaar. Appropriate, really, that’s what it was. The girl, Salma, was twelve, but had Down’s; the drawing was garish as a five-year-old’s. Salma grinned toothily, pleased with her hug and kiss.
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br /> The special school was a new one in Casablanca. Haya was making a whistlestop tour of charitable schools in the region; she’d planned out a full schedule with Jaber, and started on it the day after their honeymoon.
“But you’ve got an event every day,” Jaber had said, shaking his head. “Four tours a year, not counting my state visits …”
“I can’t sit on my hands, you know that,” Haya told him. “If I’m going to do the charity thing I want to do it. Full-time. Use the title, use the position. I’ve been a company director for years now, I need that buzz. Noor will come with me. And they’re mostly in Ghada; I’ll only be apart from you a couple of weeks a year, at most.”
“And when our children come, insh’Allah?”
“Then I’ll stick to Ghada. But hey, princesses here travel in style,” Haya teased him. She wondered if she’d ever get used to it: the enormous limos, the outriders, the crazy jewels and exquisite robes. First-class, air-conditioned comfort wherever she set foot. Being the prince’s favored girl had been one thing; this was a whole new ball game. But Haya was determined to earn her keep. She refused to be one of those spoiled women who spent their lives at polo matches or shopping in Dubai.
“I’m proud of you.” Jaber ran his hands possessively over her body, tugging her toward the bed. “The people love you. Everybody is noticing. Even the queen is starting to approve.”
“After that wedding …”
“Never mind that.” He brushed his thumbs across her breasts, feeling her shudder, then slipped the robes from her shoulders, gently biting down upon them. “Come here, Princess …”
Haya grinned, remembering. She felt guiltily pleased that today was her last day in North Africa and the royal flight would be taking her home tomorrow. She hated to be away from Jaber.
Her equerry, a Miss Salmah al-Akhtam, was giving her that discreet little wave. Haya stood up, gave an enthusiastic little speech about Salma and the wonderful work being done at the school, shook hands with the bowing and curtsying staff, and allowed herself to be escorted out by her bodyguards.
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