His eyes lit with appreciation. Good. She’d been right. She sat a little higher and readied herself to deal.
Thirty minutes later, Alex was shaking her hand. She found herself smiling at him. Dealing, it seemed, was more fun than she had expected.
“I’ll get Gardner to draw up the contract tomorrow,” Alex said. “You can start on Monday.”
“I thought you wanted help with the party.”
“Well, I’ve got caterers. I could use your help with what people’s favorite drinks are—I’ll send you the guest list that I’ve put together—but I think other than you showing up on the night and helping the three of us get to know everyone, there’s not that much to be done.” He pushed back his chair. “Have you talked to your dad yet?”
Maggie shook her head. “No. He wasn’t home this morning.”
“Try again tomorrow,” Alex suggested. “Let him know what you’ve decided.”
She doubted her staying at the Saints was going to be the topic of conversation when she did manage to pin Tom down. No, that was going to be way down on the list. After why he’d been lying to her for several years and all the other variations of that topic. But Alex didn’t need to hear about that. If she wanted to keep their relationship strictly professional, then that meant no whining to him about her family dramas. “Are you sure you don’t need me to do anything more for the party?”
He shook his head. “No. Go. Or rather, come say hello to Mal and Lucas first, they’re going to be very happy you’re staying.”
* * *
Maggie woke early the next morning and hauled herself back up the highway to her dad’s house. With the amount of commuting she was starting to do, she was glad she’d talked Alex into paying for her gas during their little negotiation.
She didn’t call in advance, not wanting to give Tom a chance to blow her off with an excuse. But when she arrived, the curtains were drawn in the front room and no one answered when she rang the bell.
Annoyed, she let herself in and roamed through the house, making sure that her dad wasn’t lurking somewhere and pretending not to be home to avoid the press. No luck. The place was deserted and Tom’s car was gone from the garage.
Frustrated, she grabbed her phone and called him. Voice mail. She rang off without leaving a message and then tried Shonda.
“Where’s Dad?” she asked after they’d said hello and done the “how was your Christmas” thing.
“He took Veronica away for the weekend,” Shonda said. “Didn’t he tell you?”
“No.” Away? Where? Did that mean he wouldn’t be around for the party? Crap. “Did he tell you where?”
“No. He said he didn’t want anyone to know. The press have been bugging him all week.”
“Are you being a good PA now or telling me the truth?” Maggie realized with a sudden pang of guilt that she hadn’t asked Alex about Shonda and whether she was still going to have a job with Tom gone. She’d run his office at the Saints for nearly ten years, clucking over him and Maggie like a mother hen but turning a ruthless watchdog bark on anyone who tried to get around her to get to either of them or slip around the sacred Shonda schedule.
“It’s the truth, honey. He booked his own tickets even. And used one of his personal cards.”
He really was trying to fly under the radar then. “Okay. Thanks. Are you coming to the party on Saturday?” The invitation from the terrible trio—she really should try to stop thinking of them as that if she was going to work with them—had come through to her e-mail earlier that morning, so she assumed everyone knew now.
“Sure. I want to check out Alex Winters’s fancy apartment. And drink his booze. Just like everybody else does.”
“Has Winters—” Maggie hesitated, wondering if it was her place to bring up Shonda’s job. But she was the closest thing Maggie had to a surrogate mom, so maybe she should. “Did he—”
“Did he offer me a job?” Shonda chuckled. “Yes. Not working for him. He has that Gardner boy and a whole flock of assistants apparently. But he asked if I wanted to work for Malachi or did I want to take a redundancy or see what was available in his other companies. Your dad asked me to stay with him too. So don’t you worry about me. Everybody wants Shonda.”
Relief flooded through Maggie. “Oh. That’s wonderful.” But then she realized that raising the topic of employment might just inspire Shonda to grill her about what she was going to do. Time for a speedy exit. She extracted herself from the conversation and stood for a moment, wondering what to do next. Then she remembered she still needed a dress for the party because her shopping trip with Hana and Shelly yesterday hadn’t yielded anything that had met with Hana’s approval. Time for a second attempt.
* * *
Maggie was late to the party, thanks to ugly traffic and last-minute nerves. Alex opened the door and smiled a welcome as he ushered her inside. Maggie stepped around him and turned a slow circle, taking in the large foyer with approval. Pale walls, dark timber floors, and a series of black-and-white photos of baseball greats either side of the doorway that led into the next room.
“Like it?” Alex said when she came to a stop, facing him.
She managed a smile. “I officially have apartment envy.” And nerves, she realized with a sinking feeling. The good kind of fluttering stomach nerves that she really shouldn’t feel from the presence of Alex Winters.
“Yours is nice too. Can I take your coat?” He held out his hand.
“Not this scale nice.” She slipped off her coat.
Alex went still. “Nice dress.”
“Thank you.” Hana had been right about the dress apparently. It was short and a deep blue that gleamed softly in the light as the fabric draped her body with just the faintest hint of silvery sparkle to match the shoes. She watched his eyes travel over her and come back to her face, suddenly greener than ever. She turned toward the sound of voices and music. Safety.
He caught her wrist, his fingers warm against her skin, his grip gentle. “Not so fast.”
“Sorry?”
He glanced upward. She followed his gaze. Above the door was the biggest bunch of mistletoe she’d ever laid eyes on.
“Mistletoe? Seriously?”
His grip tightened just a little. Tugged her toward him. “What’s wrong with mistletoe?”
She resisted the pressure, ignoring the tingle in her wrist where his fingers rested against her pulse. “It’s poisonous.”
“I’m not asking you to eat it.”
“It’s not Christmas.”
“This is a belated Christmas party, remember? I didn’t own the Saints at Christmas.”
“Don’t remind me.” She pulled at her arm, feeling her pulse pick up. Scared that he might not let her go. Scared that he might. Which was crazy. “Besides, we agreed, no flirting.” State the ground rules again. That couldn’t hurt.
“Maybe. But regardless, where’s your festive spirit?” His lips curved. She was starting to be way too familiar with the precise shape of his mouth when he smiled.
“It was just fine at Christmas.” She tugged again.
He pulled her closer. “You don’t want to mess with tradition. You know how superstitious ballplayers can be.”
“You’re not a ballplayer.”
Alex grinned, nodded toward the inner door. “There’s a whole roomful of them in there. You never know what might set them off.”
“The season hasn’t even started. They’ll be fine.”
“I might not be.” His fingers stroked her skin ever so softly.
“Alex … I thought we agreed. You’re my boss. I don’t date my bosses. And I’m sure you don’t date employees.”
“Not usually,” he murmured, sounding a little … torn. “But it is Christmas.” He glanced up at the mistletoe.
“No it’s not.” But she couldn’t quite bring herself to pull her wrist free.
“You know, you could view it as an experiment. Might solve our problem.”
“An experiment
?” She was having trouble following the thread of his argument.
“We could kiss, it could be terrible, and boom, no more chemistry. Problem solved.”
It wouldn’t be terrible. She knew that in her bones. It would be more like boom, way too much chemistry. Nuclear-reaction-level chemistry. “I think your lawyers would say that’s a bad idea.”
“What, one little kiss and you’d sue me?”
She summoned a smile. “Yep, that’s me. Discrimination suit waiting to happen.”
“You don’t strike me as the litigious type.”
“You don’t know what type I am.”
“I’m trusting my instincts. They’re pretty good.”
“Famous last words.”
“C’mon, Maggie. Just one little friendly mistletoe kiss. What harm could it do?”
It could do a lot of harm. Danger, danger, Will Robinson. The only way to get through this was to keep Alex and all his temptations firmly at arm’s length. Her brain knew that but it seemed her body wasn’t quite so sure. The tingle had spread from her wrist and was creeping up her arm, stealing through her nerves like soft fire, weakening her defenses.
“Lots.”
“How?”
“People will get the wrong idea.”
“What kind of wrong idea? That you like me? Isn’t that kind of the point?”
“Liking you is different from liking you. I don’t want them thinking that.” If Hana could hear her now, she’d be shaking her head in disgust. She’d done another round of “use your advantages” to get control of the new boss while they’d shopped.
But that wasn’t how Maggie played the game. And, looking up at Alex, she had the distinct feeling that she was out of her league. This wasn’t a man to trifle with. Not a man who’d be led around by his nose or any other body part. Nope. He was a man who would take over. Take control. And if she gave up the few things she still controlled at this point she might just go crazy.
“I think you’re more afraid that you might get the right idea,” he said softly.
“Oh? What idea is that exactly?”
“That you want to kiss me.”
“I thought we’d covered that part back in the bar.”
“Yeah, but that was that nasty tequila talking. You were upset.”
“That was only four days ago. Do you think you’re forgiven?
“Aren’t I?”
“I…” She hesitated, unsure exactly what to say.
“Because if you haven’t forgiven me yet, then I might as well just add to my sins.”
“Excuse me?”
“You know, in for a penny, in for a pound.” His other hand stretched out, settled on her waist, and drew her close. “Merry Christmas, Maggie,” he said, and then he kissed her.
It was soft and gentle and swift, a perfectly polite Christmas kiss. But regardless, as his mouth touched hers, heat roared through her like an express train and she melted against him without thinking, opening her mouth for more. The smell and taste of him swept over her and pulled her down into a place where she wasn’t thinking, only feeling.
More. More. More. Her body was greedy for him, desperate. So desperate so fast that it scared her into sanity and she broke the kiss off with a gasp like her last breath of air. Alex looked down at her, eyes dark and surprised, his expression somewhat dazed as she imagined hers was.
She pulled away from him, heading toward the sound of people, walking a little bit too fast, feeling like she’d lost her balance. Thank God she’d gone with simple pale pink lip gloss rather than the killer red Hana had suggested. Hopefully it wouldn’t be obvious she’d just been kissing Alex. Alex who was still behind her—she could feel the pull of him like there was a rope between them and he was the anchor. And her body protested its dissatisfaction with walking away from him loudly. So. He definitely kissed like the devil. Which meant the only sensible thing to do would be to flee. She quickened her step. When she passed through the door, she almost collided with Ollie, coming the other way. He steadied her with a hand on her shoulder.
“Hey. I thought I heard your voice,” he said, bending in to kiss her hello. Relief warred with guilt. Obviously he hadn’t seen her and Alex or his greeting would have been far less friendly.
She almost turned her head so that his lips would land on her cheek but just managed to stop herself. Ollie had kissed her hello and good-bye for years now. Friend pecks. He’d wonder what was up if she didn’t want him to kiss her now.
His lips hit hers and she waited for the brief tingle of nostalgia that sometimes welled up when he was close to her. But tonight it didn’t come. Tonight, all she could think was that his kiss didn’t feel anything remotely like Alex’s.
“Something wrong?” Ollie asked, drawing back.
“No.” She straightened her shoulders, drew in a breath. “No. Nothing. Just got stuck in some traffic. You know I hate being late.”
“Yeah, it was a bitch getting here. Must be some construction somewhere, I guess.” Ollie slung his arm around her shoulders, drew her into the room just as Alex came up behind them. “Nice digs though.”
That was something of an understatement. Alex’s condo was massive, the room they’d entered ran the entire length of the building from what she could see. No curtains blocked the windows and Manhattan lay below them, sparkling in the rain like the world’s biggest set of Christmas lights arrayed around the darker spill of Central Park.
She accepted a glass of champagne from a waiter who popped up out of nowhere, took a mouthful, then another in rapid succession, and wriggled out from Ollie’s grasp. “I need to say hello to everyone,” she said when his black brows drew down.
“You just got here.”
“That’s traditionally when you say hello,” she said. “Don’t worry, there’ll be plenty of time to hang out later.”
“If the boss man doesn’t monopolize you.”
“Well, he is the boss.”
“Still don’t understand why you’d want to work for him.”
She smacked his arm. “Well, it was either that or go work for another team. Maybe I still will. They probably have hotter players after all.” She smirked up at him. “But I would miss … old Flappy.” Flappy being the nickname for the Saints’ mascot suit. It was big and stinky and the players delighted in stashing it in all sorts of inappropriate places.
Ollie snorted. “Face it, it’s me you can’t live without.”
“Keep telling yourself that,” she retorted. “It’s nice to have a dream.” She took another mouthful of champagne, the wine easing the stew of nerves and butterflies in her stomach little. She watched as Alex joined a group of players standing near a trio of low red leather couches set around some sort of space-age-looking fireplace.
They looked up at his approach, smiles a little warier than normal, but they seemed to welcome him readily enough. Still, she should go and join him, help ease the way.
And she would. Right after she found Hana. She excused herself to Ollie and went in search of the girls.
Hana and Shelly were standing with two of the other players’ wives, all of them laughing at a black-clad waiter with a very cute face who was offering them some sort of canapé involving long bamboo skewers and fried shrimp. They were obviously tasty because Shelly moved to block his retreat as he tried to move on to the next group and secured another four.
“Maggie, hi,” she said, after a rapid swallow. “Grab one of these before you go. They’re divine.”
The waiter offered his tray and she took one, and a napkin, with a grateful smile, then moved out of his way so he could escape.
“Hey,” she said to the group as she stepped into their circle.
“The new boss serves good food,” Hana said as she took one of Shelly’s extra skewers.
“Are you criticizing my catering choices?” Maggie laughed.
“No, but the last few parties that Veronica catered for were a little dull.”
“Don’t blame me, I wasn’t
here.” She took a careful bite of shrimp.
“Yes, but you’re here now. And this party is fabulous. I love this place. I wonder how long it took him to get into the building,” Shelly said speculatively.
“Money helps with waiting lists. Particularly for places like this,” Maggie said. “Don’t hold your breath, Shel. We pay Hector well but this might be out of his league.”
“Oh, I like our place,” Shelly said. “But a girl can dream.” She finished her own shrimp and wagged the empty skewer at Maggie. “You’ll have to get Alex to give you a proper tour. See if everything’s as good as this room.”
Maggie resisted the urge to kick her in the shins. “I’m not all that interested in interior design,” she said dryly. “Why don’t you ask him to give you a tour?”
She glared at Shelly over the top of her glass and Shelly seemed to get the message because she dropped the subject.
“You know, he might own the building,” Hana said.
“I thought this was a Trump building,” Peta put in. She tipped her glass toward the window, a wide grin on her face. She was tiny and delicately built, like Hana, and the floaty layers of white chiffon of her dress emphasized it. “Anyway, who cares who owns it? What matters is that we’re here, drinking the man’s very nice liquor and looking fierce.”
Peta was married to Cordell King, one of the other pitchers. They’d been together since high school. Both of them had come from a small town in Georgia. A long way from their current Upper East Side location.
Maggie raised her glass. “I’ll drink to that. And to a successful season,” she added.
“Girl, do not start with the baseball talk,” Peta admonished. Shelly, Hana, and Moira nodded agreement. “We’re still on break.” Peta practically ran the women’s fastball league program for the Saints. Between that and wrangling Cordell, she earned her vacations.
“You four might be, I’m back at work.” Keeping the deal she’d made so that programs like Peta’s wouldn’t be cut. No. She wasn’t going to think about that tonight. Tonight, she was determined to enjoy herself. Channel her inner Scarlett O’Hara and ignore her problems like a champion.
“So we hear,” Moira said. “Which means you’re obligated to spill all you’ve learned about the three spunky amigos.”
The Devil in Denim Page 10