And there was no hope that her mother would let her do the unthinkable: show up to her best friend’s wedding without a date. Joan had been so desperate to ensure that each of her daughters had a plus-one lined up that she’d strong-armed her sister Aly, who practiced free love, to commit to a man for one night only, and had curbed her criticism when Waverly had announced her plus-one would be Jeremiah Tarantino or no one at all.
All who really mattered were Grace, Mason, their minister, and a witness or two. Try convincing Joan Greer, expert on all things fashionable and high society, of that.
Veronica could raise the argument that in a sea of hundreds of guests, nobody would notice or care that some man wasn’t wearing her on his arm. But once her mother got it fixed in her mind that she was right about something, nothing short of a filibuster could persuade her otherwise.
Veronica sighed and took a generous swallow of her mimosa. A quick scroll through her phone’s contacts told her that from Ewan Abrams to Scooter Zeeman, she was critically deficient in go-to guys. After breaking things off with Ollie, she’d been able to count on Thomas for those rare “must have a date” occasions. Now she didn’t even have Thomas.
At eighteen she’d accompanied her parents to a garden party and met a man sure to give her the perfect romance, the perfect life. A few people had attempted to intervene—her older sister, her high school friends—but in Chance Kershaw she had seen her happing ending. With her parents’ approval—Chance was “a gentleman with his head on straight,” from a respectable family—she saw no reason to slow down and think. Within a year she’d married him. He was her first, and he had been her only for years.
Then the communication stopped, the distance set in, and as time brought Chance distinguished good looks and music business stardom, he became someone she didn’t know. His loss of interest in their marriage hadn’t been a surprise. When he’d come home late one night, woken her up, and confessed that he’d just left another woman’s bed—that had been the shocker. And the end of a commitment they hadn’t been ready for but had kept up for the sake of appearances. Just to show the outside world that they were a power couple.
To lie to everyone, including themselves.
Veronica was relieved to be free of that life, but freedom wasn’t such an easy thing to get used to. Her current predicament was proof of that. She’d relied completely on her plan B and hadn’t prepared a plan C.
She would keep her mouth shut should Thomas’s name come up in conversation with her parents today. There was a difference between lying and not volunteering certain information, after all.
For instance, unless someone asked her outright whether or not she’d let Simon Smith fuck her with a fountain pen last night, she wouldn’t volunteer the info.
Also—how in blazing hell could she have allowed that to happen?
Veronica peered at her delicate white gold watch. Any moment now J.T. and Joan would arrive for their meeting with Simon. Hopefully, their thoughts would be on business—not their thirty-year-old daughter’s social life. Last night, after she’d gotten home and stowed away the naughty gifts from Grace’s bachelorette party, she’d had a lengthy phone chat with her parents about their motives for having a sit-down with Simon when they had a steady starting QB in Brock Corday. They’d touched on everything from Brock’s performance during last Sunday’s game—he’d thrown three touchdowns but had overthrown a critical pass late in the game, inviting an interception that could’ve cost the team had the Villains’ defense not drawn a fumble—to the rotator cuff injury he’d sustained during training camp, to his mental preparedness for tomorrow’s away game. J.T. and Joan sounded confident in his abilities…so it boggled Veronica’s mind that they would humor Simon with a meeting hours before they needed to be on the Greer family jet and heading out of town for the game.
As much as they both wanted to attend Grace’s wedding, the event simply had the misfortune of falling on a game day. Veronica was a little—okay, incredibly—relieved that neither her father nor mother would be hovering at the wedding. She adored them both to pieces, but every once in a while a girl needed to take a breather.
“Another mimosa, ma’am?”
Veronica cast a solemn look up at the waiter who’d arrived soundlessly at her table. “Vodka. Just vodka.” Bad idea! “Changed my mind. Another mimosa would be great.”
“Right away.” With a dimpled grin, he walked off to take care of her drink, and she discreetly swiveled on her chair to observe him. Swag. He had it.
Hmm, I wonder how he feels about spur-of-the-moment dates. Veronica didn’t care that he was a waiter; she only cared that he was available, not crazy, and wasn’t the guy who’d screwed her with a pen.
But her parents—particularly Joan—would care.
Another sigh. Another gulp to finish her mimosa.
At eleven forty-five, her parents strode into the private dining room. Veronica stood, remembering to correct her posture, smooth away the creases in her summer dress as best she could, and smile as they took turns greeting her with a kiss on the cheek.
“I really have to ask again why you’re doing this,” she said once they’d settled at the table, both across from her, leaving the chair beside her vacant. The waiter had rushed off again to grant her parents’ request for cognac and lunch menus. “All Simon is going to do is plead his case, which we’ve all heard dozens of times already.”
“We’ve decided—” Joan glanced at her husband, who even while sitting seemed to dominate the entire room with his towering retired bodybuilder’s physique, natural frown, and intense blue eyes “—that burning a bridge is senseless when there’s something on the other side of the bridge that you want.”
“So what does Simon have that you want?”
“Names.”
“Names?” Veronica scrunched her face in a frown but caught the way Joan smoothed her fingers over her own forehead as a silent reminder to always be camera ready. “Whose names?”
“Men on Luca Tarantino’s payroll who were getting cash on the side,” J.T. explained in a Texas baritone that was still booming despite his efforts to lower his pitch. “Bribes, bounties, blackmail—it’s all the same, and we want to purge our franchise of Tarantino’s corruption.”
“The league is gathering this information, though. The investigation’s ongoing, but it’ll all come out—”
“We need this information soon.” Joan reached over to adjust the teal pocket square in her husband’s ink-black suit. “Before the trade deadline.”
“And Simon is willing to tell you everything he knows? Mom, Dad, I find that hard to believe. None of us was willing to hear him out before. Only Waverly was willing to listen to him—”
“Your sister has a special touch when it comes to underworld sleaze, doesn’t she?” Anger lit her mother’s beautiful features, confirming she hadn’t yet come to terms with Waverly’s new relationship or her old side gig as an amateur porn actress. “She and Jeremiah Tarantino—”
“Why would Simon even consider doing this, when there’s nothing in it for him?” Veronica interrupted, steering the focus away. She didn’t like the tension that still hung over their family, but oh, hell, she was glad J.T. and Joan’s wrath wasn’t directed at her.
“Simon is just the bridge, Veronica.”
“The means to an end, then?”
“It’s just business. You can appreciate that.”
Ah. So they were using Simon to get the information they wanted to better the team—a team that would never again include him. But he must believe there was a possibility, a hope, of him returning to the Villains. That was the only way he’d give them what they wanted. And J.T. and Joan were savvy enough to realize where Simon’s weakness was his career.
“Did either of you tell Simon that he’d get his job back in exchange for names?” she inquired softly, her gaze darting between them. Both sat imperturbable, emanating power and charisma and control. A Texan brute and Norwegian waif—so differ
ent yet so much alike.
Veronica had invested years in trying—and failing—to crack their secret recipe for an unshakeable marriage.
“Offering a job in exchange for names wouldn’t be ethical, now, would it?” said her father.
“How Simon Smith interprets things is his choice.” Joan shrugged. “We haven’t made him an offer—you would’ve known.”
Except she hadn’t known about this meeting until her assistant had gotten wind of it and inadvertently tipped her off.
All of a sudden, her mimosas weren’t settling so well.
Before she could figure out a way to convince them to cancel the meeting and trust the league to wade through the intricacies of Luca Tarantino’s crimes, which included passing out cash bonuses to his men to tackle with the intent to injure, betting on his own team’s games, and even covering his tracks by falsely accusing J.T. of coercing him to selling the franchise, she saw the hostess enter the dining area with Simon close behind her.
Veronica watched her parents stand to shake his hand, but she couldn’t get her own body to budge. You’re not going to like what they have in mind, Simon Smith.
Why couldn’t the man put this much effort into snagging a gig on another team? During this past spring’s NFL draft, there had been several quarterback-hungry ball clubs. Even if no one picked him up as a starter, he could still be offered a backup position. He could become another team’s franchise quarterback, possibly. He didn’t have to step into yet another raw deal.
Simon paused at the chair beside her, his height and that piercing gaze tugging her full attention as he held out his hand.
Handshakes were perfectly professional. She’d look like a rude bitch to ignore him. So she slipped her hand into his, and was just a bit too in tune with his strong grip, the warmth of his palm, the way his thumb caressed her skin.
His hands should be imprinted on her naked skin. Instead she had the memory of a fountain pen she’d never look at the same way again.
He sat beside her. Quietly, teasingly, he commented, “Like that color, don’t you?”
“Oh.” Veronica studied her dress. Green again. She never wore the same color two days in a row. Her mother coached her meticulously when it came to fashion, and this was a novice mistake. Why was she thrown completely off? “Um. That was forest-green. This is emerald.”
“Is there a fucking difference?”
Not really. “Of course. A massive, important difference.”
No, there seriously wasn’t, and she was boring him, driven by her need to obsess over something miniscule to take her mind off the urge to unzip his pants and introduce him to her lips.
“Simon,” J.T. said, after taking the liberty of ordering the other man a beer, “Joan and I are aware that you’re contributing to the NFL’s investigation. Let’s start with that.”
And start, they did, demanding answers that Veronica knew Simon wasn’t obligated to share. Sitting beside him, she felt as though she were his counsel, and almost whispered in his ear that he had the right to remain silent because her parents would offer him nothing—not the restoration of his job, nor his reputation.
Simon finally held up a hand, stopping the inquisition before Veronica did something ridiculous like forget that she was J.T. and Joan’s daughter and the team’s GM. She was a spectator in this conversation. Her purpose was to sit, shut her mouth, and learn.
“A lot of talking going on here,” Simon said, “but none of it has to do with me. You’re asking me about Tarantino and the coaching staff and other players. You’re asking me for a list of names when you told me that we were going to talk about my file, J.T.”
“Luca Tarantino made a mess of the Villains. That damage can’t be undone, but all this right here—” J.T. outstretched an arm, indicating not just the Villains Club Lounge, but the stadium in its entirety “—is an extension of me. Failure doesn’t work for me. Any man who’s so focused on a contract that he can’t see the wrong that’s in front of him doesn’t need to be on my payroll.”
Veronica felt the blow as if it had been delivered to her. She didn’t know where to look, so she pretended to study the condensation on her glass as she watched Simon out of the corner of her eye.
Simon nodded, chuckling even though there was nothing funny about his circumstances. “Doing a little cleanup on the team, right, J.T. and Joan? Want me to help you figure out who to cut?” He stood. “I’m not on your payroll, so don’t ask me to do a job for you.”
Veronica finally lifted her gaze, saw him pluck a few bills from his wallet to pay for his beer and then walk away.
“Damn it, we were so close to getting what we needed,” Joan whispered.
“We still are.” J.T. reached over to squeeze her shoulder. “As long as no other franchise wants him, he’s still open to negotiation.”
“It might be best to let him turn his attention to his own problems,” Veronica said, but they continued on as if they hadn’t heard her. As general manager she was in theory supposed to be more of an equal, but it always seemed that she was being used more as an enforcer—just the gal to carry out their orders. It didn’t matter how she got it done, so long as it got done.
“Mom, Dad, I need to step out for a moment.” She was already abandoning her chair and marching out of the room. Perhaps Simon was already in an elevator, or even somewhere in the parking lot, and she had no chance of catching him. But she had to try.
She found him snaking his way toward the exit, and, picking up the pace as best as she could manage in stilettos, Veronica approached and tapped him on the arm. “I thought you’d be gone by now.”
“Stopped to say hello to someone I know. Is that a problem?”
“No, of course not.” She cleared her throat. “A word?”
“Did your parents send you as a last-ditch effort to get answers out of me?”
“No.” Veronica led the way to the balcony.
It was vacant, but the rising temperature and high humidity were double trouble. The midday Las Vegas heat wrapped itself around her in an almost suffocating embrace.
And when Simon joined her, the heat worked its way completely through her.
Whatever this is you’re feeling, turn it off! Time to be a professional here—a GM. Not a woman who can be unraveled by a man’s criminally hot body.
“The owners have no intention of bringing you on as quarterback, Simon. I’m being frank with you—something that should’ve been done prior to this chat we all just had.”
He lifted an eyebrow. “You weren’t much of a part of it.”
“Hey, damn it. That was a meeting you’d gone over my head to set up with them, so what could I have really said? And you and I had our talk last night.”
“I don’t remember you doing much talking when I put that pen in your sweet cunt.”
Oooh, fuck, he was filthy.
“Simon.”
“You shut up when I fucked you with that pen, and you wanted more. My fingers. My tongue. My cock.”
Yes, please. Here. Right fucking now.
But that would be wrong. “Simon, you can’t speak to me like this.”
“The fuck I can’t.”
“Please,” she whispered. Please stop talking like this. Please just touch me.
“If you remember what we talked about last night, then you know how important my career is to me. I want my life back, Veronica. I want it all back.”
“In the real world, people don’t get everything they want.”
The incredulous look he sent her screamed, What the hell would you know about what happens in the “real world”? She supposed she couldn’t fault him too much for assuming her life was problem free. She worked her butt off to get people to assume just that. Take her divorce, for instance. No one but immediate family and close friends knew that she and Chance hadn’t amicably dissolved their marriage, that the truth was he’d shattered her heart.
“Veronica…” Good God, how did her name sound so sexy rolling off
this man’s tongue? “I don’t think your world and mine are the same.”
“Then just know that I don’t want to have this conversation again. It stops here—today. The whole going over the GM’s head to try to negotiate your job back? No more of that. We’ve moved on. It’s time you did, too.”
“Except no other team is interested. I’m not—how’d my agent put it?—desirable.” He let his gaze sweep her mouth before capturing her eyes, her attention, her sanity. She wet her lips with the tip of her tongue, felt her nipples tighten. Her mind was crowded with thoughts of naked bodies and hard, raw pleasure. Was it even possible for a look to throw a woman into total arousal?
Yes.
He was fucking her with his eyes. “What would you say if I told you I need to be in you, Veronica?”
“I…I’d say okay.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah, Simon.”
Without warning he released her with a step back. Wearing a satisfied smile, he wrenched open the glass door and went inside.
Veronica stared at her reflection in the glass as the door gently swung closed. Parted lips, fast breathing, pebbled nipples. She was turned on, and he knew it. She’d said Okay to having sex with him, and he left. “Touché, asshole.”
CHAPTER FOUR
“I’ve never seen so much tongue-fucking in a wedding kiss.”
Veronica nudged the maid of honor in reprimand, hiding her laugh behind her roses and ostrich feathers bridesmaid bouquet. It seemed no one else had caught wind of Kensie’s comment—not the minister, who was flushed at the enthusiasm of Mason Corrine and Grace Smart’s full-contact embrace, and certainly not the masses of guests and VIP media that were mesmerized at the glamour and spectacle of the most extravagant wedding Las Vegas had hosted this year.
Applause, punctuated with catcalls, rang throughout Mandarin Oriental’s foyer and ballroom. Women discreetly dabbed their eyes. Children squirmed and fussed, and one very distinctly whined, “Eew! Cooties!”
The Rush_The End Game Series Page 3