by Sey, Susan
Bob frowned. “She told you that?”
“Of course not. But I’m not blind, Bob. You and I both know that Kate can be...subtle. What she says isn’t nearly as important as what she means, and I’ve gotten pretty good at reading her. Maybe not as good as you are, but darn good. And I’m telling you, firing me was a big, fat relief to her. I could see it in her eyes. The woman wanted me gone and my rather spectacular failure made her day.”
“That doesn’t make sense, Bel. She sank three years into you. She made retirement plans around you. You were the golden child. Why on earth would she be happy about losing that kind of investment?”
“You tell me.”
“How am I supposed to know?”
“Because you know everything.” She gave him a smile, big and bright. “You’re the Great and Powerful Bob.”
“And as such, I’m not in the habit of overlooking problems that cost me money.” His gaze went hard. “I invested in you, too, Bel. I saw something in you that Kate saw as well or she would never have taken you on in the first place. So don’t sit there and tell me this isn’t your fault. That you’re the victim of some vast conspiracy or something.”
Bel’s shoulders had crept up to her ears as if to protect her from the ugly truth, and she forced them back down. “I didn’t say it wasn’t my fault. I just pointed out that maybe there’s more than my fault going on here.” Bob’s brows headed farther north and Bel shoved her fists into her elbows. “Listen, maybe we haven’t been together as long as you and Kate, but you’re my agent, too. You know me. I do the work, Bob. I do it well and I do it right. And when there’s blame to be laid, I don’t run whining to my agent. I take my fair share.”
He sighed. “I know you do, Bel. That’s why I haven’t signed or sent the Dear Jane letter on my desk with your name on it.”
She’d known that letter was a possibility. Of course she had. That was why she’d ducked his phone calls for the last two weeks, wasn’t it? But her lungs went scorched and useless all the same. “You were going to void my contract?”
His shrewd gaze shifted to hers. “I didn’t say that.”
“So you believe me?”
“I didn’t say that either.”
Bel took a firmer grip on her courage. “What did you say, then? If you don’t mind my asking.”
Bob smiled his sharky smile. How had she ever imagined he was wilted? “I have a proposition for you, Belinda. One that might bring Kate around, save your career and iron out a little problem of mine, all at the same time.”
She considered him narrowly. “I already gave you a pie.”
“Resurrecting your career is worth considerably more than a pie, Bel. Even one of yours.”
“I think you’re undervaluing my baking, but okay.” She leaned forward. “What do you need?”
“A nanny.”
She frowned. “For what? Your imaginary children?”
“No, for a multimillionaire with maturity issues.”
Bel considered this. “What kind of maturity issues?”
“All of them.” He steepled his hands and watched her over his fingertips. “Just listen, okay? I have this client. Magnificent athlete. Like poetry in human form. On the field, he’s a goddamn shrine to timing and instinct. But his personal life is a disaster. He drinks, he fights, and if he’s ever had a date he didn’t pick up in a strip club I’ve never met her.”
“He sounds charming.”
“Oh, it gets better. He also has a pair of moronic brothers, one of whom acts as his manager, the other as his webmaster. Now if even one of these boys had the judgment God gave a billy goat we might be all right. Unfortunately...”
Bel’s stomach tightened with alarm. This set-up was starting to sound ominously familiar. “Unfortunately?”
Bob shook his head. “These boys make billy goats look like academics. Throw in unlimited funds and—” Bob filled in the blank with a weary chuff of laughter. “Bottom line? My boy’s one thin hair from being blackballed from every team in the league. Kid needs a babysitter.” He fixed Bel with sharp eyes. “He’s earned one and he’s going to get one.”
“What makes you think a grown man would agree to that kind of supervision?” she asked calmly even as suspicion sank sharp claws into her. Because, come on, what were the chances? Badly behaved athletes and their hangers-on were a dime a dozen. Surely Bob’s billy goats weren’t the same idiots who’d ruined her wedding and thereby her career. They couldn’t be. Could they?
“Because the people paying him all that money to wear their shoes, drink their soda and hawk their jeans are even richer than he is. And people don’t get that kind of money leaving anything to chance.”
“Okay.” She grabbed her logic with both hands and forced herself to focus. To listen. A hell of a lot could be riding on these next few minutes and she didn’t want to miss anything because she was needlessly—probably—panicking. “Which means...?”
“Which means that the contract he’s working under contains what you might call a modified morals clause.”
“A morals clause?” She blinked. “As in you’d better not be a gay Communist or you’ll never work in this town again?”
“Not quite. More like get your stupid ass red-carded out of one more match and I’m issuing you a goddamn nanny.” He smiled. “I believe they call them life coaches these days.”
“Ah.” Bel digested this. “Fascinating. But how exactly is my playing Mary Poppins to a badly behaved athlete going to pull my career out of the toilet?”
Bob’s smile went sharky again and Bel braced herself.
“How do you feel about doing it all to Kate’s specifications?”
Bel stared. “For Kate Every Day?”
“No. But, damn, wouldn’t that be a great segment? Mary Poppins for Millionaires. Entourage meets Nanny 911. The disgraced domestic diva proving her mettle by whipping an over-funded frat house and its skeevy inhabitants into shape.” Bob gave a wistful sigh and Bel tried not to look horrified. “But it’s not going to happen so don’t worry about it.”
“Kate said no?” Relief sprinkled through Bel like rain on a dusty street.
“Of course she did.” Bob curled his lip. “Something about decorum or dignity or some such nonsense. But she’s agreed to give you another chance. Privately.”
“She has?”
“She’s a reasonable woman, Bel. She doesn’t want to throw away what you’ve built together any more than you do.”
Bel let that go without argument. Now wasn’t the time to quibble over details. “What do I have to do?”
“Prove yourself.”
“How?”
“By fixing my client under Kate’s supervision.”
Bel tried to think over the mad spiral of hope in her chest and the clanging alarm bells in her head. “What does that mean?”
“It means that each week for the next four weeks, Kate will assign you a new social grace to teach our boy. At the end of each week, she’ll evaluate his performance and yours. Brutally. You pass and you get your job back in time for the Kate Every Day Christmas Special.”
Bel studied him. “And if I fail?”
Bob gave his cell phone a spin on the glossy surface of his desk and watched her from under thick brows. “I sign the Dear Jane letter on my desk.”
Bel swallowed but her throat stayed tight and dry. “This mystery athlete,” she said finally. “Does he have a name?” Like she even needed to ask.
He stopped the spinning phone. “James Blake.”
Bel closed her eyes. “Of course.” A prickly wave of rage rolled over her at the memory of that slow, no-worries smile under a raggedy ball cap. Of those easy words and that thoughtless mouth. Of the way he’d offered her a beer as if it was an even exchange for blowing her career to kingdom come.
“Former soccer god of Manchester United, more lately of the DC Statesmen,” Bob said. “Also Kate’s next door neighbor and, after the wedding incident, her new arch enemy.”
&
nbsp; “Yeah, I know.” Bel gave him a sour look. “I was there for that part.” Then she frowned. “Now wait just a minute. Why on earth would Kate want anything to do with rehabilitating James Blake? Seems to me like she’d want him to get blackballed from the league. Then he could go into bankruptcy, lose the Annex and sink quietly into a life of abject poverty and substance abuse while Kate indulged in a private chuckle, after which she would bask in her skyrocketing property value.”
“See, that’s why you got fired.” Bob aimed a finger her way. “You don’t understand your boss.”
Bel frowned and dragged herself away from the satisfying mental image of James Blake’s downfall. “I don’t?”
“Come on, Bel. Think. This guy fucked up Kate’s season premiere, her protégée’s wedding day and her retirement plans in one fell swoop. You think watching him suffer from afar is going to satisfy Kate?” He huffed out a soft laugh. “I’m sorry, have you even met the woman?”
Understanding detonated in her head like an atom bomb and she froze. “Revenge,” she said, her voice hollow. “Kate wants to twist the knife.” On James, of course, but on her, too. God, Bob was right. She was slow.
“Is this going to be a problem for you?” he asked, his eyes narrow and stern.
“What? Kate demanding her pound of flesh in exchange for a second chance?” she asked. “Or spending every waking minute of the next month with James Blake and his band of merry idiots?”
“Either.” Bob watched her steadily. “Both.”
She laughed bitterly. “Does it matter?”
“Yeah. It does.”
Bel blinked, startled out of her momentary wallow. “Excuse me?”
“You say the word and it’s off the table, the whole deal.” His face was as hard and closed as always but his eyes, she saw with a shock, were full of troubled concern. Her mouth dropped open and he held up a flat hand. “Don’t misunderstand, now. That Dear Jane letter is always a possibility. Kate came first, and business is business. But if you think you’ll drop off my radar, you’re wrong. You’re talented, Bel. Beyond talented. You’ll land just fine. You have my word on that.” He leaned back in his chair and held her gaze. “The question is, is that what you want?”
Her throat cinched tight on a rush of mortifying tears and she swallowed hard. Bob believed in her. In her talent, anyway. That was enough right there to make her cry, that anybody believed in her anymore. But coming from Bob? This was the rough equivalent of a request to adopt her.
“No,” she said when she was sure her voice wouldn’t wobble. She refused to reward his faith by weeping all over his starchy shirt. “I don’t want that. I want to whip James Blake’s frat-boy ass into shape for Kate’s viewing pleasure.”
“Excellent.” Bob’s smile flashed sharp and hard but his eyes laughed. “Go pick out your bedroom, kiddo.”
Bel frowned, and for one wild moment she wondered if Bob was actually adopting her. “My bedroom?”
“At the Annex.” He propped an ankle on his knee, enjoying himself. “Nannies live in, Bel. Plus you’re currently homeless, so what’s the problem?”
“No problem,” Bel said again if a bit more faintly. “Just...okay.” She gave herself a mental slap and a stern warning to get it together. Eyes on the prize, she thought. Eyes on the prize.
“Fine. Now get out of here,” Bob said, dialing. “I need to deal with some irate sponsors.”
“Right.” She gazed at him, searching for any hint of the tired, worn man she’d seen when she first walked in. Any hint of the fatherly concern she’d seen just a minute ago. Nothing. Now he was just kicking her out so he could work the phone.
“Don’t forget about the pie,” she said slowly. “You could stand a slice or two, and I don’t want to come back here in two weeks to find it growing moss on your credenza.”
He stuck his phone to his ear and waved her away in the same motion. “Yeah, okay.”
CHAPTER SIX
Despite the early fall sun pouring into the van like melted butter, Bel’s fingers were cold and stiff on the wheel as she pulled into James Blake’s courtyard. For one weak moment, she allowed herself to wonder if she was making a mistake. But no. Last resorts were, by definition, never mistakes. When one had no choice, one couldn’t choose badly, right?
Still, what had seemed like a workable idea in Bob’s office felt a bit less reasonable outside James Blake’s front door. She concentrated on her breathing as she parked next to the Italian fountain that had nearly given Kate a stroke when she’d seen it go up last fall. Did you hear that thud, Belinda? That was my property value falling. Thank you, nouveau riche redneck neighbors.
Bel actually didn’t mind the fountain. She got out of the van and patted the ample backside of one of its naked frolickers. The world could use a few more women who didn’t look at a Tic Tac and see lunch.
Speaking of which, Bel retrieved a grocery sack from the passenger seat of her van with a twitch of relief. She could handle hotel living—the strange beds, the cheap sheets, the generic showers. But having no place to put her milk, butter and eggs? That unleashed a blind panic in her, cracked the door on the swirling chaos she’d worked so hard to banish.
But she’d bet good money James wasn’t using his fridge for anything but cooling beer, and her groceries needed a home. So she gathered them into her arms and marched up to the twenty-foot tall double doors. She pressed her free hand to her jumping stomach then rang the bell.
“Mamas Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up To Be Cowboys” bonged solemnly inside the house and Bel’s stomach settled somewhat. Surely she could handle a guy who programmed his doorbell to sing Willie Nelson.
She waited a moment, then pressed the bell again. Patsy Cline this time. “Walking After Midnight.” Huh. She pressed again. Hank Williams. “Down on the Bayou.”
She was reaching for the button a fourth time, just to see how deep her knowledge of country music legends really went, when James Blake himself wrenched open the door.
He wasn’t a huge man, maybe three or four inches taller than Bel’s own five-eight, but his presence filled up the doorway and spilled out onto the veranda just the way she remembered. His hair was like shaggy sunshine, all mashed up on the one side as if he’d just rolled out of bed. It spiked down over shockingly dark eyebrows and a nose that had clearly seen the business end of a fist or two. His mouth was perfection, though, even poised to snarl. That deeply bowed upper lip, the full curve of the lower. Too pretty for a man but that magnificent beaky nose balanced it out, Bel decided. He wasn’t exactly handsome, but she could see why his face ended up in the papers so often. Women would always love pirates.
“For the love of Pete,” he barked, “what?”
Even pissed off, he stretched the words like taffy. Twelve years chasing a soccer ball around Europe (okay, so she’d Googled him) hadn’t touched that West Texas drawl.
“Um, hi.” Bel gave herself a mental kick in the butt. Nice. Very good start. In her defense, however, he was shirtless. He was perhaps a bit softer about the midsection than Bel would have expected from a professional athlete but his arms and chest were all leanly muscled gold and a lot to contend with on a nervous stomach. A tiny, unwelcome shock rippled through her and she clutched the bag of groceries tighter to her chest.
“I’m sorry,” he said, frowning. “Do I know you?”
“Well, that’s lowering. You destroy my career and you don’t even remember me?” She gave him a chilly smile. “Belinda West. You single-handedly derailed my wedding about two weeks ago now.” Her smile sharpened. “On live TV.”
He squinted into the late morning light and pressed a thumb to the center of his forehead as if the very sight of her gave him a headache. “Oh. That was you?”
“That was me.” She brushed past him into a soaring marble and gilt foyer, complete with a curving staircase that cried out for hoop skirts and grand entrances.
“No, I insist,” he said to the empty doorway. “Do come in.”
/> “Thanks.” Bel gazed around the foyer. “I haven’t been in the Annex before. Is the entire house decorated like this?”
“Like what?”
“Like the mausoleum where they buried restraint and good taste?”
He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Is this my punishment for giving your runaway groom a couple beers and a bucket of balls? You’re going to ring the bejesus out of my doorbell at the crack of dawn and insult my decorator until I repent?”
“I have a few other duties as well, but I’m sure Bob explained them all.”
“Bob?”
“Bob Beck. Our mutual agent?”
“Bob’s your agent, too?”
She stared at him. “He didn’t call you?”
“About what?”
“You don’t know what I’m doing here, do you?”
“Besides being confusing and, I’m going to be honest here, just a tad inconvenient? Sorry, no.”
She gripped her groceries and prayed for Bob’s untimely demise. “We should start over.”
He rubbed the back of his neck and pursed up that gorgeous mouth. “Do we have to?”
She shifted the bag to her hip and stuck out her hand. “Hello, Mr. Blake. I’m Belinda West. Your new nanny.”
James squinted at this woman in his foyer. All long legs, deep dimples and impossibly soft-looking skin, Belinda West—Bel, if he remembered—looked like an angel. The tidy sort of angel that made a man wonder what it would take to get her to set aside that halo for a minute or two. Even at whatever o’clock on a Saturday morning.
But then she’d started throwing around words like Bob Beck and good taste and—God—new nanny. Any vague ideas about mussed angels and crooked halos vanished in the face of his first coherent thought of the morning.
As usual these days, it was wait, what?
God, he was getting old. Time was he could match Will drink for drink and still play out of his mind the next day. Now he was getting to be as big a pussy as Drew, who fell in love with every pretty waitress who smiled at him. He shook his head in brotherly disgust but stopped when his skull threatened to explode. God, what had he drunk last night? He forced his focus back to the situation at hand.