by Joanne Rock
He. Couldn’t. Breathe.
Her eyes held his for a moment and he could have sworn he saw her pupils widen with awareness. He stepped back. Fast. She blinked and the look was gone from her gaze.
“I’m grateful that working with you gave me the time to think about what I want to do with my life. I got to travel all over and make important contacts that inspired my new business.” She gestured with her hands, and he made himself focus on anything other than her face, her body, the memory of how she’d felt pressed up against him.
He watched her silver bracelet glinting in the fluorescent lights. It was an old spoon from a pawnshop that he’d reshaped as a piece of jewelry and given to her as a birthday present back when he couldn’t afford anything else. Why the hell did she still wear that? He tried to hear her words over the thundering pulse in his ears.
“But, Dempsey, let’s be honest here. I did not attend art school to be your assistant forever, and I’ve been doing this far too long to feel good about it as a ‘fill-in job’ anymore.”
He didn’t miss the reference. He’d convinced her to work with him in the first place by telling her the position would just be temporary until she decided what to do with her art degree. That was before she’d made herself indispensable. Before he’d started a season that could net a championship ring and cement his place in the family as more than the half brother.
He’d worked too hard to get here, to land this chance to prove himself under the harsh media spotlight to a league that would love nothing more than to see him fail. This was his moment, and he and Adelaide had a great partnership going, one he couldn’t jeopardize with wayward impulses. Winning wasn’t just about securing his spot as a Reynaud. It was about proving the worth of every kid living hand-to-mouth back in the Eighth Ward, the kids who didn’t have mystery fathers riding in to save the day and pluck them out of a hellish nightmare. If Dempsey couldn’t use football to make a difference, what the hell had he worked so hard for all these years?
“You can’t leave now.” He didn’t have time to hash this out. And he would damn well have his way.
“I’m going after the press conference. I told you I would come back for the preseason, and now it’s done.” Frowning, she twisted the bracelet round and round on her wrist. “I shouldn’t have returned this year at all, especially if this ends up causing hard feelings between us. But I can send your next assistant all my files.”
How kind. He clamped his mouth shut against the scathing responses that simmered, close to boiling over. He deserved better from her and she knew it.
But if she was going to see him through the press conference, he still had forty minutes to change her mind. Forty minutes to figure out a way to force her hand. A way to make her stay by his side through the season.
All he needed was the right play call.
“In that case, I appreciate the heads-up,” he said, planting his hands on her waist and shuffling her away from the door. “But I’d better get this press conference started now.”
Her eyes widened as he touched her, but she stepped aside, hectic color rising in her cheeks even though they’d always been just friends. He’d protected that friendship because it was special. She was special. He’d never wanted to sacrifice that relationship to something as fickle as attraction even though there’d definitely been moments over the years when he’d been tempted. But logic and reason—and respect for Adelaide—had always won out in the past. Then again, he’d never touched her the way he had today, and it was messing with his head. Seeing that awareness on her face now, feeling the answering kick of it in his blood, made him wonder if—
“Of course we need to get to the conference.” She grabbed her earpiece and shoved it into place as she bit her lip. “Let’s go.”
He held the door for her, watching as she hurried up the hallway ahead of him, the subtle sway of her hips making his hands itch for a better feel of her. No doubt about it, she was going to be angry with him. In time, she would see he had her best interests at heart.
But he had the perfect plan to keep her close, and the ideal venue—a captive audience full of media members—to execute it. As much as he regretted hurting a friend, he also knew she would understand at a gut level if she knew him half as well as he thought she did.
His game was on the line. And this was for the win.
* * *
That went better than expected.
Back pressed to the wall of the jam-packed media room, Adelaide Thibodeaux congratulated herself on her talk with Dempsey, a man whose name rarely appeared in the papers without the word formidable in front of it. She’d made her point, finally expressing herself in a way that he understood. For weeks now, she’d been procrastinating about having the conversation, really debating her timing, since there never seemed to be a convenient moment to talk to her boss about anything that wasn’t directly related to Hurricane football or Reynaud family business. But the situation was delicate. She couldn’t afford to alienate him, since she’d need his help to secure merchandising rights as her company grew. And while she’d like to think they’d been friends too long for her to question his support...she did.
Somewhere along the line they’d lost that feeling they had back in junior high when they’d sit on a stoop and talk for hours. Now it was all business, all the time. That didn’t seem to bother Dempsey, who lived and breathed work. But she needed more out of life—and her friends—than that. So now she was counting down the minutes of her last day on the job as his assistant. Maybe, somehow, they’d recover their friendship.
She hated to leave the team. She loved the sport and excelled at her job. In fact, she’d grown to enjoy football so much she couldn’t wait to start her own high-end clothing company catering to female fans. The work married her love of art with her sports savvy, and the projected designs were so popular online she’d crowd funded her first official offering last week. She was ready for this next step.
And she was very ready for a clean break from Dempsey.
Her eyes went to him in the bright spotlight on the dais where coaches and a few key players would take turns fielding questions. The sea of journalists hid behind cameras, voice recorders and lights, a wall of devices all currently aimed at Dempsey Reynaud, the hard-nosed coach and her onetime friend who’d unknowingly crushed most of her dreams for the past decade.
He was far too handsome, rich and powerful. Dempsey might not ever see himself as fully accepted into the family, but the rest of the world breathed his name with the same awe as they did the names of the other Reynaud brothers. All four of them had been college football stars, with the youngest two opting for NFL careers while the older two had stepped into front-office roles in addition to their work in the family’s business empire. Each remained built like Pro Bowl players, however. Dempsey’s broad shoulders tested the seams of his Hurricanes jersey, his strong biceps apparent as he leaned forward at the podium to provide his perspective on the game and give an injury report.
With his dark brown hair and eyes a bit more golden than brown, there was no mistaking Dempsey’s relation to his half brothers. But the cleft in his chin and the square jaw were all his own, his features sharp, his mouth an unforgiving slash. He spoke faster, too, with his stronger Cajun accent.
Not that she’d spent an inordinate amount of time cataloging every last detail about the man she’d swooned over as a teen. There was a time she would have done backflips to make him notice her as more than just his scrawny, flat-chested pal. But the only time she’d succeeded? He’d ended up noticing her as a tool for increasing his business productivity. He had honestly once referred to her in those exact terms. He hadn’t even noticed when she’d ceased being much of a friend to him—forgoing personal exchanges in favor of taking care of business.
That hurt even more than not being noticed as a woman.
“Adelaide?�
� The voice of the PR coordinator sounded in her earpiece, a woman who had quickly seen the benefits of a coach with a personal assistant, unlike some of the front-office personnel in other cities where she’d worked. “I’m receiving calls and messages for Dempsey from Valentina Rushnaya. She’s threatened to give some unflattering interviews if she can’t arrange for a private meeting with him.”
Adelaide’s skin chilled. Dempsey’s latest supermodel. The woman had been rude to Adelaide, unwilling to accept that her affair with Dempsey was over despite the extravagant diamond bracelet he’d sent as a breakup gift. Occasionally, Adelaide felt bad for the women he dated. She understood how it hurt to be kept at a distance after experiencing what it felt like to be the center of his attention—if only briefly. But she had no such empathy for Valentina.
Stepping to the back of the room, Adelaide spoke softly into her microphone, momentarily tuning out of the press conference as Dempsey wound up his opening remarks.
“I talked to Dempsey about this and he’s agreed to handle it.” She didn’t see any need to share her plans to vacate her position. “Anything she says would either be old news, or blatant lies.”
“Should we schedule a meeting to come up with a response plan, just in case?” Carole pressed. The woman stood on the far end of the room, her arms crossed in her navy power suit that was her daily uniform, her blond bob as durable as any helmet in the league. “Dempsey’s new charity has their first major fund-raiser slated for next week. I think he’ll be disappointed if this woman succeeds in deflecting any attention from that.”
Adelaide would be equally disappointed.
The Brighter NOLA foundation had been her idea as much as his, a youth violence prevention initiative where Dempsey could leverage his success and influence to help some of the more gang-ridden communities in New Orleans. Like where they’d grown up. Or, more accurately, where he’d lived briefly and where she’d been stuck after he got out.
She’d had her own run-ins with youth violence.
“I’ll make sure that doesn’t happen.” She would honor those words, even if it meant communicating with Dempsey after she walked away from the Silver Dome today. “She signed a strict nondisclosure agreement before she started dating Dempsey, so going to the press will be a costly move for her.”
Dempsey had communicated as much to Adelaide in a one-line email when she’d mentioned it to him two weeks ago. He’d typed, She has no legal recourse, and attached a copy of the confidentiality agreement the woman had signed as part of his megaromantic dating procedure. In Adelaide’s softer-hearted moments, she recognized that the single life could be difficult for an extraordinarily wealthy and powerful man in the public eye. He had to be practical. Careful. But the nondisclosure agreement, complete with enforcement clause and confidentiality protection, seemed over-the-top.
Given the number of women who still lobbied to be in his life, however, it must not deter many.
“Valentina is wealthier than some of the ladies he’s dated,” Carole pointed out. “But I hope she’s just stirring trouble with us and not—” She stopped speaking suddenly and leaned forward. “Wait. Did he just say he has a personal announcement? What is he doing?”
From across the room, Adelaide noticed all of the PR coordinator’s focus was on the lectern where Dempsey was facing down the media.
The audience sat in stillness, making her wonder what she’d missed. In the hushed moment, Dempsey held the room captive as always, but more anticipation than usual pinged through the crowd. She could see it in their body language, as the journalists sat straighter in their seats, all dialed in to whatever it was the Hurricanes’ head coach was about to say.
“I got engaged today.” He announced it as matter-of-factly as if he’d just read the latest update on a linebacker’s injury report.
Murmurs of surprise rippled through the crowd of sportswriters while Adelaide reeled with shock. Engaged?
The floor seemed to shift beneath her feet. She reached behind her, searching for something to steady herself. He’d never mentioned an engagement. Her chest hurt with the weight of how little he trusted her. How little he cared about their old friendship. How much this new betrayal hurt, not to even know the most basic detail of his personal life—
“To my personal assistant,” he continued, his gaze landing on her. “Adelaide Thibodeaux.”
Two
Adelaide reeled back on her high heels.
Dempsey had just publicly declared an engagement. To her.
The man who was so cautious about every aspect of his personal life. The man who trusted her never to betray him even though he’d betrayed her in a million little ways over the years. How could he?
In her ear, Adelaide heard Carole squeal a congratulations. A few other members of the press who knew her—women, mostly, who were still vastly outnumbered in the football community—turned around to acknowledge her. Or maybe just study her to see what renowned bachelor Dempsey Reynaud would find appealing in the very average and wholly unknown Adelaide Thibodeaux.
Of course, the answer was obvious. She had no appeal other than the fact that Dempsey didn’t want her to leave the team. And he was a man who always got his way.
She’d naively thought she could just turn her back on her job as his assistant and start a company that would rely upon good relations with the Hurricanes and the league in general for securing merchandising rights down the road. Something she couldn’t afford to jeopardize if she wanted her company to be a success.
If she stood up and challenged him, she’d lose team support instantly. She didn’t dare contradict him. At least not publicly. And no question, Dempsey absolutely knew that, as well.
Realization settled in her gut as smoothly and firmly as a sideline pass falling into a wide receiver’s hands. She’d been outflanked and outmaneuvered by the smartest play caller in the game.
Her brand-new fiancé.
She needed time to think and regroup before she faced him and blurted out something she would regret. Adelaide darted out of the press conference just as a reporter began quizzing Dempsey about the quarterback’s thumb. She didn’t know what else to do. She lacked Dempsey’s gift for complicated machinations that ruined other peoples’ lives in the blink of an eye. Storming off was the best she could come up with to relay her displeasure and give herself time to think.
She tore off her earpiece even though Carole currently informed her she needed to stick around the building for any follow-up interviews.
Like hell.
Adelaide picked up her pace, heels grinding out a frantic rhythm on the concrete floor as she burst through a metal door leading to the stairwell. She headed down a flight to the custodial level of the dome, taking the route where she was least likely to encounter media.
The sports journalists hadn’t really known what to do with the story about the Hurricanes’ coach getting married. Sure—they would recognize the news value. But in that he-man room full of sports experts, no one would quiz the tersest coach in the league about his love life. They would hand that off to the social pages.
Who, in turn, would eat it up. All four of the Reynaud brothers had been in People magazine’s Sexiest Men Alive list for two years running. The national media would be covering Dempsey’s engagement, too. While she ran away.
She stumbled as her heel broke on the bottom step because her shoes were meant for work, not sprints. Hobbled, she shoved through the door on the ground level just as her phone started vibrating in her bag. She ignored it, trying to think of the most discreet way to reach her car two floors up.
A car engine rumbled nearby. It was the growl of a big SUV—a familiar SUV that slowed as it neared her. Dempsey’s Land Rover, although it had probably never been operated by the owner himself.
Evan, his driver, lowered the tinted passenger window. He could h
ave passed for a gangster with his shaved head, heavily inked chest and arms and frightening number of face piercings; his appearance gave Evan an added advantage in his dual role serving as personal security for their boss.
“Miss Adelaide,” he said, even though she’d told him a half dozen times it made her feel like a kindergarten teacher when he called her that. “Do you need a ride?”
“Thanks, Evan,” she huffed, out of breath more from runaway emotions than the mad dash out of the dome. “My car is on the C level, if you don’t mind bringing me up there.”
Relief washed through her as she limped over to the side of the vehicle. Before she could get there, Evan jumped out the passenger side and jogged around to help her, all two hundred sixty-four pounds of him. Before he blew out a knee, he’d been a top prospect on the Hurricanes’ player roster, one she knew by heart.
She’d worked so hard to impress Dempsey over the years, memorizing endless facts and organizing mountains of information to help him with his job.
Only to be rewarded like this—by having him ignore her notice of resignation, refuse to discuss her concerns and announce a fake engagement to the very industry whose respect her future work depended upon.
“No problem.” Evan tugged open the door and gave her a hand up into the passenger area of the vehicle specially modified to be chauffeur driven, complete with privacy screen. “Happy to help.”
She waited for his knowing grin, certain he’d been listening to the press conference in the garage, but his face gave nothing away, eyes hidden behind a pair of aviator shades.
“I appreciate it.” She tried to smile even though her voice sounded shaky. “I parked on the west side today. Close to the elevators.”
Ticket holders had cleared out after the game, leaving the lot mostly empty now, save for a few hardcore fans that stuck around for autographs. The press parking area was separate, three floors up.