Night Games

by Lisa Marie Perry

  “It’s not my team anymore.”

  The three of them turned to see Al in the entryway. His well-cut designer suit couldn’t disguise how truly unwell he was—his gray hair was mussed, his eyes sunken and hollow, and his face gaunt.

  “I’m sorry about that.” This he said to Santino, as he walked over to clasp his shoulder. “It’s gutting you, and I didn’t want that, but it is what it is.”

  God, how Nate hated that phrase. He watched his father clap Santino’s shoulder, watched him apologize with words that wouldn’t help the situation but also with heartfelt sincerity.

  And none of that sincerity was directed at Nate.

  Out the corner of his eye, Nate watched Bindi lower her wineglass and turn slightly toward him with her lips parted in surprise. As if she’d just seen him from a new vantage point.

  “What if you did get the team back, Dad?” Nate asked. “You said you didn’t want to sell but had to because Marshall Blue threatened to have someone come after you.”

  “Getting it back is impossible,” Al replied, averting his eyes. The thing Nate had respected about his father the most—his ability to always look someone in the eye—was gone.

  “What if it’s not—”

  “I said impossible. Damn it, Nate. Can you leave this alone? All of you. Leave it alone.” With that, Al started out of the living room, but Bindi stopped him, striding with purpose in her stylish dress and high heels that were made more for fashion than function.

  “Alessandro, I won’t let you give up. Now stop wallowing and let’s go out. Or, better yet, let’s stay in and discuss a wedding date, because planning ahead is the best—”

  He shook off her touch, growling, “Go a month without embarrassing me on some gossip site and maybe then we can talk dates.”

  Santino’s posture straightened and Nate looked over in time to see Bindi step back, struck by Al’s words. Uncharacteristically, this time she didn’t egg him on but gave him the space he needed to stomp out of the living room and probably into the home theater or his private rooms.

  “He’s unhappy,” Bindi said, blinking her crystal-blue eyes.

  “Pushing him into a walk down the aisle won’t make him happy,” Nate replied. Though his father’s insult was uncalled for, Bindi needed to ease up…and come to the conclusion that Al Franco wasn’t the man for her.

  Nate and Santino had been trying for months to convince their father to call off the engagement. It was possible that Al genuinely cared for Bindi, and vice versa, but Nate wasn’t banking on it. What he did know about their relationship disgusted him: Al had proposed to Bindi because she was withholding sex—holding out for a signed, legal marriage license. Al was drawn in by her attractiveness, charm and penchant for sexy clothes. She was a challenge. But not once had he told her that he loved her.

  To some people love didn’t matter, and Bindi wasn’t likely going to let her youth slip away waiting for it to come along.

  “Fine. I’m going out. But don’t worry—I’ll be back.” Bindi set her wineglass down hard on the nearest table and seemed satisfied when droplets of the liquid sloshed onto the wooden surface. “Boys, it’s been real.”

  Nate waited until Bindi had left the room before he went after his father.

  “Dad—”

  “Let it go, Nate.”

  “I can’t. The Blues didn’t take the team away from only you. They took something that belongs to Santino and me. Didn’t you think about your sons when you were signing those papers?”

  “I had no choice.” Still, Al couldn’t look him in the eye.

  “Telling Santino, telling me, was always a choice. We’re invested in the team, too. You were going to put him in control of operations. That was the plan. For the Slayers to stay in the Franco family.” Nate reined in his frustration, gentled his tone. “Dad, you weren’t the kind of man who’d give in to anyone’s threats. And you used to give a damn about the team’s stats. For two seasons the Slayers failed to make it to play-offs, and not once did you make any personnel changes.”

  “Don’t you criticize my judgment. I had the franchise for seventeen years.”

  “It crashed and burned the last two of those years. And now it’s out of our hands.”

  “That’s how it’s going to stay, Nate.”

  “What about your fiancée? She wants it back.” At Al’s warning glare Nate pressed on. “If she’s with you only to get a TV show, and you’re with her only to get into her pants, then you both should cut your losses. Marriage isn’t the answer.”

  “You and Santino don’t get to tell me what to do. Let me handle Bindi and my team.”

  “It’s not yours anymore,” Nate said quietly.

  “That’s right, son.” Al tapped a finger to the center of Nate’s chest. “Remember that.”

  Nate watched Al stride off. Then he returned to the living room, weighed down with defeat.

  “Get anywhere with Dad?” his brother asked.

  “Nah. Reversing the sale would be easier if Dad would just report to the league that he was coerced into selling the team. It’s like trying to help someone who doesn’t want to be helped.”

  “Can’t think that way, bro,” Santino said, his face stony. “I need this, too. I’ve got nothing else—no career…nothing.”

  “I get that, man. But what about that analyst gig?” Almost immediately after his retirement had been announced, ESPN reps had started courting him.

  “It’s not the same as being on that field, in the game. Nate, I never asked you for anything growing up, but I can’t do this without you. You’re on the inside.”

  For now, just as Bindi said.

  “I heard about the new assistant trainer, the daughter—Charlotte Blue. You’ve met her by now, right?” When Nate nodded, he went on, “Get a feel for what she’s about?”

  Nate got a very thorough feel on Charlotte—how her hair felt between his fingers, how her mouth tasted, how her thigh muscles tightened when he touched her intimately—but he didn’t know what her motives were.

  “Not yet,” he told his brother. “But I will.”

  “Then I can count on you to get this done?”

  Santino had saved Nate’s life, had yanked him off the path that would’ve led right to Nate ending up a tragic statistic. His brother had restored his future. It was time Nate returned the favor.

  “By any means necessary.”

  *

  Enveloped in leather and polished wood, in the vintage glory of the Hard Rock’s renovated Body English bar, Bindi Paxton let the gray-haired man at the end of the bar put her liquor on his tab. As the bartender placed another whiskey sour and a fresh napkin in front of her, she moved her gaze past the handful of other patrons over to her benefactor.

  He wore a charcoal-colored suit. Judging by the exquisite styling, she doubted it cost anything less than a few grand. His hair was perfectly groomed, his face was smooth-shaven, and his eyes were fastened on the drink in his hand. She registered that he wore a wedding band, then moved on to something more interesting—the contents of his glass. It was his third single-malt whiskey. He thought he had sought her out, but she’d had her eye on him since he strode up to the bar.

  Ever since her parents had turned her loose with no financial cushion, she’d learned to be observant when it came to men. It was all part of survival.

  Bindi crooked a finger at the bartender, leaned forward and added a smile. “Can I count on you to keep my drinks coming?”

  “Sure you can handle more whiskey?” The words were skeptically spoken.

  “I wouldn’t ask for more if I wasn’t sure.” She swiveled around on her
stool, crossed one long leg over the other and surveyed the room. The golden overhead lights were dim, but the sparkling chandeliers gave it a subtle radiance. The bar’s mostly well-dressed patrons gathered around the tables or in booths, while others crowded the bar, tossing back wine and hard liquor.

  In her opinion, a hotel lounge wasn’t the epitome of a classy social scene. She preferred mingling at country clubs and had a special love for Cleopatra’s Barge. Up until a few months ago she’d even loved sharing the finest wines and dirtiest gossip with her girlfriends in the Wine Society.

  One flop of an engagement had severed her valuable connections, but she was determined to bounce back. She hadn’t gotten where she was today, driving a Lamborghini and jet-setting in Manolo Blahnik heels, by setting limits for herself.

  Running her finger over the rim of her glass, she eyed the exec as he made his way over to her. Conversation and subdued laughter surrounded them. She set her glass aside, pointing to his hand. His wedding band had vanished. “Put it back on,” she said.

  A puzzled look played over his face. “Excuse me?”

  “Put the wedding ring on your finger.” Once he obeyed, she slid off the stool.

  “I’m Leonard.”

  “Now tell me what you’re about before I get bored.”

  Leonard followed her to one of the leather booths. “Your friend Toya Messa told me you have a problem.”

  What’d you know? There were some loyal friends in this town. “My future’s down the toilet. Got a plunger?”

  “Not quite. I do have access to sensitive information—off-the-books sort of stuff—that people would kill for.”

  “Funny.”

  Except Leonard didn’t crack a smile.

  “Well, what can you do for me?”

  “That depends on you.”

  Bindi smoothed her hair, though she knew it was perfectly twisted with not a strand out of place. This was getting complicated. All she wanted was what Alessandro Franco had promised her when he’d told her she was gorgeous and had given her the diamond ring she twisted around her finger now. They’d met at a bar much like this one. He’d been down in the dumps and she’d let him talk it out. He’d also wanted sex—most men who pursued her did. But she’d been smart about it this time. By denying him, she’d gotten an engagement and would eventually get the security of a prenup-free marriage.

  She hadn’t risen to these heights to be dropped on her butt. A blink ago Vegas had been Al’s throne, and she’d been at his side. The new queen. She didn’t have to lull herself to sleep with delusions, didn’t have to live every waking moment with fear riding her. A producer had noticed her. She was going to get her piece of the reality TV pie—her own cable show.

  She had money and a man.

  Now she had a glass of whiskey that had come up empty without her realizing it.

  “Just pay the tab and give the bartender a nice big tip, and we’ll talk,” she said to Leonard, reaching for her phone. “Let me discuss this with a friend.”

  “Are we getting someone else involved?” A muscle twitched in his face. Annoyance.

  “He needs saving as much as I do,” she said. Last night at Al’s house Nate had been slighted, overlooked by his father. Bindi had noticed Al favored Santino, and she knew Nate realized it, too. He wasn’t quite as jaded as his brother, and she was grateful for that. He didn’t know it yet, but they were destined to be allies, to work together to get Al’s team back under his control.

  Bindi didn’t believe for a second that the man who’d sworn to protect her and make her happy would willingly give up his fortune to a pair of strangers. Of course Marshall Blue had forced his hand!

  Well, soon enough he’d be sorry that he had.

  Bindi waited until Leonard walked off to the bar before she dialed Nate’s number.

  Predictably, the call went to voice mail. Nate didn’t answer her calls and only sporadically returned her texts. She kept the message short but urgent.

  “While I was at the bar, paying for your drinks, I started thinking,” Leonard said, coming up behind her. Too close for her comfort. “In this economy, getting your money’s worth really is all that matters.”

  “Really.” Bindi knew she wasn’t going anywhere—unless it was out of the Hard Rock Hotel—alone. Though she withheld sex from Al, she’d never cheated on him and wouldn’t start today, especially now that their engagement was hanging on by a thread as fragile as a spiderweb.

  “What if I got us a room and we settle up there?” Leonard suggested.

  “Go up and wait for me.” And hold your breath while you’re at it!

  Leonard left Body English fast, and Bindi could think again. She was supposed to be done with sleaze and schemes, but just when she thought she was over the past, some new twist was there to pull her back again. Wasn’t that the thing about life? People thought they were moving along, changing, growing, going forward, but it was made up of circles.

  Finally Al’s son appeared at her booth. “What’s the emergency?”

  “My marriage. And your job.” When he mumbled a curse and turned to leave, she snagged his hand. “Sit down. Please quit pretending you’re not as self-absorbed as I am.”

  Nate freed his hand but sat. “What is it, Bindi?”

  “The Slayers belong to Al. He said he didn’t want to sell.”

  “I know that.”

  “So we’re going to get the team back for him.”

  “There’s never been a ‘we,’ Bindi, and there never will be.”

  Under all that cockiness was the same desperation she saw in the mirror at the end of the day when her face was vulnerable without makeup. It was a sad thing to live without security. She’d had enough of that after her parents cut her off. He was living through practically the same uncertainty now, not sure how long he’d even be on the Slayers’ payroll. She sort of felt sorry for him but sorrier for herself.

  “United or not, we need the team back in your father’s name. Santino needs it, too.”

  “Santino thinks this is none of your business.”

  “Well,” she shot back, holding up her ring, “this says that it is.”

  “I’m not going to raise hell at camp, if that’s what you’re hoping.”

  Hell-raising wouldn’t be effective, not when he was probably two seconds from being dumped off the team’s training staff anyway. “You’re at risk. Charlotte Blue is after something. A girl can tell when another girl is after something. What if she has her eye on that head-trainer position you were talking about?”

  Nate’s face was like granite. She’d struck the nerve she’d been looking for.

  “I know someone who can help us take care of this. All he’s going to do is a little careful digging. It’s about knowledge, that’s all. What makes Charlotte Blue a better fit for that head-trainer job than you? What makes Marshall and Temperance Blue think they can force a man to sell his franchise? The news and everyone else is calling it the ‘Blue Dynasty,’ as if the team’s been reborn or something.” She leaned forward. “A woman like Charlotte has dirt in her past, I know it. Help me help you, Nate.”

  Was that conflict in his eyes? No, just a trick of the vintage chandelier lighting. “What do you want me to do?”

  “Trust me to get this taken care of.” Forget Leonard. She could restore Al’s team and her life without the meddling of some slimy P.I. her friend Toya had probably found in the Yellow Pages.

  Nate’s laugh was ironic. “I’ll never trust you, Bindi.”

  Fortunately, there was never any honor among thieves…or liars and manipulators. “No prob. All you need to do is cooperate.”
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br />   Chapter 6

  Appealing to a man’s humanity was a delicate task, especially when the man was one who’d seen you in your Skivvies and possibly had a score to settle. Nate Franco’s grudge was sorely misdirected if it included Charlotte. She would make him see that. Tenacious, persistent, relentless. Those qualities were waiting to be unleashed, and tonight she was ready to approach the complicated situation with Nate from whatever angle necessary to convince him to keep what happened privately between them private.

  Dressed for the occasion in a black tiered Dior dress, haute stockings and boa stilettos—plus the one thing she felt naked leaving the house without: confidence—she set the Taccia fountain pen on the bid sheet for the one-carat musgravite sheltered in a lighted display case, cast a final look at the gemstone with every intention of circling back as the silent auction drew to a close and moved outside to observe the guests roaming the JW Marriott’s Valencia Terrace.

  No sign of Nate. She’d kept watch for him in the ballroom while viewing the high-ticket merchandise and services that had been donated to the Young Minds, Bright Futures scholarship ceremony and charity fund-raiser. Surely he would be here to at least congratulate the highest bidder of the pair of tour passes to Slayers Stadium, which included tickets to the bidder’s choice of any one home game. Good seats, too, on the fifty. Likely the donation had been promised to the fund-raiser before the Blues had acquired the team, and Charlotte appreciated that it hadn’t been retracted.

  But Nate was absent from the room that was flooded with children and teens of varying ages—some withdrawn and overwhelmed by the linen-and-golden-light splendor that was all in their honor, others charged with excitement and thriving off the rush of being the center of attention.

  Behind the podium was a well-guarded table that held gold-lettered plaques and gift certificates for the scholarship recipients, paid for with the year-round contributions from the event’s sponsors and generous benefactors. For every child in attendance there seemed to be at least three adults present. Among the sea of people were parents and guardians, social workers and teachers, waitstaff carrying platters of appetizers and kid-friendly beverages, as well as the occasional city official, journalist or celebrity.