by S Doyle
“Does this mean you’re not worried?” Kenny wanted to know.
“I wouldn’t say that,” Mark hedged. “I think what we’ve got is a first-time stalker, who has the wherewithal to follow you around. And is fearless enough to go as far as leaving this mark on the wall to get your attention. Anything like this happens again and you should report it to the police. I understand your reluctance, but you have to play it safe.”
“What about the FBI?” Luke asked.
Mark winced. “Officially, there isn’t anything for the FBI to do. As ironic as it sounds, we’d only show up if you did get kidnapped.”
“I hate irony,” Reilly muttered.
“But here’s the thing. I’m a big fan. I’ve watched you play for years. When Bob called me I jumped on the chance to meet you. It’s why I drove over here to talk to you in person. I’ve got a ridiculous amount of vacation time coming up and nowhere to go. I thought I could hang around, maybe shadow you for a couple of weeks and make sure if there is a lunatic out there looking to get close to you, he’ll have to go through me.”
“Like a bodyguard?”
“Like another member of your staff. It seems you’ve got a group of people here looking to help you out.”
“Well, Kenny is my caddy. Pierce is my physical trainer.” Pierce gave a little wave over Reilly’s head. “And Odie is my swing coach.”
“What does Luke do?” Mark asked.
Reilly looked to Luke. “That’s a good question. What do you do?”
Luke’s jaw dropped. “Excuse me? Who has been helping you study the greens? Who has been your rock of support? Who the hell’s house are you living in?”
“That’s right. Luke owns the place,” Reilly said.
“Ungrateful witch,” Luke muttered under his breath.
“I didn’t mean to start anything, I promise,” Mark said, holding up his hands. “I’m just offering my services.”
“I don’t know if I like the idea of having someone following me around wherever I go. I mean, I’ve got Kenny with me out on the course.”
“Yeah, but I don’t carry a gun,” Kenny pointed out. “All I can do is swing a club if some nutso tries to jump you.”
“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that. Here’s my cell phone number.” Mark extracted a card from his wallet and handed it to her. “If there are no other incidents, it might mean your guy has given up. If something happens, you know you can call me and I’ll come. I’m staying in the old section of Savannah so I’ll be close.”
“Hey, this isn’t some kind of twisted plot on your part to get to see the American?” Reilly asked.
Mark smiled. “I wouldn’t rule that out. Going as your bodyguard is my only shot. It’s been a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Carr.”
“Reilly,” she said as she took his outstretched hand.
“Reilly,” he repeated. “I’m looking forward to watching you play. Even if it is on TV.”
Mark gave a small wave to everyone else and headed down the stairs to leave. Luke followed him and stood at the front door watching as the agent got in his car and drove away.
“What do you think?”
Luke turned around to find Reilly behind him.
“I think he’s a fan who had an opportunity to meet you. But I didn’t get the impression he was all that worried about last night’s break-in.”
“Because he doesn’t think there is much to worry about. You heard him. Whoever this is, he’s an amateur.”
“I suppose. He’s the agent,” Luke sighed. “Plus, I trust Bob’s opinion. If he asked Leonard to look into it then he trusts him to do the job right. If we need him, we know how to get in touch.”
Reilly handed the card to Luke. “You hold it. It will give you peace of mind.”
Not really, Luke thought. The idea her face was on television at some point each day where any nut job with an obsession could latch on to her didn’t sit well with him. She’d already attracted one psycho, what if there were more?
He’d been part of the Hollywood crowd with wife number one and number three long enough to know actors took their stalkers seriously. One day the person is a fan, all he wants is a signed picture. Then he’s a fanatic and he starts trying to break into the house to steal mementos.
Then one day he comes back with a knife or a gun. Fan to rapist or murderer in minutes.
“Will you stop,” Reilly said, interpreting his silence. “It’s going to be fine. You heard the man. The likelihood is the guy is nonviolent. The less I respond, the better the chance is he’ll give up. We won’t forget to set the alarm. For now I’ve got to turn my concentration back to training.”
“Will you be able to?”
“I don’t know. But I have to try. It does me no good to think about what might have happened.”
Luke nodded. She was right. The last thing she needed was to be worried about something that she couldn’t control when she had everything to worry about what she could control.
“Let’s go watch some footage. It always calms me down,” she suggested. “Today we get to study how the green breaks on the Sunday hole location on 16.”
“To the left,” Luke answered.
Reilly grumbled. “Blah, blah, blah, I’m a two-time American winner. I know how all the putts break. Show off.”
Luke watched her storm off knowing she was teasing, but it put the thought in his head. There was another way to make sure nothing bad happened to Reilly on the course.
And that was to play with her.
“Hey, Pierce, I appreciate you doing this. Forget the mark on the wall, I don’t like the idea of being on the veranda anymore, either.”
Reilly had shoved all her clean clothes back into her suitcase and without bothering to close it rolled it down the hall. Luke wasn’t happy about the situation but with no leg to stand on, he had to cave.
There was something she decided she could use to take her mind off last night. His ridiculous assumption she would just set up house in his room like the little lady. What kind of game was he playing? He said he wanted a change. Well, she was beginning to think she wanted one, too. Yes, she’d been harsh when she said she’d obliged him in the past, but the idea of not letting anything happen between them in the future held merit.
It was time to show him she wasn’t going to drop everything and come running whenever he snapped his fingers. She had enough willpower to hold out against any seduction attempt he might throw her way.
She had her pride.
Telling him it was over for good would be smart. It would be mature. It might also help her to move on with her life if she knew he was never going to play the role of occasional lover again.
However, it would also suck.
“Pierce, word of advice. Relationships are complicated and they suck.”
He looked up from his task of emptying his folded clothes from the drawer and transferring them to his suitcase. “Wait. That’s news. Let me stop and write that down.”
“Men are jackasses.”
“Tell me about it,” he muttered. “Last night Doug and I are hot. Today, it’s almost five and no text. What’s up with that?”
“That’s what I’m trying to tell you. Men are jackasses.” Reilly tossed all her clothes on the bed and figured she would get around to sorting them later. Pierce in direct contrast patted down the already-folded clothes and began to zipper the rollaway until something got stuck.
She watched him tug, but she could see where the material was caught in between the teeth of the zipper. “Wait. You’re going to rip whatever that is.”
“It’s okay. I’ve got it.”
“No, here let me…” she knelt down by the suitcase and worked the zipper over the black lace material until it was free. Once the bag was open enough, she tugged out the material so it wouldn’t catch again.
It took her a second to realize she was looking at her favorite thong. “Oh my goodness.”
“I can explain,” Pierce said. “I know this looks strange but�
�”
Reilly rolled to her feet and backed up carefully to the other side of the room. “You took my underwear?”
“It was a joke. Doug made a comment about my ass and…it was just a joke!”
A joke. Sure. Only there was a stalker who was obsessed with her and now she knew where her missing thongs had disappeared to.
Laundry duty.
“We’re ordering out for dinner tonight,” Luke said, popping his head into the room. “Do you want…” His voice trailed off and Reilly figured he must have seen what was in her hand.
“It was a joke! You have to listen to me,” Pierce pleaded.
“What’s happening?”
“Nothing.” She met Pierce’s eyes and tried to see beyond the beautiful face and into his soul. He was a good guy. She’d been working with him for weeks now. He’d been professional and funny and uninterested in her romantically.
He was a little kinky apparently, but not a stalker.
“Nothing,” Reilly said again, tucking the underwear into the back pocket of her jeans. “Just a gag Pierce played on me. You said you’re ordering food?”
Pierce sighed. “Nothing junky. How about sushi?”
“Sushi works.”
Luke nodded. For a second he paused, but then with nothing else to say he made his way back down the hall.
“Reilly…” Pierce began.
She held up her hand to stop him.
“Don’t say it. I don’t want to know what you and Doug did with my thong. Needless to say, please don’t return it to me when you do the wash.”
She took the lacy fabric out of her pocket and tossed it to him.
He snatched it out of the air and smiled. “Black is my color.”
A mental image popped into her mind and she squashed it.
“I don’t know what’s worse. That you took it or that it fit.”
Pierce shrugged. “It was a little tight around the hips.”
Nope. That didn’t make her feel better at all.
22
Birdie Smithfield was a man who believed in tradition. From the annual tradition of putting the same star on top of his Christmas tree each year to the weekly routine of sitting in the same pew each Sunday at his Southern Methodist church.
And when it came to the American, well, that tradition was the most sacred. As chairman of the American Tournament it was, he believed, his sacred duty to present to the public year in and year out the very best course, with the very best field of players for the very best tournament.
This year, however, they were introducing a change to the tradition. For the first time because of a strange and, in his opinion, flawed ranking system a woman was going to play in the field of the very best.
It was often suggested Birdie didn’t like women. Birdie absolutely liked women. In their place.
In his opinion, however, this golf club was not their place.
He couldn’t prevent those distinguished members from inviting their lady friends to partake in the facilities from time to time.
This was different. This wasn’t some random Tuesday business meeting where the lady could hit from the ladies’ tees and rejoice in the honor of being allowed to play on hallowed golf ground. This was a woman who would be participating in what was the greatest golf event of the year.
One lone woman among a hundred of the finest professional golfers past and present.
It was an injustice of epic proportions to bastardize the event in such a way. But alas, he did not control the PGA’s ranking system so he couldn’t control the field of players the way he would like.
So she would come. There was no hope for it. He could take consolation knowing she would only play two days and during those two days she would be made a spectacle. In the end, the world would see how woefully disadvantaged women are when comparing themselves to men.
This morning she had called for an appointment with him and he had accepted.
It was common practice for those players never having played on the course before to want to play a few practice rounds before the event.
Sadly, allowing Reilly Carr such an opportunity was in conflict with his beliefs.
Birdie Smithfield was a man of strong convictions. Equally as strong as his belief in traditions.
“I’m sorry. What did you say?”
“I said that while I understand your desire to play the course before the upcoming tournament, I simply can’t bend the rules in this case to make an exception for you.”
Reilly’s jaw dropped open. She and Odie had made the appointment with Smithfield as a courtesy. It was common knowledge any qualifying player for the American would be granted the opportunity of a few practice rounds. In fact, the course was littered with her competitors right now, many of whom were not members.
Odie told her without a member’s sponsorship they needed to get an invite from Smithfield personally. It was classier than having Luke get her onto the field as the guest of a previous winner.
Now the man with the round gut, round face and round bald head was telling her in no uncertain terms… no.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Smithfield…”
“Call me Birdie,” he said congenially.
“Birdie. But it’s my understanding that you have the right to allow any player a practice round or two.”
“I have exercised that authority in the past, yes. But I feel having that kind of influence in some ways takes away from the spirit of privacy this course is so famous for. Members pay dearly for their membership and should be the only ones to play or invite others to play. It makes the experience much more special, don’t you think?”
Reilly sat back in the chair she’d been offered, tugging at the navy blazer she’d worn to affect an air of professionalism. Sensing she was fidgeting, she folded her hands across her lap in a manner that would have made Grams proud of her.
“Sir, are you trying to tell me you’re not going to let her play before she sets foot on this course in three weeks?” Odie, who was never one for subtlety didn’t see Reilly was a train about to be railroaded.
“Oh, no, sir. I would never presume to allow or disallow Miss Carr to play. It’s simply the truth that it’s not my decision. If she can find a member willing to sponsor her then she, like any other lady, would be more than welcome to come hit the golf ball on our fine course. Even the ladies' tees have been known to present quite a challenge.”
Reilly didn’t rise to the bait. “How would I go about getting a membership list to ask someone to sponsor me?”
“Oh, now, that’s something I’m afraid I couldn’t help you with. Our membership list is entirely confidential.”
“Okay.” Blood bubbled under the surface of her skin from her scalp to her toes but she would not allow him to see it. “Then I guess the mysteries of this course will just have to continue to be a mystery. Until the first week of April when I will be allowed to play in the tournament as my official PGA rank guarantees me. What was that rank again, Odie? I always seem to forget. Forty-six, forty-seven?”
“Actually it was thirty-eight,” he fed her.
“Thirty-eight,” Reilly repeated with a soft sigh. “It does suggest I have a great deal to live up to.”
“That it does, Miss Carr. That it does.”
His disdain was clear, but so was hers for him. “Then I guess our business here is concluded.”
“One last minor item,” Birdie suggested. “Your attire.”
“What about my attire?”
“Well, since your announcement to play in our great tournament I’ve had the opportunity to watch some footage of you from your old matches. I know I don’t have to tell you skirts, most especially the tiny postage stamps things you wear, are not permitted on the PGA tour.”
Reilly's eyes opened wide with a feigned expression of shock.
“Really, no skirts?”
“No. Long pants only.”
“My goodness. What about my sport tankinis? You know the kind that show off my
midriff? I’ve got a killer belly button ring that will look great on TV.”
Birdie sniffed as if a gust of something foul had passed under his nose.
“Tankinis will also be unacceptable. Collared shirts or some prefer what is known as mock turtlenecks only.”
“The mocks don’t show off my assets, if you know what I mean.” Reilly winked at the stuffy round man and took satisfaction in the red flush creeping up his neck.
“I do indeed, ma’am, but this tournament is not about showing off one’s assets. It’s about playing quality golf.”
She stood up and motioned to Odie to follow her. “Okay, but you know a little skin might pick up those ratings.”
“I assure you, ma’am, we have all the skin we need.”
“See you in a few, Birdie.”
Birdie shifted back in his oversize leather chair as if to make the point that he wouldn’t stand at her departure.
Reilly stormed out of the office and down the steps of the clubhouse furious with the outcome of events more than anything else. Smithfield wanted to make her life difficult, so be it, but without some exposure to the pace of the greens, it was going to make her first two practice rounds that much more important.
“Cretin. Snob. Bully,” Odie shouted. “The nerve of some men talking down to you as if you were a …”
“A lil’ girl.”
“Exactly. I’m going off to find an acceptable and permit-table place to smoke. I’ll meet you at the car.”
“Reilly!”
Luke was striding toward her in a pair of golf pants and spikes with Tom, this old caddy from the tour a few paces behind him carrying his bag.
“What are you doing here?”
“What am I doing here? What are you doing here? Hey Tom,” she waved to his caddy who nodded in return.
“Practice rounds.”
It took a second for Reilly to absorb that information. “You’re playing at the American?”
“As a previous winner I have lifetime eligibility.”
“I know the rules,” she said. “I thought you were done playing professionally.”
“For the most part, I am. I thought this would be fun. My network found someone else to do color commentary with Jim, so I’m free as a bird.”