Bigger Than Beckham (17 page)

Right now, his forthrightly interested gaze
was sending her ego soaring.

He veered toward the windows that overlooked
the cavernous but nearly empty stadium. He had obviously noticed
the glass panels could be slid along tracks to open the suite to
the outside air. Pushing one to the side, he leaned against the
counter and poked his head outside the box, looking down on the
pitch. Martha squeezed in beside him, her bare shoulder and arm
tight against his hard bicep. Even with his jacket and tee shirt in
between, the warm strength of his arm came through with startling
clarity. To Martha, it felt both comforting and more than a little
exciting. Neither of them moved or said anything for a few moments
as warm, humid air washed over them. They just looked out in
companionable silence.

The Nashville players, all in white except
for red socks and red sponsor lettering on their jerseys, were
doing their stretches on the north side. The Thunder players at the
south end were warming up in scattered groups while Sam Brockton
strode up and down the sideline looking tense and barking out
orders. She looked around for Derek Kavanagh, who always seemed to
be the last man to appear on the field, and finally spotted him
emerging from under the stands. Brockton saw him, too, and
immediately started yelling at him. Kavanagh responded with an
arrogant shrug as he jogged past the red-faced manager.

“Kavanagh—what a toad,” Martha grumbled.

Tony cut her a glance. “He and Brockton
obviously don’t mesh.”

“You think?”

Tony merely smiled.

“That high-priced asshole is killing us,” she
couldn’t help adding. “I can hardly stand to look at him anymore.
We’re paying him damn good money and he keeps playing like he’s one
step away from an assisted living facility.”

Tony gave her back a quick, friendly pat. It
was obviously just a form of sympathy, but it still gave her goose
bumps. “So, what do you think is going on with him, Martha? Derek
was a hell of a player at Tottenham for a lot of years, and he’s
hardly an old man. Hell, he’s younger than me, anyway.”

Martha shook her head. “You might be five or
six years older, but you’re in a damn sight better shape as far as
I can see. I’ll bet you could leave Kavanagh in your dust.” She was
intensely aware of the feel of his brawny bicep pressing against
her bare arm.

Tony pointed down at his left knee, the one
that had caused his retirement. “Not anymore.”

“Hell, yes, you could, even with that bum
knee,” she insisted. “At Kavanagh’s best he was never half the
player you were, Tony.”

He quirked an eyebrow. “Thanks. But did you
actually see me play?”

She had, in fact, and had never forgotten it.
After her high school graduation, her father had taken her on a
three-week trip to England and Scotland, him to watch football, her
to shop and sight-see. One Saturday afternoon, she’d reluctantly
agreed to go with him to White Hart Lane in London to see Tottenham
play Newcastle. Sometime just before the half, a very young and
incredibly dynamic Newcastle lad had dribbled the ball through the
entire Tottenham line before drilling a sharply-angled shot over
the diving goalkeeper’s outstretched arms and into the top corner
of the net. Though the goal had been scored by an opposing player,
the White Hart Lane crowd had nevertheless shown its admiration.
The next day, Martha had read in the paper that Tony Branch was
already being hailed as the future of English football. He was only
twenty-two.

“I may have,” she said, batting her
eyelashes. “Which teams did you play for again?”

“Ha.” He tapped her gently on the nose.
“Let’s get back to Kavanagh. What’s going on?”

“My father practically broke the bank to get
the guy to come over here, and the fans were really hyped about it.
At first.” She turned sideways to face him. He loomed over her, an
almost overpowering male presence, so she instinctively took a step
back. “In retrospect, I think that was the beginning of the death
march for the Thunder. The fans got their hopes up, but nothing’s
come of it. I’m mystified as to what’s wrong with the man, Tony.
Kieran says he’s healthy and fit, but he doesn’t play with any
verve, much less emotion. He’s made noises about wanting a trade,
but I’m sure he knows that would be almost impossible to pull
off.”

“So, he’s sulking? Is that the consensus? And
Flores, too?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know what else to
think. I’ve tried to talk to him, but the jerk just blows me
off.”

She went to fetch beers from the
refrigerator. “Heineken, Smithwick’s, Rolling Rock. Or would you
prefer bourbon?”

“No Steam Train beer?” he said in a teasing
voice. “I’ll bet that’s all that’s sold down in the stands, isn’t
it?”

“Yeah, and I drank better stuff from the
horse trough when I was growing up,” Martha said, wrinkling her
nose.

“You drank from the horse trough?” he asked,
looking puzzled.

“Sure.” She laughed at the dumbfounded
expression on his face, vividly remembering the day she’d decided
to imitate her mother’s horse by drinking from the old wooden
trough by the stable at their rural acreage. She’d been six.

“Anyway, it’s bad enough that the sponsorship
agreement makes us foist that Steam Train swill on the poor fans,”
she continued. “I damn well won’t drink it myself.”

“Then I sure won’t either. So, give me the
Rolling Rock, please. No glass necessary.”

Martha tossed the green bottle through the
air. Tony caught it effortlessly even though he clearly hadn’t
expected the long, accurate toss.

“Assist to Winston,” she said, grabbing a
Heineken for herself. “I’m assuming you would have made the shot,
of course.”

Tony gave her another puzzled look.

“I played hoops for a living way back when,”
she said. “But I washed out early. I was one hell of a passer, but
couldn’t hit the damn three-pointer to save my soul.”

“Martha, you’re speaking some foreign
language.”

“Shucks, you don’t follow basketball?” she
said teasingly. “What’s the matter with you?”

“Do you follow cricket?” he shot back.

“Jiminy Cricket?” Martha said as she sashayed
over to join him. “My favorite cartoon character. What a little
cutie.”

They both started laughing. “Vive la
différence,” Tony said as he opened his beer and took a long
swallow.

Martha felt herself relaxing. Despite the
unspoken obstacles between them, Tony was easy to be around. And
regardless of what agenda he was pursuing, the thought of him
spending a few days in the city no longer worried her. In fact, she
looked forward to it so much that if she had her way—and she had
little doubt she would, given the way his eyes kept tracking
her—this was going to be a night to remember.

She glanced at the TV screen in the corner of
the room and saw the teams taking their positions. Gently pushing
Tony toward the food table, she encouraged him to load up his plate
before going back to the window to watch the start of the game. She
stood in her usual spot—which happened to be right next to where he
leaned against the counter—thinking about all the frustrating,
gut-wrenching hours she’d spent cooped up in that little room while
she watched her team get hammered.

Tonight, she had every intention of doing
something quite different.

* * *

Tony had always trusted his instincts and his
reflexes because they had served him well both on the field and in
the football business. But figuring out puzzles had never been his
forte. That, among other things, was why he had Rex.

But Tony had a puzzle on his hands right now
and he couldn’t ask Rex for advice on this one. That puzzle was
named Martha Winston, and what the hell was she up to, anyway?

From the moment he’d slid into her car at the
Hyatt, she’d given him such flirtatious, sexy glances and smiles
that he’d been forced to muster all his discipline to keep his
hands away from her. And in the stadium suite—a rather bare-bones
affair compared to his luxury box at Blackhampton—she’d been
getting more up close and personal with each passing minute, no
matter whether they were watching the game or eating the simple but
surprisingly good food she’d had catered.

He couldn’t believe she was giving him such
an obvious come-on, especially after her solemn declaration last
night that she was
not
going to have sex with him. But if
she was simply being a tease, then all his male instincts had
deserted him and he doubted that very much. Martha might be flirty
and sassy, but she wasn’t the type to keep a man dangling just for
the hell of it. So, what had changed in less than twenty-four
hours?

She’s up to something.

That was the only explanation. He had an ego
as big as any guy’s, but he didn’t think his charm had suddenly
swept her completely off her feet. Yeah, he’d caught flickers of
interest in both her silvery blue eyes and in her body language
after he showed up at her house with the lorry-load of flowers. And
he’d seen them again during the cordial evening at the restaurant
that followed. But now he was catching not flickers but flames—big,
white-hot, dangerous flames that threatened to scorch him.

Was she really going to try to play him? Did
she maybe think she could talk him into ponying up money as
investor, rather than an owner? Could she possibly be that
naive?

Well, he’d soon find out, because if Martha
wanted to play that kind of game, he was in. He was in big time. He
knew without a shadow of a doubt that he could handle anything she
could throw at him. And from the first moment they met, he’d had
visions of those long, gorgeous legs, all naked and hot, wrapped
tightly around his back. The fact that the beginnings of such a
scenario seemed to be unfolding had sent his cock smartly to
attention. And that was something Martha clearly hadn’t missed.

He glanced at her as she sat next to him. She
smiled seductively, her attention entirely focused on him. In fact,
she barely showed a reaction when the Thunder goalkeeper got
himself out of position and Nashville tucked in an easy goal to
take a 2-0 lead near half-time.

“Oh, darn,” she said in a mild voice. Then
she shrugged and headed back to the food table, no doubt to fetch
some other tasty morsel with which to ply him. But right now, there
was only one thing he wanted to taste and it wasn’t another
sandwich. It was all smooth Southern honey, and he couldn’t wait to
get his mouth on her.

Tony shifted on his bar stool, watching her,
loving the way her sweet, tight ass swayed as she moved. His hands
twitched, primed to feel all the silken skin so temptingly on
display.

“Ready for some dessert?” Martha said sweetly
as she pulled a shallow covered dish out of the fridge and fiddled
with it before stuffing it inside the microwave.

“Maybe. What have you got in mind?” His voice
came out as a low, deep rasp.

“Belgian chocolate.” Her purring tone made
the words sound pretty much like “hot monkey sex.” She opened the
fridge again, extracted a long tray and held it out to show him a
variety of fruit that had been arrayed on it. “I’ve got lovely and
very expensive melted chocolate, along with strawberries and melon
and pineapple. Oh, and some wonderful double-fudge brownies. But
maybe we can save them for later, because I’m up for some dipping
right now.”

She flashed him a sultry look that would have
made his knees buckle if he wasn’t sitting down. “Do you
approve?”

“Oh, yeah,” he said, as he conjured up some
mental images of Martha and melted chocolate. “Yes, absolutely.
First rate.”

“Well, that’s just what I wanted to hear,”
she said in her warm and lazy southern drawl.

She placed the tray on the table, and set out
a couple of small plates as she waited for the microwave to finish.
As soon as it pinged, she pulled out the dish of melted chocolate
and set it down next to the fruit.

Tony slid off the chair and moved toward her,
feeling very much like a beast on the prowl. She glanced at him
with an outrageously sexy, come-hither look, her eyes at sensual
half-mast and her pink mouth ripe and pouting.

Christ.
The woman seemed to have not
the faintest clue that she was truly playing with fire. Martha
might think she was going to control this game—control
him
.
He couldn’t wait to prove her wrong.

Without inviting him to sample first, Martha
reached down and picked up a fat strawberry by its stem and dipped
it into the warm chocolate. It came out glossy and wet, dripping a
thin stream of chocolate back into the dish. She caught some of
that excess on the tip of her finger and licked it with enough
sexual intent that Tony’s dick threatened to bust right out of his
trousers.

“Careful, girl,” he rasped. “You might get
more than you bargained for.”

She glanced down at his groin and a smug
little smile curled her lips. “You like that?” she whispered.
“Well, then, try this.”

She lifted the strawberry to his lips. Tony
opened his mouth and carefully bit off the chocolate half.

And after he finished biting that, he bit
her.