Bigger Than Beckham (24 page)

Tony had every right to be judgmental about
the side of Colton that those revolting episodes revealed. But,
like Tiger, Colton had vowed to clean up his act and work hard to
restore the public’s faith in him. Even though his marriage had
fallen apart, there had been no hint of questionable relationships
since the scandal. Colton had lived quietly, and there were reports
that he was now deeply into meditation and other kinds of new-age
stuff. Martha remained as skeptical as all get-out, but her own
religious faith affirmed that redemption was possible for any
sincerely repentant person, including a jerk like Colton
Butler.

Tony’s scathing description of Colton’s
morals hadn’t been what shocked her the most. What had knocked her
for a complete loop was his use of the word “abusive”. Tony hadn’t
just spewed out the charge in some careless rant. No, it had been
the first thing out of his mouth, coming even before he compared
Colton to a rutting baboon. So, what did Tony know that she—and
apparently the rest of the world—did not?

When they pulled up in front of his house,
Tony graciously handed her out of the limo after the liveried
driver held open the door. She emerged into dull, late afternoon
sunshine, heavily muted by the leafy trees that lined the charming,
narrow street. As a wrought-iron double gate closed automatically
behind them, sealing the property behind a five-foot high stone and
iron fence, Martha caught her first good look at Tony’s estate.
Though the dark brick, two-story Georgian manor house spoke of
quiet, understated elegance, her first impression was that it could
hardly be called a mansion in London terms. In fact, among the
homes they’d passed on their way through St. John’s Wood, Tony’s
would have to be judged as rather ordinary.

Because she knew he was a rich man, at least
in terms of the estimated worth of his soccer assets, Martha had
expected rather more splendor. What she saw before her was a
pleasant surprise, though, and it warmed her to realize he didn’t
live like some new-money jerk intent on splashing out his wealth
for the world to see. As they stepped into the foyer, she could see
that the inside of the house seemed just as nice as the outside,
with a clean, bright style offset by dark, masculine furniture.
Spare but tasteful, although entirely lacking in, well, a woman’s
touch. It fit Tony perfectly.

“This is Mrs. Ocampo,” Tony said, introducing
a small, pear-shaped woman in black who emerged from somewhere at
the rear of the house. “She’s my wonderful housekeeper. Mrs.
Ocampo, this is Miss Martha Winston.”

“I’m so pleased to meet you, Mrs. Ocampo,”
Martha said warmly, extending her hand. Try as she might, she
couldn’t help wondering how many other women the diminutive
housekeeper had greeted like this.

The fifty-something woman’s eyes rounded with
surprise, but took the offered hand and rewarded Martha with a
toothy smile as she inclined her head ever so slightly.

“I’m sure Mr. Branch must be quite a trial
for you,” Martha teased, glancing at Tony.

That remark elicited a raised brow from Tony
as he set down her small, hard-case valise. She’d decided to bring
along a minimum of clothes, figuring she’d hit some of the Oxford
Street shops tomorrow before the match.

The housekeeper shot Martha a startled look,
her mouth rounding in an unhappy oval. “Oh, no, Madam,” she said,
obviously misunderstanding Martha’s jest. “Mr. Branch is very easy
to work for. And very, very kind. He’s the best,” she finished.

“Oh, yes, I’m sure he is,” Martha said
quickly, trying to recover. The man sure had devoted employees if
she was to go by Rex Daltry and Mrs. Ocampo.

“Please show Miss Winston to the guest room
that overlooks the garden, Mrs. Ocampo,” Tony said. “Martha, I’ll
leave you some time to get settled in. Let’s have a drink on the
terrace in half an hour, and we’ll pick up on our conversation
then.”

Because his words sounded almost like
marching orders, she couldn’t help bristling and gave him a cool
smile in response. But if he noticed her reaction, he didn’t show
it.

Leaving his small bag at the door, Tony
disappeared down the hallway. Martha watched him stride away, her
stomach sinking clear down through her heels to the damn basement.
It looked like her fabulous London weekend might be dead on
arrival.

* * *

“Your room is comfortable?” Tony asked,
handing Martha a glass of white wine.

She took a grateful sip, hoping the little
shot of alcohol would settle her nerves.

Tony, a Scotch already in hand, waved her
further into the enclosed terrace at the back of the house. The
glass-fronted room was similar to what was known as a lanai in the
South—an extension of the house—and had clearly been designed to
serve as both a conservatory and a room to relax, eat and enjoy the
view of the expansive English garden at the rear. A hedge about ten
feet high surrounded his yard, and a symmetrical gravel pathway
formed a curvy, “Y” shape, dividing the lawn and plantings into
roughly-equal segments. Not everything was blooming in October, but
Martha was sure that in spring and summer Tony’s garden would be a
truly spectacular mix of colors and scents.

“Very comfortable, thank you,” she said, not
mentioning that she was still a bit shell-shocked to find he’d
installed her in a guest bedroom. She rationalized that he was
probably just giving her some comfortable space of her own and that
the arrangement signified nothing regarding his desire for her, or
lack thereof.

Tony nodded but didn’t say anything more.

Her face surprisingly warm in the cool room,
Martha’s heart rate kicked up another notch. He seemed distant, and
in her tired, more-frazzled-by-the-minute state, that sent her
nerves jangling again. She gulped the smooth Sancerre, desperately
searching for something appropriate to say.

“Do you enjoy gardening?” she finally
managed. Maybe a few minutes of small talk would be an antidote to
the frostiness that had settled in between them.

Tony gave a little snort. “I enjoy what my
gardeners create, though I don’t spend a fraction of the time at
the house that I do at the stadium, of course.”

He pointed toward a furniture grouping of a
sofa, a chaise longue and two matching chairs, indicating that she
should take a white, cane-backed chair that looked out toward the
garden. After she sat, he adjusted the other chair so he could face
her directly across a narrow table that sported an empty but
colorful Chinese vase with a tiny chip in its rim.
Antique
,
her mind absently registered. Pretty rare and pricey too, if she
didn’t miss her guess.

She still had on the lilac-colored suit she’d
worn on the plane, but it had become so thoroughly wrinkled that
she suddenly regretted not changing. She’d decided to keep the suit
on for now because she’d have to haul out her LBD to meet Colton,
who’d booked a reservation at a restaurant in Chelsea. She felt
like she was a complete mess, though, while Tony looked cool and
casual in khakis and an expensive-looking golf shirt.

Martha ran her hand over the skirt as if she
could somehow smooth out the creases by the sheer pressure of her
sweaty hand. Tony’s pissed-off attitude left her teetering between
resentment and regret. Whatever he had against Colton Butler, it
had to be colossally important—at least in his own mind—for him to
sit her down as if he were her father about to deliver her a stern
lecture.

Might as well get on with it, pal.

She’d listen to what Tony had to say, but
she’d also send him a clear message that she’d make her own
judgments about Colton Butler. And about everything else, for that
matter.

“It’s time you told me what’s going on,
Tony.” She made a point of glancing at her watch. “I’m meeting
Colton in less than an hour, and I’ve still got to change and call
a cab.”

He glowered at her before draining the
remainder of his whiskey.

Letting out an exasperated sigh, she set her
glass down on the coffee table with a sharp click. “To say Colton
is abusive is a hell of a charge. I hope you’re going to explain
that, and back it up with some proof.”

Tony’s nostrils flared like a bull about to
charge. “If I could bloody well back it up—legally, that is—the son
of a bitch would have been behind bars in Wormwood Scrubs years
ago.”

“Please, Tony, just spell it out,” she said
through clenched teeth. “Because this discussion is making my head
spin.”

He shot her a brooding look and rose to his
feet. He refilled his glass from the side tray of liquor and wine
bottles before answering her. “Did you ever meet Butler’s
ex-wife?”

Martha grimaced. “No, but I know the two of
them pretended to have a storybook marriage in public while they
fought like Ali and Frazier at home. Colton admitted as much to me
before the mess broke publicly.”
When he was still trying to get
in my pants.

Tony sat down, slumping into his chair
without his usual masculine grace. His posture and the deep grooves
around the corners of his mouth suggested he was either worn out or
dejected. Maybe both.

“I knew Ginny Cross for years before she ever
met Butler,” he said. Then he shook his head. “No, let me be
straight with you about that. I’d known Ginny through family
friends for several years before we started to
date
.”

“Really?” Martha said, startled by the
connection. She gave herself a mental kick for sounding so
dumb.

Tony nodded. “Before that, I’d always thought
of her as a kid. A lovely young lady, true, but still a kid. When
she was twenty, and at university, that all changed fast. I was
twenty-five at the time, and had started to make it big in the
football world.”

“And you two became lovers,” Martha said,
stating what had become obvious to her. She’d seen it in his eyes
the moment he uttered the woman’s name. Tony had been in love with
her. God, could it even be possible he still was?

She had to repress the impulse to curl up in
a defensive little ball.

His mouth was a hard, tight line. “Yes, for
some months. Then things happened.” He shrugged. “Something more
permanent wasn’t meant to be, and we both knew it. But I still care
for her very deeply, and we’ve remained friends. Close friends,
really, even after she took up with Butler.”

Martha nodded, trying to think like the
reporter she was and not simply like a jealous twit. “What did
Colton think about that?” Knowing that jerk, he probably hated
it.

“She said he couldn’t stand it, which always
made me wonder. Until I met him a couple of times, that is. But his
attitude didn’t stop Ginny and me from keeping in touch. Sometimes
we’d actually meet up, but we always made sure to keep it secret
from Butler.” Tony swirled the Scotch around in his cut crystal
glass. “She claimed to be happy for the first couple of years with
Butler, but I knew her too well to fall for the act. When I started
to press her, she began to open up, bit by bit, about what things
were really like at home.”

As intrigued as she was, Martha found her gut
tightening with a sense of foreboding. “Did Ginny know even then
that he was screwing around behind her back?”

Tony gave a grim nod. “She told me later that
she knew it in her heart. Almost from the beginning, I suspect. She
wouldn’t admit it, though. Not to me, not to anyone.” He took
another hefty swallow. “Better not to know for sure, she said
later.”

Another brooding silence fell between them.
Martha studied Tony’s face, trying to decipher the emotions that
pulled his features into a tight mask of contempt.

Suddenly, she got it. “Did Colton abuse her
physically?” she asked, almost wishing she didn’t have to hear the
answer.

“He sure as hell did,” Tony said bitterly.
Then it was like the flood gates opened. “The sodding bastard would
hit her in places on her body where it wouldn’t show. Or, if he
really lost it and smacked her square in the face, Ginny would stay
home until she healed, or she’d camouflage the bruises with heavy
makeup.” The fingers on his right hand curled around into his palm,
like a claw. “She covered it up time and time again. She even
convinced herself that their troubles were actually
her
fault. Or that her poor, stressed-out husband was fighting his
demons under impossible pressure, so he couldn’t really help
himself. And of course Butler would always be contrite afterward,
and he’d swear he was going to change. To be the husband she
deserved.” He grimaced. “What a sick joke that was.”

“Oh, dear God in heaven.” Martha pressed a
hand over her belly, her stomach lurching with revulsion.

“It went on and on,” Tony continued in a
harsh voice, “because Ginny wouldn’t ask for help. She confessed to
me, about some of it, anyway, but she couldn’t bring herself to go
to the police or even see a counselor. No matter how many times I
told her to do it.”

Martha swallowed against the impulse to
vomit. “A lot of abused women will always keep hoping their
husbands will change, no matter how bad things get,” she finally
said. “But didn’t she say anything to her parents?”

He shook his head. “She claimed she couldn’t.
Said her father would murder Colton, and she was dead serious. She
only talked to me—the first time in a moment of weakness, as she
called it—because she said she needed to confide in someone who had
once loved her.” He rested his head on the back of his chair and
stared blindly at the ceiling. “Jesus, I felt like I’d failed her
when she said that.”

“I’m sure you didn’t,” Martha said quietly,
her heart breaking for him. “You were there when she needed you.”
She knew exactly how Ginny must have felt, because Martha had the
same kind of relationship with Nate Carter. Things hadn’t worked
out between them either, but Martha knew Nate would cut off his
pitching arm for her if she needed him to.