Bigger Than Beckham (25 page)

“I try to tell myself that,” he said, sitting
back up. “At least I finally managed to get her to see a
psychologist friend of mine. A counselor who works with abused
women like Ginny—women who wouldn’t go to the police or leave their
husbands.”

Martha nodded. “And it helped?”

Tony made a “so-so” gesture with his hands.
“Some, Ginny told me. But in the end, she never blew the whistle on
Butler, did she?”

“But in the end
,
she did leave him,”
Martha countered. “And she did that because
you
got her
help.”

He managed a little smile. “Yeah, I
guess.”

“No guessing about it, mister,” she said
firmly. “She must have had an awful lot of trust in you.”

He nodded. “Ginny always said she could open
up to me because she knew for certain that I’d keep my mouth
shut.”

“Okay,” Martha said, treading carefully. “But
you’re telling me her secrets now.”

Tony’s lean face got that closed-down
expression again. He got up and moved to the windows, looking out
into the garden with his hands shoved into his pockets. Martha
remained silent, giving him the space he seemed to want.

Finally, he turned to face her again, this
time more confidently, as if he’d made a decision. “I had to think
hard about whether I wanted to finish the conversation we started
as the plane landed. I wasn’t sure how, or even if, I could explain
what I’d blurted out about Butler.”

She stood up but kept her distance. “Because
you weren’t sure you could trust me, right?”

No wonder he’d pulled away from her. After
all, she was a reporter but that didn’t mean his wariness didn’t
hurt.

Tony simply stared at her, his dark eyes
steady and calm. And still holding back.

Martha swallowed hard, her chest tight under
a wash of conflicting emotions. “Does this mean now you are?” She
gave her head a shake. “I mean, you’re sure you can trust me?”

His expression finally broke, and a genuinely
warm smile lit up his handsome features. Martha sagged with
relief.

“Strangely enough, I am,” he said. “Though we
barely know each other, I do trust you, Martha.”

The way he said it…it felt incredibly
important.

With deliberate slowness, not saying a word,
Martha approached him. When he responded, opening his arms to
enfold her, she leaned into the comforting strength of his body and
slipped her arms around his back. He hugged her for a moment before
drawing back a little—just enough so that their gazes met. When
Martha tilted her head and smiled, Tony didn’t hesitate, claiming
her mouth with a kiss that was at first tender and then hungry.

She stroked her hands up and down the hard,
smooth muscles of his back as their tongues danced with a slowly
spiraling heat. She forgot about Colton Butler and the Jacksonville
Thunder and every damn thing in the world except the man who
embraced her with so much strength and gentleness.

His body pressed up against her, already
demanding and insistent. As desire coiled in her belly and spread
hot and low between her thighs, Martha slid her hands down to grip
his tight athlete’s butt.

With a groaning laugh, Tony pulled back. “You
are insatiable, woman.”

“Guilty as charged,” she replied in a voice
much lighter than she felt.

Shaking his head, he gripped her around the
waist and pushed her gently backwards onto the plush, cushioned
chaise. Suddenly, he was draping her from head to toe with his
lean, hard body.

With a contented sigh, Martha gave herself up
to him. When he cradled her face between his big palms and nuzzled
her lips, a heart-wrenching pang brought tears to her eyes. God, he
was such a good man. She knew she was more in danger of falling for
him with every second that passed.

Tony’s voice was deep and hot beside her ear.
“I’m afraid you’re going to be keeping Butler waiting for a little
while, darling.”

She gasped and locked her arms around him
when he bit her softly on the neck. “Let the bastard wait.”

Her talkative cabbie—and Martha loved the
incredibly knowledgeable London taxi drivers—had dropped her off in
front of an impressive red brick building on Chelsea’s Royal
Hospital Road. Looking skyward at the five story edifice, she
guessed it may have once been the home of a wealthy family but at
some point had been divided into luxury flats. The restaurant
Colton had chosen for their get-together occupied what she thought
of as the basement, although the entrance was only a few concrete
steps below ground level. Since Martha’s handbag was bigger than
the eatery’s sign, she’d thought they were at the wrong address
until the cabbie pointed her to the stairs leading down.

She pulled open the heavy, windowless door
and entered a dark-paneled foyer that made her think the place
might be more of a private club than a public restaurant. But the
maitre’d recognized her before the door closed, giving her a crisp
bow.

“Good evening, Miss Winston,” he intoned in a
solemn voice, one much deeper than his thin, middle-aged frame
belied. “I trust you had an enjoyable trip from America. Please
allow me to show you to Mr. Butler’s table.”

Martha smiled, but couldn’t help teasing the
fellow. “Y’all are just too kind over here. I always feel just a
teensy little bit like royalty whenever I’m in London. Let me tell
you, a girl could get used to that right quick.”

The man’s eyes practically bugged out but he
quickly recovered his poker-faced demeanor. Martha wasn’t sure why
she had an instinctive tendency to put on a southern magnolia
persona when confronted by starched formality. Was it some
deep-rooted insecurity? She hoped it was just her delight in
yanking the chains of the stuffy.

“Please follow me, miss,” he said, leading
her through another closed door. A scene right out of some PBS
historical series opened up in front of her.

The darkness in the room, relieved mostly by
small table candles, was almost impenetrable to eyes not fully
adjusted to it. The white cloths on the tables appeared to be the
only things not made of heavy, dark wood and other equally majestic
but gloomy materials. The chairs, while gorgeously ornate, looked
ancient and uncomfortable, and that was yet another incentive for
her to keep the encounter short. She longed to head straight back
to St. John’s Wood and into Tony’s arms. It had been wrenching to
leave him, especially knowing what she did now.

And the clubby feel of the place didn’t
exactly make her feel welcome, either.

Following the maitre’d, she moved past a
half-dozen tables toward the farthest corner of the room. In the
shadows, she made out Colton rising as they approached.

“Miss Winston, sir.” The maitre d’ made a
sweeping motion with his arm as he spoke to Colton.

Colton beamed at her. “Martha, you look
absolutely incredible. Then again, you always do, don’t you?”

The way his eyes feasted on her figure in the
short black dress before returning to her face left little doubt as
to the sincerity of his compliment. Martha instantly wished that
she’d worn a more business-like outfit even though the LBD, which
had long sleeves and a modest neckline, hardly qualified as a sexy
frock as far as she was concerned. Not the way most chicks dressed
these days.

“How can you tell, Colton? Hell, it’s darker
than blackstrap molasses in here, and just about as thick,” she
drawled.

Colton chuckled, tugging on the little goatee
he’d recently affected. It looked a little sparse for a studly guy
and kind of dumb as far as Martha was concerned. But he was still a
handsome man for all that. Tall, blond, blue-eyed and
powerfully-built with broad shoulders tapering to a trim waist,
Colton Butler had the kind of slightly scruffy good looks that a
lot of women found irresistible these days. Martha, though, much
preferred Tony’s rugged but well-groomed sexuality.

Martha sat as the maitre d’ pulled out the
chair next to Colton’s. As best she could tell in the dimness of
the room, Colton seemed positively in the pink. He was thirty-three
now, a bit older than her, but he’d always looked younger than his
age. That youthful appearance, along with his undeniable photogenic
qualities, had helped propel him to lucrative endorsement contracts
even before his play on the course merited such massive, seven
figure rewards. And though his star status would probably never
return to what it had been before the scandal, he clearly wanted to
salvage as much of it as possible.

Hence, the reason he wanted to see her—at
least on the surface.

After a too-lengthy dialogue with the
sommelier, Colton ordered a bottle of wine that had the expert
nodding with pleasure. After the sommelier left, she and Colton
chatted briefly about the recently-concluded London Olympics, and
how sad it was that Colton was forced to miss out on the biennial
Ryder Cup, a premier golf event that pitted Europe’s best against
the top Americans. When it came time to order, Martha let Colton
select for both of them, hoping her deference would loosen him up
even more. Obviously pleased, he picked sea bass for the entrée and
arugula and endive salads to start, which worked nicely for
her.

But by the time the waiter refilled their
wine glasses, Martha had decided to press ahead with business,
particularly since her subject’s eyes were already looking slightly
glazed. Colton had always had a reputation as a hard drinker,
though he now claimed to have cleaned up his act in that regard,
too.

“Colton, you know I’m a straight shooter,
right? I like to get right to the point with folks I’m
interviewing.”

“And I admire that, Martha. Your honesty is
one of the main reasons I wanted you for this,” he said with a
straight face.

Martha took that with a giant fistful of salt
since she had a good idea he had another unspoken reason. But
they’d get around to that eventually. “Okay, then. Let me ask you
something straight out before we even start to discuss the
practicalities of this potential story—or anything else, for that
matter.”

He waved a hand deferentially.

“Martin James told me you want to open up. To
lay it all out, no holds barred.” She locked her gaze on his gauzy
blues. “Is that true? And don’t even think about trying to snow me,
Colton.”

His mouth curled down in an irritated curve.
“You really do like to get to the point, don’t you?”

Martha held her silence.

“Fine, then. I told James two things,” Colton
said, sounding a little snappy. “First, I said I’d only talk to
you
, as he must have told you. And, second, I told him that
I want to be open and candid about my past mistakes, but I also
want to tell people about how fundamentally my life has changed.
How I’ve turned things around, and become a better person as a
result.”

When he tried for a soulful look, Martha
almost gagged.

“I’m not interested in some bullshit story,”
he continued. “I want to bare my soul publicly—as hard as that’s
going to be—so my journey can be an inspiration to others.”

Now she
really
wanted to puke. In
fact, her insides were clenched so tight with revulsion she could
barely breathe.

Oh, yeah, you’re an inspiration all right—for
whoring reprobates and wife beaters, maybe.

“One can only hope,” she said, sitting
rigidly on the edge of her seat. “So, give me the gist of what you
mean by that. How you’ve turned things around and become a better
person.” Martha braced herself for a verbal tidal wave of
self-serving crap.

“By finally getting in touch with my inner
self, Martha. By working to cleanse my chakras and find my inner
peace,” he said glibly. “That’s pretty much it in a nutshell.”

“Uh-huh.” She’d heard that he’d gone all
Eastern, all organic, all green. A model new age man. “That’s
certainly intriguing. But come on, Colton, you can be more
specific.” She gave him an encouraging nod. “I’m sure my readers
will be fascinated by something so… so…positively
transcendental.”

Visions of Tibetan monks sitting cross-legged
in their flowing garments floated before her eyes. Colton Butler
was not seated among them.

“Sure, you’re skeptical,” he said, his tone
now breezy. “I get it. Hell, I was skeptical, too. But I’m
transformed, Martha. I’m at peace now with myself and the world.
And that peace is going to make it possible—no, easy, in fact—for
me to get back to number one in the world ranking. I guarantee
it.”

Martha had to choke back a laugh. He
guaranteed it? Oh, sure. She really should suggest he check that
one out with Tiger or Rory McIlroy or any of a dozen or more
superstars who would have a large say in determining who was the
top ranked golfer on the planet.

But what fried her even more than his inane
boasting about future glory was his startling claim to be at peace
with himself and the world. Since Tony’s revelation, Martha had
been imagining what Ginny Cross’s face had looked like after
running headlong multiple times into Colton’s fists. She couldn’t
help but wonder if he was at peace with himself about that,
too.