Bigger Than Beckham (31 page)

“Martha, do you mind if we take a step back
before we get to that?” He made sure to keep his voice low and
even.

She gave a casual shrug, her face a polite,
beautiful mask.

“Okay, then,” he continued. “What I’m trying
to say is that if I’m fortunate enough to buy the team, I intend to
keep as many of your staff as I possibly can. In fact, I’ll commit
to specifics as part of the written agreement. And if there are
people I simply can’t live with, then they’ll receive substantial
settlements. You can be sure of that.”

Martha started to respond, but Tony held up a
hand. “My offer is more generous than you’re going to get from
anyone else if you’re ultimately forced into a sale. Or if the team
is broken up in bankruptcy court. You know that’s true. And that’s
why you should consider my overall proposal very, very
carefully.”

Her mouth took on a mutinous line. “I don’t
know anything for sure about that.”

But Tony could tell by the way she briefly
shifted her eyes that he’d hit the mark. “Well, can you be sure
anyone else will offer Jane, that lovely, efficient assistant of
yours, a guarantee of continued employment?” he said. “I’ll make
that offer. She can have a job with me as long as she wants
one.”

Martha gave a dismissive snort. “Great, but I
don’t worry about Jane. She can get a job at the
Post
tomorrow.”

Jesus
. She was a tough nut to crack.
“What about all the others, then?”

“Of course I want to make sure my people are
taken care of,” she said with no hesitation. “It’s absolutely
critical for me. And I’m not denying that your commitment in that
regard is attractive, Tony, though I’m not much liking what I’m
picking up about Kieran’s and Sam’s futures.” She sat up
straighter, tugging her skirt down as she locked a deadly serious
gaze on him. “But let’s leave that for the moment. Now it’s time
for you to drop the other shoe, isn’t it?”

Tony was pretty sure she wasn’t going to like
that particular shoe one little bit. But he’d done his best to
convince her of the sincerity of his commitment to her staff, so
now all that remained was to make her the concrete proposal she was
clearly waiting for.

“For the first time in my career, Martha, I’m
prepared to go into partnership. And I want you to realize how big
a step it is for me to even think about something like that.”

He let those words sink in for a few seconds,
but she didn’t react. Not even a nod.

“Specifically,” he continued, noticing his
fists were clenched, “I’m prepared to buy enough shares from you,
or from you and your uncle both, to give me a bare fifty point one
per cent of team ownership. That means you’ll continue to hold
virtually half of the team. I will commit to collaborating with you
on all contracts, and on all other major business decisions other
than on-field, player personnel issues.”

Unnervingly, Martha showed virtually no
reaction. To Tony’s ears, his pitch had sounded too stiff and cool,
but at least she seemed to be thinking about it if dead silence was
any indication.

“Excuse me, please,” Martha finally said,
breaking the tense, uncomfortable pause. “I really need a few
minutes alone.”

She got up, brushed past him and headed
through the suite’s door, leaving Tony rooted to his chair and
stunned.

* * *

Thank God the hallway outside the suite was
deserted, since Martha let out a string of curses that would have
shocked any passersby. Some of her words even shocked
her
,
but if there was ever a moment for colorful swearing it was right
now.

She’d tried not to get her hopes up when Tony
first tantalized her with the offer of a partnership, but the
bitter disappointment she felt now told her she hadn’t succeeded.
To her, the word “partnership” had always conjured up the image of
two people sharing something
equally
, whether it was in a
bridge game, a doubles tennis match, or a medical or legal
practice. Or even a marriage, for that matter. Partners were
equals. Wasn’t that how it was supposed to be?

Martha glanced down at her shaking hands.
She’d started to feel the first tiny trembles as he said the words
“fifty point one,” and soon she knew she had to put some space
between the two of them before her fraying self-control completely
blew apart.

When Tony delivered his pitch and spelled out
the terms, tears had actually prickled her eyes. But volcanic anger
had quickly overwhelmed the incipient water works. To make matters
worse, the jerk had shown very little emotion and even less
sensitivity as he’d calmly described his bombshell scheme to wrest
control of the Thunder from her. And because Martha instinctively
knew that rage would make it impossible to sort out her true
feelings, she’d decided to flee the room and give herself time to
cool down before she gave Tony an answer.

An answer consisting of two short words
starting with the letters “F” and “O” seemed a justifiable counter
under the circumstances, but despite her anger she wouldn’t treat
Tony in such a cavalier or juvenile fashion.

She let out a weary sigh, leaning against a
concrete support post. At least there’d been no trace of glee in
Tony’s attitude. In fact, there hadn’t even been much confidence,
though he appeared to be trying hard to insert a good measure of
it. If anything, he’d looked tentative, having to fight his nerves.
Certainly not the self-assured man who had swept her off her feet
and into bed the previous night.

But how could he imagine she’d ever agree to
give him total control of her team? Because total control was in
fact what he’d proposed, no matter how he tried to sugar coat it
with that ridiculous layer of consultation bullshit. Fifty point
one per cent might as well be ninety-nine point nine per cent as
far as she was concerned. Tony could cross his heart and promise to
consult her until Georgia stopped growing peaches, but in the end
he would call the shots. All the shots.

Because that was exactly what fifty point one
per cent meant.

Aside from the solemn promise she made to her
father, the offer didn’t even make sense to her. She had no desire
to own a minority stake in a struggling soccer team, continuing to
tie up her inheritance with nothing to show for it. It would be
better to simply sell the Thunder outright, pay off the team’s
debts, and pocket whatever funds were left. Maintaining a big
investment in the team in the absence of any real control sounded
like the worst of both worlds.

Should she tell Tony what
her
idea for
a partnership was? That she
might
have been prepared to
accept a straight fifty-fifty split, with him buying out Geoffrey’s
twenty and adding thirty per cent from her share? Unfortunately,
she had absolutely no doubt that the concept of equally sharing
control with her was a non-starter for Tony Branch.

Tucking back a couple of wayward locks of
hair, she ineffectually smoothed her wrinkled skirt, inhaled a deep
breath and pushed open the door of the suite.

Tony shot to his feet immediately as she
entered, looking worried and grim. “I’m sorry I upset you, Martha,”
he said cautiously. “I seem to have handled this whole thing
badly.”

She sat back down and crossed her legs
primly. “Oh, hell, it could have been worse. You could have sprung
it on me in bed, I suppose.” She managed to crack a small smile
despite feeling like she might throw up. “But that might have been
dangerous to a couple of things you surely hold dear.”

Tony sat too, leaning his forearms on his
knees. “I’ll keep that in mind for the future,” he said in a dry
tone.

What future?
Martha couldn’t help
asking herself the question. “Tony, let me ask you something. How
would you have reacted if I’d made you the same offer—in
reverse?”

Tony rubbed his five o’clock shadow. “I can’t
give you a specific number for what I’m prepared to pay for your
shares,” he said, ignoring her question. “But Rex and I can sit
down and have something for you in a few hours. I’ll pay more than
current fair value, I can promise you that.”

Sure, because fair value might be a sack of
raw peanuts at this point, Martha thought gloomily. “No,” she
said.

He sat up straight and frowned. “No,
what?”

The man who’d massaged her back in bed this
morning after doing all those deliciously unspeakable acts last
night, had morphed into Mister Hard-Ass Businessman. Their pact not
to discuss the Thunder during the weekend had been well and truly
shattered. The problem had started with a single, seemingly
off-hand remark and the situation had rapidly slid into what her
father had liked to call a sweet Jesus mess.

Martha found herself wanting take Mr.
Peabody’s Wayback Machine an hour into the past, but what was done
was done. Tony remained so determined to get her team that she
didn’t see how they could go on with what they’d started a few days
earlier in her suite at JaxBank. In fact, they hadn’t even managed
to go a whole weekend without diving headfirst into the quicksand
she’d run away to London to escape.

“I mean no, you shouldn’t bother running
numbers, because I won’t sell you a controlling share of the
Thunder,” she said with all the firmness she could manage. Too bad
her stomach was crawling into her throat. “Period,” she added for
good measure.

He blew out a heavy breath and spread his
hands in a gesture of frustration. “Well, I can’t do any better
than what I’ve offered. If I can’t control the team and its future,
there’s no point in me owning any part of it.” His gaze was shot
through with hardened steel as he leaned forward, his hands
clasping his knees. “Here’s the bottom line, Martha. I’m an owner,
not an investor. And I’m sure not going to be your banker, either.
That’s a reality you’re going to have to accept.”

Martha had chosen the small Mayfair hotel for
both its location and its reputation for discreet and attentive
service. On a quiet street in one of the swankiest parts of central
London, the Bell Tower’s low-key style certainly suited her mood if
not her price range. But despite its understated elegance and cozy
simplicity, it felt lifeless. She realized, though, that her
judgment was unduly harsh, and represented a comment more on the
state of her bruised and enervated spirit than on any shortcomings
of the hotel.

She had acknowledged to herself hours ago
that she desperately missed the comforting cocoon of Tony’s home.
Even more, she missed the man, though it burned her to have to
admit it after yesterday’s gruesome clusterfuck at Fenton. But what
choice had she but to flee after that humiliating scene?

The soft, mid-morning sun poking in through
her lace-covered window promised a glorious autumn Sunday, but
Martha had woken from a fitful sleep to find she had less appetite
for remaining in the city than she’d originally thought. Dashing
out of the stadium yesterday—after asking Tony to pack her suitcase
for her so she could send a cab for it later—she’d gone straight to
the Bell Tower. Incredulous at first, Tony had tried to talk her
into remaining with him for the rest of her stay, even if it meant
not sharing his bedroom. But she’d been adamant in her
determination not to set foot in his house or even his car. Her
refusal hadn’t been based on pique. Well, maybe
some
pique.
Mainly, though, it had reflected her gut instinct that if she
didn’t get away from him instantly, her traitorous body might
betray her resolve to put distance between her and Tony Goddamn
Branch.

Though she could have taken a commercial
flight out of Heathrow first thing this morning, she couldn’t yet
face the long and lonely trip back to Jacksonville. Instead, she’d
booked a flight for Monday that would have her home by late
afternoon. Once he’d reluctantly accepted her decision to leave,
Tony had offered his timeshare jet to ferry her home. It was kind
of him and tempting, but it hadn’t felt right to accept. Anyway,
the Delta flight tomorrow would get her back in more than enough
time to stew about Tuesday’s dreaded second meeting with the bank
and the sponsors.

Her room order eggs Benedict arrived
perfectly prepared and warm inside a gleaming stainless steel
salver, but she’d spent the last quarter-hour pushing them around
her plate while she stared out the window at Charles Street.

It made her crazy that her fabulous London
weekend had become collateral damage of the dust-up in Tony’s
stadium suite. But she’d seen no option at the time, and still
didn’t. Not after his hard-assed comment that he wouldn’t be her
banker,
a final nasty blow to her pride. That particular
shot of his had occasioned two minutes of barbed words tossed back
and forth between them before she’d hurried her way out to a taxi
line. Tony had tried to reason with her—as he’d called it—but she
was having none of his patronizing crap. If his proposal truly
reflected his idea of what a partnership between them would have to
look like, Martha had known she’d have to make it clear to him by
deeds as well as words that he was—to use another of her father’s
favorite phrases—pissing up a rope. And she had.