Bigger Than Beckham (35 page)

Tony gazed down at her, eyes blazing. Every
line of his face was sharply defined with anger.

“Of course, I told him where he could shove
his ridiculous proposal,” she added quickly.

“Death is too good for that sodding prick,”
Tony growled.

She half-expected him to start pawing the
ground, like a bull readying to charge. Oddly enough, the silly
image soothed her wounded pride.

“Martha, I know you really want to do this
article,” he said. “But when you meet the scumbag the next time, I
want you to have somebody there with you. That’s how little I trust
Colton Butler.”

Martha figured she could probably hold her
own in a wrestling match with Colton if it ever came to that.
Still, she had to admit that Tony was probably right. Having a
witness made sense, though God only knew how she’d manage to swing
that with Colton.

“Not a bad idea,” she said. “But listen,
Tony. I know this is probably one of the hardest things you’ll ever
have to do, but the stakes are worth it, aren’t they? Help me get
some kind of justice for Ginny. Help me try to stop Colton from
doing the same thing to even more women.”

They stood quietly in the shade of one of the
plane trees, holding hands as a couple of joggers passed around
them on the path. Martha curbed her impatience, waiting for him to
work it through.

“I’ll sleep on it.” He slid an arm around her
waist. “You’re a damn persuasive woman, Martha Winston, but you
worry the hell out of me with the risks you take.”

She didn’t resist as he gently squeezed her.
Instead, she leaned into him and gratefully accepted the warmth and
comfort of his embrace.

“Now, about that drink,” he prompted.

She snuggled against him, relishing the feel
of the soft Lions jersey that contrasted with his hard body
underneath. She was desperately relieved that they’d apparently
reached some kind of truce. “You’re on, but my hotel is a lot
closer than your place. So, let’s get a move on, Branch.”

Exhausted but determined to get the dreaded
conversation over and done, Martha paced her living room as she
waited for her uncle Geoffrey to arrive. Her flight from London had
been on-time and smooth as a baby’s butt, though it still felt like
she’d entirely missed the day. The sun had barely risen over London
when Tony dropped her at Heathrow and dusk had already fallen by
the time the Delta 757 touched down in Jacksonville.

All through the long transatlantic leg, her
mind had flipped back and forth between the divine and the
depressing. Every memory she had of the previous day and night with
Tony was divine, from the moment they walked hand in hand through
Green Park to her hotel until the last passionate kiss as they said
a wrenching goodbye at the airport. In between, they’d enjoyed a
sumptuous meal at the Ritz-Carlton sandwiched in between the most
mind-altering sexual exploits she could imagine. Martha considered
herself in prime physical shape—almost as good as in her college
basketball days—but she figured only a yoga master could have
avoided her day-after sore muscles. Those muscles even now clung to
the memories of Tony’s ardent demonstrations of inventive
passion.

The two of them had carefully avoided the raw
subjects of the Jacksonville Thunder and Ginny Cross, and that had
been divine, too. Both matters would have to be dealt with soon
enough, but in the meantime they’d shared a fierce determination to
make their last night together a memorable one.

The depressing thoughts, of course, focused
on the Meeting of Death in store for her tomorrow. On top of that
looming confrontation with the bank and the sponsors, she’d decided
she had no choice but to get together with Geoffrey as soon as she
arrived home. Before she boarded at Heathrow, she’d called him on
his cell and asked him to meet her tonight at her father’s
house.

Martha simply had to own up to her uncle
about Tony’s proposal for a so-called partnership, even though
she’d rejected it. Despite their differences, she and Geoffrey
remained partners in the Thunder, and that meant she would continue
to do her best to respect Geoffrey’s interests despite his minority
status. When she told him over the phone that she’d just spent the
weekend in London with Tony, he hadn’t sounded surprised. That lack
of reaction had bothered her all day, making her wonder how much
her uncle knew, and whether Tony—or more likely Rex—was keeping
Geoffrey informed.

She’d just finished brewing coffee and
setting out cups, cream and sugar when the doorbell rang. Martha
let her uncle in and, after giving her a perfunctory air kiss,
Geoffrey lumbered straight into the living room and plunked his
wide butt down on the sofa as if he owned the place.

As she set the coffee service in front of
him, she took in his white shorts and sweat-stained, orange golf
shirt. Obviously, he’d come straight from his course in Ponte Vedra
or, more likely, straight from the country club bar. Martha often
wondered how he managed to wheeze his way through eighteen holes,
even with the aid of an electric cart. To say that Uncle Geoffrey
wasn’t in good shape was the charitable way to put it.

“How about a cup of coffee?” she said. “I
just made a fresh pot.”

“My cardiologist doesn’t want me drinking
coffee anymore, remember? Damn stuff gives me palpitations,” he
said with a scowl. “But I wouldn’t say no to bourbon and soda.”

She nodded and headed to the kitchen,
wondering if bourbon could be much better for a challenged heart
than coffee.

Once his drink and her coffee were organized,
she took the armchair that was set at an angle to the sofa. While
she certainly didn’t shy from direct eye contact, she’d learned
over the years that Geoffrey rarely looked directly at anyone,
instead constantly shifting his gaze around the room. The habit
unsettled her, and she sure didn’t need to be any more unsettled
tonight than she already was.

“All right, then. What did Branch have to
say?” Geoffrey slugged back a hefty swallow of bourbon.

She repressed sigh. Never much chitchat with
her uncle. “Let me start by saying that I went to London to meet
with Colton Butler. I wanted to talk to Butler to see if I should
to accept an assignment to write a feature article about his
comeback. While I was there, Tony insisted I be his guest at the
Saturday match at Fenton Park. I had some spare time, so I
accepted.” That explanation was pretty bare bones, but she had no
intention of going into the details with Geoffrey.

“I’m sure you enjoyed the match,” he said in
a resentful voice. “Fenton Park is a delight, and the Lions are a
fine side, nowadays, like every team Tony Branch has ever owned or
managed. The man’s a bloody football genius.”

Martha went onto full alert. Geoffrey Winston
as president of the Tony Branch fan club? When did that happen?

“If only we had players like Kevin Keenan and
Emmanuelle Diarra over here instead of overpaid slackers like
Kavanagh and Flores.” Martha let out a sigh. “But we should be so
lucky.”

Geoffrey spun his finger impatiently, as if
urging her to get on with it. “Luck has little to do with it,
darling. Now, Branch must have told you something you think I need
to hear, so let’s have it, shall we, then?”

Martha met his impatience with a smile.
Slowly, she pulled her legs up underneath her and took a couple of
sips of coffee, simply to make him pay in small fashion for his
rudeness. She examined her black tights and picked at an imaginary
piece of lint. Stalling the discussion may have been a bit petty,
but Martha had never caved to Geoffrey’s bullying demeanor and she
wasn’t about to start tonight.

“Branch made an offer for the team,” she said
at last. “Right out of the blue, in the middle of the match. Darn
near bowled me over, I have to tell you.”

Geoffrey’s brows shot up, signaling to her
that his surprise wasn’t feigned. She figured word hadn’t got back
to him from anybody in London after all, and that gave her sense of
control a little boost.

“Ah, he took the informal approach,” Geoffrey
mused. “A little cheeky, though, wasn’t he?”

If you only knew the half of it.

Martha managed a tiny smile. “Branch actually
proposed a partnership rather than an outright sale, which I found
surprising to say the least. His deal would see me, or the two of
us, sell him a controlling share—fifty point one percent, to be
precise. And, before you ask, he didn’t throw out any dollar
figures. He was pretty much just sounding me out on the
concept.”

Geoffrey’s mouth sagged open. “Good God, he
wants a partnership? Why in heaven would the man want to be
partners with us? That makes no bloody sense.”

“I expect it’s because he knew it would be
the only way that I’d even think for one moment about selling part
of my share. Unfortunately, for some reason he seemed to be under
the silly illusion that I might actually cede control to him.”

Her uncle lurched forward to the edge of the
sofa. “You’re you telling me you blew him off? Without even
discussing the offer with me first? Good God, how dare you!”

“I’m discussing it with you now,” Martha said
sharply, trying to ignore her thudding heart. “But even without
talking to you, I had no trouble making it clear to Branch that I
wasn’t interested. There’s no way I’m going to sell him a
controlling share, Geoffrey, and you know why. I made Daddy a
solemn promise to keep the Thunder in our family, and I have every
intention of honoring that vow.”

Geoffrey’s face had quickly turned from pasty
to beet red. “Great. You’d rather go bankrupt, then? Because that’s
exactly what’s going to happen, and you’re a damned idiot if you
don’t see it. The bank’s going to cut us off any day now. And after
that we won’t be able to pay our players, much less our creditors.
We’ll be left with no choice but to sell or go into receivership,
and who knows whether anyone will even want to buy the team then.”
He pulled out a white handkerchief and dabbed at his sweat-covered
brow. He looked ill, and that made Martha start to worry.

“Martha, listen to me,” he continued in a
wheeze. “It’s time you got serious. You know very well that we’d
get more if we sell now rather than when our backs are pinned to
the wall. You must come to your senses and forget that nonsensical
promise. Will should never have put that terrible burden on your
shoulders. He was wrong, and you shouldn’t have to pay for his
stupid mistake.” He put up a hand to cut off her objection. “I
loved Will too, but you know he didn’t have a lick of sense when it
came to this damn team.”

As much as she hated to admit it, her uncle
wasn’t entirely wrong. She certainly hadn’t welcomed her father’s
somewhat bizarre insistence on her taking over the Thunder and
keeping it in the Winston family in perpetuity. When she was really
feeling blue, she even thought it might have been his way of
punishing her for rejecting the family business for a journalism
career. But she’d always whacked those stupid thoughts down the
second they popped up their ungrateful heads, because her daddy had
been the kindest, most generous soul on the planet.

No, there was guilt to be had involving
Winston Papers, all right, but it wasn’t her father’s doing. It was
hers. As much as she told herself she was being foolish, Martha
couldn’t let go of the fact that she’d let him down when it
counted. Her rational mind told her that she’d made the right
decision not to take over as CEO of Winston Papers all those years
ago. Nevertheless, when her father had begged her on his deathbed
to take responsibility for the Thunder, she’d been incapable of
saying no to him again. Whether he should have even asked her or
not didn’t matter. What mattered was that she didn’t fail him
again. Rightly or wrongly, she’d promised to take the team and keep
it in the family.

Unfortunately, the latter promise to her
father no longer squared with her uncle’s best interests.

“Geoffrey, we’re never going to agree on
that, so I wish you’d keep those opinions to yourself,” she said
firmly. “Look, I understand you might do better if we sold to Tony
now. And maybe in the end we’ll wind up with no choice, like you
say. But I’m sure not ready to give up the fight.”

“Oh, nonsense. Be sensible, girl. The team is
dead in everything but name,” Geoffrey lectured. “My poor,
misguided brother created this mess and then stuck you with it.
Well, I for one think it’s high time you started thinking about
yourself, Martha—not about a dead man’s fancy. And it’s high time,
too, that you started thinking about
me.
You may not need
the money. Hell, you’ve told me a dozen times you don’t care about
that. But I damn well do.”

He crumpled his handkerchief and mopped at
his brow, red-faced and angry. “I
do
need the bloody money.
I’ve got loans that are backed up by my share of the equity in the
team. What do you think is going to happen when the value of that
equity plummets even more than it already has? I’ll be screwed,
that’s what’s going to happen. Personal bankruptcy.
Ruin
.”