To Win Her Love (3 page)

He propped his hands on his hips and shook his head. “Oh, this keeps getting better and better.”

She bared her teeth in an ice-cold smile. “You can say that again.”

“Well, this is awkward.” The smile pulling at V’s perfectly painted lips appeared forced. “I suggest we deal with one issue at a time, beginning with the custody situation.”

Gracie couldn’t agree more. Heart in her throat, she addressed Anthony. “All I have to do is move in for three months and at the end I’ll gain full custody?”

“Claiming victory already?” Jake’s narrowed gaze locked on hers, one dark brow lifted in challenge.

“Are you saying you
want
to take on the responsibility of six-year-old twins?”

“Fuck no.” Blind panic rounded his eyes. “What the hell would I know about raising little girls?”

The band of tension squeezing her chest snapped loose. She curled her toes against the rush of relief threatening to buckle her knees. “Well, then.” She swung out a hand. “There you go. You may not want them, but I do.”

His brows beetled in a scowl. The uncertainty in his eyes said he wasn’t sure if he should argue her point or give in gracefully.

V cleared her throat. “My client needs a bit of time to consider the situation. When does he have to give you his answer?”

“I don’t need—”

“Jake!” V’s sharp command cut him off.

He spun around and paced to the window. Shoulders bunched, he thumped the brim of his Stetson against his thigh and stared out at the winter afternoon.

Anthony offered V a weak smile. “Mrs. Clark made arrangements for the twins to spend tonight with a friend from school. They will return home after the funeral tomorrow morning.” His gaze encompassed both Gracie and Jake. “You are required to be in residence by eight tomorrow evening and, with the exception of pre-approved professional absences, every night thereafter for ninety days.”

Jake spun around to snarl at his publicist. “Not a chance, V. I refused to jump through hoops for the asshole when he was alive. I won’t follow his demands now he’s dead, especially for a couple of rugrats I’ve never met.”

Gracie winced at the loathing in his voice for Pete and opened her mouth to protest the insult to her nieces.

V beat her to it. “Shut up, Jake.” She turned to Anthony with a forced smile. “Other than the curfew requirement, are there any other conditions?”

“Ah, no.” He speared long fingers through his thinning hair. “However, I should explain one small caveat to the arrangement.”

Another disdainful snort sounded from the back of the room. V shot a stern-eyed warning over one shoulder.

Anthony’s dark eyes softened as they settled on Gracie. “I realize you are ready to take immediate custody of the girls, Miss Gable, and, in my opinion, a speedy decision on guardianship would be best. However, while your brother-in-law foresaw Mr. Malone’s reluctance to accept the requirements of the will, he insisted his son be given the opportunity to get to know his half sisters.”

Gracie nodded. From Jake’s reaction, there didn’t seem much chance of him complying. Just in case, she needed a few things clarified. “I understand, but what if we both manage to meet the requirements? What happens then?”

“That’s where the caveat comes in. If, at the end of the allotted time, you are both still here, the girls will choose between the two of you. Ultimately, they have the final say on which of you will be their guardian.”

Gracie was too shaken to react. Jake wasn’t. He spun from the window and closed the distance to glare down at V. Gracie could only watch wide-eyed as he seemed to expand, growing even larger than normal in his hot-eyed fury.

“Are you satisfied?” His voice rose with each word. “What kind of asshole leaves this kind of decision to a couple of six year olds?” He pinned Anthony with a heated sneer. “And what’s with you? Aren’t attorneys supposed to
advise
their clients, steering them away from asinine stipulations?”

“Jake!”

Anthony held up a hand, quieting V. Gracie couldn’t help applauding his composure, if only in her head, even if his serene appearance appeared forced.

Though his face paled, he met Jake’s glare and spoke in a steady voice. “I did exactly that, Mr. Malone, but in truth, I was nothing more than an employee of your father.” He paused briefly, as if considering his words. “I would never share a confidence of a client but, as the man is dead, and the situation complicated, I can tell you, Pete Thompson felt this arrangement allowed him to make amends for past wrongs. Specifically, the way he treated your mother and you. In his opinion, offering you the opportunity to gain his estate, while seeing to the welfare of his daughters, was the perfect solution.”

Scoffing disbelief flared in Jake’s darkening glare, proving him unwilling to attribute any altruistic characteristics to the man who sired him.

V rose from her chair. Anthony followed suit.

“We appreciate your candor.” She shook his hand. “We’ll be in touch.”

He nodded and handed her his card. “By all means, contact me at my office.”

Like a grumpy child, Jake stomped from the room without further word. With an apologetic smile, V hurried after him.

Anthony collapsed back onto the couch. A green tinge colored his face, pale against the austere black of his suit. He began shoving papers into his briefcase with shaking hands.

Gracie could empathize.

She jumped when Mary laid a gentle hand on her shoulder.

“Take heart, child. All will work out. You’ll see.”

She swallowed. Hard.

“I need a scotch, Henry. Make it a double.”

The waiter nodded and turned for the bar. Jake jammed his coat on the hook beside his usual booth at the back of The Tap Room. Considering his mood, he should’ve cancelled his weekly lunch with Tom, but thanks to this morning’s multiple hits, he was running on autopilot. He’d found himself in the pub’s private Manhattan parking garage without any recall of having gotten there.

Sliding into the booth, he checked his watch. Too late now. Tom would be here any minute and, knowing V, she’d already filled him in on this latest disaster. Not that Jake could blame her. Even before this morning’s unbelievable revelations, the shit had hit the proverbial fan, and he had no one to blame but himself. He’d screwed up royally with his asinine behavior on the Gridiron Girl’s blog.

Fuck. Gracie Gable’s blog. What were the odds, and what was the world coming to when an obscure, online exchange could threaten to derail an all-pro, record-breaking season?

He shot an impatient glare at Henry behind the bar.

How could he have made such a rookie mistake? What the hell was he thinking, letting Tuck goad him into logging on to see what his teammates were snickering about? This was his tenth season, for Christ’s sake. He knew better than to involve himself in the ramblings of rabid fans. Especially female ones. Unlike men, who offered verbal shoulder thumps of camaraderie for a win or voiced their displeasure at a loss by questioning a player’s athletic skills, women dragged personal attributes into the conversation, going straight for the jugular—when they weren’t zeroed in on an even more vulnerable body part.

Women, V always claimed, were much cruder than men when discussing the opposite sex. The commentary on the surprisingly popular blog verified her claim’s validity, in his opinion, and, like a voyeur with a key to the women’s locker room, he’d read every word. He snorted, recalling some of the more outrageous observations.

To her credit, while clearly entertained by the suggestive discourse of her followers, or minions, as she called them, Gracie Gable refrained from adding to the down and dirty dialogue. Before things got too raunchy, she steered the various conversations back to the subject at hand—football.

He had to admit she knew her topic. Interspersed amongst the speculation of various players’ stamina and body parts, her posts contained insightful debates on statistical possibilities, bemoaning the confusion caused by the rash of new rules imposed by the league, and predictions for the following week’s match-ups. Impressed by the Gridiron Girl’s comprehension of the game, everything was fine until he stumbled upon the post labeled
Now, That’s A “Tight End.”

Unease had tickled his spine as Tuck’s laughter echoed in his mind. He’d sat forward at his desk and clicked the mouse, hoping to find an exposé on one of his many peers across the league who held the same position as he. The hope died a quick death. Unease became disquiet when his image filled the screen. The full color photo showed him stretched out in midair, capturing the moment before his fingers gripped the ball in what
should
have been his most recent touchdown catch—if not for the ref’s bullshit call of offensive pass interference.

He’d ground his teeth at the reminder. He might have a reputation as a man who lived to flaunt the rules in his personal life. In fact, he cultivated the rebel status, but when it came to the game he loved, he didn’t screw around. He took pride in being a clean competitor. The whispers of “dirty play,” since the controversial call had left him steaming in a slow burn. The furor over whether or not he should’ve been slapped with an unnecessary roughness penalty as well pissed him off until he wanted to howl out his rage. The slow burn flared to a raging inferno as he read the Gridiron Girl’s take on the play:

Jake Malone’s exploits on the field are normally a thing of beauty, but I’m afraid the pressure to break the touchdown record may have gotten to the Outlaw Tight End. Though I want to accept his claim the contact in this week’s disastrous collision with Brian Tuttle was incidental, the replay clearly shows Jake dropping his shoulder a moment before impact.

“Son of a
bitch
.”

No one felt worse than he about the concussion Brian suffered from the hit, but football was a full contact sport, damn it. Brian understood that and had accepted Jake’s condolences with a philosophical shrug when they spoke after the game.

Despite her obvious knowledge of the sport, like his other self-appointed critics, the Gridiron Girl had never come up against a two-hundred-sixty-pound defender, jockeying for position while moving at top speed. Dropped his shoulder a moment before impact? Shit. Attempting to avoid a helmet-to-helmet collision was more like it. The woman didn’t have a clue what she was talking about.

The cacophony of critical voices questioning his integrity from the safety of their various publications had reached critical mass. In his mind, a picture formed of a mousy woman with buckteeth and a flat chest, exacting revenge against a male population that continuously overlooked her. Her keyboard offered an opportunity for retribution and, through her anonymous blog, she repaid the slight to her pitiful existence by slashing at her male victims’ pride.

Not this time, sweetheart
.

His fingers flew across the keys.

That hit had nothing to do with breaking the record. Pro players understand this league isn’t for pussies. Brutal hits are part of the game.

His comment should’ve been one more cyber blip, lost in the billions of others popping up throughout cyberspace on a daily basis but, as his luck was running lately, she responded immediately.

Dirty hits may be part of the game, but they’re beneath a player with the athletic abilities of Jake Malone.

The compliment did nothing to ease the haze of his anger.

Putting up with the asinine opinions of armchair quarterbacks is also part of the game. The hit wasn’t dirty. It was incidental
.

She saw things differently.

I call ’em as I see ’em. Anyone who follows the game knows Jake is a master of contortion. His ability to twist his body for optimum benefit is a big part of the reason he’s in the running for the touchdown record in the first place. It’s impossible he didn’t know exactly what he was doing when he dropped his shoulder last Sunday and I, for one, consider it a shame he resorted to such a dirty tactic.

Fury boiled in his blood.

A woman who does her insulting from the anonymous safety of cyberspace is either a coward or so homely she’d choke a dog. I’ll wager it’s the latter in your case, lady, and, as such, you wouldn’t know incidental contact if it bit you on the ass.

He hit enter. His fingers hovered over the keyboard, and he winced at the harshness of his reply. Despite the red haze of his fury, it wasn’t like him to be cruel, and never to a woman. He loved the female of the species, enjoyed everything about them. Their softness, the way they smelled and tasted, even the contrary way their minds worked delighted him. He’d been blessed with the ability to charm even the most contrary among them, but he’d never had a woman attack his professional ethics before.

He flattened his lips in a guilty grimace, until her smartass comeback replaced his guilt with disbelief.

Attacking a person’s looks when you don’t have an argument based on facts is a juvenile tactic. Does your mommy know you’re using her computer?

He ignored her insult to his maturity, his fingers flying across the keyboard.

My argument
is
based on fact
.
You’ve never played the game or you’d understand the physics involved in avoiding contact when tangling for position. The hit was clean and incidental.

She kept right on taunting.

You’re right. I’ve never played the game, but anyone—who doesn’t need glasses—can see Jake twisting his upper body as Tuttle closes in. Maybe you should have your eyes checked.

The woman was a piece of work. A goddamned piece of work.

My eyes are fine, and I was twisting my upper body to avoid helmet-to-helmet contact!

He hit send then cursed and held his breath. Would she notice the first person reference?

She rushed him in a full-out blitz.

You’re
upper body? Well, well. Ladies, it appears we have none other than the Outlaw Tight End himself visiting our little football clutch. Nice of you to stop by, Jake.

“Shit.” He scrubbed his hand over his face as Henry approached the booth.