Bigger Than Beckham (16 page)

Yeah, Tony got that. Kavanagh might be a
prick but he had celebrity good looks, something Winston had no
doubt thought he could use to full advantage. “And you were going
through a messy divorce, as I recall,” Tony added dryly.

Kavanagh shot him a cheeky grin. “That was
another good reason to get the hell out of London.”

“I hear you,” Tony said. “But now you’re
regretting your decision to take Winston’s offer?”

“Bloody right I am, since the old man died
and left the bloody useless daughter in charge. Martha Winston has
a great ass, but she doesn’t know a football from a Frisbee and
she’s driven the team into the ground in just a few short months.”
Kavanagh blew out a breath. “I can’t wait to get out of here.”

Tony kept his anger under control, adopting a
puzzled look for Kavanagh’s benefit. “I don’t quite understand,
mate. The last time I checked, Martha wasn’t in the lineup.”

“Ha ha. Hilarious,” Kavanagh muttered.

“So, what exactly is she doing wrong,
then?”

“You’d be better to ask what she’s doing
right.” Kavanagh finished his fancy drink and set it to the side.
“First, she just does everything Kieran McLeod tells her, and
McLeod’s day is done. We both know that. That’s why he’s here
instead of still at Blackburn.”

That was the prevailing sentiment in British
football—that McLeod had become stuck in a mental rut and had
fallen out of the group of top-level managers. Well out. Tony
reluctantly shared the view that McLeod’s move to Jacksonville had
simply been a form of early retirement for the once-powerful
Scotsman.

Tony gave a slight nod. “What else?”

“Then McLeod brought in sodding Sam Brockton
to manage at the end of last season, and the man’s been a bloody
disaster. I argued like hell with both McLeod and Will Winston that
Brockton’s system wouldn’t work here, and I was right, wasn’t
I?”

“The system wouldn’t work with your own style
of play, you mean.”

“Exactly. Believe me, absolutely nobody on
the team wants Brockton. But for Diego Flores and me in particular,
it’s down to a matter of he goes or we go. And, so far, Martha
Winston is backing McLeod and refuses to fire Brockton.” Kavanagh
practically spat out the last sentence. “Bloody stupid and stubborn
woman. She’s destroying this team. It’s going to die unless she’s
out of here.”

Tony’s instinctive reaction was to slug the
prick on Martha’s behalf. He could see the merits of Kavanagh’s
analysis, but his disrespect toward Martha was bullshit. But there
was no point in getting into that now. “You’ve asked to be traded,
have you?” he said as coolly as he could manage.

“Of course I have. But it’s not going to
happen. Winston would have to eat a big slice of my salary in any
trade, and she hasn’t got a pot to piss in. What I really want is
for her to buy me out so I can latch on with an English side next
year, but there’s no hope of that, either. It’d surprise me if she
even has enough cash flow to see the season through. This team is
finished unless there’s new ownership.” He met Tony’s gaze and held
it. “Despite our checkered history, Tony, I’d be bloody glad to see
you take over. All the lads would, I guarantee it.”

“That’s good to know.” Tony reached a long
arm across the table and grabbed Kavanagh by the sleeve of his
leather jacket. “But the way I see it, Derek, with the way you’ve
been dogging it, the team’s slide is on you as much as it’s on
Martha Winston or anybody else. You’re as much responsible as
anyone else.”

Kavanagh jerked back. “Dogging it? Fuck you,
Tony. Let’s just say I lack my usual motivation. But whatever
happens, I’ll tell you this. Diego and I are going to do every last
thing we can to run Sam Brockton right out of this league.”

The meeting was proving to be everything Tony
expected it would be. He’d found out what was wrong with the
team—from Derek Kavanagh’s point of view, anyway. The man disgusted
him, but right now he needed him. For a while, anyway.

Tony relaxed back in his chair, giving
Kavanagh an easy smile. “Okay, let’s say I can come up with an
offer Martha Winston can’t refuse, and I wind up buying the team.
If that happens, are you going to play for me, Derek? I mean,
really
play.
The way you and I both know you still can?”

Kavanagh’s eyes narrowed. “What about
Brockton, then? You’ll fire him?”

Tony had made that decision before he even
boarded the jet from London. “My first act as the new owner.”

“And McLeod?”

Tony shook his head. “No, but I’ll ease him
out before next season gets underway, and give him a nice package.
He’s been a good football man, Derek, despite what you think, and
I’m not going to embarrass him.”

Kavanagh weighed that for several seconds.
“Fair enough, Tony. All right, I’ll play for you. We all will.” He
stuck out his hand.

Tony locked Kavanagh’s hand in a hard grip.
“You’d better, my friend. Or you’ll have me to answer to, and you
know I don’t take prisoners.”

With a curt nod, Tony got up and walked out
the door. He’d just as soon have made a bargain with the devil as
with Derek Kavanagh, but it had to be done.

When Martha picked Tony up at his hotel a
half hour before kickoff, he seemed in good spirits. He even made a
risqué joke that managed to skate just inside the line of good
taste as he settled into the passenger seat. It was pretty funny
and she managed to force out a chuckle even though her sense of
humor was currently M.I.A. She figured that was hardly surprising
after the drubbing she’d taken at the bank that morning.

After the meeting ended, her first instinct
had been to head home and get Biblically drunk, and then call Tony
to beg off the game with a migraine. But in the end, she did
neither. Ducking her responsibilities and promises—that wasn’t in
her DNA. Nor was indulging in a pity party.

Suck it up, Winston
.

Instead of hitting the bottle, she’d hit the
gym. Normally, she worked out at the crack of dawn three or four
days a week, but today she’d spent the entire afternoon at her
fitness club. By the time she left the club at five-thirty and
headed home for a quick change of clothes, her energy had returned
and her mind had mostly cleared. Sure, she was still worried as
hell about the team’s future, and as mad as a grizzly with a
toothache at the treatment she’d suffered at the hands of the
arrogant bastards who’d shoved ultimatums down her throat. But the
thought of spending time with Tony had given her an extra kick of
energy, and she looked forward to it more than she cared to
admit.

That, of course, was not a good sign, since a
relationship with the man—a fling—would likely end in disaster.
Then again, she was tired of second guessing herself. Tired of
everything
and in desperate need of a little R & R. Tony
Branch might be as dangerous as a sack full of rattlesnakes, but
she could handle him.

She hoped.

“Like I said, I figured it would be better if
it were just the two of us tonight,” she said as she pulled into
traffic. She’d left that message for Tony earlier, asking him to
leave Rex behind. They had too much to talk about and she didn’t
want an audience, especially for what she had planned for later in
the evening. “Kieran usually joins me for some of the match and
Geoffrey often comes too, but I asked them both to skip it
tonight.”

That request had gone over like a lead
balloon with her uncle. But he grumpily assented, sensing correctly
that she was still furious with him.

Tony gave her a thoroughly sexy smile. “Fine
with me. We can talk more frankly if we’re alone.”

From the look in his eyes, Martha had the
feeling that talking wasn’t all he was thinking about. All too
predictably, her mood kicked up another notch. “Was Rex
disappointed?”

“Heartbroken,” Tony said. “Absolutely refused
to go to the game by himself.”

“Really?” Martha suddenly felt terrible.

“No,” he said, grinning. “Not a bit.”

She stuck her tongue out at him, but he just
laughed at her.

On the short drive to the stadium, they
chatted comfortably and Martha couldn’t help sneaking glances at
him. He looked smoking hot again tonight, wearing a beautifully-cut
linen jacket in a shade she thought of as écru, but he would no
doubt call light gray. A tight, black tee shirt stretched over his
broad, muscled chest. Loose-fitting black slacks and black loafers
completed the understated outfit. Classy and most definitely sexy.
Just looking at the man made her nearly swoon.

Which made her plan for tonight all that much
better.

Martha knew a couple of things with absolute
certainty. First, she hadn’t changed her mind about selling the
Thunder, not to Tony Branch or anyone else. As rough as the morning
meeting had been, she was determined to stay the course. If that
meant going through some even more horrifying cost-cutting
exercise, she’d take a hard look at it. Since they had her up
against the wall, she would do whatever she could—within reason—to
appease the obnoxious money men.

The second thing she knew for sure was that
she was wildly attracted to Tony Branch. Yes, he wanted to pry the
team from her hands, but that hadn’t prevented good old-fashioned
lust from flaring every time he was in close proximity. She was
equally certain Tony wanted to get her in the sack. She’d sensed it
pretty much from the moment he walked into her office, and when
he’d shown up at her door last night with that armload of roses his
intent became even more obvious.

She wasn’t naïve and she wasn’t an idiot.
Martha knew Tony could very well stoop to seduction as a means to
get what he truly wanted—her team. But there was only one way to
find out for sure.

Sleep with him, possibly as soon as
tonight.

Yes, it was a crazy plan that had grabbed
hold of her while she pounded out the miles on the gym treadmill.
But taking things to that level should make what was going on
between them crystal clear. Tony would either back off or he would
push harder, and either response would be instructive. Besides, if
he
was
trying to use her, she was perfectly capable of doing
the same to him.

Two could play at that game, and have some
damn good fun while they were at it.

As for fun, Martha hardly remembered the
meaning of the word. Nothing about inheriting her father’s team or
living in Jacksonville had been fun. It had in fact been exhausting
and dispiriting, and she was lonelier than she’d been in a very
long time. She needed—no, she craved—a man’s touch, and she knew
that deep down she’d been craving this man for two years. Her brain
told her to tread carefully, but everything else in her body urged
her to kick off her shoes and have a good old-fashioned party.

Yes, she needed some fun in the worst kind of
way, and if other things became clear in the process, so much the
better.

Could things between them get intense if they
slept together? She didn’t see that happening. Tony would return to
England once he realized she meant business, well before any chance
for emotional involvement.

It sounded like it could be a win/win.

Once they reached the stadium, Martha led
Tony past a few milling patrons—hopefully more spectators would
show or she’d be mortified—to the elevator that whisked them to the
skybox level and her suite.

On game nights, Rosaria normally arrived a
half-hour before kickoff and readied the suite, but Martha had
asked the attendant to arrive earlier for set-up and make sure she
left well before game time. When she unlocked the door and stepped
inside ahead of Tony, it was clear that Rosaria had indeed come and
gone. A generous sandwich tray and two bowls of salad—one Caesar
and one mixed greens—had been laid out on the center table, along
with cutlery, glasses, napkins and pitchers of iced tea and water.
A plate of Rosaria’s homemade killer brownies sat next to the
coffee pot, and two small table lamps and a floor lamp bathed the
suite in a soft, yellow glow.

“Brilliant,” Tony said. “I can see why you
told me not to bother with having dinner.”

“I thought you might like to chow down while
we watch the match,” Martha said as she took off her light
cardigan. She’d paired a white sleeveless cotton blouse with a
straight skirt in a pale orange. For shoes, she’d chosen the Jimmy
Choo sandals she absolutely adored, and which she’d snagged at a
fire sale price the last time she was in New York. The outfit was
businesslike but also feminine, with the white and orange shades
serving as a nice palette with her tanned, bare skin.

Tony’s gaze slowly tracked her body after she
shucked the sweater, heating with smoky intent. It had been obvious
from the moment they met in England that he wasn’t a guy who hid
his appreciation for feminine charms. Martha didn’t entirely trust
guys who made a point of
not
checking out a woman’s
assets—not any more than she trusted guys who leered like
dumbasses.