Power Play (Play Makers Book 4) (2 page)

“Pardon?”

“He’s joking,” Darcie muttered. “Hilarious,
right? And meanwhile, I’ll have some garlic and a crucifix.”

Bourne grinned and told the flight
attendant, “Bring her a mimosa.”

“Right away, sir.”

Chuckling, Bourne made a point of watching
the attendant’s ass as she hurried down the aisle. Then he turned
back to Darcie, his iron-toned eyes betraying a hint of cobalt
blue, which she assumed meant he was still laughing at her.

Annoyed, she sniffed, “Don’t you have some
demon chants to listen to? Don’t let
me
stop you.”

His gaze didn’t waver. “Are you really a
sports agent?”

Flustered, she reached into her sweater
pocket and produced a brand-new business card. Then she handed it
to him and asked sweetly, “The question is, are
you
really a
quarterback?”

His eyes widened again when he read the
card. “Patrick Murphy hired you? Are you his girlfriend or
something?”

Her temper finally snapped. “You know what,
Mr. Bourne? We’re done here. Just read your book.”

He seemed to consider this—to weigh the
enjoyment of humiliating her against simply ignoring her again.
Then he nodded, said, “Good plan,” and turned his attention back to
his screen.

Jack. Ass.

The flight attendant returned, saying in a
soft voice, “Here’s your coffee, sir. And you’ll have to turn off
your electrical device during takeoff. Sorry.”

When Bourne nodded curtly, the woman smiled
then headed down the aisle.

“Excuse me?” Darcie called after her. “My
mimosa?”

“Oh, I thought you were joking. I’ll see if
we have any left.”

A smile tugged at Bourne’s mouth but his
eyes never shifted from his reading.

Then to Darcie’s relief, the pilot began a
long, monotonous announcement about air speeds and tray tables, so
she retrieved her purse and found her own reading device.

Two could play this game.

“You’ll have to turn that off during
takeoff,” the flight attendant told her, sounding completely
annoyed as she held out a mimosa.

Darcie laughed. “You’re very stealthy, did
you know that?” Reaching across Bourne’s lap, she accepted her
drink. “Thanks. And keep ’em coming.”

“Sorry, but there’s no beverage service
during takeoff.”

“I was joking again,” Darcie explained,
regretting her mocking attitude. Why punish an innocent
professional for the sins of a lout? So she told her sincerely,
“Thanks for the great service.”

“You’re welcome,” the woman replied. Then
with a not-so-subtle eye roll in Bourne’s direction, she
departed.

Darcie gave him a disgusted look. “Thanks a
lot. Now I’ll get all the crap food.”

“You can have mine.”

“What? Oh . . .” She smiled
sheepishly. “Thanks.”

“I don’t eat airline food,” he
clarified.

“Well, thanks anyway.”

He hesitated, as though regretting the
interaction, but still he persevered. “How do you know Patrick
Murphy? He has an outstanding reputation.”

Darcie’s blood pressure spiked. Was it so
difficult to believe she had earned the job on merit?

Except she actually hadn’t. Murf had based
his decision on a blend of instinct and affection. So she explained
with a sheepish smile, “He’s married to my brother-in-law’s
cousin.”

Confusion registered in Bourne’s eyes and
then, as Darcie watched in fascination, he visibly attempted to
construct the corresponding family tree in his head. When he
finally gave up, his look of frustration was priceless.

She decided to take pity on him. “Murf’s
been recruiting me for years, even though I kept saying I wasn’t
interested. He even put me through law school. Finally he wore me
down when the judge I clerked for had a heart attack and died.”

The blue-gray eyes glazed over.
“Fascinating.”

Lovely.

“Maybe we should play that travel game where
we see who can stay quiet longest,” she suggested in annoyance. “I
hope
you
win.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

“Good.”

As she watched him return to his reading, a
dull pain throbbed between her eyes. She wanted to be the wounded
party, but wondered what Patrick Murphy—Murf—would say when he
found out she had insulted an apparently famous quarterback. Surely
sports agents didn’t behave that way. Even when provoked.

As soon as they reached cruising altitude
she used the browser on her agency-issued phone to access the
airline’s Wi-Fi service. The menu was byzantine, the cost—even in
first class—unreasonable, but Murf had also given her a credit card
and told her to use it freely.

This seemed like a good cause, so she
searched the name “Wyatt Bourne” and confirmed the enormity of her
screw-up.

Every sports site in the universe loved this
guy. Not as a stellar human being, but as a superstar. In fact, he
was already a legend.

Known—of course—as the Surgeon.

Unbelievable.

By all accounts, the Surgeon had played
brilliantly during the most recent Super Bowl but had been bested
by the also-legendary “Triple Threat” of the Portland Lancers.

Quarterback Johnny Spurling.

Halfback Bam Bannerman.

Kicker Sean Decker.

Darcie’s ego swelled. She
knew
these
guys. Especially Johnny, who was every bit as hunky as Wyatt
Bourne. Plus, Johnny had a Super Bowl ring, whereas the Surgeon
apparently did not.

In your face, Bourne
.

Her thoughts turned to the most adorable
member of the Triple Threat: Sean Decker, a handsome guy with eyes
as green as Darcie’s and the world’s most doable smile. She had
only met him for a moment, but would have asked him out by now,
pride be damned, if he wasn’t already engaged.

Although the exact words used by her sources
had been that the kicker was “more or less” engaged. A mystery for
sure, and one Darcie intended to solve.

Last but not least was the third member of
the triumvirate: Vince “Bam” Bannerman. Rowdier than anyone Darcie
had ever met, he was slated to be her very first client thanks to
Murf. Bam was a star in his own right, and Darcie was a newbie, but
the halfback was being a terrific sport about being assigned to her
instead of Murf.

Of course, Murf had promised to oversee
every aspect of the contract for the first few years, and had
lauded Darcie’s talent and skills as an attorney. But Bam insisted
he had chosen her because of her quote-unquote
qualifications—namely, her breasts.

From anyone else it would have been
offensive. From Bam? Funny as hell. He was so clearly teasing, so
sweetly respectful. Best of all, he was in love with a beautiful
blonde named Rachel who owned him body and soul.

Bam’s joking aside, Darcie hoped her
“qualifications” wouldn’t play too important a part in her new
career. Most of Murf’s clients were male. All were jocks. Probably
cocky as hell. A little ogling would be tolerable, but there was
always the danger her competition would think she was succeeding
based on her body. It had been a source of frustration during
college, law school and during her gig at the court. But she hoped
to lose the stigma at some point.

Ironically, her breasts weren’t technically
huge. Just eye-catching—in size and shape—in contrast with her
otherwise slender body, producing the phenomenon widely referred to
as a “nice rack.”

How many times had she heard
that
particular “compliment”? It was maddening, especially since she had
never once capitalized on her body for an unfair advantage.

But for revenge? Wasn’t that a loophole?

Wyatt Bourne had mocked her. And even though
he no longer seemed aware of her, he could strike again at any
moment. So it was really just self-defense, wasn’t it?

Why not have a little fun?

Stifling a smile, she pulled her sweater
over her head and tucked it into the seat pocket ahead of her, then
stretched her arms, enjoying the freedom of a loose-fitting
V-necked camisole made of sheer black lace. Then after draping a
complimentary airline blanket across her lap, she curled up in a
coquettish ball and pretended to fall asleep.

• • •

“Darcie?” The soft baritone was accompanied
by a gentle shove on her shoulder. “Hey, wake up.”

She stirred, completely disoriented despite
the drone of the jet engines.

Had she actually fallen asleep? She
never
did that in public. Not ever. And certainly not at the
side of a sworn enemy.

But there he was, leaning over her, his palm
tentative and respectful on her bare skin. “We’re landing.”

“Oh, no.”

A smile played over his features. “Should I
have let you sleep?”

Crap
.

Out of sheer courtesy she thanked him. Then
he made things worse—as usual—by turning away and gathering up his
belongings as though she didn’t exist.

An announcement from the cockpit told her
she had slept through the entire five-plus hours. Not to mention
through lunch service and any in-flight entertainment.

And a trip to the restroom would have been
nice.

Worst of all, she had undoubtedly drooled.
Didn’t she always do that in a deep sleep?

She wanted to say something witty to Bourne.
A memorable parting shot. But she had nothing, so she just slipped
back into her sweater and tuned him out the same way he was doing
to her.

Finally the jet touched down with a loud
bump, then rolled to the gate. Several passengers stood despite
instructions from the cockpit to stay seated with seat belts
securely fastened until they came to a full stop. Not surprisingly,
Bourne was one of the scofflaws, but almost a noble one since he
didn’t have any stowed luggage of his own, but instead, hefted
Darcie’s case out of the bin and down onto his now empty seat.

“Oh . . .” She smiled
gratefully. “Thanks.”

He gave her an impersonal nod as if to say
he had no idea who she was. Then the aircraft came to a halt and he
disappeared down the aisle.

“Good riddance,” she assured him under her
breath, but a sense of failure, or at least lost opportunity, hung
in the air. Shouldn’t she have tried harder to redeem herself? If
not for the sake of her own career, then for Murf’s?

He had worked so hard to build a sterling
reputation for the Patrick Murphy Agency. Now Bourne could trash it
by sharing this hilarious anecdote with all his jock friends.

“Like he
has
friends?” she muttered,
retrieving her purse and stuffing her phone and e-reader into it.
“Female friends, maybe, and we all know why. But would other guys
tolerate that smug attitude?”

Her thoughts flashed to the Internet
articles about the Surgeon and she knew she was wrong. His natural
talent combined with hard work and pinpoint accuracy had earned him
well-deserved respect. He could doubtless walk into any bar in the
country and get free drinks for the night from admirers, male and
female.

Sorry, Murf,
she mourned
silently.

Still, as she exited the plane, threaded her
way through the crowded airport, and hurried toward the limo her
boss had arranged for her, she reminded herself Bam Bannerman was a
superstar too. A prized client who thought Darcie Kildare was the
most qualified agent in the country.

With his help, and Murf’s, she’d find a way
to kick Wyatt Bourne’s ass.

Chapter Two

Darcie’s gig as a law clerk had been based
in Los Angeles, where she had rented a house from one of Murf’s
business associates. Moving to Dallas would make more sense now,
since it was PMA’s headquarters and the place where her best friend
resided. Or she could relocate to Portland, where their most
lucrative clients lived and played.

The Triple Threat.

Meanwhile, her LA digs were convenient for
the moment, since Murf had scheduled her first day to coincide with
the NFL’s high-profile Concussion Awareness Fundraiser, taking
place this very night in Hollywood. He could squire her around. She
could make some connections. Most of all, she’d be comfortable
because all of her player contacts—all three of them—would be in
attendance to boost her confidence.

Murf wanted her to mingle, but also to
cement her Triple Threat relationships. She had spent a few hours
with quarterback Johnny Spurling and his bride Erica, and knew it
was a friendship worth cultivating for personal as well as
professional reasons.

Spending time with Bam was a given.

And Sean Decker? Spending time with
him
was probably a lost cause, not to mention masochistic
given his mysterious engagement. But he was a PMA client too,
wasn’t he?

And so, so adorable.

Murf was picking her up at seven sharp, so
she rushed home from the airport and began dressing immediately.
Two outfits were in the running for her big debut: a sharply
tailored black suit and a tasteful but subtly hot dress made of
black silk with iridescent emerald undertones. Murf had warned that
the affair would be both glamorous and filled with deal makers, and
had left it to her to decide how to play it.

The suit seemed the logical choice, but
given the recent ego-bruising by Wyatt Bourne, she opted for the
dress. Not only did it give her confidence, since she had already
worn it to two posh events—an award ceremony for her dad’s Pulitzer
and a cocktail party at the Irish embassy on Saint Patrick’s
Day—but it fit her to perfection, with the skirt molded to her ass,
and the high strapless bodice covering yet also emphasizing her two
best features.

“Your qualifications,” she reminded herself
with a laugh.

She already loved Bam for that. And despite
the occasional insecurity, she loved her body too, especially now
that it had helped her get revenge against the Surgeon.