Power Play (Play Makers Book 4) (28 page)

Alexi nodded slowly. “He’s gonna like
that.”

“That’s the plan.” She glanced toward the
master bedroom. “Go get cleaned up while I eat. Then we’ll figure
out how to make this go away.”

• • •

Wyatt had had a private jet lined up to take
him back to New York at dawn on Thursday, but when he heard Aunt
Jenny was taking both Bea and Tony to medical appointments, and
that his Uncle Pete, who usually helped her transfer them in and
out of their minivan, had come down with a cold and wasn’t allowed
near the elderly, he had rescheduled his flight yet again. He
didn’t regret it but now, as he returned to the house from a
punishing run late that afternoon, he vowed not to get sidetracked
again.

He had had plenty of face time with Tony,
hadn’t he? Wasn’t that the point of the visit? They had even played
a bizarre version of checkers where Tony crowded all his pieces
into one corner rather than spreading them out, but still managed
to win every game. And to talk about the Reyes girl at every
opportunity.

Bea had finally explained that little
Jennifer Reyes had had a crush on Matt Bourne and followed him
around while he did his chores. Unfortunately for Jennifer—and
apparently for Tony—the child had been six when the crush started,
and barely eight years old when Matt left for college. Wyatt
suspected it hadn’t really mattered to Tony at the time. But after
Wyatt’s mother broke Matt’s heart and sent him off to Afghanistan
to be killed, the little Reyes girl had started looking pretty good
to the old guy.

And to Wyatt too. Matt would still be alive,
wouldn’t he? Of course, Wyatt would never have been born—a
technicality even Tony recognized sometimes when he finished a
rambling discussion of the Reyes girl by saying, “But then we
wouldn’t have our Wyatt.”

Further proof that the poor old guy didn’t
really know to whom he was speaking. Still, the adoration for both
Matt and Wyatt was palpable. Not to mention humbling.

“Uncle Wyatt! Hurry!” came the frantic voice
of his niece Annie from the porch, and even though Wyatt was aware
of her tendency toward melodrama, he hurried his pace as he
approached the house.

Then Gail joined her and shouted, “Darcie’s
on TV! Hurry!”

Relieved that no one was having a heart
attack or stroke, he slowed to a walk, curious but not overly
anxious to see Darcie’s sexy body glued to Sean Decker’s or Bam
Bannerman’s hip at some bullshit awards show.

Best Athletes of the Pacific
Northwest
maybe? To Wyatt, that wasn’t saying much.

“Hurry!” Annie pleaded as he took the steps
in a leisurely manner.

“I need a shower first. Is someone recording
it?”

“Uncle
Wy
-att.”

He grinned. “Grab me a towel then, will
you?”

“Do I look like your maid?” she demanded,
but before he could react, she flashed a mischievous grin to
confirm she was just kidding.

“What a mouth,” he complained. “No wonder
you’re such a Darcie fan.”

Annie seemed surprised. “Darcie doesn’t
mouth off. She’s always so perfect.
That’s
why I’m her
fan.”

To his surprise, Wyatt realized it was true.
Despite ninety minutes of cracking wise during the drive each way,
she had been warm and affirming to the Bournes during the entire
fake date, doing her best to facilitate his relationship with them.
Doing her job, in a sense, or at least as she perceived it.

Which meant the Bournes really didn’t know
the true Darcie. Or maybe Wyatt didn’t.

Subdued, he asked Gail, “Who’s she with?
Darcie, I mean.”

“Alexi Romanov.” His niece gave an
exaggerated sigh. “He’s so beautiful, Uncle Wyatt. Did you ever
meet him?”

“Yeah, once or twice. He’s a punk.”

“He is
not,”
Annie said, clearly
outraged. Then Wyatt gave her a wink to show that two could play
her game.

“Fine, you got me,” she said with a laugh.
“Now
hurry.”

Gail had found him a towel and so he cleaned
himself up as he made his way over to the television on the far
side of the room. Danny had the remote in his hand and said
cheerfully, “She looks smokin’ hot, Uncle Wyatt. Should I rewind to
the beginning? Or just to the part where she does her thing?”

Her thing?

Wyatt chuckled. “Let’s watch from the
beginning. What kind of award is he getting?”

“It’s not an award, it’s a speeding
ticket.”

Oh, crap.

Wyatt had a pretty good idea how Alexi’s
coach would react to
that
. And he’d be right. Someone had to
rein this kid in and fast. He was on pace to become one of the best
wide receivers in the game, but between the constant publicity and
the extra millions from his advertising deals, the opportunities
for screwing up would be legion.

And it’s over with Porsche,
he
decided ruefully.
They’ll dump his ass for sure.

As the playback started, a uniformed officer
stepped up to the podium, introducing himself as a spokesperson for
the Santa Barbara County Sheriff’s Office. Then he read from a
prepared statement, saying, “As we stated in our earlier press
release, one of our deputies made a routine stop at two fifty-three
this morning. Specifically, Deputy Carl Ames pulled over the driver
of a black convertible and cited him for doing seventy-five in a
fifty-five-mile-per-hour zone. The driver was identified as Mr.
Alexi Romanov, a wide receiver for the Dallas Cowboys. Mr. Romanov
cooperated fully and does not dispute the citation. Mr. Romanov was
alone in the car at the time and there were no signs of
intoxication or drug use. We consider this a routine matter that
was handled according to standard procedure.” Clearing his throat,
he added, “I’ll take a couple of questions, then turn this over to
Mr. Romanov and his agent.”

The camera panned to Alexi, looking humble
but also confident, which made sense since there was a beautiful
woman at his side who looked just as confident and anything but
humble. Darcie was dressed like a TV lawyer in a stunning black
suit and high heels, and as often as Wyatt had seen her, he
couldn’t remember her ever looking better.

But then, she always
could
dress,
couldn’t she?

The camera-man—or woman—stayed on the duo
for a long moment, then shifted to a uninformed deputy at the rear
of the room. Probably the arresting officer, Wyatt decided. He
looked like a decent enough guy. Tough too. And despite his serious
demeanor, Wyatt guessed he was still reeling from making a
quote-unquote routine stop and coming face-to-face with Alexi
Romanov.

Definitely a day to remember.

The first question from the press was
predictably obnoxious.

“You said there were no drugs or alcohol.
Did you do a breathalyzer test? Or a blood test?”

“Our deputy determined in his professional
opinion that Mr. Romanov was sober, wide-awake, and otherwise fit
to drive. He just did it too darned fast.”

The group laughed, then the spokesman called
on a second reporter, who asked, “Did Alexi try to talk him out of
it? We all do that, right? So we’re guessing he did it too.”

“I’m told Mr. Romanov admitted guilt
immediately, took full responsibility, and agreed that the citation
was warranted. The entire episode was cordial on both sides and
took less than five minutes. Remember, we do this for a living. So
to us, it’s a nonevent.” He stuffed his cheat sheet into his pocket
and eyed the reporters sternly. “We’re just going over the same
ground, folks, so I’ll turn this over to Mr. Romanov now. Thank you
for your attention.”

Alexi stepped up to the microphone, and
while Darcie didn’t quite accompany him, she shifted position to
stay in his peripheral vision. To the casual observer it probably
didn’t matter, but Wyatt imagined she had become the kid’s
lifeline.

She had undoubtedly coached him, but there
was something else—a humility to the kid that seemed genuine.
Almost touching. Nothing phony about it, but rather, contemplative
and subdued. No trace of the cocky smile and relaxed posture that
usually marked a Romanov press conference. The energy was still
there, lurking right under the surface—any fool could see that. But
for today at least, Alexi was drawing on another sort of
strength.

He began simply, telling the crowd, “Thank
you for coming here today. And I especially want to thank the Santa
Barbara Sheriff’s Office for minimizing the embarrassment I’ve
brought on myself with this lapse in judgment. I have a reputation
for living on the edge, and I don’t often apologize for that. It’s
what makes me an explosive athlete. Plus, it’s a heck of a lot of
fun. But I’ve prided myself on two things: never breaking any
law—not ever—and never bringing shame to my family or my team.
Today I did both. My agent says it a wake-up call. And she’s right.
The law applies to all of us equally, and when we break it, we
break our fundamental compact with each other. I have to live with
that now, and trust me, it makes a difference. The best I can do is
promise myself, and you, that I’ll never break that compact
again.

“And let’s face it, I live in Texas,” he
added, showing the first hint of Romanov charm. “If I want to crank
up my Carrera to seventy-five or eighty—even eighty-five in some
places—I can do it legally on some amazing stretches of highway.
Not to mention that my car—my baby—is amazingly fun to drive at
any
speed. So no excuses, folks. I’ll do better. That’s the
pledge I make to my family, my team, my fans, and to the Patrick
Murphy Agency. And to Patrick Murphy himself? A special thanks for
sending this woman—Darcie Kildare—to Santa Barbara to kick my ass
and remind me what really matters in life.”

Wyatt could see from the flicker in Darcie’s
green eyes that she hadn’t expected the tribute, making it even
more effective. The kid had effing nailed it.

Would his coach still rake him over the
coals? No doubt. But he’d also be impressed to see his young star
take personal responsibility so completely. The public would eat it
up too, as would the NFL bigwigs.

And Porsche? They might have
planned
on pulling the plug before the press conference, but seeing Darcie
at Alexi’s side would have changed their minds, even before the kid
spoke a single word. She had the kind of eye-popping beauty they
wanted for their image, plus she radiated grace and intelligence.
The subliminal message?
Buy our car and you too might get to
meet—maybe even touch—a classy babe like this.

Paired with Alexi’s fast-track reputation
and international fame, they had to be drooling all over
themselves. No way would they give this kid up now.

Alexi fielded half a dozen questions from
reporters, keeping his answers close in content to the ones the
sheriff’s spokesperson had used, but with a self-deprecating charm
that reinforced his determination to treat this as a wake-up
call.

Then he startled Wyatt by saying, “Before we
wrap this up, Darcie wants to say a few words.”

Don’t do it,
Wyatt pleaded with her,
even though he knew this was a taped showing and had long since
happened. Still, he felt a spike of concern on her behalf. She and
her client had nailed this, and now she was going to blow it by
singing his praises. Or worse, making excuses for him, thereby
sending the message that indeed the rules didn’t apply to
superstars like Alexi Romanov.

At least she’ll learn a lesson,
he
decided ruefully.
Then she’ll be unstoppable.

And meanwhile, maybe everyone would be so
impressed with the way she looked, the way she carried herself,
they wouldn’t focus too much on her actual words.

With a charming smile, she spoke into the
microphone. “On behalf of my client, I just wanted to take a moment
to praise the Santa Barbara County Sheriff’s Office for their
discretion in handling this matter. Alexi Romanov is a charismatic
professional athlete with an international platform, and it would
have been easy to take advantage of that. Maybe even have a little
fun with it. Instead, the Sheriff’s Office in general, and Deputy
Carl Ames in particular, adhered to the highest standards of
professional law-enforcement conduct. I had the honor of speaking
with Deputy Ames earlier, and he’s the guy we
all
want
policing our neighborhoods, our cities, our roads. Tough but fair,
intelligent and discreet, and most of all, conscious of the
enormous trust the citizens of this county place in him. And so,
while we regret that this incident happened at all, we are
profoundly grateful that it happened in a place where
law-enforcement ideals are put into practice every single day of
the year.”

She looked so good up there, the video
photographer only veered from her face for a few seconds to capture
the proud stance of Deputy Ames. The guy was eating this up, and
why not? How often was one proclaimed a hero on national TV by a
beautiful woman?

Bea sighed loudly. “That was so nice of
Darcie to give credit to the police.”

“Do you see what she did?” Wyatt asked, his
eyes still on the screen until Romanov and Darcie disappeared from
the shot. “She just made sure this ends today. Here and now.”

“What do you mean?” Danny asked.

“That cop will be hounded by reporters over
the next few days. And the natural human reaction would be to enjoy
it. Swagger a little. Enjoy his five minutes of fame, right? But
now?”

“Now he won’t want to disappoint Darcie?”
Gail guessed.

“And he won’t have to. She already made him
look great. Talked to him personally. Praised him in front of God
and country. If he’s a smart guy, and I’m guessing he is, he’ll
leave it alone now. Sit back and enjoy seeing his face plastered on
the Internet with captions like ‘This is the guy we want policing
our cities.’ She’s an effing genius,” he concluded reverently. Then
he winced at Bea. “Sorry about the language.”