Power Play (Play Makers Book 4) (5 page)

Now she knew the real truth. He was a
superstar in his own right despite handling diaper duty during
family time.

Bam’s girlfriend, Rachel Gillette, had taken
her under her wing, assuring her the only way to learn
football—without playing it—was to watch the games over and over
again, listening to the play-by-play, jotting down the rulings by
officials then re-playing everything again and again.

“And don’t listen to Vince,” she had added
with a knowing smile. “He’s the master of misinformation. If you
want to know something, call
me
. Or Sean.”

Darcie had learned that Rachel was close
friends with Sean’s girlfriend Kerrie, but had forced herself not
to ask a single question. What more was there to know? Kerrie was
still technically married but was getting a divorce. She and Sean
were in love. They were even “more or less” engaged.

Still, the idea that Bam wasn’t allowed to
talk about Kerrie drove her crazy. Did it mean Bam didn’t approve
of the relationship? If so, why? Sure, Kerrie was technically a
married woman, but a mistreated one who was trying to get out.

Wouldn’t that bring out the protector in Bam
Bannerman? The hero?

Let it go, Darcie. Learn some football,
for God’s sake
.

Smiling, she sipped her morning coffee and
studied the
LA Times
coverage of the fundraiser. In the
past, the sports page had gone untouched by her. Now it would be
her bible. But for the moment, all the coverage was in the main
section, and while it detailed the mega-stars in attendance, it
also reflected the sobering information imparted during the
presentations. Case studies in misery—tragedy, really—with some
players incapacitated well before their time.

Darcie had been touched, not only by the
scope of the problem but the commitment to solutions. Advances in
helmet construction, concussion protocols, impartial medical
observers, and most of all, awareness.

Sobered, she turned her attention to a video
of the recent Super Bowl she had downloaded per Rachel’s advice,
but was interrupted when her Patrick Murphy Agency phone rang.

Murf,
she assumed.
Let’s hope the
reviews are good.

But the screen told her it was WBourne.

And why would the screen lie?

She flashed on an image of his face, or more
specifically, his eyes. That moment when she called him “Doctor”
and he stared back with such a sexy blend of shock, amusement and
fascination.

She hadn’t imagined that, had she?

With her heart pounding, she accepted the
call. “Hello?”

“Darcie? It’s Wyatt Bourne. Or should I say,
Dr.
Bourne?”

She tried to laugh, but her throat was too
dry, so she just said weakly, “Thanks for the book.”

He chuckled. “It’s the same one I give my
nephews when they’re ready to learn, so don’t be insulted.”

She knew she should tell him where to stick
his gift, but her actions reflected on Murf, so she settled for a
cool, professional tone. “What can I do for you, Wyatt?”

“I need a favor. Assuming you’re still in
LA.”

“I live here,” she said warily. “So yes, I’m
still in town.”

“Great!” He paused as though emphasizing the
fact that he was pleased. “So here’s the situation. I need a fake
date for a family function this afternoon. Naturally I thought of
you.”

She didn’t get the joke, and wasn’t in the
mood for an explanation. So she just reminded him, “What about your
date from the fundraiser?”

“Paid escort,” he replied evenly. “Which
made sense for a business meeting. But this is personal so I’d
rather not go that route.”

“You
paid
someone to go with
you?”

“It’s the best approach. Take my word for
it.”

“Wow, that’s just so . . .”
She struggled for the right word, remembering how devoted the
redhead had seemed.

And while Wyatt hadn’t seemed exactly love
struck, he had certainly been glued to her.

“Are you saying ‘no’?” he asked, clearly
irritated.

She sighed. If only she could think of a
pithy reply, but her mental image of him was interfering with such
a response. She actually
wanted
to go out with him. To
figure out why she was so attracted to him, and to determine if,
despite his disdain, he felt something too.

Even if it was a fake date.

So she asked him honestly, “What’s in it for
me?”

“Name your price,” he insisted, then he
corrected himself by adding quickly, “I won’t sign with you,
Darcie. But aside from that, name your price.”

“As your fake attorney I advise you
not
to sign with me,” she admitted with a laugh. “In a few
years, you’ll be begging me to take you on. But for now, I’m just
learning the ropes, as you know.”

“I agree. And meanwhile, I’m an influential
figure in the sports world. A great contact for any agent. Someday
you’ll need a favor, you’ll call me, and I’ll do it. It’s like
money in the bank.”

“I already know what I want,” she said, not
pausing to think it through. “Football lessons.”

“Pardon?”

“Teach me about football. You’re the best,
right? So teach me.”

She knew from his silence he was annoyed.
Then his growl confirmed it when he asked her pointedly, “Can’t
your Lancer boyfriends do that?”

Score one for Darcie
.

Apparently he had noticed the fuss made by
the Triple Threat. And for some reason, hopefully the right one, it
hadn’t sat well with him.

“I can’t concentrate on football with hunks
around,” she said teasingly. “It almost has to be you.”

“Fine,” he said, ignoring the taunt. “How
many lessons?”

“Three. One hour each.”

“Fine. We can work out the details when I
pick you up.”

“Where are we going?”

“The Bournes have a ranch in the valley.
Just text me your address and I’ll pick you up at one thirty. It
should be an hour-and-a-half drive each way, maybe two hours at the
party. So I’ll have you back home by seven at the latest.”

“Wait!” She laughed at the businesslike
approach to family fun. “What kind of occasion is it? Birthday?
Baptism?”

His long exhale told her the conversation
had become unbearable. “It’s an anniversary party for my great-aunt
and -uncle.”

“Oh, fun. What should I wear?”

“Not that dress from last night,” he warned
with a chuckle. “Or the see-through thing from the plane. My
uncle’s heart can’t take it. Otherwise, use your imagination.”

She felt her cheeks burn. See-through? Just
because it was lacy?

“Is it a big anniversary, Wyatt? Although I
guess at some point they’re all big. But do you know how many years
they’ve been married?”

She thought he would growl again, but he
actually seemed human when he said, “It’s their seventieth.”

“Wow. Did you get the gift yet?”

“Yeah, a Visa gift card. One size fits
all.”

“Hold on.” She quickly Googled the
appropriate gift. “Seventy is platinum. So if you want to be
impersonal you can give them a hunk of precious metal. But not a
piece of plastic.”

His silence was so icy, she felt the chill
through the phone. Then he drawled, “Just be ready at one thirty.
And don’t forget to text me your address.”

She was pretty sure she’d just been told to
butt out. And he was right, wasn’t he? She was a fake date. One
step above a paid escort.

It would have been humiliating if he didn’t
fascinate her. Plus, he was a giant in the field of sports, and
that was now
her
field as well. If she could figure out how
to communicate with him, the surliest of them all, wouldn’t that
help her career?

So she said, “Okay, Wyatt. See you then,”
even though she suspected the line was already dead. Then she sat
back and reviewed the conversation in her head. They had barely
spent any time together on the plane, and she had been asleep for
most of it.

So why her?

“It’s a
fake
date,” she reminded
herself. “You clean up well, as Murf said. You’re well-behaved and
fairly intelligent except for the football nonsense. And he’s sure
he can control you because
you’re
new and
he’s
a
living god.”

Still, a shiver of excitement scurried up
her spine when she remembered how he had complimented her dress.
And the see-through thing. He had definitely noticed her. Maybe not
as avidly as she noticed him, but still, it added up to something
flattering.

At the very least, it gave her an
opportunity to repair the damage done to the agency’s reputation.
Plus, she needed to understand just how huge an ego these
superstars could have.

Didn’t she?

I hope you know what you’re doing,
she scolded herself as she headed to her bedroom to select the
right outfit for a ninety-minute drive in the valley with a
gorgeous hunk.

Chapter Three

The right clothes—a dark green tee with
three-quarter-length sleeves paired with stretchy white jeans,
cropped—jumped out at her, although she had forgotten all about
them. Her former colleagues at the court had planned a Cinco de
Mayo picnic at the beach, and while the rest of them would probably
go through with it, and would want Darcie to attend, she just
didn’t have the heart for it. Judge Morales had been more than a
boss. With his gentle disposition and awesome legal brain, he had
acted as mentor and inspiration. Without him? That world had lost
its allure. She could have stayed—worked for someone else—but
why?

Shrugging off the sad thoughts, she decided
to focus on the anniversary gift. And luckily, she had just the
thing sitting on top of her dryer. A pretty porcelain music box
shaped like a wedding cake that played “The Anniversary Waltz.” Not
exactly platinum, but the latch was made of silver, which leant a
pretty air to it. With any luck, Wyatt’s gift card would fit
inside.

First she had to dump out the lemon drops,
though. Since it had been chosen as a gift for her parents, and
they had romantic memories of the first candy her dad had given her
mom, Darcie always found a way to work lemon drops into her
anniversary gifts.

Sorry, folks,
she told them with a
laugh
. It’s for a good cause. And I’ll find you something
better, I promise.

Grabbing her purse, she fished out her
Patrick Murphy–issued credit card and tried to fit it into the
music box. After tilting it at an angle, she succeeded. She even
repurposed the same gift bag, since it was white with gold-toned
trim. The greeting card was all wrong, though, so hopefully Wyatt
had selected something tasteful and suitably sentimental.

He doesn’t seem very sentimental,
she
warned herself, remembering how he had calculated his expenditure
of time. Ninety minutes in transit each way, only two hours at the
actual event. Worse, she suspected he wouldn’t have gone at all if
he hadn’t been in town for the NFL fundraiser.

Stop finding flaws,
she scolded
herself.
He’s bad enough without you making things up. He loves
his family, but maxes out after two hours. And he’s a guy, so a
gift card for a huge anniversary seems perfectly acceptable to
him.

Despite every warning sign, she wanted to
like him. To click with him on some level. Maybe it was the square
jaw. Or the arresting eyes. Or something even more primal.

She would know for sure by the end of the
day.

• • •

As Wyatt eased his rented Mercedes
convertible up to the curb in front of Darcie’s impressively large
house, he congratulated himself on solving two problems with one
stroke. Bringing a date to the party would get his aunts off his
back for a while. And he had been a little rough on Patrick
Murphy’s feisty new agent, so giving her a break seemed in order.
Not that she needed his charity, but he prided himself on treating
others the way
he
wanted to be treated.

More or less.

He hadn’t given Darcie that courtesy on the
plane. Now he could make up for it by offering her a valuable
contact in the sports world. As for the football lessons, he’d
figure out how to nix that by offering her something she wanted
even more. Or he’d arrange three meetings with his private
trainers, who could show her the ropes.

Chuckling, he imagined how cooperative those
guys would be once they got a look at that body of hers.

A glance at his watch told him he had now
been sitting there for five full minutes, yet there was no sign of
her, which surprised him. For all her lack of sports savvy, she had
seemed sharp in every other way.

After waiting two more minutes, he gave the
horn a quick blast, then eyed the front door impatiently. No
movement there, but his phone alerted him to a message.

From DKildare.

Annoyed, he opened the text and read the
single word:
Seriously?

When the door to the house opened and she
stepped into view, his focus on the message shifted. She might not
know anything about football, but damn, could this woman dress
herself. She was wearing tight white jeans that were cut off above
great calves, flat white shoes, and a sexy green top.

“Always with the green,” he murmured aloud.
“Smart. Make the most of those fancy contact lenses.”

And meanwhile,
any
outfit would make
the most of those expensive-looking breasts. Patrick Murphy had
definitely gotten his money’s worth with those.

She didn’t bother looking at Wyatt. Instead,
she turned her back to him, then bent to lock the dead bolt on the
front door, making him sit up a little straighter. Because there
was nothing fake about that ass. He almost wished, just for a
second, that this was a real date.

Then he got the meaning of “Seriously?”