Pass Interference. Desiree Holt
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cast to it. “If you take too long, I might have to come after you.”
She lifted her eyebrows. “In the ladies’ room?”
“Wherever.” He grabbed her arm again. “I don’t let my women run out on me. Not until I get my money’s worth.”
“Your women? Damn, Dewey, all we had was a couple of drinks.”
“You gave me the come-on, sweetie. Don’t try to deny it.”
She yanked her arm away again and took a step back. Arguing with him would get her nowhere so she dug up a smile. “I told you. I’ll be right back. You just order us another round of drinks.”
As if he needed one. She managed to make it to the restroom although inside she was shaking. Usually she was a pretty good judge of the guys she met. If they got a little too aggressive, she could back off and they looked somewhere else. Apparently Dewey didn’t fit into that category.
Inside the ladies’ room, she took a good look at herself in the mirror. What a mess. The hair she’d arranged so artfully to fall just so to her shoulders looked as if she’d been combing it with her fingers. Okay, so she had. BFD. The black dress that she’d thought so sexy when she got dressed now looked like a cheap come-on. Her makeup, well, it didn’t look too bad, but her vision wasn’t quite as sharp as it had been early in the evening. All in all, she was bordering on a mess.
She was doing herself in. At this rate, she’d be dead before Kurt Gillette had a change of heart.
She had another little problem to deal with, too, one she hadn’t told a single soul about. Mostly because she had no idea who to bring it to. She really hoped it would just go away.
Yeah, right. Like that was going to happen.
Sighing, she took care of business, washed her hands, and pulled her cell phone from her purse. She’d taken a cab so she didn’t have to worry about driving, but she needed an alternative now. She was pretty damn sure good old Dewey would put up a huge fuss if he saw her trying to get into a taxi. No, she needed a better solution to the mess she’d gotten herself into.
Taking out her cell, she dialed her friend, Betsy. She’d definitely come and bail her out. But all she got was Betsy’s “Leave a message.” She tried ten more numbers, people she felt comfortably asking to help her with this ugly situation, but she only got their voice mails.
Damn! Damn! Damn!
Did no one have their cell phones on tonight, when she desperately needed to reach someone?
Bam, bam, bam.
The heavy pounding on the door startled her.
“Hey, Buttercup. You comin’ outta there tonight?” Dewey’s voice was edged with anger, an anger no doubt fueled by his consumption of alcohol.
Holy crap. No way was she opening the door. Still, she couldn’t spend the night in the ladies’ room.
“Miss?” A strange man’s voice. Oh, wait, it sounded like the bartender. “Miss, are you okay in there? You need to open the door.”
Not for any amount of money. But she had to get herself out of this mess and away from a drunken Dewey.
She had one more number she could call. She referred to it in her mind as her when-the-sky-is-falling-and-no-one-else-is-around number. The number for a man she’d been lusting after for a long time, who was unfailingly polite to her whenever their paths crossed yet as much as possible avoided her. She had hoped she’d never have to use it, for a number of reasons. A woman didn’t want to call the man she’d dreamed about for so very long to get her out of this kind of trouble, a mess of her own making. She didn’t want to see the disgust and censure in his eyes. But the sky was definitely falling tonight and this number would reach the one person she knew would get her out of it swiftly and cleanly.
She’d probably have to pay for it by listening to a good lecture and beg him not to tell her father.
Swallowing her misgivings, she dialed the number with hands that trembled. No one knew she had his number, that she’d programmed it in just in case. This was definitely a just in case. She prayed that he wouldn’t hang up on her. Surely he couldn’t refuse a plea for help, right? After all, he worked for her father, so how could he say no?
* * * *
“Okay, Ortiz, what do you think of the big name change for the Bisons?” Cal Hopewell looked at his poker hand, pulled out two cards, and threw them down on the table.
Rafe Ortiz studied his hand while he tried to form an appropriate answer. As the head of security for the San Antonio Hawks as well as Southern Bank Stadium, he had to be careful what he said, even in the company of his closest friends.
He slipped a single card free and tossed it down. “I’ll take one,” he told Andy Milliken, who was dealing, as he took his time putting his thoughts together. This wasn’t the first time he’d been asked this question.
“The name change,” Cal prompted.
“I think Kurt is a smart businessman who wants to inspire both his team and his fans. Whatever you might think of this, it’s working.”
“Yeah, but you played for the Bisons,” Andy reminded him. “Don’t you feel a disconnect to this new, so-called revitalized team?”
“Not at all. Some of the guys I played with are still on the active roster, and I want success for them. My relationship is to the team, whatever it’s called.”
“Well, whatever the circumstances,” Cal said, “we’re glad Gillette didn’t forget about you. He gave you a nice cushy job when you decided to retire.”
“Cushy?” Rafe laughed. “Did you say cushy? You come down to the stadium any Sunday and watch my staff wrestle drunks, sore losers, and bullies. Or corral some of the team members when they’re loose in a new city. Then tell me it’s cushy.”
Not that he was complaining. He loved his job, more money than he’d ever use and a circle of friends he was comfortable with. Friends who didn’t care about the celebrity status that still dogged him.
“Come on,” Andy teased. “How hard can it be to herd all those groupies?”
The ringing of Rafe’s cell phone broke into the conversation, saving him from having to answer. Because of his position with Lone Star Security, he kept the phone on twenty-four/seven. He pulled it out of his pocket and looked at the readout, expecting it to be one of the players or, worst case, Kurt, with a problem. When he saw who it was, he cursed silently.
Shit!
Kurt’s spoiled, pampered princess. The wild child of Texas.
And the woman he’d been secretly dreaming about for ten years.
Just what he needed.
He pressed the Talk button. “Ortiz.”
“Um, Rafe?” Her voice was soft and a little unsteady.
His stomach clutched, nervous apprehension dancing up and down his spine. What trouble had Tyler gotten herself into now? And why was she calling him, of all people? She never called the security team, never had anything to do with the Hawks unless she was forced to. And certainly never with him. Whenever he’d run into her, he was very careful not to show any interest that could be misconstrued. It hadn’t been just the reputation she seemed intent on building. No, it was actually the fact she was Kurt Gillette’s daughter with a big out-of-bounds sign on her. Getting involved with the boss’s daughter was a sure recipe for disaster.
So often he’d been struck with the feeling that her entire lifestyle was just one big masquerade. That beneath her outrageous exterior was a woman in a lot of pain, determined to tell the world to go to hell. But he wasn’t about to get in the middle of whatever complicated relationship she and her father had. Nope, not at all.
So he’d kept his distance, despite