The Man With The Money Read online

“The other kids can’t afford to pay.”

  “That’s beside the point. You’re doing enough by volunteering your time.”

  “I don’t see it that way.”

  He smiled and tapped her on the end of the nose with the tip of his forefinger. “I don’t think that argument would hold up in a court of law, and it certainly doesn’t with me. Now give over. Coach.”

  She sighed, knowing when she was beaten. “Are you sure you’re not an attorney?”

  “Not even close.”

  “What is it that you do for RuCom, anyway?”

  He seemed to pause, but then he smiled and quipped, “Not nearly enough according to some. Actually, I’m overseeing an educational program at the moment. Few of these corporate types possess any inkling what the average sales clerk does. They see the whole business from the paper and report end. No practical knowledge at all. I’ve made it my mission to change that.”

  “So Sales Staff Appreciation Day was your brainchild,” she guessed.

  “Guilty as charged.”

  “Is it working?”

  “We’ll see. We’re rotating corporate staff in and out of the various stores around the country. So far the reports have been mixed, but all in all, I think we’ll gain a new appreciation for what our front line is actually doing.”

  “I think it’s brilliant,” she told him baldly, and watched in surprise as his eyes darkened almost to black.

  “Do you?” he murmured, stepping closer. “That’s nice.” He lifted a hand and very lightly ran the tip of a finger along the arch of her cheekbone. “Thanks.”

  She found it very difficult to breathe. Until that moment she had half believed that it was her imagination, but now she knew without doubt that he was coming on to her. The pleasure of it swept over her in a glad rush, but the next instant she thought of Ponce and automatically stepped back.

  “We, uh, we still have to pick up some equipment,” she muttered.

  The brilliance of his smile, the confident, predatory gleam of it, filled her with dismaying delight. Her heart pounded, and the tiny, sparse hairs on her arms lifted as her skin came alive. Appalled, she turned on her heel and walked off in the direction of a display of soccer balls, firmly controlling the insane urge to run.

  Darren watched Charly walk away, noting with extreme interest that her hips swayed in a much more seductive manner than before. She was embarrassed about it, but he was, without doubt, getting to her. This was working out even better than he’d hoped.

  Following at a short distance, he walked toward the equipment section of the store, but he did not, as she obviously expected, go to the big wire bin of soccer balls offered at a special price. He knew perfectly well that the balls were probably two or three years old, the last of an unsold lot from a previous batch, which the manufacturer undoubtedly dumped on the discounter for free, or very nearly so, in exchange for a sizable order of new balls to be sold at a good price. Such sale balls were fine for use by individuals, neighborhood play, that sort of thing. Getting booted around by sixteen kids in an hour was another matter entirely. Better to buy good game balls. Charly disagreed.

  “They’re little kids. They won’t know the difference.”

  “But they should know the difference.”

  “Fine. Buy the cheap balls for practice and a couple good balls for games.”

  He shook his head. “Think about it. If you get them used to a lighter, softer ball in practice, then stick them in a game with a heftier, harder ball, they won’t have the control they think they do. Recipe for disaster.”

  Sighing, she capitulated. “This thing seemed a whole lot simpler when I started it.”

  He chuckled. “It usually does. If it didn’t, we wouldn’t start half the things we do.”

  Her golden eyes twinkled at that. “True.”

  They bought a half dozen good balls, two whistles with cords attached, a practice net, goalie gear and a number of squeeze water bottles. Charly argued about the latter, saying that the kids would undoubtedly squirt each other with them.

  “Of course they will,” Darren admitted with a chuckle. “That’s half the fun, and it is about fun, isn’t it?”

  She either couldn’t or wouldn’t argue with him then, and her eyes shone with such gratitude that he couldn’t help feeling a hitch in his chest. It was half delight and pride and half guilt, something quite unfamiliar. He buried it beneath a pile of matching sweatbands and lace keepers—small, padded clips for holding tied shoe strings in place. When the purchase was totaled, Charly gasped and began trying to put things back.

  “I knew you were buying too much. We don’t need sweatbands and practice uniforms or—”

  He reached for her hands, trapped them with his own and looked down into her earnest face, very aware that she had gone as still as a mannequin. She was a sweet breath of fresh air, this genuine, caring woman. Other than his sister, he didn’t know anyone as principled. And not even Jill would try to keep him from spending money. Then again, Jill knew that he could buy the whole store without putting the slightest dent in his bank account.

  Unexpectedly guilt hit him. It fled when the pale tip of her tongue slipped from between her dusky, pink lips and laved the bottom one nervously. Pure unadulterated lust roared through him in its place. For an instant, just an instant, he fully intended to bend his head and catch that dainty pink tongue in his own mouth. She must have sensed it, seen it in his eyes, felt it sparking in the air around them, perhaps even read his mind, for she suddenly stepped back, her tongue slipping safely behind her lips again. Suddenly he realized where they were and what he had almost done. Taking himself in hand and her firmly by the shoulders, he walked her a good distance away.

  “We came here to buy gear for the team. That’s all I’m doing.”

  “But you’re spending too much,” she argued. “You could get in trouble with your boss.”

  “Let me worry about that,” he said, guilt prodding him again. “The only question you have to ask yourself is do you want those kids to be able to compete or not?”

  “You know I do.”

  “Then let me do what I came here for.”

  She worried her bottom lip with her teeth, staring up at him as if she was trying to see inside his head or put her own thoughts there. “I just don’t want to get you into trouble.”

  There it came again, so strong this time that it nearly knocked him off his feet. He sighed. Who knew that guilt could pack such a wallop? Reluctantly, he gave her a piece of the truth.

  “The company isn’t paying for this, okay? I’m paying for this.” He raised a hand, palm out, when she opened her mouth. “And before you start scolding me,” he went on, “I can afford it. Easily. Besides, I want to do it. For the kids.”

  The surprise was that he really meant it. He could already see them running around the field in their spanking-new gear, as good as any other team out there. To his delight, Charly reached up and laid her hand against his cheek, her eyes as soft as eider down.

  “You’re a nice man, Darren Rudd,” she whispered, “but are you sure you can afford to spend so much?”

  For answer, he pulled a roll of bills from his pocket and began counting them off. When he had counted off enough to pay for the purchase, he lifted it in one hand and the remainder in the other. “I was prepared to spend almost twice as much, okay?”

  She stared at the bills, switching her gaze from one hand to the other. Her eyes narrowed. “What are you, vice president of the company or something?”

  He chuckled. “Nope.” It was the truth. “But I am a substantial stock holder.” True again.

  She sighed and said, “I’m in the wrong business.”

  He just grinned. “Come on. I really want to do this.” Turning, he led the way back to the checkout counter. She followed him somewhat reluctantly, as if torn between letting him spend so much and wanting all that gear for the kids. He paid, with no further argument from her, and the cashier called up two male clerks to hel
p them all carry the many bags out to her car. They stuffed the trunk of her small sedan, then filled the back floorboard and seat.

  Darren tipped the clerks and stood beside the car with her until both of the young men walked away. Only then did he turn a smile on her and suggest, quite casually and quite confidently, “Why don’t we get some dinner? I’m sure hungry.”

  She smiled and, to his shock, said quite firmly, “No, thank you.”

  For a moment all he could do was blink at her. Then he remembered to smile again. “Aw, come on. You must be hungry, too.”

  “Sorry,” she said with a faintly apologetic shake of her head.

  He didn’t know what to say. Finally he came up with, “A drink then.”

  “I don’t drink alcohol.”

  “Coffee? A soft drink?”

  She shook her head to both and opened her car door. “Thank you so much for your generosity. The kids will be thrilled.”

  “But…I thought you liked me,” he blurted.

  “I do,” she answered simply. “The first game is a week from Monday afternoon at 5:15, if you’re interested. We play at Quadrangle Park on Arapaho.”

  Lost in the confusion of her refusal, he just stared at her.

  “Well, goodbye,” she said brightly, and with that she got into her car and drove away.

  He couldn’t believe it. He stood there with his mouth open, watching as her car navigated the parking lot. Finally he understood that he had been rejected. Period. Hot embarrassment rushed upward from his chest. He brought his hands to his hips and shook his head.

  All this for nothing!

  The thought was so lowering, so deflating, so unexpectedly insulting that he didn’t know what to do with it. No one, no woman, certainly, ever said no to D. K. Rudell! Darren Rudd, on the other hand, had just had his hat handed to him in no uncertain terms, and he didn’t like it. He didn’t like it one bit. Why, he asked himself, had she said no? She hadn’t even made a good excuse!

  At least, he consoled himself, the kids had all that great new gear. He really wanted to see them enjoying it, and yet he recoiled instinctively from the idea of attending that game—or of going anywhere near Charlene Bellamy again. His own reaction angered him. He had never in his life avoided anyone—not even Tawny!—but this looked like a pretty good time to start.

  And yet, during that next week, he couldn’t help wondering how the team—and Charly—were doing. Had she found someone to help her coach, someone who actually knew what he or she was doing? Had the gear made any difference in the team? Were they learning to work together, to actually kick and pass the ball?

  On Thursday he waffled between showing up at practice and making a date with some delicious and very willing piece of arm candy. He couldn’t think of anyone with whom he wanted to go out, however, and he couldn’t quite make himself face Charly. Instead, he showed up unannounced at his sister’s and hung around for dinner—if macaroni and cheese, peas, green beans and wieners could be called dinner by anyone more discriminating than his three-year-old nephew, Cory.

  Cory always lifted his spirits, though. Confident in the love of his parents, he pretty much ordered Jill’s household to his own liking, and he was so darn cute about it that it was impossible to do anything but grin and go along. So instead of watching a basketball game with his brother-in-law, Jared, Darren found himself being driven over by a palm-size dump truck powered by a small, determined hand. In his role as highway, he had to lie perfectly still on the floor and rely on Jared for game commentary.

  Jared had not missed his calling by engineering heating and cooling systems for commercial buildings. He was not a frustrated sports announcer waiting to be discovered. Darren went home refreshed, nevertheless, and sometime during the night he woke to the conviction that he had not gotten where he was by backing down from personal challenges. Now that he thought about it, she had made a point of inviting him to that game on Monday. Perhaps the lady was not as flatly unwilling as she had seemed. He drifted back to sleep smiling, and on Monday he left the office before five for the first time in memory.

  Quadrangle Park was a far cry from the team’s normal practice field, but Darren had no trouble locating his yellow-and-blue Comets. There were a few parents on the Comets end of the single bandstand, and Charly seemed unaware when he joined them. The next forty-five minutes were agonizing as the Comets lost three to zip, though no score was announced. The kids simply didn’t know what they were doing. Those who had the potential to be real competitors simply kicked the ball anytime it came near them—without the slightest concern for which direction it would go. Others were so out of the game that they were digging holes and playing tag in the backfield, and that included the goalie. Most were just confused, standing aside with big eyes and fingers in their mouths while the other team went after the ball.

  Darren found himself shouting instructions from the bleachers. Charly finally glanced his way and began parroting his instructions to the team. By the end of it, a few of the kids were really beginning to get into the game. It was Kental who best perceived the ignominy of their debut, however. As soon as the game was called, he ran to the sidelines along with his teammates and loudly announced, “Man, we suck!”

  Charly quietly reprimanded him for his language before sending them out to shake the hands of the opposing team. Afterward, however, she scheduled two practices during the next week. Then oranges and apples were passed out, and the kids were crowded into two minivans and a decrepit sedan belonging to various parents, all except Ponce who busily helped his mother gather their equipment: balls, clipboard and forms, goalie gear, ice chest, first-aid kit. Darren stuffed his hands into his jean pockets and wandered over to Charly.

  “Tough luck,” he said.

  She snorted. “Luck had nothing to do with it.” Sighing, she pushed a hand through her hair and admitted, “I just don’t know what to do about it.”

  “Maybe you could use a little help,” he suggested blandly.

  “I asked around. All the dads have to work. The moms are as clueless as I am. The commissioner says they’re short of volunteers this year.”

  Darren rubbed the back of his neck with his open palm, wondering why he was doing this. “Maybe I could help.”

  She looked away and admitted almost reluctantly, “You do seem to know something about the game.”

  “I’m no expert.”

  “Compared to me you are,” she said, looking him square in the eye.

  He just shrugged, and after a moment she said, “You’d have to speak to the commissioner, go through a background check.”

  He grinned. “I think I can manage that.”

  She smiled at him gratefully. “They looked great in their new uniforms, anyway.”

  “Yeah, they did.” He rocked back on his heels, quite pleased.

  It was then that Ponce tugged on his mother’s hand. Looking up at her with that angelic face he asked plaintively, “Can we go now?”

  “I have to turn in my game report first,” she said apologetically, taking up the clipboard and heading for midfield and the young official waiting there with the other team coach.

  Darren watched her walk away, noting the blue jeans and pale yellow T-shirt she wore. He made a mental note to get a couple of coaches’ uniforms. Then again, maybe just jerseys. It would be a shame to lose those jeans. She really had quite a nice shape to her, a very natural, very real, very womanly shape.

  “Whatcha lookin’ at?”

  “Huh?” Surprised, Darren glanced down at the boy. “Oh, uh, I was just thinking that we ought to get your mom a team jersey, too.”

  Ponce looked at his mother, then at Darren, and in that moment man and boy understood each other perfectly. The kid might as well have shouted for Darren to keep his hands off Charly. Darren was asking himself how a kid like Ponce had come to the correct—and very adult—conclusion, when Charly returned.

  “Can we go now?” Ponce pleaded. “I’m hungry.”

  “S
ure, baby. How does pizza sound for dinner?”

  Ponce wrinkled his nose. “Too long. I want chicken bits and fries.”

  Charly smiled and nodded in resignation. Ponce ran toward the car. Charly looked at Darren and said, “I can’t seem to break him of the fast-food habit.”

  “Yeah, I know what you mean,” Darren told her. “My nephew eats what he eats and that’s it. At the moment it’s macaroni and cheese for every meal. His mom compromises by adding vegetables.”

  She cocked her head. “How old is your nephew?”

  “Three. Cute kid. Spoiled rotten.”

  Ponce tooted the car horn, and she turned in that direction, saying, “I’ve gotta go.”

  He hadn’t realized that he was hoping she’d invite him along until it was obvious she wasn’t going to. “Sure.”

  “See you tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow?” he echoed.

  “I thought you heard. Practices are on Tuesday and Thursday now.”

  “Oh, right.”

  “I’ll call the commissioner in the morning.”

  “Nah, I’ll take care of it,” he said, knowing perfectly well that Darren Rudd would never pass a background check because he didn’t exist. D. K. Rudell, on the other hand, would be no problem, providing the commissioner was willing to listen to reason concerning the need for anonymity. “I’ll have the commissioner call you with the okay.”

  “All right.”

  The horn blared again.

  “Kid’s starving,” Darren joked, and she nodded.

  “See ya.”

  “You bet,” he said as she jogged toward the car.

  Alone, he watched them leave, aware of an odd yearning. He couldn’t have said what he yearned for, but he felt as if he was somehow on the outside looking in, like he was the only kid not invited to the birthday party. What was it about Charly Bellamy that did this to him? On a scale of one to ten, rating the women with whom he’d been, Charly was no more than a seven, surely. Yet, on her, seven seemed like a perfect number.

  He left even more confused than he had been, but content for the moment with the knowledge that he would be seeing her again the next evening.