“LET’S ORDER room service,” Brody said a few minutes later, slipping his boxers on.
He watched as Hayden put on her tank top and then attempted to fix the ponytail that had seen better days. Wayward strands of hair fell into her eyes and he smiled at the knowledge that her disheveled state was the result of rolling around in bed with him. She looked rumpled and beautiful and so damn cute he marched over and planted a kiss on her lips. She tasted of toothpaste and popcorn and something uniquely Hayden.
With a little whimper, she pulled his head closer and sank into the kiss, flicking her tongue against his in a tantalizing way that made him hard again.
Just as he lowered his hands to her breasts, she pushed him back. “What happened to room service?” she teased.
“Screw it.”
“Knock yourself out. I, for one, am starved.” With a grin, she brushed past him and left the bedroom.
He stared down at the erection poking against his boxers. Damn, how did this woman turn him on so fiercely? He felt like a horny teenager again.
He put on his jeans, used the washroom then drifted toward the living room.
“How do cheeseburgers sound?” she called when she spotted him lingering in the hallway.
His stomach growled with approval. “Great.”
He joined her on the couch. As she dialed room service and placed their order, he noticed a stack of papers sitting on the table. Curious, he leaned forward and examined the first sheet. It looked like a biography on Rembrandt, neatly typed. The margins were full of handwritten notes.
“What’s this?” he asked when she’d hung up the phone.
“Ideas for the Color Theory class I’m teaching in the fall. I plan to focus on Rembrandt for a few lectures.”
“Rembrandt, huh? I thought all of his paintings were pretty dark and foreboding.” The snippet of information stored in his brain came as a surprise to him. He hadn’t thought he’d paid any attention during art history class his senior year of high school.
Hayden also looked surprised, but pleased. “Actually, that’s what I want to focus on, the misconceptions about certain artists and their use of color. Did you know that Rembrandt’s Night Watch is in fact a day scene?”
A vague image of the painting surfaced in his mind. “I remember it being very dark.”
“It was—until the painting was cleaned.” She grinned. “The canvas was coated with loads of varnish. When it was removed, it turned out to be daylight. A lot of his paintings ended up looking very different once they were cleaned or restored, proving that he definitely knew what he was doing when it came to color.”
She grew more animated as she hurried on. “Same with Michelangelo. People didn’t view him as much of a colorist, but when the Sistine Chapel was cleaned, it was so vivid, the colors so vibrant, that everyone was shocked.”
“I never knew that.”
“It took longer to clean that ceiling than it did to paint it,” she added. “It was covered in so much soot and dirt that when they were removed the entire scene looked different. That’s one of the things I want to talk to my students about, how something as simple as cleaning or restoring can change your entire view of a piece of art.”
He nodded. “Sort of like when the Zamboni cleans the ice during second period intermission. Changes the entire playing surface.”
He saw her mouth quirk and suspected she was trying not to laugh. “Yeah. I guess there’s a similarity there.”
Setting down the papers, he said, “You’re really into art, huh?”
“Of course. It’s my passion.”
A smile reached his lips. He hadn’t spent much time with women who were passionate about anything outside the bedroom, and the light in Hayden’s green eyes tugged at something inside him. He realized this was the first time she’d opened up to him, engaged in a conversation that didn’t include ground rules, and he liked it.
“So do you paint, or just lecture about painters?” he asked.
“I used to draw and paint a lot when I was younger, but not so much anymore.”
“How come?”
She shrugged. “I was always more fascinated with other people’s work than with my own. My undergrad was mostly studio work, but I did my master’s in art history. I discovered I liked studying great artists better than trying to become one myself.” She drew her knees up into a cross-legged position and asked, “What did you study in college?”
“Sports sciences,” he answered. “You know, kinesiology, sports medicine. And I minored in athletic coaching.”
“Seriously?”
He didn’t respond. Her expression revealed nothing, but he got the feeling she didn’t believe him, which made him feel like he was in high school all over again. The kid who’d been written off by his teachers as a big dumb oaf just because he happened to be good at sports. They’d stuck the jock label on him, and no matter how hard he’d tried to tear it off, the judgmental attitudes remained intact. One time he’d even been accused of cheating on an English test he’d spent hours studying for, all because his teacher had decided that a kid who spent all his time handling a puck couldn’t possibly finish a book like Crime and Punishment.
Hayden must have sensed his irritation because she quickly added, “I believe you. It’s just…well, most of the athletes I knew growing up only went to college for the athletic scholarship and just skipped all the academic classes.”
“My parents would have killed me if I’d skipped class,” he said, rolling his eyes. “They only allowed me to play hockey if I maintained an A average.”
Hayden looked impressed. “What do your parents do for a living?”
“Dad’s a mechanic, and Mom works in a hair salon.” He paused. “Money was always tight during my childhood.” He resisted the urge to glance around the lavish penthouse, which was an obvious sign that Hayden hadn’t had the same problem growing up.
He wasn’t quite sure why he’d brought up that money part, either. He hated talking about his childhood. Hated thinking about it, too. As much as he loved his parents, he didn’t like to be reminded of how hard life had been to them. How his mom used to stay up at night clipping coupons and how his dad walked to work—even when Michigan’s winter was at its worst—each time their beat-up Chevy truck broke down. Fortunately, his parents would never have to worry about money again, thanks to his lucrative career.
The phone rang, putting an end to their conversation. Hayden picked up the receiver, then hung up and said room service was on its way.
As Hayden headed for the elevator to greet the bellhop with the cart, Brody turned on the television, flipped through a few channels, then finally stopped on the eleven-o’clock news.
Rolling the cart into the living room, Hayden uncovered their food and placed a plate in front of him. The aroma of French fries and ground beef floated toward him, making his mouth water. Funny, he hadn’t even noticed how hungry he was when Hayden had had him tied to her bed. He’d been satisfying a different sort of appetite then.
He’d just taken a big bite of his cheeseburger when a familiar face flashed across the plasma screen. He nearly choked on the burger, as a wave of unease washed over him. Hayden had also noticed her father’s image on the TV, and she quickly grabbed the remote to turn up the volume. They caught the Channel 8 newscaster in midsentence.
“—came forward this afternoon and admitted there is truth to the rumors surrounding the Chicago Warriors franchise. The player, who refused to be named, claims that the bribery and illegal betting activities Warriors owner Presley Houston is accused of are in fact true.”
Brody suppressed a groan. Next to him, Hayden made a startled little sound.
“An hour ago, the league announced they will be launching a full investigation into these allegations.”
The newscaster went on to recap the accusation that Presley had bribed players to throw at least two games, and that he’d placed bets on the outcomes. The divorce was also mentioned, as well as Sheila Houston’s alleged affair with a Warrior, but by that point Brody had tuned out the news segment.
Who had come forward? It couldn’t be Becker, because his friend would’ve called him with a heads-up before he did anything like that. Yeah, Becker would’ve definitely warned him.
Craig Wyatt, though, seemed like a likely candidate, especially after what Brody had witnessed at the arena earlier today. The reporters had been pretty rough on Sheila Houston, many of them holding the firm belief that she was lying. It made sense that Wyatt would step in and try to support the woman in his bed.
The headache Brody had tried to ignore before came back with full force. He reached up to rub his throbbing temples. Damn. He wished he knew which one of his teammates had confessed. Whoever it was, this probably didn’t bode well for tomorrow’s game. How would anybody be able to focus with a possible criminal investigation hanging over their heads?
“It’s not true.”
Hayden’s soft voice jarred him from his thoughts, and he glanced over to see her big eyes pleading with him. “Right?” she said wearily. “It’s not true.”
“I don’t know.” He raked a hand through his hair, then absently picked up a French fry. Not that he had an appetite anymore. That news report had destroyed any desire he had for food. He dropped the fry and looked back at Hayden, who seemed to be waiting expectantly for him to continue. “I really don’t know, babe. So far, there’s been no proof that Pres bribed anyone.”
“So far. But if that report we saw just now is true…”
Her breath hitched, and her pained expression tore at his heart.
“Were you…Did he…” She sounded tortured, as if saying each word took great effort. “Did he offer you a bribe?” she finally asked.
“Absolutely not.”
“But he could have bribed someone else, another player.”
“He could have,” Brody said guardedly.
She grew silent, looking so achingly sad that he reached over to draw her into his arms. Her hair tickled his chin, the sweet scent of her wafting into his nose. He wanted to kiss her, to make love to her again, but it was totally not the time. She was upset, and the way she pressed her head into the crook of his neck and snuggled closer told him she needed comfort at the moment, not sex.
“God, this is such a mess,” she murmured, her breath warming his skin. “Dad is already stressed-out because of the divorce, and now…”
She abruptly lifted her head, her lips set in a tight line. “I refuse to believe he did what they’re accusing him of. My dad is a lot of things, but he’s not a criminal.”
The certainty in her eyes was unmistakable, and Brody wisely kept quiet. He’d always admired and respected Presley Houston, but experience had taught him that even people you admired and respected could screw up.
“Whoever came forward has to be lying,” Hayden said firmly. She swallowed. “This will all get cleared up during the investigation. It has to.”
She slid close to him again. “I don’t want to think about this anymore. Can we just pretend we didn’t see that newscast?” Without waiting for an answer, she went on. “And while we’re at it, we can pretend I came home for a vacation rather than to deal with my father’s problems.” She sighed against his shoulder. “God, a vacation would be so good. I could really use some fun right now.”
He smoothed her hair, loving how soft it felt under his fingers. “What did you have in mind?”
She tilted her head up and smiled. “We could go see a movie tomorrow—it’s been ages since I’ve been to the movies. Or we could walk along the waterfront, go to Navy Pier. I don’t know, just have fun, damn it!”
As much as he hated disappointing her, Brody smiled gently and said, “I would love to, but I can’t. The team’s catching a plane to L.A. at 9:00 a.m. There’s a game tomorrow night.”
The light drained out of her eyes, but she gave him a quick smile as if to hide her reaction. “Oh. Right. Dad mentioned something about an away game.”
His arms felt empty as she disentangled herself from the embrace and inched back, absently reaching for a French fry on her plate. She popped it into her mouth, chewing slowly, not looking at him.
“How about Sunday?” he suggested, anxious to make things right and at the same time not sure what he’d done wrong.
“I have this party to go to.” She pushed her plate away, apparently as uninterested in eating as he was. “It’s important to my dad.”
“Then another time,” he said. “I promise you, I’ll take you out and give you the fun you need.”
Her expression grew strained. “It’s okay, Brody. You don’t have to indulge me. It’s probably a silly idea to go out on a date anyway.”
He bristled. “Why is it silly?”
She blew out an exasperated breath. “This is only supposed to be a fling. Playing out a few sexual fantasies.”
A fling. Something inside him hardened at the word. Casual flings had pretty much been his entire life for the past ten years, serious relationships never even making a blip on his radar. And then he’d met Hayden and suddenly he wasn’t thinking about casual anymore. He liked her. A lot. Hell, he’d actually experienced a flicker of excitement when she’d mentioned engaging in normal couple things like going to the movies or walking by the lake. He’d never felt the urge to do stuff like that with the previous women in his life. He hadn’t cared enough, and that would have sounded awful if not for the fact that they hadn’t cared, either.
Crazy as it was, Hayden was the first woman, aside from a reporter, who’d ever asked him about his parents or his college major. Mundane little questions that people asked each other all the time, and yet something he’d been lacking.
He’d seen the potential when Hayden had first walked up to him in that bar. Somehow, he’d known deep down that this was a woman he could have a meaningful relationship with.
And it was damn ironic that she only wanted a goddamn fling.
“What happened to promising to keep an open mind?” he asked quietly.
“I plan on keeping that promise.” She shifted her gaze. “But you can’t blame me for being skeptical about this becoming anything deeper.”
“You don’t think it will?”
“Honestly?” She looked him square in the eye. “No, I don’t.”
He frowned. “You sound convinced of that.”
“I am.” Pushing an errant strand of hair from her eyes, she shrugged. “I’m going back to the West Coast in a couple of months, and even if I were staying here, our lives don’t mesh.”
Irritation swelled inside him. “How do you figure that?”
“You’re a hockey player. I’m a professor.”
“So?”
“So, our careers alone tell me how different we are. I’ve lived in your world, Brody. I grew up in it. Dad and I had most of our conversations on airplanes on the way to whatever city his team was playing against. I lived in five states during a fifteen-year period. And I hated it.”
“Your father was a hockey coach,” he pointed out.
“And the travel requirements are not much different for players. I had no say in the career my father chose for himself. But when it comes to what I want in a partner, I can choose.”
“The guy in San Francisco, what does he do?”
Her discomfort at discussing the guy who Brody now thought of as the Other Man was evident as she began to fidget with her hands. She laced her fingers together, unlaced them, then tapped them against her thighs. “Actually, he teaches art history at Berkeley, too.”
How frickin’ peachy. “What else?” he demanded.
She faltered. “What do you mean?”
“So you’re both interested in art. What else makes this relationship so delightfully rewarding?”
He almost winced at the sarcasm he heard in his tone. Damn it, he was acting like a total ass here, and from the cloudy look in Hayden’s eyes, she obviously thought the same thing.
“My relationship with Doug is none of your concern. I promised to remain sexually exclusive, but I never agreed to sit around and talk about him.”
“I don’t want to talk about him,” he growled. “I just want to get to know you. I want to understand why you feel I’m not a good match for you.”
“God, don’t you see it?” she sighed. “I want, I want. You said so yourself, you always get what you want. And that’s why I feel the way I do. I’ve dated too many guys who want. But none of them want to give. They’re too concerned with getting their way, advancing their careers, and I always come in second. Well, I’m sick of it. Doug may not be the most exciting man on the planet, but he wants the same things I do—a solid marriage, a stable home, and that’s what I want out of a relationship.”
A deafening silence fell over the room, stretching between. Brody felt like throwing something. He resented the fact that Hayden was projecting her frustration with her father and the previous men in her life onto him, but, hell, he’d opened this can of worms. Pushed her too far, too fast. Needled her about her on-hold relationship and demanded she give him a chance she wasn’t ready to give.
Would he still get that chance now? Or had he blown it completely?
“I think asking you over here was a bad idea,” she said.
The answer to his silent question became painfully clear.
He’d blown it, all right.
Big-time.
THE LAST THING Hayden felt like doing on Sunday night was attending a birthday party for a wealthy entrepreneur she didn’t even know, but when she’d called her father to try to get out of it, he wouldn’t have it. He’d insisted her presence was essential, though she honestly didn’t know why. Every time she socialized with her father and his friends she ended up standing at the bar by herself.
But she didn’t want to let down her dad. And considering how she’d left things with Brody on Friday night, maybe it was better to get out of that big penthouse and away from her thoughts.
It was just past eight o’clock when she neared the Gallagher Club, a prestigious men’s club in one of Chicago’s most historical neighborhoods. It had been founded by Walter Gallagher, a filthy rich entrepreneur who’d decided he needed to build a place where other filthy rich entrepreneurs could congregate.
The Gallagher Club was by invitation only, and it took some men decades to gain membership. Her father had inherited the membership when he’d purchased the Warriors from their previous owner, and he loved flaunting it. When Hayden was in town, he never took her anywhere else.
She drove down the wide, tree-lined street, slowing her rented Honda Civic when she spotted a crowd at the end of the road. As she got closer, she noticed a few news vans. The dozen or so people milling by the curb were reporters.
And since she couldn’t think of anyone else currently involved in a possible criminal investigation, she knew the press was there because of her father.
This was not good.
Taking a few calming breaths, she drove through the wrought-iron gates leading to the Gallagher Club, turning her head and averting her eyes when a few of the reporters started to peer in at her. She exhaled as she steered up the circular cobblestone driveway and slowed the car behind the line of vehicles waiting near the valet area.
Had the reporters harassed her father when he’d driven in? Had he stopped to speak with them, to deny the absurd news report?
A voice interrupted the troubling thoughts. “Good evening, madam.”
She lifted her head and saw a young man in a burgundy valet uniform hovering over the driver’s window.
“May I take your keys?” he asked.
Her gaze flitted to the massive mansion with its enormous limestone pillars and the stone statues lining the marble entrance. Her father was probably already in there, most likely smoking cigars with his rich friends and acting as if the presence of the media didn’t bother him. But she knew it had to bug him. Presley’s reputation mattered to him more than anything.
With another sigh, she handed the valet her keys and stepped out of the car. “Davis will escort you inside,” the young man informed her.
Davis turned out to be a tall, bulky man in a black tuxedo who extended his arm and led her up the front steps toward the two oak doors at the entrance.
He opened one door and said, “Enjoy your evening.”
“Thank you,” she answered, then stepped into the lavish foyer.
Miles of black marble spanned the front hall, and overhead a sparkling crystal chandelier dangled from the high ceiling. When she took a breath, she inhaled the scent of wine, cologne and all things expensive.
She paused next to the entrance of the coat check and quickly glanced down to make sure there were no wardrobe mishaps happening. She’d worn a slinky silver dress that clung to her curves, emphasizing her cleavage and bottom. Not to mention that it was slit up to the thigh, revealing a lot of leg. A light touch of eye makeup and some shiny pink lip gloss, and the ensemble had been complete.
Annoyingly, she’d thought about Brody the entire time she’d gotten ready. How much he’d probably enjoy seeing her in the dress—and how much he’d love taking it off her.
It still bothered her, how they’d left things Friday night. Brody hadn’t spent the night, needing to catch his flight in the morning, and he’d headed for the elevator with the air of a man leaving a battlefield in defeat.
She’d felt pretty defeated, too. What had she been thinking, suggesting they go out on a real date? After all, she was the one who’d made it clear she wanted a fling. Yet she’d really enjoyed their conversation—talking to him about art, hearing about his parents. It had been really nice. Comfortable. And before she knew it, she was falling right back into her old ways, looking to embark on a new relationship.
That Brody had to be in L.A. the next day was just the wake-up call she’d needed. It reminded her precisely what she wanted—someone stable. Someone who wouldn’t be out of town for half the year, while their relationship took second place. As wildly attracted to Brody as she was, she knew he couldn’t be that someone.
“Quade has outdone himself this year,” a male voice boomed, interrupting her thoughts and reminding her where she was.
Smoothing out the front of her dress, she followed the group of tuxedo-clad men into the large ballroom off to the left. It was a black-tie event, and she found herself surrounded by beautifully dressed people, some older, some younger, all strangers. A dance floor graced the center of the room, in front of a live band that was belting out an upbeat swing song. Before she could blink, a waiter handed her a glass of champagne.
Just as she was about to take a sip, a familiar face caught her eye.
“Darcy?” she called in surprise.
Her best friend’s silky red hair swung over her shoulders as she spun around. “Hey! What are you doing here?”
“My dad demanded I make an appearance.” She grimaced. “And to think, I almost believed he wanted to spend some time with me.”
Bitter much?
Fine, so she was bitter, but really, who could blame her? She’d come here to support her father and bridge the distance between them, and yet he seemed determined to avoid spending quality time with her.
“What are you doing here?” she asked Darcy.
Her friend was clad in a white minidress that contrasted nicely with her bright red hair and vibrant blue eyes. “I know the birthday boy. He’s a regular at the boutique and pretty much threatened to take his business elsewhere if I didn’t make an appearance.” Darcy snorted. “To be honest, I think he’s dying to get into my panties. Like that will ever happen.”
“Who exactly is the birthday boy? Dad neglected to mention.”
“Jonas Quade,” Darcy answered. “He’s filthy rich, calls himself a philanthropist, and spends thousands of dollars on his many mistresses. Oh, and he’s also a pompous ass, but I can’t complain because those thousands I mentioned, well, he spends them at my boutique. He likes getting his lady friends to try on lace teddies and model for him, that sleazy bastar—Crap, here he comes.”
A gray-haired man with the build of Arnold Schwarzenegger and a George Hamilton tan made a beeline in their direction. A plump, blond woman tagged on his heels, looking annoyed by her escort’s obvious enthusiasm for Darcy.
“Darcy!” Jonas Quade boomed, grinning widely. “What a treat to see you here.”
“Happy birthday, Mr. Quade,” Darcy said politely.
Quade turned to his companion. “Margaret, this is the owner of the lingerie store where I buy you all those intimate gifts.” He winked at the blonde. “Darcy, this is my wife, Margaret.”
Hayden could see the barely contained mirth on her friend’s face. Hayden had to wonder if Quade’s wife was aware that her husband wasn’t buying intimate gifts only for her.
“And who is your lovely friend?” Quade asked, peering at Hayden.
Since she didn’t particularly enjoy being ogled, Hayden felt a flicker of relief when, before Darcy could introduce them, Quade’s wife suddenly latched on to his arm and said, “Marcus is trying to get your attention, darling.” She proceeded to forcibly drag him away from the two women.
“Enjoy the party,” Quade called over his shoulder.
“That poor woman,” Darcy said. “She has no idea…”
“I’m sure she knows. He might as well have adulterer tattooed on his forehead.”
She and Darcy started to giggle, and Hayden decided this party might not be so bad after all. She hadn’t spotted her father yet, but with Darcy by her side, she might not have such an awful time.
“Can I interest you in a dance?”
Damn, she should’ve known her best friend, with that indecently short dress, wouldn’t be available for long.
The handsome, dark-haired man in a navy-blue pinstriped suit eyed Darcy expectantly. After a moment she shrugged, and said, “I’d love to dance.” She handed her champagne flute to Hayden, adding, “I’ll catch up with you later, okay?”
“Sure. Have fun.”
Hayden’s shoulders sagged as her friend followed Handsome Man onto the dance floor. Great. Seeing Darcy had been a pleasant surprise, but now her enthusiasm returned to its original level: low.
Then it swiftly dropped to nonexistent.
“Hayden, honey!” Her father’s commanding voice sliced through the loud chatter and strains of music. He strode up to her, a glass of bourbon in his hand and an unlit cigar poking out of the corner of his mouth.
She stood on her tiptoes and pecked his cheek. “Hey, Dad. You look like you’re enjoying yourself.”
“I am, I am.” He squeezed her arm and beamed at her. “You look gorgeous.”
Something about his overly broad smile troubled her. She wasn’t sure why—he was just smiling. And yet an alarm went off in her head. She examined her father more closely. His face was flushed and his eyes were a touch too bright.
Like an unwanted visit from the Avon lady, Sheila’s words filled her head. Your father’s drinking again.
“Are you okay?” she asked, unable to stop the wariness from seeping into her tone. “You look a little…tense.”
He waved a hand dismissively. “I’m absolutely great.”
“You sure? Because I saw those reporters outside and…” And what? And I wanted to make sure that they’re all just lying about your involvement in illegal sports betting?
Presley’s eyes darkened. “Ignore those bloodsuckers. They’re only trying to cause trouble, conjuring up their delusional stories to sell papers.” He took a slug of bourbon. “This isn’t the time to discuss this. Martin Hargrove was just asking me about you. You remember Martin, he owns a chain of restaurants—”
“Dad, you can’t just ignore this,” she cut in. “What about the announcement that one of your players came forward? I tried calling your cell yesterday afternoon to talk about it but I kept getting your voice mail. I left you two messages.”
He ignored the last statement and said, “I was golfing with Judge Harrison. No cell service out on the course.”
She decided not to mention that she’d also called the house he was renting, knowing he’d probably have an excuse for not answering those calls, too.
God, why was he acting like none of this was a big deal? One of his players had admitted that Presley fixed games, and her father was brushing it off like a fleck of lint on his sleeve. Going to parties, smoking cigars, mingling with friends. Did he honestly think this would all just blow over? Hayden refused to believe her father had done the things he was accused of, but she wasn’t naive enough to think they could just close their eyes and blink the whole mess away.
“Did you at least talk to Judge Harrison about what your next move should be?” she asked.
“Why the hell would I do that?”
“Because this is starting to get serious.” Hayden clenched her fists at her sides. “You should give a press conference maintaining your innocence. Or at the very least, talk to your lawyer.”
He didn’t bother replying, just shrugged, then lifted his drink to his mouth. After swallowing the rest of the liquid, he signaled a passing waiter and swiped a glass of champagne.
Hayden took the opportunity to place her and Darcy’s drinks on the waiter’s tray, suddenly losing any taste for alcohol. Both times she’d seen her father this past week, he’d been drinking, but tonight it was obvious her father was drunk. His rosy cheeks and glazed eyes, the way he was swaying on his feet. The blatant case of denial.
“Dad…how much have you had to drink?”
His features instantly hardened. “Pardon me?”
“You just seem a little…buzzed,” she said for lack of a better word.
“Buzzed? Is that California slang for drunk?” He frowned. “I can assure you, Hayden, I am not drunk. I’ve only had a couple drinks.”
The defensive note in his voice deepened her concern. When people started making excuses for their inebriated state…wasn’t that a sign of a drinking problem?
She cursed her stepmother for putting all these absurd ideas into her head. Her father wasn’t an alcoholic. He didn’t have a drinking problem, he hadn’t had an affair, and he certainly hadn’t illegally fixed any Warrior games to make a profit.
Right?
Her temples began to throb. God, she didn’t want to doubt her dad, the man who’d raised her alone, the man who up until a few years ago had been her closest friend.
She opened her mouth to apologize, but he cut her off before she could. “I’m sick of these accusations, you hear me?”
She blinked. “What? Dad—”
“I get enough flak from Sheila, I don’t need to hear this shit from my own daughter.”
His eyes were on fire, his cheeks crimson with anger, and she found herself taking a step back. Tears stung her eyes. Oh, God. For the first time in her life she was frightened of her own father.
“So I made a few bad investments. Sue me,” he growled, his champagne glass shaking along with his hands. “It doesn’t make me a criminal. Don’t you dare accuse me of that.”
She swallowed. “I wasn’t—”
“I didn’t fix those games,” he snapped. “And I don’t have a drinking problem.”
A ragged breath escaped his lips, the stale odor of alcohol burning her nostrils and betraying his last statement. Her father was drunk. This time there wasn’t a single doubt in her mind. As she stood there, stunned, a tear crept down her cheek.
“Hayden…honey…oh, Lord, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snap at you like that.”
She didn’t answer, just swallowed again and swiped at her face with a shaky hand.
Her father reached out and touched her shoulder. “Forgive me.”
Before she could respond, Jonas Quade approached with jovial strides, clasped his hand on Presley’s arm and said, “There you are, Pres. My son Gregory is dying to meet you. He’s the Warriors’ number-one fan.”
Her father’s dark green eyes pleaded with her, relaying the message he couldn’t voice at the moment. We’ll talk about this later.
She managed a nod, then drew in a ragged breath as Quade led her father away.
The second the two men ambled off, she spun on her heel and hurried to the French doors leading to the patio, hoping she could keep any more tears at bay until she was out of sight.