Page 9 of The Devil In Denim
She knocked once when she reached the den but didn’t bother waiting to be asked in. In fact, as she pushed open the door and stepped through, she almost knocked her father down. Or maybe he almost knocked her down. She wasn’t entirely sure. Tom grabbed her shoulders to steady them both.
“Maggie, love. What are you doing here?” He looked her up and down for a moment. “I take it you didn’t get my message.”
“Message?”
“About the press conference. I left several.”
Maggie thought guiltily of the iPhone still switched off in her purse. She wasn’t ready for the barrage of inquisitive calls and sympathetic texts from friends, acquaintances, the press, and the just plain nosy. “I’ve been busy.”
Tom lifted his wrist, glanced down at the heavy gold watch Maggie had given him for his sixtieth birthday two years ago. “We have time. You have clothes here, don’t you?”
“Clothes?”
“You can’t do this press conference dressed like that,” her father said. He was wearing one of his immaculately tailored dark blue suits. And a Saints team tie with an equally immaculate white shirt.
Maggie looked down at her jeans and biker boots. “That’s not a problem. Because I’m not going to be doing the press conference.”
“Now, Maggie…” The faintest hint of her grandfather’s Irish brogue crept into Tom’s voice as it always did when he was trying to charm her.
“No!” She threw up her hands. “You can’t seriously expect me to stand there and smile like everything’s okay while you hand the Saints over to that … that … that man!”
“You’ve stood and smiled for me before,” Tom said.
“When we were in trouble. When it was for the good of the team,” Maggie said, feeling acid rising in her throat again. Sure, she’d grinned and pretended nothing was wrong on previous occasions. PR involved the odd white—or distinctly gray—lie occasionally and she’d been happy to do it. But not this time.
“Love, this is for the good of the team.” He smiled but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.
“It’s not!”
Tom’s expression turned stern. Once upon a time that look had been enough to make her quake. But not today.
“It is, Maggie. I’m sorry it happened like this but Alex and Lucas and Malachi love the Saints. They’ll take good care of them. I wouldn’t sell to anyone who wouldn’t.”
“I don’t understand why you’re selling at all.” Her voice had gone high and tight again like it had last night with Alex.
“It was time, love.”
“But why?” Fear suddenly gripped her. “Is something wrong? Are you sick?” She searched his face, horrified that she hadn’t thought of this possibility before. But Tom looked his usual self. Didn’t he?
“No. Though I’m sure Marcus will be doing handsprings that I’m retiring.”
Marcus Donahue being the crusty old MD her father had been seeing for his personal checkups for years. Relief whooshed through her, fear melting away. Which left room for the hurt and betrayal to rise again in its place. “Then why?”
“I don’t have time to explain. We need to leave in fifteen minutes to get to the stadium in time. Go get changed.”
Maggie folded her arms. “No. Give me a reason why.”
“For me. One last time. I promise I’ll explain afterward, but right now do this for your old dad, okay?” He reached out and touched her cheek gently, like he always did. “It’s going to be all right, Maggie. Alex is a good guy.”
“He’s the devil,” Maggie muttered, but her father had turned back to his desk, staring down at some papers while he straightened his blue, silver, and yellow Saints tie. The sun through the window illuminated the white hairs among the gray that had been there for years, and something about the light and the slight slouch in his shoulders made her heart clutch. He looked … tired. And Tom Jameson never looked tired. He had kept up a punishing schedule and thrived on it for years, running the Saints and his other businesses with clockwork precision. Fear clutched again. Maybe he was ill after all. Maybe he just didn’t want to tell her. It would be like him to try and protect her from something like that.
“Maggie. Clothes.”
His voice, at least, was unchanged. Strong and low and reliable. She was so used to obeying orders he issued in that tone that she turned on her heel and was halfway down the hall before she realized he’d put the whammy on her. But she kept going. She didn’t like what was about to happen, but neither was she going to miss the press conference and the chance to find out more about the enemy. Because Alex Winters was the enemy. And one thing was sure. The enemy wasn’t going to see her looking like last night’s excesses had had a single ounce of effect on her.
Thirteen minutes later, Maggie descended the stairs, thanking the sartorial gods that she’d left a few suits in her room here. And that they were of the classic variety. She’d pulled on the sleekest, blackest of them, grabbed a pair of heels from her closet, and opted for up and back for her hair rather than attempting to tame it enough to leave it down. Eye drops, masses of mascara, and the magic of makeup meant she looked like she was ready for anything. She wore her diamond-studded angel-wing earrings and a trio of bracelets in silver, blue, and yellow enamel. Saints colors. Her colors. She was more a part of the team than Alex bloody Winters ever would be and she was going to let the world know.
She looked good. She knew it when her father smiled at the sight of her and Veronica pressed her lips together. Veronica who was wearing something sedate in pale lilac. Maggie resisted the urge to roll her eyes. She’d never once seen Veronica wear Saints colors voluntarily. God knew what her father saw in her.
