Page 23 of Playing for Keeps

She laughs. “Don’t worry, the deal is almost closed. You won’t be disappointed.”

Hunter says, “After all Cat’s efforts to match-make you, don’t go and get married between now and then.”

“I think we’re safe. I’m a casual relationship kind of girl.” I am, right? I should be. I have too much ambition for a serious relationship.

He frowns and I hate disappointing him, but I am who I am, right?

“I’ll be in touch one day next week,” Cat promises. “If you have time when you sign off tonight, have a drink with us.”

“We have one more interview to do, so it’s possible.”

Moving aside to give potential bidders room, I take Maguire’s arm and look around, but I don’t see Tate. Maguire yawns and says he needs a break. I watch him head outside to the patio where I know he’s going for a smoke. That gives me a chance to do the one thing I promised myself I would do tonight by hook or by crook.

Heading for the auction items on the far wall, I glide through the crowd, managing not to meet anyone’s eyes, homing in on item number fifty-four. Tate Fontanna’s signed jersey. Before I get there, I stop and look around to wait for a couple nearby to move on. Then I swoop in, picking up the stylus and tablet quickly. This needs to be strictly anonymous, so I write in my information next to my bid amount precisely and fast.

Mission accomplished, I put the auction bidding tablet back on its stand and turn around to find Maguire so we can finish our job for the night. But the man standing there, too close for comfort and giving me chills,, is not Duff Maguire.

“What do you think you’re doing skulking around my jersey?”

Tate’s neutral face is belied by his intense, suspicious eyes, not that I blame him.

“Taking a break, checking out the auction. I’d stay and chat, but I have to get back to work—”

“Not so fast, Smitty.” His words are steely. I don’t know how long he was spying on me, what he might have seen, but I can’t lie to him if he calls me on it. I’m standing in front of the tablet with my bid on it plain as day. It’s an anonymous bid, but if he sees at it, he’ll figure it out.

He puts his hands on my upper arms and moves me aside gently, only because I let him.

Picking up the tablet, he studies it more than long enough to see the anonymous email address I used for my contact info next to the anonymous donation of ten thousand smacks for his signed jersey. The previous bid was $500. Putting the tablet down slowly, he looks up and meets my eyes. I’m standing as still as death as I quake with some kind of pent-up emotion inside that I can barely control.

“What the fuck, Chloe?” Maybe it’s the way he says my name, but I shiver and my heart starts racing. I’m all messed up, but I manage to speak and sound half normal.

“What can I say? I’m a sucker for a good cause.” I wait while he continues his evaluation of me, a predatory look unhidden by a game face, no pretense of civility.

“There are dozens of good causes here.”

I stare back at him. How do I tell him that I know why he hates me, that I want to make up for all the awful things others in my profession have done to him.

The instant he understands that I know, I see it in his expression like a dawning light that clears his features. Except it feels like he slams the door in my face. But that’s when I’m at my best. When doors are shutting in my face, I come to play anyway.

I sigh. “What do you want me to tell you, Fontanna? The story about your uncle gets to me.”

“Which part?” he growls low

I have to tell him the truth.

“The part about the media ambush at his graveside.”

His jaw muscles clench and I can see the vulnerability, the discomfort as if I were aiming a camera at him right now instead of my eyes. I want to yell at him that my eyes are innocent.

“I’m not one of them, Tate.”

“That right? Last time I saw you it felt a lot like an ambush, albeit on a smaller, less dramatic scale.”

“I’m sorry.” I never apologize for doing my job, so I don’t know why I’m saying it now except I have an irresistible need to apologize for all the wrongs every media type ever did to him, to make it right. Knowing I can’t. I want to tell him he’s not responsible for his Uncle’s death, that it wasn’t his fault, but I have no standing. He’d reject my opinion as insignificant. Rightly so.

We stand silent and still for a while. It’s his show so I’ll let him close the curtain.

“Look out, it’s the boss coming in at six o’clock,” he says. I turn around to see Coach Marini taking his time to get to us.