Five's A Crowd

Cover Page

Excerpt

Dear Reader

Title Page

About the Author

Other Books By

Dedication

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Epilogue

Copyright

To massage therapist Krisann Albanese,
a true “hands-on” buddy!
Sorry about the bird….

And to Doctor Joseph and Darlene Stella.
Friends when friends were needed!

MASTERS SACKED BY CHEVY,
DISAPPEARS
byline Rich “The Nose” Newsome

Holden Masters, Philadelphia’s scrambling, five-time All-Pro Quarterback, who has eluded serious injury for all of his eleven seasons in the NFL, was allegedly blindsided on I-95 by a drunk in a 1988 Chevrolet while on his way home from a banquet in his honor two nights ago, this reporter has just learned.

Although Masters’s familiar cherry red Ferrari was totaled in the accident, his injuries, says his agent, Sidney Feldon, are minor. University of Pennsylvania doctors agree that Masters did not require hospitalization, but both the extent of his injuries and his whereabouts since being treated in the Emergency Room are already a closely guarded secret, even from the team’s management.

With contract negotiations for the eight-million-dollar grid star promised to begin in earnest shortly, and hopes for a return to the
Super Bowl running high in the City of Brotherly Love, Feldon assured the media at a hastily gathered predawn press conference that Masters will be one hundred percent for the fall season.

If this is so, this reporter has a few questions. Why did it take two days and a leak to the press to learn of Masters’s injury? Where is Holden Masters now, and why is he only speaking through his agent?

Well, Masters? Do you have any answers for us, because we’d sure like to hear them?

“T
HAT MISERABLE,
no good son of a—Sid, this is all your fault!” The newspaper was thrown to the floor, then stomped on. It would have been much more satisfying to take Rich “The Nose” Newsome’s miserable rag, crush it in his hands and slam-dunk it into the nearest waste can.

But Holden Masters wasn’t up to crushing anything, even a newspaper. Not with his right arm, his
throwing
arm, his most powerful offensive weapon, in a sling.

“Holden, you’re throwing a hissy fit, if I might point out the obvious,” Sidney Feldon observed from his lounging position on Masters’s soft white leather couch. He crossed his legs, attempting to appear at ease, which wasn’t easy—not with the star client pacing the carpet, steam pouring out his ears. “It’s unbecoming in the MVP of last year’s Super Bowl.
Mickey Mouse, for one, would not approve. Now, sit down like a good little quarterback, and I’ll tell you what I’ve done.”

Holden shot his agent a look that would have most rational, self-protective persons scurrying for safety behind a potted plant and began pacing the Oriental carpet that had been a gift from his jet-setting mother. “I already know what you’ve done, Sid,” he flung at the agent, wishing the man would abandon the toupee he had begun wearing only a few months previously. He looked like he had a dead rat on his head.

“I’ve put your name on the lips of every team owner in the NFL,” Sid said, openly preening.

“Wrong! You’ve taken a lousy molehill and built it into a freaking mountain! Look at me, will you? Not a break, Sid, not even a sprain. A
wrench!
Isn’t that what the doctor said? A
wrench!
A little rest, a little rehab, and I’ll be good as new. I don’t even need this miserable sling.”

And to prove his point, Holden lifted his right arm away from his body, ready to slide the sling up and over his head. “Damn!” he exploded, grabbing his shoulder as the pain sliced through him, weakening his knees. He sat down before he fell down.

“Bruises, contusions and a soft-tissue injury to the—what was that called, Holden? Some Latin word, right?” Sid asked, uncrossing his legs as he took another sip of orange juice. “Well, whatever. It
certainly looks painful enough. And delightfully colorful. What’s more important, the docs say it will be six to eight weeks until you’re back to your full strength. And that’s if you behave yourself. You’re not especially
good
at behaving yourself, Holden, do you know that?”

Holden glared at the man. “I don’t know, Sid. I haven’t strangled you yet, have I?”

“Good point,” Sid answered briskly, rising to his feet and going over to the small refrigerator built into the wet bar to refill his glass.

He then put the glass, and his elbows, on the bar, and sighed theatrically as he looked at his best client, his good friend and the man whose talent had already assured Sid of a financially comfortable old age.

Holden Masters was an agent’s dream. Not only was he possibly the best quarterback to come along in this century, he was a handsome devil and marketable in a million ways. In his prime at thirty-two, Holden was six-four without his cleats, with a broad-shouldered, slim-hipped, athletically perfect body beneath his tight-fitting maroon-and-gold uniform.

Black hair, green eyes, a killer smile…oh, yeah, the man was the darling of Madison Avenue, the idol of every young kid with dreams of playing pro ball one day, the icon of every middle-aged man with a gut and a mortgage, and the heartthrob of every female in America old enough to put away her Barbie dolls and
young enough to enjoy visions of having the Master of the Game alone in the sack with her.

He was, in a word, a living license to print money, and Sidney Feldon could smell a buck from a mile away. Not that he didn’t honestly, truly, like Holden. Everybody liked Holden. He was that kind of guy. He took chances on the football field, never taking the easy way into a slide when he could leap over defenders and into the end zone. He meant excitement on and off the field, living the good life, driving fast cars, loving ‘em and leaving ‘em on a routine basis.

In fact, if Sidney could be anyone in the world, he’d be Holden Masters. Who wouldn’t?

“Holden,” Sid said now, “you’re a schmuck.”

“I’m a
what?”
Holden asked, swiveling in his seat, the better to glare at his friend and agent.

“A schmuck. A stupid, dumb schmuck,” Sid returned affably, still leaning on the bar. “Don’t you see what we’ve got here? We have the press and the public by the throat, that’s what we’ve got. We’ve got the owners sweating bullets. We’ve got a contract ready to be signed, making you the highest paid player in history. And all you have to do is disappear for the next eight weeks. Disappear, do your therapy and show up the first day of negotiations with your arm and shoulder one hundred percent. The owners are tearing their hair out, thinking you’re all but dead, or worse. I’ll get another two mil out of them
the minute you show up on the practice field and rifle that ball a quick seventy yards.”

“That’s nuts, Sid.”

“That’s show biz, Holden,” the agent answered, lifting his glass to toast his own brilliance. “Now, down to brass tacks,” he said, coming around to the front of the bar and perching his chubby, five-foot-four frame on one of the bar stools. “I’ve arranged for a physical therapist to meet you at a little hideaway where you can do your rehab undisturbed.”

“A physical therapist? Who?”

“Relax. Taylor’s both a physical therapist and a massage therapist—like getting two for the price of one. Registered, has all the right papers—like a pedigree dog, but with real talent, you understand? You stay at the hideaway, out of sight of the press, most especially out of sight of The Nose, and do your thing. Oh—and you’ll have to shave that mustache. Seeing as how you’ve had it since college, nobody will know you without it. Meantime, I’m off to Maui, where The Nose won’t find me, either. Secrecy, Holden. That’s the key. That’s what’s going to bring in all those lovely dollars.”

Holden eyed his agent warily as he stroked his mustache, already missing it. “Hideaway? What hideaway? Where? Remember, I promised Peter I’d take Woody for the summer. No twenty-three-year-old kid is going to be happy stuck away in some cabin in the middle of nowhere, you know. And Tiffany’s
been making noises about joining us, God help me. And what about Amanda?”

Holden shook his head. “Never mind that last part. I’ve been trying to convince Amanda that we’re just friends—not that she’s taking the hint. I think she’s seeing dollar signs and wedding rings, which were never a part of our bargain. If you’re putting me in the middle of nowhere for eight weeks, she’ll be bored out of her skull and maybe go away. In fact, they might
all
go away.”

“There is that, yes,” Sid said, sensing that he had won the first battle. “Amanda’s time is definitely up. And no, your lovely supermodel flavor of the month won’t like this place one bit.”

Holden looked at Sid, smiling. “Keep talking, old friend. I think I’m beginning to like this. Where are you sending me?”

“New Jersey,” Sid answered cheerfully, then belatedly gave in to a moment of self-preserving sanity and ducked back behind the bar.

“New Jersey? Who in their right mind goes to…?” Holden grinned. “Perfect, Sid. Perfect. Nobody will think to look for me there. Not even my own mother. Hell,
especially
my own mother! She only recognizes three states—New York, Florida and California. Plus Nevada, of course. Best little divorce state in the world, or so she says, and she ought to know.”

Sid sagged against the bar, knowing the worst was over. Holden had agreed. He rushed into speech.
“You’ll love it, Holden. I used to go to New Jersey as a kid—got me out of Manhattan in the summertime, you know? I rented you a condo in Ocean City, a nice, family-type resort town where you’ll be able to rest and do your rehab, and Woody and Tiffany can loll on the beach and work on their tans. It isn’t California, but sand is sand, right? I’ve even hired a housekeeper. It’s perfect, Holden. Perfect!”

“It’s New Jersey, Sid,” Holden responded dully, rubbing his sore, stiff shoulder as he thought about the next eight weeks. “Don’t go nuts.”

T
AYLOR
A
NGEL LOOKED
at the paper in her hand, then peered out the window of her car at the building in front of her.
Yup,
she told herself rather smugly,
this must be the place. And only three wrong turns and a quarter hour of backtracking. None too shabby, Taylor, old girl, none too shabby.

“Parking in the rear, the man said,” she mumbled as she put the car in gear and drove to the corner, turning right and locating the narrow alley behind the house or “condo” as the real-estate agent who’d handed her the key called the place. Ugly, that’s how Taylor would have described it, pulling onto the wide concrete drive behind the condo and looking up at the pale green stucco walls. Lime green. Baby-mess-in-the-diaper green. Tutti-fruti-rooti ice sherbet green. But festive, she supposed, feeling charitable.

She popped the back doors of her two-year-old minivan and pulled out three large canvas bags containing her personal belongings, then closed the doors again on her massage table and other professional gear, figuring she had plenty of time to set up her stuff once she’d picked a good area to convert to a workout room. For now, she just wanted to get inside, get herself settled and take a run on the beach before sundown.

Juggling the bags and the key, she walked to the entrance of the condo, which was on the side of the long building, noticed that the door was already unlocked, then checked the address once more, just to be sure. There were two of these huge, homely green buildings, each divided into two side-by-side condos, and she didn’t want to go tripping into the wrong one.

She shook her head, mentally berating herself for having such a negative attitude. The condo wasn’t all
that
ugly, for one thing. So it was an unfortunate color. So what? From the looks of the outside of it, the place was massive, with several decks at both ends and a flat roof that probably would be a great place to sit and watch the ocean, which was only a block away.

She had been promised her own room and private bath. A housekeeper would take care of meals. All she had to do was whip Holden Masters back into shape and she was outta there—along with having a good rest, getting a killer tan, and waking to the
sound of surf for the next eight weeks. Not exactly a sentence of two months at hard labor.

And—with the lovely bonus Sidney Feldon had already given her—not too shabby in the financial department, either.

Taylor pushed the open door a little more ajar and called out; “Hello? anybody home?”

There was no answer. Knowing she was in the right place, she shrugged and walked in and immediately felt the coolness of central air-conditioning that was several degrees lower than the late-morning June heat outside.

Putting down her bags, she decided the first thing she’d do would be to scope out the place, rather like a child playing house. She walked across the tile foyer in the center of the condo and laid a hand on the white pipe railing, looking straight up past miles and miles of curving white pipe, all the way to the ceiling that was—she counted quickly—about four levels up.

“Good exercise for the client,” she said, walking to the front of the condo and the large, neatly furnished living room with wet bar. Sliding glass doors, three pair of them, looked out over a small, ground-level patio, and there was both a television set and a VCR in a cabinet in the corner.

“Perfect for my table,” she announced to the room, then retraced her steps past the foyer and down a long hall to open the doors that lined it.

The first held the heating and air-conditioning unit, the second a large bathroom, and the third led to what she immediately claimed as her bedroom. Behind the bedroom was the garage and a dumbwaiter. Three bikes were lined up beside the dumbwaiter and she itched to pull one out and take it for a spin.

But first things first! She took her canvas bags to the bedroom and threw them on the bed, then went off to climb the stairs—feeling like Jack shinnying his way up the beanstalk—to the next level.

The half flight led to a hallway to the rear of the condo, and she found two bedrooms there, connected by a Jack-and-Jill bathroom, a small powder room in the hall, as well as a complete laundry room.

Another half flight took her to another living room at the front of the condo—and another television and VCR—also with sliding glass doors to yet another patio, one that provided a view of the ocean.

Up another half flight and she was in the rear of the condo again, this time facing a dining room, kitchen and what had to be the master suite, complete with separate bath and Jacuzzi. A sliding glass door in the dining room led to a full flight of stairs and the flat roof, generously littered with chairs and chaises and a spectacular view of Ocean City, the ocean and, she was fairly confident, the sight of the eight-miles-distant Atlantic City when night fell and the casino lights lit up the sky.