Game For Love: Game On (Kindle Worlds Novella) (2 page)

“His hair was shaved real c
lose to his head when I saw him. Because, you know, he was on vacation and didn’t want anyone to recognize him. So I couldn’t tell what color it was then. He told me that when he’s playing, he lets it grow longer so the helmet doesn’t hurt his head. In pictures on the internet it’s brown.”

“Okay
.” Laurel wrote that down but was beginning to think some guy had pulled the wool over this poor girl’s eyes. Told her a tall tale about being a football star just to get into her pants, and it had obviously worked. “Eye color? Height?”

“His eyes were dark brown, and h
e was just a little taller than me. Like five-foot-eight maybe.”

“
Any distinguishing features? Tattoos. Scars. Eyeglasses.”

“He had a skull and crossbones tattoo on his chest. You know, like the kind you’d see on a pirate flag.”

“Okay. Anything else?”

“Nothing
that I can remember. And I would have seen any scars or other tattoos since you know, he was naked when we were in his room.”

“His room where?” Laurel asked.
The man played for a team in San Francisco but the client was a Florida resident and had sought Laurel out in her office in Homestead.

“The Travel Inn
in Miami.

“The Travel Inn?” The place that charged eighty-nine dollars a night didn’t seem like a hotel where a man who owned a
Super Bowl ring—at least he did according to the information on the computer screen in front of her—would choose to stay.

“Yes. I was
staying there for a high school reunion. I met him at the bar in the hotel afterward.”

“Okay.” Laurel had pulled up Trent’s stats on her computer and was looking over
his page on the team website. They had him at six-foot-two and two hundred pounds of what looked to be solid muscle, not fat, judging by the picture. One site had him listed as making a salary so high she could barely count the zeroes. Things just didn’t add up. “I have to ask you, are you absolutely certain it was him?”

“Yes! He told me
so.”

“I’m sure the
re are a lot of men who say they are who they aren’t.” A good number of Laurel’s cases turned out to be exactly that.

Thanks to the internet, a playgr
ound for those with evil intent, there seemed to be a rash of men, women, children even, all pretending to be who they weren’t. Some did it for money. Some for attention. Some to be just plain mean or get revenge. It was so prevalent nowadays it even had a name—catfishing.

“No! Not this time.
I saw the name on his credit card when he paid for dinner. Before the waiter took it to run it I got a good look and it said clear as day Trent O’Shea.”

That
piece of information hit the pause button on Laurel’s doubt. It was more proof than most of her clients had when they came to her looking for answers. And she could very well believe an athlete would go a little wild on vacation and then run from the consequences.

Laurel looked at her distraught client and couldn’t say no
. “All right.”

Her eyes widened
. “You’ll take the case?”

“Yes. No guarantees but I’ll
do some digging and see what I can come up with.”

At the very least Laurel
should be able to get the guy’s private cell phone number. Then they could bypass the cadre of publicists and agents and managers insulating him and confront him directly. He should be made aware of the mess he’d left behind him. And if by some miracle she could actually come up with proof, some leverage, they could get a court order for a paternity test. If it came back positive, they’d threaten to expose him publicly and make him pay support for the child he’d help bring into the world.

Hopefully, that would prevent him from doing this again to some other unsuspecting girl, of which there seemed to be far too many in the world. Laurel thanked God that she wasn’t one of them.

Better to trust no one than to trust the wrong person. Sad but true.

“So what are you going to do?”
Becky asked, looking a bit calmer now.

“I’ll have to see if I can find any witnesses who remember him being here in Florida. Then,
I’m going to flip every rock in San Francisco until I find the one Trent O’Shea is hiding under.”

It wouldn’t be easy. The
trail had grown cold over the months. If only the client had come to her earlier. Nothing she could do about that now. Laurel had to work with what she had. “If that doesn’t work, I’ll have to expand my search a little farther. Dig a little deeper.”

Laurel had contacts. Some legitimate
, some a little less so. She’d likely have to use them all for this case.

“I can’t thank you enough for helping me.” The tears started anew and Laurel made a mental note to get another box of t
issues out of the supply closet.

“Don’t thank me yet, but if he’s guilty and I can prove it, we’re going to make him pay. I promise you that.”

They’d discussed fees and payment already, so after one more assurance that she always got her man, Laurel finally had Becky out the door.

In th
e peace and quiet of the modest office where she worked alone, Laurel settled in behind her computer, ready to get down to business.

Becky had been corre
ct in that Trent was all over the web.

The internet could be a dumping ground of lies and inaccuracies, but a picture
was worth a thousand words. Particularly the photo the paparazzi had snapped of Trent O’Shea trying to dodge the cameras while ducking into the Eastern Airlines domestic departures terminal at San Francisco International . . . early
this morning
.

She’d already confirmed that the Outlaws’ season was over. Perfect time for the players to take a little vacation
she would think.

Excitement had her fingers trembling as they flew over the keys to bring up the airline’s website. Assuming he’d arrived between one and two hours early for his departure, Laurel had a fairly narrow window of flights he could be on.

“Let’s see where you might be going, Mr. O’Shea.” She scanned the most likely destinations. One stopped her fingers on the mouse and halted her scrolling. Miami.

“Gotcha!” God
, she loved her job. She could always count on the bad guys to repeat their patterns. With any luck, Trent was doing just that.

Another quick web search and Laurel had th
e number for the hotel Becky said her Lothario had used as his lair to woo her into his bed.

With
anticipation that only the thrill of the hunt can bring, Laurel dialed the number and listened as a woman’s voice said, “Travel Inn. How may I help you?”

According to the airline’s flight tracker, the
direct flight from San Francisco to Miami had landed a couple of hours ago. If Trent had been on that flight, he would have had plenty of time to check in.

“Hi, Trent O’Shea’s room, please.” Laurel said it with an air of expectation and authority that she hoped wouldn’t put the hotel employee on alert.

“One moment, please.”

Oh my God.
Was he really registered there? This was too easy. Laurel’s heart thundered as she waited to be connected to the bastard’s room phone.

“I’m sorry, but we don’t have anyone registered by that name.
”

Crap
.

Scrambling to recover and salvage her investigation, Laurel switched gears. She used every bit of acting skills she possessed and hissed
a breath in through her teeth.

“Oh, no. I’m going to be in so much trouble. You see I was supposed to change the time of a very important meeting between Mr. O’Shea and my boss but he’s not answering his cell phone. I thought he was staying at the Travel Inn in Miami but if you say he’s not there
then I’m totally screwed.”

“I’m sorry. Let me check again.” After the sound of a few taps on the keyboard, the woman said, “I don’t see anyone by that name.”

Laurel let out a sigh of frustration, which was only partly fake. “I bet he’s registered under another name. He’s a super famous athlete . . . and when he doesn’t show up for the photo shoot for Sports Magazine on time, I’ll be fired for sure.”

She was laying it on thick but it seemed to be working as the hotel employee made all the appropriate sympathetic sound
s on the other end of the line.

“You know who Trent O’Shea is, right?
” Laurel asked. “Linebacker for the San Francisco Outlaws.”

After that lead in
, the woman said, “Oh, yeah. I know him. My husband hates that team, which means we have to watch every game so he can root for the other guys.”

“Any chance you’ve seen Trent around there?”

“No, sorry. And I would have noticed too. He’s a hottie.”

A hottie and a rotten bastard if he was ditching
his responsibilities with Becky and her unborn child.

“I know he stayed at your hotel
last July.” Laurel hoped feeding the woman more information would jog her memory.

“Oh, I wasn’t here then. I only got hired a few months ago.”

“And you haven’t seen him in the time since you started working there?”

“No, ma’am. I’m sorry.”

Laurel let out another sigh. “I guess he’s staying somewhere else then.”

“I guess.
Sorry I couldn’t help you more.”

“It’s okay. Thank you. You’ve been very helpful.” At least Laurel now knew one place that Trent wasn’t.

“Good luck. I hope you find him.”

“Thanks.
Me too.” Laurel hung up the desk phone and slumped in her chair.

This wasn’t going to be qu
ite as easy as she’d assumed. Trent O’Shea was currently a moving target and that made him extra hard to hit.

If Becky had come to her sooner—during the regular football season—Laurel would have known right where to find Trent.
She could have gotten to him at his home, or the stadium, or any number of places in between. She had contacts. She could have wrangled a press pass and confronted him right there in the damn locker room.

Now, he could be anywhere. There was no guarantee he was
even in Miami. That had been a guess. More like a hope. How perfect it seemed to have him drop out of the air right into her own state and save her a trip and Becky the expense of Laurel flying to California.

She
had to try harder to locate him. She went back to the browser window displaying the airline’s flight schedule for today. There weren’t that many flights on that airline at that time coming out of San Francisco. Her gut told her the Miami flight was the one he was most likely on.

Of course, he could have gotten a connection and flown elsewhere
, but Becky had met this guy in Miami. That made it much more likely that he was there now.

Following her instincts, which didn’t steer her wrong very often, Laurel punched a few more keys on the computer and brought up the list of every hotel in the Miami area. It was a long list, it would take her forever to get through, but she had a job to do.

Drawing in a deep breath, she picked up the phone to begin what could be either a wild goose chase or the biggest case of her life.

CHAPTER
THREE

A man dressed in a
crisp white uniform rushed forward the moment the town car pulled up to the building. He opened the back door and said, “Welcome to Little Palm, Mr. Warren. We’ve been expecting you.”

“Thank you.”
From the backseat, Trent handed his carry-on to the man.

Unfolding his long legs, he
hoisted himself out of the back passenger seat and stood. Once out of the car, he let his eyes drift closed as he took the time to draw in a deep breath of warm Florida air and freedom.

Whe
n his flight had touched down at Key West International Airport and he’d stepped off that plane and into the waiting car, he’d ceased to be Trent O’Shea, football hero. He’d become Mr. T. Warren, nobody. It was a good feeling.

Even the short
layover in Miami had nearly killed him as he waited braced to be recognized, but the disguise of the baseball hat and glasses held. He was here now. That was all that mattered.

Thanks to his very well compensated manager, Tom War
ren, who’d lent Trent both his name and credit card number for the reservation at this resort, he was anonymous.

The natural beauty of the Keys had hooked Hemingway
all those years ago, and as he felt himself relax with every passing moment, Trent knew the magic had captured him as well. It was well worth dropping over a grand a night on the private bungalow. Besides, what else did Trent have to spend his money on?

“Your complimentary bottle of champagne is
chilled and in your bungalow and whenever you’re ready, the front desk can schedule the times for your daily massage.” The very efficient resort employee ran over the details as they waited for the driver to get Trent’s other bag out of the trunk. “My name is Calvin and I’ll be your personal concierge for the duration of your stay. If you need anything, just call the desk and ask for me by name.”