Authors: Donna Richards
“Of course, I’ll be there. It should be a great game and I wouldn’t want to insult our host by turning down his invitation. We still need a fourth. Who’s the tax partner assigned to Hayden?”
She answered, but her mind had already tuned out of the
conversation. What could be worse than being put on the spot in front of her boss and associates, with a man who had already turned her down, and at a game totally foreign to her. All this on top of a vague suspicion that something wasn’t quite right in—
“Angie?”
“Oh, sorry.” Her focus returned to the conversation at hand. “Did you ask me something?”
“I wondered if you had found anything specific that we could parlay into extended services?” He toyed with a pencil, glancing at her over the rim of his glasses.
“Well, we’ve had a bit of a problem with missing vendor invoices, but I’m not sure—”
“Splendid. We could review and make recommendations about the whole accounts payable process. Excellent work. We’ll talk to Renard about it.” Falstaff settled back in his chair with a satisfied grin. “Keep it up, Angela. You’ll be a partner before you know it.”
Angie recognized her cue to leave. After an obligatory thank you, she returned to the library. Max glanced up from his worksheet.
“How’d it go?”
Horrible.
“Not bad,” she answered. “Renard’s given us seats to the game this weekend.”
“You’re kidding!” Max’s jaw dropped. “I heard the scalpers are asking $600 for tickets, and we get to go free?” At her nod, Max jumped up and danced around the room to the tinny refrains of his tie. Angela slumped in the chair.
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“Why so glum?”
“Nothing important.” She certainly didn’t want to discuss the possibility that the game on Saturday might destroy all hope for advancement within the firm. Nor did she want to disclose her ignorance about football in general. That would lead to questions she would prefer to avoid. She sighed. There had been much speculation on the radio and television about winners and losers of the game on Saturday.
Unfortunately, she suspected she already knew who would lose, and it wouldn’t be either of the teams.
She shifted position so she could rest her foot on the opposite chair.
The best she could do now was wrap up this Hayden assignment and bring it in under budget. Maybe that would be worth something. Perhaps Falstaff would reconsider his ultimatum if she excelled in other areas.
She glanced at Max. “Did you discover anything about the missing invoices?”
“As a matter of fact, I did.” His smile extended from ear to ear.
“They’re all direct ships.”
“To that same address on Ritchton?” An uneasiness filled her at his nod. She’d put off investigating Ritchton Street before for one reason or another, but so many uncertainties seemed to hover around that address.
“Is there anything else, Angie? I’ve got some buddies I want to call, rub in the good news.”
She waved him off while she pondered her next move.
Her gaze settled on Max’s stack of computer printouts. Pulling them closer, she rifled through them and found a report showing the total amount paid to all the various vendors. Yes. Leave it to sweet-talking Max. She flipped to Timone Industries. At one hundred thousand dollars, Timone wasn’t one of the largest of Hayden’s vendors, but it wasn’t one of the smallest either.
Why didn’t Pete Burroughs know this report existed? Or did he? Why the big secret?
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Max returned, whistling the university fight song. “This is too cool. I hear that some of the local corporations have the best seats in the stadium. I can’t wait till Saturday.”
“Max, can I entice you into a little more subterfuge?”
“What’s up? More digging around for reports?” he asked. “Are there women involved?” He bobbed his eyebrows up and down.
“Just me, I’m afraid,” she laughed. “This time I had something a little more physical in mind.”
“Even better.” He twirled the ends of an imaginary mustache.
“Stop that,” Angie scolded, laughing right along with him. “I want to check out Timone Industries on Ritchton Street, but I don’t want to go alone. Can you come with me?”
“Maybe. When do you want to go?”
“As soon as possible.” She glanced back down to the computer report.
“I’d like to settle this thing in my head. Maybe it’s nothing but…”
“Can’t go tonight, and I’ve got a date for tomorrow. I plan to be doing some celebrating after the game on Saturday… Is Sunday too late?”
“Can we go at night?” Angie asked. “I don’t want anyone to see us.”
“Wow.” The laughter left his face. “You’re really serious about this, aren’t you?”
“It’s probably just my wild imagination.” She brushed it off, as if crazy ideas about investigating suspicious addresses at night were an everyday occurrence. “I just want to check it out.”
* * *
That evening, Angie set a big bowl of popcorn on the coffee table in front of the television, next to a legal pad and a pen. She refused to look like a complete idiot on Saturday. She might not have any control over Falstaff’s appearance, but thanks to the Internet, she’d already researched the rules of the game. She crossed to the desk to retrieve 112
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some of the material she had printed out. Oreo advanced, her nose twitching delicately at the fluffy white kernels.
“Back off.” Angie gave her a gentle push. “This isn’t for you. I have some serious work to do.” She pushed a button on the remote controller and the television screen came alive with pictures of dancing cheerleaders.
A knock at the door interrupted. Great. Her brother must have changed his mind about her emergency plea for help.
“Stephen. I didn’t think you could make it.” She pulled the door open.
Walter Thomas stood on the porch. Her jubilant greeting died in her throat.
“I’m sorry for disturbing you.” He shifted a small brown paper bag from one hand to the other. “You were obviously expecting someone else.”
“Just my brother.” She peeked down the driveway, hoping Stephen, or Max or anyone would suddenly appear at the outside door. No luck.
“He promised to stop by and teach me about football.”
“I won’t keep you then.”
A low growl issued from behind her. She closed the door a little so her body would block the entire opening. “I’d invite you in, but the dog…”
“Yes, yes, I understand. Actually, I brought something for the dog.
Oreo, isn’t it?” He reached in the bag and withdrew a rawhide bone. “I thought maybe we could make friends.”
The growls intensified, interspersed with frustrated whimpering.
“I don’t know.” Angie glanced at the canine nose forcing its way between her leg and the doorframe. “I don’t think she’s ready for this.”
He offered the bone to the protruding nose, but Oreo backed up and began barking furiously. Walter shoved the bag and the bone into Angie’s hands. “Maybe you should just give this to the dog later.”
“Thank you, Walter,” she called to his retreating back, “I’m sure Oreo will enjoy it.” He disappeared into the night.
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“That wasn’t very nice.” She closed the door, scowling at the dog.
Oreo’s head drooped a few inches but her tail started a slight wag. “He even brought you a gift, but I doubt Mom wants a chewed up bone in the house.” She walked down the hallway and dropped the bag on the kitchen counter. “We’ll save it for outside.”
She returned to her seat on the couch. Oreo sat by her side, looking up with woeful eyes full of apology.
“Can’t say as I blame you though.” A shudder slipped down her back.
“Something about that man gives me the willies.” Oreo stood up, her tail in full swing.
“Come on,” Angie invited. “Let’s watch some football.” After tossing Oreo a few kernels of popcorn, she began counting the players on each team. If I’m going to learn this game, might as well start with numbers.
* * *
On Saturday, she quickly realized the television hadn’t done justice to the actual game experience. Max had parked the car and ushered her quickly through the crowds streaming toward a massive concrete stadium. She was jostled and bumped from all directions by people dressed in all manner of outrageous combinations of scarlet and gray.
The air crackled with pre-recorded band music, amplified radio broadcasts and loud conversation, all floating on the aromas of freshly popped popcorn and long-simmering hot dogs. Max steered her towards a ramp that opened into the interior of the stadium. The noise and excitement magnified ten times when she emerged from the tunnel passageway to a blustering October wind. The intensity of the thousands of cheering football fans already seated smacked into all her senses at once, overwhelming and invigorating. She loved it.
“Come on, we just can’t stand here.” Max tugged on her elbow. “We have to go up there.” He turned and pointed up a very steep and very narrow column of concrete steps.
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They weren’t the first to arrive. Tom Wilson and Pete Burroughs were already seated in “the box” which in reality consisted of two rows of four wooden folding chairs placed on a narrow concrete ledge. Angie hesitated. Another lump of discomfort dumped into her already roiling stomach. She pasted on a smile, gritted her teeth and followed Max to their assigned seats in the back row, opposite the two Hayden executives.
The four seats in the front row remained empty.
“This is great,” Max said after the cursory greetings. “We’re right at midfield. High enough to see the entire field, without resorting to the balcony. I’d never get seats like this on my own.”
Angie merely nodded, focused instead on the field. The players below were running in systematic patterns unlike anything she’d seen on television. Panic chipped away at the little bit of confidence she’d earned through her research.
“Uh-oh, here comes trouble.” Max’s binoculars pointed to the bottom of the concrete steps.
“What do you see?” she asked, abandoning her study of the statistics displayed on the electronic scoreboard.
“Falstaff and that tax partner, Peters.”
She could see the two men pulling themselves up the steep incline with the help of a handrail. About fifteen people behind them, she noticed Renard. She hadn’t seen him for three days, and although she knew he’d be here, seeing him again gave her a jolt. She watched his slow advance.
“Angie, are you okay?” Max lowered the binoculars a bit. “You look a little pale.”
“I’m fine, Max,” she replied automatically, while deep inside she knew she was not.
She stood when the partners arrived, and introduced them to the other box inhabitants. Hank reached the box before everyone could sit down. Handshakes were exchanged once again amid new introductions.
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when he sat on the far side of the box. Besides, with Falstaff seated next to Renard, her expertise would probably not be needed. She could sit back and enjoy the game.
They all stood while the band took the field, and clapped to the invigorating marching rhythm. Hank leaned back behind Falstaff and waved for her attention.
“How about coming up here and sitting on the other side of me?” he yelled over the enthusiastic fans cheering for the entering players.
Falstaff glanced over his shoulder and winked. She couldn’t gracefully refuse. The others shuffled chairs and bodies, allowing her to negotiate the edge of the concrete ledge. One misstep and she imagined she would roll head over heels down that sharp incline, all the way to the turf. She gulped, quickly gaining her seat and already missing the security of the back row.
Hank leaned closer to her ear. Instantly, Angie recognized the woodsy scent that singled him out from the thousands of men in the stadium.
His warm breath stirred the air around her sensitive earlobe. Her fear forgotten, she instinctively moved closer, drawn to his heat.
“Cathy’s coming,” he said. “She asked if she could sit next to Max.
You won’t tell him, will you?”
These were not the words she expected. Neither was her resulting disappointment although she wouldn’t admit the reason why. “Is that why you invited us to the game?” she asked. “For matchmaking?” While the rest of the stadium cheered madly for who-knew-what, a part of her caved in and collapsed.
“No. Cathy’s request came after the invitation.” He leaned close again, sharing words for her ears alone. “I wanted to share a football game with a friend.”
She blossomed inside. It was the only way she could describe that tender, opening sensation that lifted her spirits and warmed her to the tips of her fingers. The man had the ability to make her insides shrivel and expand at a moment’s notice. And she was expected to talk business with him? She bit her lower lip.
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“We’ve missed the kick-off,” she said.
“So we have.” His gaze skimmed over her face. All her nerve endings went on high alert. He should be watching the field, not looking at her.
“Some people say the kick-off is the most important part of the game.”
“Perhaps, but I’m a strategy man myself.” He focused on her lips. She moistened them quickly with the tip of her tongue. His smile spread slowly, pulled by deepening dimples. “I like to watch the plays develop,”
he said. “Slow and sure with a focused target in mind.”
She wasn’t sure if he was talking about football, or the intense yearning building inside of her. She swallowed.
“You know the home team supplies the balls for the game,” she said in an effort to regain control over her emotions. “They have to have thirty-six footballs available.”
His eyes crinkled as he looked toward the field. “Is that so?”