Mad About the Man Page 2

  Maddox nodded without looking away from Brie. “You’re right—we should start. Would you like to serve first?” he asked Brie.

  She tapped her racket edge against the palm of her hand and looked back with a barely hidden sneer. “You betcha, Monroe. Game on!”

  Grinning, he moved to his side of the court.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Twenty minutes later, Brie bounced the tennis ball twice on the court, caught and held it in her hand for a moment, then bounced it twice more. Studying the opposite side of the court again—the enemy court—she lined up her serve, tossed the ball high in the air, then powered through with the serve.

  Her arm muscles hummed from the exertion. Her heart sang with barely suppressed glee as the ball smacked hard into the court exactly where she’d aimed it—less than an inch from Maddox Monroe.

  He jogged back but couldn’t set up the shot, her serve having so much topspin that it was impossible to return.

  Looking across the net at her, he inclined his head.

  Point to Brie.

  She showed her teeth in a wide smile and bounced a fresh ball.

  “What in the hell do you think you’re doing?” Barrett demanded on a low hiss, sidling over from his quarter of the court.

  She bounced the ball again, mildly annoyed that he’d broken her concentration. “Serving. What does it look like?”

  “Like you’re trying to screw up this deal, that’s what.” His eyes wheeled, his usually tidy hair standing up in unlikely tufts from where he’d been yanking on it in between plays. “Whatever this is going on between you and Monroe, stop it now. We’re supposed to be playing doubles, not settling some old personal vendetta of yours.”

  “I’m just playing the game,” she defended.

  “No, you’re not. You’re out for blood. If that racket was a gun, the court would be a crime scene by now. As for ‘just playing,’ you’d think you and Monroe were in a singles match for all the time you let Lila and me have a go. I don’t like being made to look a fool and from the look on her face, she doesn’t either.”

  Brie glanced across at Monroe’s date and the woman’s sour, thundercloud expression, pout included.

  If looks could kill . . .

  Still, what was she supposed to do? Just play nice with that arrogant bastard?

  From the opening serve, she and Monroe had gone at each other with a vengeance. He was a good player, but so was she—collegiate women’s singles champion in her division three years running. The pair of them had left their partners in the dust while they concentrated on beating each other. She’d known Barrett was going nuts as the game progressed, but she hadn’t cared. All she wanted was to beat Monroe and wipe the superior smile off his face.

  “Whatever he did,” Barrett continued in a low hiss, “it’s ancient history. You were kids last time you met, so be an adult and let it go. Or do you want revenge so much you’re willing to toss away his millions and all the business that comes with them?”

  “Chances are practically nil he’ll come over to the firm, whatever I do,” she hissed back.

  “Well, he one hundred percent sure as hell won’t if you keep this up. So back off and start losing. Pronto.”

  Brie ground her teeth and bounced the ball again. Irritating though it might be, she supposed Barrett had a point. Whatever her opinion of Monroe, it had no place interfering with business. They’d come here to sign Monroe and it was her job to help, not hinder, that objective.

  Besides, even if Barrett did manage to convince Monroe to come on board, it wasn’t as if she would have any face-to-face contact with him. One of the partners would want to handle his account. The most she might see of Monroe would be his name on legal briefs and documents that got dropped on her desk.

  And seventh grade had been a long time ago.

  So why did it still feel like yesterday?

  Shake it off, she told herself. He wasn’t worth it then. He’s not worth it now.

  “Hey, Grayson, you ever gonna serve?” Monroe called. “Or do you need a little breeze under your skirt to get you moving?”

  Breeze under my skirt . . .

  Fury flashed wildfire hot in her veins, her fingers clutched around the ball and the racket handle so hard it was a wonder they didn’t explode and splinter. She’d had good intentions, but suddenly they disappeared.

  “You want a serve?” she yelled back. “Here’s your serve.”

  Tossing the ball high in the air, she brought the racket up and through, aiming straight at Monroe.

  * * *

  “Hey, Brie, I saw the commotion. What’s going on?”

  With her arms crossed over her chest, Brie turned to look at her future brother-in-law, James Jordan, as he came to a halt beside her. She stood on the side of the tennis court closest to the gate, wishing she could bolt. But she supposed that would make her look a bit too much like a fleeing fugitive.

  “There was an . . . incident,” she said.

  James arched one blond eyebrow. “What sort of incident? Is someone hurt?”

  A physician, who had happened to be playing one court over, and a pair of security guards were huddled around a figure on the ground. A small crowd of curious onlookers was gathered as well.

  Right after the “incident,” Brie had sidelined herself from the action. Barrett and Lila had remained part of the fray and were even now watching over the doctor’s shoulder as he tended to Monroe.

  As for Monroe . . .

  She cleared her throat. “I was serving and—”

  “And?”

  She still remembered the odd, almost wet thwap the ball had made when it found its target, along with the harsh grunt of pain from Monroe. His racket had clattered onto the court seconds before he’d reached a hand up to cover his injured cheek.

  Just the memory made her cringe.

  “Well, the ball hit kind of high,” she continued, “and walloped Maddox Monroe in the face.”

  James gave a soft whistle. “Ouch. People don’t think of tennis as a dangerous game, but put somebody in the way of a whizzing ball and smack. Looks like he’s getting medical attention, though, so chances are good everything will be okay.” Reaching out, he patted her shoulder consolingly. “Don’t be too hard on yourself. It was an accident. Accidents happen.”

  Accidents did happen, only she wasn’t sure this one qualified. The ball had hit where she’d aimed; she just hadn’t expected it to be quite so dead-on accurate. She’d wanted to shut him up, not maim him.

  She cringed again, guilt snapping at her like a sharp-toothed little terrier.

  “See, he’s fine,” James said a moment later. “He’s on his feet and ready to walk off the court under his own steam.”

  On a trajectory that would take him right past her.

  She nearly bolted again. Instead, she stepped back and waited while Monroe and his small entourage made their way forward. Chin up, she held her ground despite wishing it would open up and swallow her first.

  “. . . you are not to worry in any way, Mr. Monroe,” Barrett was saying in a rush, his words dripping with whining apology. “My firm will absorb the cost. It will be our pleasure—nay, our duty—to take care of everything, down to the smallest detail. If there is anything we can do, anything at all, you have only to mention it and it will be taken care of immediately.”

  “Come along, pookie,” Lila said, one slim, tanned arm wound around Monroe’s waist.

  Pookie?

  There was blood on his once clean white shirt and he was holding an ice pack up to his face.

  “We’ll drive straight to the hospital,” Lila continued. “The doctor says you need X-rays to check for a fractured cheekbone. I still wish you’d let me call 911. What if you have a brain bleed?”

  “I don’t have a brain bleed, so stop worrying,” Monroe said. “I’m fin
e.”

  “You are not fine. Your eye—”

  “Is also fine. I’m just going to have one hell of a shiner, that’s all.”

  “But—”

  “But nothing. If I had my way, I’d go home. But we’ll stop at the hospital first so you can quit being concerned.”

  Suddenly they drew abreast of Brie, pausing when they stood only an arm’s length away.

  Lila’s eyes met hers and she bristled, practically hissing.

  Brie paid her little attention, though, her own gaze fixed squarely on Maddox Monroe. Even with the ice pack in the way, she could tell that his face was swollen and discolored. As for his eye, the area around it was turning a shocking purple-black. His pupils were equal and his irises the same rich brown as before—and the expression in them as sharp and lucid as the man himself.

  He stared back. “Nice shot, Grayson. Rain check on a rematch.”

  Then he continued past, Lila tossing her another furious glare before they exited the court. Barrett hurried after, wringing his hands in silent supplication.

  Brie was about to leave as well, James with her, when Barrett suddenly stopped and spun around.

  He jabbed a finger in her direction. “I have no doubt the partners will convene to discuss this disaster on Monday. Until then, you are not to come anywhere near Monroe. Is that understood?”

  “Completely.” It wouldn’t be a hard promise to keep, since she wanted to see Maddox Monroe again about as much as she wanted to meet up with an angry skunk ready to lift tail and spray.

  “You really shit the bed on this one,” Barrett said. “I don’t see how the firm is going to smooth things over—we’ll be lucky if he doesn’t sue—but I guess I have to try salvaging what I can. Pack your bags and go home, Grayson. You’ve done enough damage for one weekend.”

  If he’d been a dragon, little puffs of smoke would have been coming out of Barrett’s ears. Instead, he glared at her one last time, then moved away at a near run, presumably hoping there was still time to catch up to Monroe and his lady friend before they drove away from the country club.

  For a long moment, she and James stood motionless, play from the nearby courts the only sound.

  Then he slung a brotherly arm over her shoulders. “Let’s go find Ivy and get a drink. You look like you could use one.”

  “Or five,” she said, trying to keep the sharp edges of panic from taking hold.

  James laughed. “Five, it is. You can tell us all about it. Or if you’d rather not, you and Ivy can talk wedding details.”

  She shot him a look. “That is not cheering me up.”

  He laughed again and tugged her after him.

  * * *

  An hour later, Brie sipped a glass of dry Riesling and leaned deeper into the comfortable cushions on James’s sofa. She gazed around, marveling as she always did at the restrained sophistication of what James euphemistically referred to as the Cottage.

  It was actually a spacious five-bedroom, three-bath house set on the beach in one of the nicest neighborhoods in the Hamptons. But considering the size of some of the multimillion-dollar mansions nearby, she supposed “cottage” was as good a description as anything.

  The colors were a soothing mix of ocean hues—blues, greens, and grays—the atmosphere relaxed and comfortable, thanks in large part to Ivy, who had been steadily adding new pieces of furniture to the house as well as interesting works of art created by her own hand and by other artists.

  Ivy loved to come here to paint and relax. In fact, since her engagement to James, she had been on a campaign to get him to spend his weekends unwinding rather than working. She’d even talked him into doing a digital detox routine on Saturdays and Sundays. He grumbled on occasion about being “cut off from humanity,” but anyone who’d known James as long as Brie had could see how incredibly happy he was.

  Her youngest sister snuggled against James on the sofa opposite, feet bare, her legs tucked up under her while she sipped on her own glass of wine.

  Ivy was legal now, having turned twenty-two this past March. Some might say she was too young to get married and that James, at thirty-seven, was too old for her, but anyone who knew Ivy realized what an old soul she was and that she and James were a perfect match. Ivy was twenty-two going on forty, so for all intents and purposes she out-aged him by a couple of years.

  “I’m so glad you decided to check out of your hotel and stay with us instead,” Ivy said. “You should have planned on that from the start.”

  Brie swirled the wine in her glass and took another drink. “Yeah, well, I would have if I’d known what a clusterfuck this trip was going to turn into. I’ll be lucky if I still have a job come Monday. Maybe I should spend the weekend polishing my résumé.”

  “Come on, you’re blowing this way out of proportion,” Ivy pointed out. “So you had an accident while you were playing tennis. Accidents happen. They’re not going to fire you for that.”

  True, except for the fact that she’d let her temper get out of control and aimed a tennis ball directly at Maddox Monroe’s annoying, overstuffed head. Second-degree premeditation at the very least.

  “No, they’re going to fire me for single-handedly making sure that Monroe takes his business anywhere other than Marshall McNeal Prescott.” She gave herself a swift mental kick, scolding herself again for letting him get under her skin. Then again, that had always been his one special talent—doing things that made her want to strangle him.

  “Barrett’s probably drained his cell battery twice calling everyone to tell them what happened, especially his uncle.” Brie emptied her glass and held it out for more.

  Silently, James poured.

  “I’ll be shocked if security doesn’t meet me in the lobby Monday morning and hand my personal items to me in a box.” Brie sighed.

  “So explain what happened,” James said in an encouraging tone. “You’re an excellent litigator. Make your case.”

  Make my case. Yeah, right.

  If this were only a court case, it might be easy. After all, the law didn’t rely on guilt or innocence but on presenting the facts and making them work to one’s own legal advantage.

  What facts did she have?

  Junior high bully reappears like some demon from a bad horror movie—or maybe like one of those sexy vampires, since even she had to admit he was damned fine-looking. Good outside. Bad inside.

  Bully does what bully always does and is mean to her.

  Courageous woman takes offense.

  Courageous woman clocks bully with a hard serve to the face.

  Game. Set. Match.

  Sighing again, she sipped her wine.

  If only he hadn’t made that crack about needing a little breeze up her skirt, she might have withstood his baiting. But of all the things he could have said, that was the one guaranteed to light a fire, the one for which there was no forgiving.

  Even now, twenty-one years later, she could still remember how it had felt. . . .

  The school bell rang, signaling the end of first-period lunch and the beginning of second. Books were slapped shut, papers rustled, backpacks were zipped, and the metallic chime of lockers being opened, then slammed closed again, echoed through the corridors. A cacophony of teenage voices ebbed and flowed, punctuated by shouts, squeaking sneakers, and Doc Martens, while somewhere within earshot, the algebra teacher, Mr. Heneke, scolded a trio of boys for roughhousing in the hall.

  Brie did her best to ignore the mayhem, quietly hugging the neat stack of books inside her arms as she made her way out of her favorite class—English—and down the hall to her locker. Her two best friends were absent today; Becca had stayed home with a cold and Jo—who despised her real name, Josephine—had left early for an orthodontist’s appointment. Rather than eat by herself in the cafeteria, she’d decided to go outside and enjoy the clear fall day and
a few minutes of quiet.

  She slid her books into her backpack in the bottom of her locker, then grabbed her lunch and a dog-eared copy of Jane Austen’s Persuasion, which she had neatly camouflaged inside a cover made from a brown paper grocery bag. She’d decorated it with flower and rainbow stickers and written her name inside a rectangle at the top that she’d outlined in bold red marker.

  After snapping closed her combination lock and giving the dial a good spin, she tightened her plaid hair scrunchie around her long ponytail—the accessory carefully chosen that morning to go with her blue plaid skirt and tan cardigan—and headed for the rear doors that led to a small area with trees and grass where students were permitted to sit during the lunch period. She pushed the metal hand bar. It gave a springy thunk as she let go and walked out the door.

  Seventh and eighth graders were grouped in loose clusters, mostly self-segregated by age and gender except for a few couples who walked or sat, hip to hip, hand in hand, while they talked and laughed. One couple was coiled around each other like eels, exchanging long, slow kisses that looked like a warm-up for a porno.

  Brie stared for a moment, then walked past. She didn’t have a boyfriend. Not that she wouldn’t like one, but all the boys in her classes were such immature idiots, too busy playing Tetris on their Game Boys, tossing Koosh Balls, and cracking stupid jokes to interest her.

  The worst of the bunch was Maddox Monroe, who was in her homeroom and third-period science class. Long and lanky, with thick dark hair that he always wore too long, he spent his time doodling, passing notes to his friends, and making faces at her when the teacher wasn’t looking. He stared at her too sometimes and seemed to take the most hateful pleasure in tormenting her, such as the time they’d been segmenting earthworms and he’d slipped up behind her and silently draped one over her shoulder. She could still remember her ear-piercing screams and the way the other kids had laughed as she’d frantically batted the formaldehyde-soaked annelid off her sweater. Maddox had been reprimanded by the teacher for the stunt and made to apologize, which he’d done with a smirk on his face.