Logan Dupree didn't need more than one eye to tell him
that the woman in the navy blue suit was a problem looking
for a place to happen. He took a sip of his scotch and
racked his brain, trying to put her into a place, into a
group of people. And couldn't. Which didn't necessarily
mean much. Long stretches of his memory were nothing more
than a chemicalinduced blur.
The boat beneath him rocked on the wake of a vessel slowly
leaving the yacht club marina. The motion brought him back
to the moment and the curly-haired blonde standing on the
floating dock. She was shading her eyes from the Florida
sun with one hand and studying the stern of his ship. In
her other hand she clutched a battered leather bag.
He skimmed her from head to toes. Navy skirt, navy blazer,
navy pumps with barely a heel. Run-of-the-mill stockings.
A simple white blouse with the first two buttons left
open. On a woman who had decent cleavage it would have
been sexy. On her… She wasn't a supermodel; that was for
sure. Or a model, period. She was too short, too plain.
Not his type at all. She looked more like a —
He dragged a slow, deep breath into his lungs and
considered her again with narrowed eyes. A reporter? No,
reporters almost always had a photographer in tow. A
lawyer? Yeah, that was the more likely possibility. She
was wearing the uniform. Logan thought back, ticking
through the calendar and the parade of women who'd knotted
his sheets over the last year. There weren't that many of
them; his stock had plummeted the day they'd announced
that he'd never again meet the NHL's vision requirements.
But in the years before that there had been a hell of a
lot of women. Most of them without names that he could
recall on the spur of the moment. Which was about as
clearly as he could recall the particulars of their
encounters. Safe sex was automatic, though. Even when
three sheets to the wind. If this woman was here to
threaten him with a paternity suit…
Good luck, lady, he silently challenged as he watched her
move farther out on the floating dock. She was halfway
between the stern and the gangplank when she managed to
get her heel caught in the space between the dock boards.
He winced as it brought her up short, smiled as she
frowned down at it and then wrenched it free with a little
growl. She shoved her foot back into her shoe and
immediately started forward again. And without looking
around to see if anyone had seen the graceless moment. He
took another sip of his drink and decided that he had to
give her points for that.
"Good morning," she said brightly as she came to a halt at
the base of the gangplank. "I'm looking for a Mr. Logan
Dupree. Would that happen to be you?"
She had to know damn good and well who he was. She
wouldn't have found him if someone in corporate hadn't
pointed her this way. But that realization paled beside
another that swept over him in the next second. She had
the bluest eyes. Bright blue. With the hair and the "kiss
me" mouth… God, put her in a frilly little costume and
she'd look like one of those dolls off the Home Shopping
Network. "Maybe," he answered. "It depends on who you are
and what you want."
She smiled. "May I come aboard?"
He wanted to say no. He really did. Instead, he shrugged,
dredged up a smile he hoped passed for polite, set his
drink on the table beside him, and levered himself up out
of the deck chair. She didn't wait for him to step over to
the railing and offer her a hand up the ramp, though. No,
she vaulted up the narrow walkway all on her own and
without catching her heel and toppling over into the water.
Logan released the breath he'd been holding as she
gestured to the other chair on the deck and asked
brightly, "May I have a seat?"
He nodded and watched as she lowered herself into it with
an easy, confident smile, smoothing the skirt over the
curves of her hip and backside as she did. They were
really nice curves, he had to admit as she put the bag
down between them.
She waited until he'd taken his own seat again before
sticking out her hand and saying, "Allow me to introduce
myself. My name is Catherine Talbott."
The name meant absolutely nothing to him, but he politely
shook her hand and replied, "Ma'am," while bracing himself
to remember a string of names followed by Attorneys at Law.
"Tom Wolford was my brother."
The fact that he'd guessed her wrong was hammered into
oblivion as the past slammed forward, crisp and clear. Tom
Wolford, standing in the shadows and exhaust clouds of the
Wichita bus station, a vending machine ham sandwich in one
hand, a can of pop in the other. The big man lumbering
forward to throw a welcoming arm around the shoulders of
an already homesick kid and lead him off into the world of
minor league hockey. The pair of plaid polyester pants,
white belt, white shoes, the hat with the crimped crown
and the narrow brim… The half cigar that was never lit but
always clamped in the corner of his mouth….
Tom Wolford. Daddy Warbucks. The old days and the first
foot in the door. It had been a long time since Logan had
looked that far back. Now that looking forward wasn't an
option, maybe he could afford the luxury of reminiscing
every now and then. It had been, what — almost five years
since they'd last spoken? He should call Tom and — Logan
blinked and frowned. "Did you say was?"
She nodded ever so slightly and her smile looked
tired. "He passed away a little over a month ago. A heart
attack."
"Unless he'd changed a lot in the last fourteen years,"
Logan said as his throat tickled, "it couldn't have been
an unexpected one."
Catherine Talbott's smile faded on a sigh and shrug of her
slim shoulders. "No, it really wasn't. Still…"
Logan silently swore and kicked himself. "I'm sorry," he
offered sincerely. "I can be a real clod sometimes. Tom
was a decent man. I owe him a lot and I'm sorry he's gone."
Tucking her hair behind her ears, Catherine Talbott
managed a slightly brighter smile. "I was hoping you'd
feel that way."
Duh! his brain groaned. The memorial plaque. The endowment
of some fund for underprivileged kids'sports. He'd been
tapped for such things before. It came with making the pro
ranks. He knew the drill from beginning to end. "Oh,
yeah?" he drawled, wondering how much she had in
mind. "Why?"
"Tom left me the team."
As responses went, it didn't even come close to his
expectations. "You own the Wichita Warriors?" he asked,
having a hard time getting his brain wrapped around the
image of Shirley Temple sitting behind Tom's huge metal
desk. "Yes, I do."
The assurance didn't help one bit. "What does Millie think
of that?"
"Well… She's…"
The obvious hesitation sent a cold jolt through his veins.
"Millie's not dead, too, is she?"
"No, no," she hurriedly answered. "My sister-in-law is
very much alive." She hesitated and took a noticeably deep
breath before she added, "But she has dementia. There are
good days and there are not so good days."
"I'm sorry to hear that," he offered again, thinking that
he was beginning to sound a little too much like a parrot.
A socially retarded parrot. He used to be a lot better at
this sort of thing.