The Man With The Money

He caught her arms and pushed them down. “But I don’t want you, Tawny,” he said softly but firmly. “I can’t be any more blunt than that.”

“But why?” she demanded, stomping a foot like an overtired child. “I know I turn you on.”

Oddly enough, she didn’t, not anymore. The awful truth was, in fact, that no one and nothing seemed to anymore, except…He pushed sudden thoughts of Charly Bellamy from his mind and took a good, hard look at Tawny Beekman. She was every man’s fantasy, so beautiful that she was almost unreal. Actually, she was a lot unreal, from her phony nails to those surgically enhanced breasts. In that respect she was not much different from most of the women with whom he’d been involved. For some reason he found all the artifice unpalatable at the moment.

“Tawny,” he said patiently, “it is so over. It has been for a long time, and it’s going to stay that way. So get it out of your head that you can get me back into bed. It’s not going to happen.”

“Then why can’t I stay?” she pleaded.

He almost laughed. Didn’t she realize how transparent she was? Her great passion for him obviously had more to do with free rent than anything else. Once again, it was his money.

“You can’t stay,” he said bluntly, “because I’m tired of you taking advantage of me. You’ve had a good, long, free ride at my expense. Now it’s over. Get used to it.”

She didn’t even try the tears this time, going straight to outrage instead. “You selfish son of a—”

“Oh, that’s rich, when you’re the one mooching free rent.”

“You can afford it, damn you!”

“That doesn’t mean you’re entitled to it,” Darren retorted dismissively, turning away. “Just vacate the apartment by the end of the month.” He began walking toward the exit.

“You’re going to pay for this, Rudell! You can’t just toss me out with the trash! I’m going to get you! If it’s the last thing I ever do, I’m going to get you, D.K.!”

He pulled open the heavy metal door that led to the elevator bank, walked through it and let it close solidly behind him, closing out the sound of her voice as she continued to shriek at him. Crazy woman. What did she think she could do? He was D. K. Rudell, after all, and she was a drama queen who’d hitched a free ride. Well, the ride was over. End of the line. And the instant she was off the gravy train, he meant to tear up the track behind it. From now on, his generous impulses were strictly little league, Little League soccer to be exact, if such a term applied.

As he fitted his key into the slot of his private elevator and punched in the code on the keypad below, he smiled, thinking of all those little kids running around with RuCom Electronics emblazoned on their chests—and a grateful Charlene Bellamy beaming up at him. He felt a fresh spurt of excitement as the elevator door slid open, followed swiftly by sheer relief. How long had it been, really, since he’d felt such eagerness? Pocketing his keys, he stepped into the elevator, turned and pushed the button, then leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes, imagining Charly Bellamy in his arms. His heart thumped in an unexpected fashion. Oddly poignant, it almost hurt. A strange warmth spread through him.

Slightly embarrassed, he cleared his throat and glanced up at the tiny security camera mounted in the corner of the elevator car. Every elevator, every entrance, every corridor in the building was outfitted with them. He often wondered what his security officers saw on those constantly lit monitors. Not much of a criminal nature had happened in this building, despite its proximity to the downtown area. They’d nailed a purse snatcher hanging around the front elevator bank when he’d tried to grab a tenant’s handbag as the elevator door slid closed, and they’d flushed out a couple of prostitutes looking for a clean, out-of-the-way place to take their business. A pizza delivery guy had tried to walk off with a package left outside the door of one apartment on his way out of the building. Other than that, the residents themselves and their guests had to provide any entertainment for the security guys.

Darren had never asked, but he suspected that the silent, blue-jacketed guards had gotten an eyeful more than once, but never at his expense. He was too aware of being watched to misbehave in public or even in the seeming privacy of a closed elevator. It was an unpleasant fact of his life that people were always watching, and not just security guards. Even his most private moments often found their way into the press, however, so he made it a personal policy to break it off with any woman who spoke to reporters about their relationship. It didn’t keep him from being duped by the occasional publicity hound, but it kept him from investing more in them than he could afford to lose.

He was a little surprised that Charly hadn’t recognized him, frankly, but he was also glad. If he was very careful, she might never know who he really was. Perhaps that possibility explained his intense interest in her. Yes, that must be it. It wasn’t her so much as it was the opportunity to step out of his public persona and into a normal life for a time. Normal was something that he vaguely remembered, but he was pretty sure he could pull it off. It must be like riding a bicycle; it came back to you once you climbed aboard and pushed off.

Feeling confident, he whistled as he stepped out of the elevator and into the penthouse foyer. He locked the elevator in place with a holding code, then opened the apartment, inserting the key into the slot in the wall that left his one-of-a-kind door unmarred by the obscenity of a keyhole. The massive twin slabs of polished and elaborately etched steel swung open with a satisfying hydraulic whoosh. Leaving them standing wide, Darren walked into the peaceful silence of his clean, spacious apartment, certain that he was utterly safe, completely untouchable. And alone.

The luxury sedan rocked over the rough ground and came to rest between a fifteen-year-old pickup with flaking paint and Charly’s own sensible, fuel-efficient import. Watching from the sidelines, she knew who it was even before Darren Rudd squeezed out of the car in the limited space. She felt a jolt of anticipation mingled with wariness the instant before an exuberant, near-sighted munchkin in baggy jeans and T-shirt bowled her over. At the impact, she stumbled backward and sat down hard. The child landed on top of her. The next thing Charly knew, she was staring up at blue sky, wondering how it was possible to drown on dry land, for, try as she might, she could not pull oxygen into her lungs.

Suddenly the weight on her chest lifted away, and fresh, fortifying air rushed in. Then a number of faces came into view, most of them small and worried, one of them handsome and rather amused. Small, grubby hands patted her shoulders and head.

“Miss Charly! Miss Charly!”

Ponce shoved his way through the mob of children and fell on his knees at her side, his big black eyes revealing his fear. Curls bobbing, he leaned over her, the angelic features of his face striking her anew with sheer awe. He was a Michelangelo sculpture with café au lait skin and a froth of light, reddish brown curls that must surely hide a halo.

“Mommy!”

Charly fought up onto both elbows and found a smile for him, her heart swelling with love. “I’m okay, sweetie.”

“Just had the wind knocked out of her, I think,” Darren Rudd said. Charly switched her gaze to him just as he let go of the child he’d scooped off her.

The boy pushed his thick, too-wide glasses farther up the bridge of his nose. They slid right down again, and Charly made a mental note to buy the kid an elastic sport band to hold them in place. “I’m sorry, Ms. Charly.”

“That’s okay, Calvin. No harm done. I was just about to call a break, anyway.” She sat up, and Darren Rudd offered her a hand, which she clasped without actually looking at him. He hauled her to her feet with athletic ease. Keeping her face averted so he couldn’t see her blush, she swiped at the surely grass-stained seat of her gray shorts, pushed up the sleeves of her white sweatshirt and addressed her team. “Guys, this is Mr. Rudd. He represents our sponsor, RuCom Electronics.”

“Do you have one a’ them remote cars?” asked the tallest player, Kental, his black face shining.

“Uh, I have one in my office,” Darren answered after a moment.

“Man, them remote cars is cool,” Kental said to the dark-haired little girl next to him.

“Juan gots one,” she crowed, referring to her older brother.

“Uh-uh. The kind I mean costs a whole bunch.”

“Mama bought it at the RuCom store!” Maria insisted.

“Did not!”

“Did, too!”

“Kental, Maria,” Charly interrupted firmly, one hand idly massaging her sore abdomen, “we’re not here to discuss our toys. We have important matters to decide. We have to have a name for our team, and Mr. Rudd has come to help us decide on one. Now I’m open to suggestions. Anyone have any ideas?”

The kids all looked at one another. Some shrugged. Others shook their heads. Then someone suggested, “Electrics! How ’bout the Electrics?”

“It’s electronics, goofy,” Ponce explained. “RuCom Electronics, like computers and stuff.”

“The Co’puters!” someone else cried.

“How about the Comets?” Darren suggested mildly. “The RuCom Comets.”

The kids looked at one another in question and confusion. “What’s a comet?” asked Sarah, pushing stringy blond hair from her eyes. Sarah was missing a tooth, and Charly was convinced that no four-year-old lost a tooth to natural causes, but Sarah clammed up whenever Charly asked what had happened.

Charly bent down to bring her face closer to Sarah’s, smoothed a hand over her none-too-clean hair and explained, “It’s like a shooting star, honey, a big fireball that streaks across the sky. It’s real fast and real hot.”

Kental nodded approval at Ponce, who nodded back. Calvin swaggered, thumped his chest and said, “Shootin’ star.” Maria giggled, and Sarah smiled her gap-toothed smile. Murmurs of “cool” and “sweet” went from one little mouth to another.

“So what do you think?” Darren asked. “Is it the Comets, or does someone have another suggestion?”

“Show of hands,” Charly directed. “Everyone gets to vote. In favor of calling our team the Comets, raise your hand. Against it, keep your hands down.” About twenty little hands went up, some voting twice. “The Comets it is,” Charly announced with a clap of her hands. The kids cheered as she turned to Darren Rudd. He was even more handsome than she remembered. The dark hair waving back from his forehead and temples called attention to those deeply set brown eyes. His angular jaw and chin bore the shadow of a beard that glinted rusty brown in the waning sunlight.

“I’ll let the commissioner know tonight,” she told him. “Thanks for coming by, but you don’t have to hang around. I’m sure you have better things to do.”

He shrugged. “Nope, not really.” He smiled, and his gaze scanned speculatively down her body. Heat blossomed instantly in embarrassing places.

Quickly turning away, she clapped her hands at the children. “Okay, back on the field! Back on the field!” The kids ran to obey, bouncing off one another in the process. “Ponce, will you get the ball, please?”

Ponce ran down the field and gathered up the single soccer ball while Charly attempted to set up a shooting drill. She wasn’t entirely sure what the objective was beyond connecting foot with ball, but she figured if they could accomplish that much, it would be an improvement. They seemed to have better luck kicking one another than the ball. She tried not to think of Darren Rudd watching with folded arms from the sideline as she placed the ball and directed Maria, who always seemed to manage to be first in line, to take a short run and boot the ball. She spent several minutes after that comforting the child, who had managed only to kick herself off her feet and land flat on her back, bouncing her little skull off the hard ground.

When the first parents began to show up to retrieve their children, some walking from a nearby public housing sector and past several other soccer fields, Charly had accomplished little with the team and was somehow exhausted in the bargain. It was like herding geese. Their attention spans were shorter than she had realized, Ponce being the obvious exception, and while she worked with one, the others naturally scattered in pairs and trios to chase and tussle, draw in the dirt and even throw it. Charly was too busy to even think about Darren Rudd—until she turned, an arm draped about Ponce’s small, narrow shoulders, and headed toward the sideline.