He latched on to the last question. “I’m retiring from the NBA.”
DeMarcus stood and left the room.
1
Two years later
“Cut the crap, Guinn.”
DeMarcus Guinn felt the sting of the honey-and-whiskey voice. It slapped him from the doorway of his newly acquired office in the Empire Arena. He looked up from his National Basketball Association paperwork and across the room’s silver-carpeted expanse.
Standing in the polished oak threshold, Jaclyn Jones radiated anger. It vibrated along every curve of her well-toned figure. Contempt hardened her long cinnamon eyes. The media had nicknamed the former Women’s National Basketball Association shooting guard the Lady Assassin. Her moniker was a tribute to her holding the fewest number of fouls yet one of the highest scoring records in the league.
As of today, DeMarcus called her boss.
DeMarcus pushed his heavy, black executive chair back from his massive oak desk and stood. He didn’t understand Jaclyn’s accusatory tone or her hostility, but confusion didn’t justify poor manners. “Excuse me?”
“You took the Monarchs’ head coach position.” She threw the words at him.
DeMarcus’s confusion multiplied. “Why wouldn’t I? You offered it.”
Jaclyn strode into his office. Her blood red skirt suit cut a wave of heat across the silver carpet, white walls and black furniture. Her fitted jacket highlighted the rose undertone of her golden brown skin. Slender hips swayed under the narrow, mid-calf skirt. Three-inch red stilettos boosted her six-foot-plus height.
She stopped behind one of the three black-cushioned guest chairs facing his desk and dropped her large gray purse onto its seat. Her red-tipped nails dug into the fat chair cushion. “That was my partners’ decision. Gerry and Bert extended the offer. I was against it.”
Her admission surprised him. DeMarcus shoved his hands into the soft pockets of his brown khaki pants. Why was she telling him this? Whatever the reason, it couldn’t be good. “I didn’t ask to interview for the Brooklyn Monarchs’ head coach job. You came to me.”
Jaclyn shook her head. Her curly, dark brown hair swung around her shoulders. It drew his attention to the silver and black Brooklyn Monarchs lapel pin fastened to her collar. “Not me. Gerry and Bert.” Her enunciation was crisp and clear.
So was her meaning. You don’t have what it takes. Stop wasting our time.
Confusion made a blind pass to bitterness. DeMarcus swallowed it back. “Why don’t you want me as your coach?”
“The Monarchs need a winning season. We need this season. You don’t have the experience to make that happen.”
“I don’t have coaching experience, but I’ve been in the league for fifteen years—”
Jaclyn raised her right hand, palm out, cutting him off. “And in that time, you won two NBA championship rings, three MVP titles and an Olympic gold medal. I saw the games and read the sports reports.”
“Then you know I know how to win.”
She quirked a sleek, arched brow. “You can play to win, but can you coach?”
“Winning is important to me.”
“It’s important to me, too. That’s why I want an experienced head coach.”
DeMarcus clenched his teeth. Jaclyn Jones was a pleasure to look at and her voice turned him on. But it had been a long, draining day, and he didn’t have time for this shit.
He circled his desk and took a position an arm’s length from her. “If you didn’t want to hire me, why am I here?”
She moved in closer to him. “Majority rule. Gerry and Bert wanted you. I’d hoped, after the interview, you’d realize you were out of your element.”
DeMarcus’s right temple throbbed each time he remembered the way she’d interrogated him a month ago. He should have realized she’d been driven by more than thoroughness. Gerald Bimm and Albert Tipton had tried to run interference, but the Lady Assassin had blocked their efforts.
DeMarcus shook his head. “I’m not out of my element. I know the game. I know the league, and I know what it takes to win.”
Jaclyn scowled up at him. A soft floral fragrance—lilac?—floated toward him. He could see the darker flecks in her cinnamon eyes. His gaze dipped to her full red lips