Keeping Score (Brooklyn Monarchs 3)

He drew his hands back down her body, inching closer to her thighs. Marilyn spread her legs wider. Warrick strained upward, lifting her. Her body grew hotter, damper. Her abdomen shivered as his fingers trailed over her. He slipped his hand between them and touched her. Stroked her. Explored her. Marilyn’s inner muscles pulled tighter

and tighter until her body shattered. She screamed. Her muscles trembled on the waves of release.

Warrick’s back arched, filling Marilyn deeper, lifting her higher. His body exploded, shaking Marilyn again. Spent, she collapsed onto him, breathing in his scent, soap and sandalwood; listening to his heart echo the wishes in her own.

Warrick pulled his black BMW into the front row of the Empire Arena’s parking lot Friday morning. He collected his sports bottle and unfolded from his car. He inhaled the tangy breeze carried from the marina. A gentle wind swept over him and rustled the trees that lined the sidewalk in front of the arena’s rear entrance.

After activating his car alarm, he stepped onto the sidewalk for some easy stretches before his jog. He scanned the lot. Jaclyn’s car stood a couple of spaces from his, but she wasn’t anywhere in sight. He was doing this morning’s run solo. That was a little disappointing.

A movement in Warrick’s peripheral vision drew his attention to the building. Troy appeared from the rear entrance and crossed to him. His suit coat was missing. The sleeves of his pale yellow shirt were rolled to his elbows. He’d loosened the brown and yellow tie he wore to coordinate with his shirt and brown pants. But it was the tightness of the media executive’s features that set off an alert system in Warrick’s mind.

“What’s going on?” Warrick drained the water from his sports bottle as he tried to read the other man’s body language.

Troy stopped an arm’s length from Warrick. “The Horn wrote an article on your possible reconciliation with Mary. It’s in today’s paper.”

Troy’s words were wonderful news. But his stance—wary and stiff—warned Warrick that another shoe was ready to drop.

Warrick’s attention dipped to the newspaper in Troy’s hand before returning to the executive’s face. “The morning after game four, they’re more interested in my marriage than our loss?”

“This story ran on the front page of the gossip section.”

Warrick’s neck muscles tightened. “How bad is it?”

Troy sighed and offered him the paper. “The article comes with pictures.”

Warrick tucked his water bottle under his arm and accepted the newspaper. His mind was clouded with confusion. What did Troy find so objectionable about the Horn running an article about Warrick and Marilyn’s reconciliation? Although, he and Marilyn had never actually separated.

He flipped the paper to the page Troy had folded open. Warrick’s attention was drawn to the photo that overshadowed the story.

His sports bottle fell to the sidewalk. His eyes stretched wide. “Son of a—”

10

Marilyn’s nude back was framed in the color photo dominating the front page of the New York Horn’s gossip section. Her arms were raised toward his shoulders, baring the curve of her left breast. His hands were spread on her hips.

Warrick saw red. He was angrier than he’d ever been in his entire life. His fists crushed the page. “How in the hell did they get this photo?”

A shadowy memory taunted the edge of his mind. A movement outside his window. Jesus! He’d been right.

“It’s obvious they took the photo around venetian blinds.” Troy bent to rescue the sports bottle that had fallen from Warrick’s numbed grip.

The media executive’s words were muffled beneath the blood roaring in Warrick’s ears. Warrick spun on his heel and started toward his car.

Troy’s hand caught his arm, pulling him to a stop. “Where are you going?”

Warrick turned to glare at the other man. “I’m going to find that photographer and bury his camera so far up his—”

“Jackie’s already spoken to the newspaper’s publisher.” Troy’s grip tightened on Warrick’s forearm. “She’s threatened him with legal action if he doesn’t immediately give us all of the camera discs and take down the photos posted to their site—”

“There are photos of us on the Internet?” Warrick’s question was just short of a roar.

“She got them to agree not to print or post any of the photos ever again.”

Warrick shook off Troy’s hold and continued toward his car. “I’m going to sue that rag into bankruptcy.” His voice was as rough as tree bark and colder than ice.

“Rick, I know you’re angry. I would be, too. But you’ve got to calm down.” Troy’s voice came from behind him.

Warrick deactivated his car alarm and opened his trunk. “I have to call Mary.”