Keeping Score (Brooklyn Monarchs 3)

But Celeste was right. Warrick’s celebrity had placed her in an untenable position. It had embarrassed her family. It had cost her her job and had hurt her chances of joining the clinic.

The serpent whispered in her ear again, “How do you know when love just isn’t enough?”

A reporter stood in Warrick’s driveway. For Warrick, it didn’t matter whether the other man worked for the Horn, some other print rag, a television station, or the devil. Warrick’s foot itched to floor the accelerator and drive over the little anchor and his camera crew. Instead, he maintained his speed as he directed his black BMW into his driveway, forcing the television crew to leap from his path. It was small satisfaction.

Warrick stopped his car before continuing past his remote control private gate and into his garage. He unfolded himself from his sedan. “You’re on private property. Leave.”

As though he hadn’t made himself clear, the pudgy reporter ignored Warrick’s warning and stuck a microphone in his face. “Rick, what went through your mind when you saw the Horn’s photos of you and Mary?”

Warrick glared at the squat broadcaster. He’d never even seen the man before. What gave the stranger the right to invade Warrick’s privacy? Why did he think he could refer to Marilyn so casually, as though she were a one-night stand and not his wife?

With Herculean effort, Warrick kept his hands at his sides. “No comment.”

The worst thing Warrick could do was get i

nto an exchange with the vipers circling him. Microphones and video cameras were jabbed toward his head. Flashbulbs scorched his vision. He masked his expression, returned to his driver’s seat, and pulled his car into his garage. On how many channels would footage of this media swarm appear?

After parking his car and securing the garage, Warrick let himself in through his back entrance. He controlled his urge to slam the door before setting the main lock, dead bolt, and chain. He crossed his kitchen and walked through his home.

What were his neighbors thinking? They were probably considering buying homes in a quieter area. The media saturation was turning his teammates against him, putting a strain on his marriage, and now possibly alienating his neighbors. The only ones enjoying this circus were the media.

The curtains over the front windows of his brownstone were closed. It was barely two o’clock in the afternoon. Marilyn loved fresh air and natural light. The fact that she’d been forced to change her habit because of the newshounds prowling the sidewalk in front of their home was an additional burden. One more thing to include on his list of transgressions.

“They’ve been here since noon.”

Warrick’s gaze followed the sound of his wife’s voice. She stood in the threshold between the hallway and the family room. Her face was pale, her features drawn. “Are you all right?”

Her chocolate eyes glittered with anger. “They were aiming their cameras toward the house, taking photos and videos through the windows. Why would they do that?”

Because they lacked a sense of decency. Because the more scandalous the photo, the more money they’d make. Because they’d lost all sense of humanity. All of the above.

Warrick ran his right hand over his forehead. “I don’t know.”

Marilyn was still wearing the light gray slacks and pale blue blouse she must have worn to work. But she’d pulled the clip from her hair, which now spilled behind her shoulders in soft dark waves.

She hugged her arms around herself. “I don’t want to be trapped inside my home behind triple-locked doors and drawn curtains. That’s no way to live. How long is this going to last?”

Warrick shook his head. “I don’t know that, either.”

Marilyn locked gazes with him for several long, silent moments. What was she thinking? What did she want? If it was in his power, he’d get it for her. Anything.

Warrick followed her as she turned back into the family room.

“My mother called.” Her voice was brittle. “My parents have seen the Horn.”

The muscles in Warrick’s shoulders bunched. “They live in San Francisco. How did they get a copy of the paper?”

Marilyn’s tension communicated itself all the way across the room. “They set up a Google Alert notice on us.”

Warrick shut his eyes. “Son of a—”

“I know.”

Warrick’s eyes opened. His forehead tightened with a scowl. “I’m sure this situation hasn’t helped me win them over.”

Marilyn’s parents had disliked him since Hello. Celeste and Terrell Devry were probably at this minute filing divorce papers for their daughter.

“But the article isn’t the only thing online.” Marilyn’s statement dragged Warrick from his unpleasant imaginings to his equally unpleasant reality. “Mother said there are at least half a dozen photos of us on the Horn’s Web site.”