Keeping Score (Brooklyn Monarchs 3)

Leaving her this time would be the hardest it had ever been. It wasn’t that the media had prepared to camp outside. They had a security system to prevent break-ins. But Warrick wasn’t fooling himself that their marriage wasn’t still on shaky ground.

She sighed. Her breath was warm and soft against his neck. “I know.”

“Come with me.” His tone was urgent.

Marilyn stepped away. “I can’t, Rick.”

Her response didn’t surprise him. But it did disappoint. She’d yet to travel with him on an away game, and he really wanted her there. “Can’t or won’t?”

12

Marilyn scowled. With her puffy eyes and congested nose, she wasn’t certain the expression was effective. “Your career is taking off and you have the media attention to prove it. However, mine is in shambles—also because of your media attention.”

“I’ve apologized for that.” Warrick sounded frustrated. Well, so was she.

“This isn’t your fault. I don’t need an apology.” Marilyn led the way out of the family room. “I need a job. Arthur fired me. And Janet is hesitant to offer me the partnership with her clinic.” She mounted the stairs.

“A change of scenery will help clear your mind.” Warrick’s optimistic prediction floated up from behind her.

“There’s media in Miami, too, Rick.” Marilyn’s tone was dry.

“But they won’t be camped outside your door or pointing cameras through your hotel window.” Warrick was persistent.

Marilyn spoke over her shoulder. “I seem to remember a photo of Jackie and Marc taken outside Marc’s Miami hotel room. The picture was plastered all over the New York papers the next morning.”

Warrick sighed. “I remember that, too.”

At the top of the stairs, Marilyn turned toward the master bedroom—their room, in which they’d made love last night. Now she couldn’t get the ugly idea of their photos posted to the Horn Web site out of her mind. She rubbed her eyes. The media would not ruin the memory of last night for her.

“You don’t need me in Miami and I

can’t leave Brooklyn right now.” Marilyn pulled her pink shorts and cropped white T-shirt from the closet. She tossed them onto the bed and unbuttoned her blouse.

Warrick crossed his arms over his chiseled chest. Every muscle—and there were many—in his well-defined arms flexed. “Are you blaming me for the photos?”

Marilyn faced him. “No. I blame the media.”

Without another word, Warrick left their bedroom.

Marilyn exhaled on a trembling breath. As cowardly as it might have appeared, she wasn’t ready to leave the house. Her technophobic parents had found the photos on the Internet. How many of the other people she knew had seen them? The kid at their grocery store checkout? The old man at the fruit stand? The guys at the fish market? Maybe she should do her food shopping in New Jersey for a while.

She changed her clothes, washed her face, and brushed her hair. It was easy to keep feelings of turmoil at bay if she focused on tedious tasks. Her uncertain career didn’t plague her. The disaster of her marriage couldn’t worry her. The existence of those photos didn’t twist her stomach into knots.

Marilyn turned to leave the bedroom, still preoccupied with the mundane. Dinner. The weather.

A familiar melody rose from downstairs, filling their brownstone’s high-ceilinged rooms. Olivia Newton-John’s pitch-perfect soprano accompanied the music. From its opening notes, Marilyn recognized “Hopelessly Devoted to You” from the musical Grease. It wasn’t the song that caused her to pause in uncertainty in the upstairs hallway. It was the person who was playing it.

Marilyn hurried down the stairs, allowing the music to draw her into the family room. Warrick stood in front of the compact disc player. He used the remote control to lower the volume, then tossed it onto the sofa.

Marilyn stared. “You hate this song.”

“But you love it. And I love you.” He offered her his hand.

Marilyn went to him. She shivered as his strong arms wrapped around her and the day drifted away. Under her hands, his muscles flowed with the music. She drew closer to him, sharing the warmth from his body. Warrick rested his cheek on the top of her head and tightened his hold around her.

He hummed along with Olivia for a few stanzas. The deep, soothing sound was like a magician’s spell. More of her tension disappeared. She let his movements and his magic carry her away.

Warrick’s lips brushed against her hair as he added his baritone to the song, expressing his hopeless devotion to Marilyn.