“Good morning,” she said brightly as she came to a halt at the base of the gangplank. “I’m looking for a Mr. Logan Dupree. Would that happen to be you?”
She had to know damn good and well who he was. She wouldn’t have found him if someone in corporate hadn’t pointed her this way. But that realization paled beside another that swept over him in the next second. She had the bluest eyes. Bright blue. With the hair and the “kiss me” mouth… God, put her in a frilly little costume and she’d look like one of those dolls off the Home Shopping Network. “Maybe,” he answered. “It depends on who you are and what you want.”
She smiled. “May I come aboard?”
He wanted to say no. He really did. Instead, he shrugged, dredged up a smile he hoped passed for polite, set his drink on the table beside him, and levered himself up out of the deck chair. She didn’t wait for him to step over to the railing and offer her a hand up the ramp, though. No, she vaulted up the narrow walkway all on her own and without catching her heel and toppling over into the water.
Logan released the breath he’d been holding as she gestured to the other chair on the deck and asked brightly, “May I have a seat?”
He nodded and watched as she lowered herself into it with an easy, confident smile, smoothing the skirt over the curves of her hip and backside as she did. They were really nice curves, he had to admit as she put the bag down between them.
She waited until he’d taken his own seat again before sticking out her hand and saying, “Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Catherine Talbott.”
The name meant absolutely nothing to him, but he politely shook her hand and replied, “Ma’am,” while bracing himself to remember a string of names followed by Attorneys at Law.
“Tom Wolford was my brother.”
The fact that he’d guessed her wrong was hammered into oblivion as the past slammed forward, crisp and clear. Tom Wolford, standing in the shadows and exhaust clouds of the Wichita bus station, a vending machine ham sandwich in one hand, a can of pop in the other. The big man lumbering forward to throw a welcoming arm around the shoulders of an already homesick kid and lead him off into the world of minor league hockey. The pair of plaid polyester pants, white belt, white shoes, the hat with the crimped crown and the narrow brim… The half cigar that was never lit but always clamped in the corner of his mouth….
Tom Wolford. Daddy Warbucks. The old days and the first foot in the door. It had been a long time since Logan had looked that far back. Now that looking forward wasn’t an option, maybe he could afford the luxury of reminiscing every now and then. It had been, what—almost five years since they’d last spoken? He should call Tom and— Logan blinked and frowned. “Did you say was?”
She nodded ever so slightly and her smile looked tired. “He passed away a little over a month ago. A heart attack.”
“Unless he’d changed a lot in the last fourteen years,” Logan said as his throat tickled, “it couldn’t have been an unexpected one.”
Catherine Talbott’s smile faded on a sigh and shrug of her slim shoulders. “No, it really wasn’t. Still…”
Logan silently swore and kicked himself. “I’m sorry,” he offered sincerely. “I can be a real clod sometimes. Tom was a decent man. I owe him a lot and I’m sorry he’s gone.”
Tucking her hair behind her ears, Catherine Talbott managed a slightly brighter smile. “I was hoping you’d feel that way.”
Duh! his brain groaned. The memorial plaque. The endowment of some fund for underprivileged kids’ sports. He’d been tapped for such things before. It came with making the pro ranks. He knew the drill from beginning to end. “Oh, yeah?” he drawled, wondering how much she had in mind. “Why?”
“Tom left me the team.”
As responses went, it didn’t even come close to his expectations. “You own the Wichita Warriors?” he asked, having a hard time getting his brain wrapped around the image of Shirley Temple sitting behind Tom’s huge metal desk.
“Yes, I do.”
The assurance didn’t help one bit. “What does Millie think of that?”
“Well… She’s…”
The obvious hesitation sent a cold jolt through his veins. “Millie’s not dead, too, is she?”
“No, no,” she hurriedly answered. “My sister-in-law is very much alive.” She hesitated and took a noticeably deep breath before she added, “But she has dementia. There are good days and there are not so good days.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” he offered again, thinking that he was beginning to sound a little too much like a parrot. A socially retarded parrot. He used to be a lot better at this sort of thing.
“It’s one of the risks of growing old,” she went on. “You don’t have much choice except to deal with what life gives you. Tom provided well for her, though. Millie doesn’t want for anything now, and there’s money to see her through even a long decline. She’s not going to be pushing a grocery cart around town and eating out of Dumpsters.”
Millie eat out of Dumpsters? Never. Not even demented. Where Tom had been the loud impresario, Millie had been the perfect princess. “That’s good to know. I can’t tell you how many Thanksgiving, Christmas and Easter dinners I had at Millie’s house. She always made sure that we weren’t alone those days.”
“She still does the bring-all-your-friends spreads. With a little help now, of course. We did a backyard brat and potato salad affair when all the players came in for the new season.”
God, it was so small-town, so Wichita. So incredibly minor league. “I’ll bet everyone had a real good time.”
She nodded and then her smile faded on another sigh. “Until Tom collapsed.”
Oh shit. He should have seen it coming. The nod followed by the sigh was the tip-off. He couldn’t offer apologies again. He just couldn’t. He’d choke to death if he even tried. “So,” he ventured, then cleared his throat as subtly as he could. “How are the Warriors doing these days?”
“Well,” she drawled, “that depends on your perspective, I suppose.”
Uh-oh. Evasion was never a good sign. She was working up to something. The something that had brought her halfway across the country. And odds were it wasn’t to hit him up for a memorial contribution. “You’re a month into the season. What’s the win-loss record?”
“Two wins, ten losses,” she supplied with a little grimace.
Bad. Really bad. “Why are they losing?”
“I wish I could tell you, Mr. Dupree, but I don’t know anything about hockey.”
Gee, there was a surprise. “What are your GM and coaching staff saying?” he pressed.
She seemed to chew the inside of her cheek as she stared off over the water. “That it’s not their fault,” she finally answered. “That Tom didn’t spend enough to get the talent necessary to win.”
Yeah, it was usually someone else’s fault. And dead guys made perfect scapegoats. “Is it true?”
“Looking at the books,” she replied, still staring off, “I’d have to say that he spent all that he could. And then some.”
And then some? There it was. The Warriors were in financial trouble and as the club’s poster boy for Big Dreams, he was the logical choice for White Knight, too. “Let’s cut to the chase, Ms. Talbott,” he said