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Family Fortune
Roz Denny Fox
The LYON LEGACYA family's fortune is more than its money.In the Lyon family, old secrets give rise to new onesThe Lyon family matriarch has disappeared. And now her money's disappearing, too–bit by bit. Margaret Lyon's grandniece, Crystal Jardin, who looks after the family finances as well as those of the business, is growing more concerned every day.The Lyons wait anxiously during this time of crisis, hoping for word of Margaret. Then, as if Crystal's life wasn't complicated enough, she meets Caleb Tanner–and she falls for him. Hard. Even though Caleb's everything she doesn't want. He's too handsome. Too confident. And far too relentless. Can she afford to take a chance on her feelings?Margaret's not there to give her advice, but Crystal knows what she would have said: Follow your heart.


Kissing Caleb Tanner was good. Very, very good. (#u60286ece-caee-5047-b691-6501cbe81b85)Letter to Reader (#uab8787ea-5b4c-5b41-ab94-04b3c5108bb2)Title Page (#uddfc8483-1034-54d3-abf1-d1d83b0832c0)CHAPTER ONE (#uc79bc8d8-d4ca-5359-a3b4-7b6b37525b77)CHAPTER TWO (#u396a2ffe-a0d2-5332-9e97-a78b9bd920ca)CHAPTER THREE (#uadb2dfe6-d7c6-56d6-9e73-4f760e858734)CHAPTER FOUR (#u6027b3e2-c4f4-525b-b883-3c7c661c5b10)CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)FAMILY REUNION (#litres_trial_promo)Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
Kissing Caleb Tanner was good. Very, very good.
But mere kissing wasn’t enough. Not nearly enough. Crystal felt a feverish need for more. Crazy thoughts cartwheeled through her brain. She wanted to explore all that heat and muscle held in check by the cloth she twisted beneath her hands.
Caleb hauled in a ragged breath. “Oh, baby,” he muttered. “Where have you been all my life?” Dipping his head, he brought his Ups to hers again, and Crystal experienced the sensation of a weightless free fall.
Nothing like this had ever happened to her. She never lost control around men. Never. Panic reared suddenly, shutting off her intake of air. It made no sense. The faces of people she’d loved, people who’d left her, beat at the back of her eyelids. Her mother and now Margaret Lyon. Her dad. Her fiancé.
She couldn’t breathe. Words of warning shrieked in her ears. Back off Back off! You’re nothing to Caleb Tanner. You’re a fool to fall for him!
But maybe some men were different.... Crystal willed the panic to subside. They each eased back a little. Crystal released his shirtfront, wishing he’d say something. But why should he? He might have laid the fire, but she’d struck the match.
Dear Reader,
I’ve loved reading family sagas since I picked up my first Edna Ferber novel quite some time ago. And I think many people enjoy reading about complex families playing out destinies of power and conflict and—of course—love.
It’s been a wonderful challenge to be one of three authors privileged to take Superromance readers on a fifty-year journey with the Lyon family. From the sultry swamps of Bayou Sans Fin to the lush Garden District of New Orleans, I’ve helped the family forge one of Louisiana’s most powerful broadcasting businesses.
But life is never simple in any dynasty Fortunately love is ultimately the legacy that holds the Lyon family together. And up till now, Crystal Jardln, a Lyon first cousin, has had precious little love in her life. But Skipper West, an Injured child she befriends, and Caleb Tanner, a hero in every sense, are going to change that!
I hope you enjoy Family Fortune and the other
IYON LEGACY books.
Sincerely,
Roz Denny Fox
Yes. I love to hear from readers. You can reach me at:
P.O. Box 17480-101, Tucson, Arizona 85748

Family Fortune
Roz Denny Fox


www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


CHAPTER ONE
September 1999
ANOTHER THREE THOUSAND DOLLARS withdrawn from Margaret Lyon’s private bank account! Crystal Jardin scowled at her computer screen. In the past two weeks, there had been identical withdrawals from Margaret’s bank account via an ATM. Always on a Monday. And from an unknown automatic teller. Crystal found that the most worrisome. She wouldn’t be as concerned if she hadn’t just seen a WDIX-TV segment on a computer hackers’ convention. She’d learned that bank officials haunted the convention, hiring the brainy kids who could get into bank systems and putting them to work writing codes to plug this very type of break-in.
The segment stuck in her brain because, in addition to her duties as the business manager for the family-owned, New Orleans-based Lyon Broadcasting Company, she served as personal financial adviser to Margaret, the principal stockholder, and to a few other family members, as well.
Granted, the amount of the withdrawals wasn’t particularly alarming. Margaret was an extremely wealthy woman, and prone to shopping sprees. And Crystal hadn’t been too concerned when Margaret disappeared without informing the family of her whereabouts. Until today. She recalled that the last time they sat down to go over finances, which they did regularly, Margaret hadn’t been herself. Who’d expect her to be? It was just after her beloved husband Paul’s death.
Crystal understood that Margie needed time alone. The woman had loved Paul Lyon for nearly sixty years. Losing him suddenly to a heart attack—after doctors had twice snatched him from the brink of death—had shaken the entire family, and no one more than Margaret. Not only that, the funeral had been overwhelming, with half of New Orleans turning out. The many heartfelt eulogies given by colleagues in the broadcasting business for the man known as the Voice of Dixie must have added to the weight of Margaret’s sorrow.
At the time Margie went missing, everyone in the family assumed she’d gone off alone to grieve. But when she didn’t call or show up at one of the ocean resorts she and Paul had always favored, her son, André, and his wife, Gaby, began to panic. And now, this complete elimination of a paper trail in Margie’s bank transactions was beginning to panic Crystal, too.
At seventy-seven, the family matriarch excelled in anything relating to the TV station she’d brought to life fifty years ago. But the woman Crystal loved like a grandmother didn’t have the skill to hack into a bank computer system.
So she’d enlisted someone’s help. Whose? And why go to such extremes? Crystal racked her brain for other possibilities. She avoided terms like kidnapped. André, Paul and Margaret’s only child and general manager of the business, had tiptoed around the term at breakfast, too—though Crystal knew it was on his mind today when he’d debated whether or not to file a missing-person report with the police.
André. was torn between allowing his mother the independence she’d always demanded and being horribly remiss if anything was wrong. Crystal felt the same pressure now. She wanted to show him the account—except that Margaret insisted on keeping her financial dealings private. Besides, if she’d fallen victim to theft, wouldn’t the criminal clean out her account and be done with it? Crystal thought it more likely that Margaret, always a headstrong woman, had bullied a banker friend into freeing her from a cloying family for a few weeks. The days after Paul’s death and before the funeral, family members had closed ranks, hoping to ease her pain. “Smothered” was how Margaret had described it to Crystal the morning of the service. So after a lengthy internal debate, Crystal decided to respect her client’s wishes—for now.
Just as she finished making her decision, her friend and junior accountant tapped on her open office door. “I’m leaving, boss. Here are the vouchers you asked me to draw up for the news department. All they need is your signature.” The perky redhead zipped into the room.
“Thanks, April.” Crystal accepted the forms, her gaze straying to the clock. “Yikes. When did it get to be five-thirty? I promised to be at the Tulane Medical Center by five-fifteen.”
“Are you playing your saxophone in the children’s ward again?” April asked as Crystal hastily shut down her computer.
“Probably. The boy I told you about—Skipper West? He underwent another spinal operation today. His foster mom has four other kids, three of whom have chicken pox. I promised Beth I’d visit Skip tonight since she can’t.”
“You want a lift? I’m taking the accounting class you recommended. The medical center’s on my way.”
“You’re a lifesaver, April.” Crystal gathered her belongings and flashed her friend a smile. “How’s the class going?” she asked as they walked out together.
“Great. I’m learning as much as you said I would, if not more.”
As Crystal locked her office, a dark-haired, dark-eyed man, at least ten years her senior, stepped out of an office across the hall. He pulled the key from his door before shrugging into a cashmere suit coat. Glancing at the women, he singled out April. “Sucking up to the boss again? Or do you prefer women over men, hmm?”
April’s face erupted in red blotches as she sputtered indignantly.
“Watch it, Raymond,” Crystal warned coldly. “Your name might be Lyon, but that doesn’t exempt you from the company harassment policies.”
Ray, third son of Charles Lyon—Paul Lyon’s brother and the lesser company stockholder—ignored Crystal. He leered at April, instead. “You’ll soon see you’ve aligned yourself with the wrong side of the family, baby doll. If you’re a little nicer to me, I might ask Alain to keep you on when he takes over as general manager.”
“If that ever happens, God forbid,” Crystal said, thrusting her saxophone case between the two of them, “most of the staff, including me, will volunteer to join our competition. What are you and Alain up to now? Don’t you two get it? Nobody cares what went on fifty years ago.” She was aware, too, that her being promoted over Ray no doubt stuck in his craw.
“Grandpa Lyon shafted my dad when he left Uncle Paul controlling interest in WDIX,” Ray said. “That’s fact. You should side with us, considering that he excluded your grandmother altogether. Attitudes like yours, cousin dearest, will make revenge sweeter when Iron Margaret’s dynasty crumbles at her feet.”
He deliberately brushed against her on his way to the men’s room, and Crystal recoiled from his touch. “The sky could fall, and I wouldn’t side with you,” she muttered.
April rallied. “All of Charles Lyon’s sons are creeps, except Scott.”
“Jason’s not so bad, although he’s had his moments. Shall we go? I’d rather not be around when Ray comes out of the john. I may kill him and end up in jail.”
The two women were in April’s car heading toward the university when suddenly April said, “I know I’m fairly new here—but how did I miss hearing that you’re related to the Lyons? Alain isn’t really going to oust André and Gabrielle, is he?”
“That threat is older than dirt. As far as my relationship to the family goes, I’m a second cousin to Ray and his brothers—my grandmother, Justine, was Charles and Paul Lyon’s sister. She never inherited shares in the original radio station. Great-grandpa Alexandre subscribed to the school of thought that women didn’t belong in business. At first she had a generous allowance. But even that reverted to the family after she died giving birth to her only child, my dad. He was whisked out of New Orleans to be raised in Baton Rouge by her husband’s family, the Jar-dins. I was more or less estranged from the Lyons, but the rift between my grandmother’s brothers is legendary. I grew up hearing all the rumors, and the stories intrigued me so much I applied to work here after I graduated from college. Margaret found out and more or less bundled me out of my apartment and into the family home—Lyon-crest. She and Paul and the others have always treated me as more than a second cousin. In any event, I’ve never seen a shred of evidence that the old rumors are valid.”
“Well, I hope they are lies. If Alain took over and moved Raymond into your job, I’d have to quit, no matter how many college loans are hanging over my head. People say that Ray dabbles in the black arts.” She gave a nervous laugh. “Is that true?”
Crystal rolled her eyes as April stopped to let her out at the hospital. “Is Ray smart enough to conjure up a spell? Oh, I’m not saying you shouldn’t keep your distance. He is a creep. For instance, I know he accesses Internet porno sites from his office.” She sighed. “André would love to remove his computer. Unfortunately Paul’s sixty percent of the voting stock isn’t sufficient to dislodge the other branch of the family. Not that Margaret would let that happen. She’s big on family sticking together.”
“How can somebody like Ray, born into that kind of privilege, turn out so rotten? I try never to be alone with him.” She lowered her voice. “I’ve heard he smacks women around.”
“We can only hope one of them will press charges someday. Hey, if I don’t scoot, you’ll be late for class. I appreciate the lift.”
After closing the car door and giving April a wave, Crystal jogged up the hospital steps. Ray was bilgewater, Alain a jerk. Her own dad wasn’t so hot, either. He’d let her down, and so had the only man she’d ever been serious about. Luckily she’d found out before the wedding that Ben Parker’s real interest had been her contacts in the jazz community—and that while they were engaged he’d slept his way through all the groupies at the club where he played.
Maybe it was because of the hormonal change that occurred at puberty. Little boys were cute and charming. Then they grew up.
Crystal hated to think of that happening to the boys she was on her way to visit. She’d volunteered to entertain in the long-term orthopedic ward because she’d spent time in one. At twelve, a skateboarding accident had left her hospitalized for most of one school year. She’d lost her mother three years before the accident. Her dad, the busy oil executive, never visited her. Nor did his stern aunt, who considered Crystal’s confinement a reprieve from her forced guardianship duties. The only good that came of it was that Aunt Anita had insisted Roger Jardin pay for music lessons to keep his motherless daughter occupied. Music had eased Crystal’s loneliness, which was why she made time to bring music into the lives of kids like Skipper West.
That last thing she’d set out to do was lose her heart to this tough but lovable nine-year-old ward of the court. It had just happened. Skip had suffered a sports-related injury, as had the other boys in his unit. If Crystal had any clout, she’d force communities to scrap football and soccer; she considered them dangerous and she loathed the values they taught—the focus on celebrity and the concentration on physical rather than mental skills. She’d love to see them all banned, especially football and soccer. “Ha. Fat chance,” she muttered, peering into the six-bed room. Maybe she would never let a child of hers get involved in team sports, but most parents, coaches and kids only clamored for more, not fewer.
Crystal didn’t blame Skip’s coach. The man, like many coaches of kids’ teams, was just a dad seeking an opportunity for his own son to play. As usual, more kids showed up than there were teams. So Sam Bingham had let himself be talked into attending a short course on coaching provided by the league—and that was apparently all the qualification he needed.
Skipper looked so small. Encased from chest to knees in a new plaster cast, he lay in the large bed, clinging to his favorite toy. A football. Crystal’s heart twisted. Amazing that after everything he’d been through, he still ate, slept and breathed football. He had to be in pain, yet he listened raptly as Randy, in the next bed, described a game Skip must have missed.
Crystal masked her feelings before she walked in. Skip’s coach had brought him the football. She didn’t begrudge the boy his talisman. Kids in foster care had darned few possessions to call their own. Yet it was football that had landed him here. Crystal couldn’t help feeling ambivalent.
Skip’s gaze left Randy as Crystal walked into the room. In spite of looking pale, he sent her a wide gap-toothed smile. “Crystal, guess what?” he said excitedly.
“What?” She leaned her sax in a corner and approached his bed. Her heart leaped. Did his joy mean the surgery had been successful? Would he soon be able to walk?
“My new doctor said Caleb Tanner is down the hall in the adult wing. Isn’t that cool?”
“Who?” The name meant nothing to her.
The boys in all six beds stared at her. “He’s practically the best quarterback the Sinners ever had,” one of them informed her.
“Ah. A ball player.” She lifted a shoulder negligently and let it fall.
Skip tried unsuccessfully to sit up. Pain clouded his eyes, and his fingers clenched the football. He gave up, flopping back against his pillow.
“What do you want, honey? A drink? Some ice chips?” She tried to read the chart that sat on his night-stand. “Is it time for your pain medication?”
He thrust the football toward her. “Would... would you go ask Cale to sign my ball? Nurse Pam said if you stop at the desk, she’ll give you a permanent marker. Cale might not have one. You know what? I think he’s had more surgeries than me.”
“More? Oh, Skipper, I don’t think so. I can’t barge in on a sick man.”
“He’s not sick. Three guys hit him in a preseason game. Cale ain’t gonna let a little knee injury sideline him for long.” Skip gingerly touched his cast. “Dr. Snyder said me and Cale might have the same physical therapist.”
“Physical therapy? That’s wonderful news! Starting when?”
“Dunno. Soon, I think.”
“Then you’ll be able to get Mr. Tanner’s autograph yourself.”
“Randy says Caleb’s got the bucks to go to a private sports-medicine clinic for therapy. Maybe I won’t see him. Please, Crystal.” He extended the ball.
Crystal ruffled the boy’s sandy red hair. His mischievous green eyes and freckled cheeks went with his missing front tooth. “Oh, all right. Give me that thing. If he’s trussed up like you, the guy can’t very well tackle me and toss me out.”
The boys’ glee chased her to the nursing desk, where Pam Mason, an overworked floor nurse, rummaged through her desk for a pen. “Follow this hall. At the end, turn left and go to room 306. Good luck, Crystal. I heard Tanner’s on a rampage. Hope you get Skip’s ball autographed.” She dropped her voice. “Skip’s operation today didn’t go as well as we’d hoped. His spinal ganglion didn’t regenerate the way his doctors had expected.”
“No!” Crystal said in a stricken voice. “But I thought Skip was going to be starting physical therapy....”
The nurse nodded. “They can’t allow his muscles to atrophy, even if he’s confined to a wheelchair. It’s past time we weaned him off pain meds, too.”
A light on the board flashed. “Omigosh! I left Eddie Trumble on the bedpan. Maybe we can chat before you leave. Will you be playing some tunes for the kids?”
Crystal barely managed an affirmative response. Clasping the football tight against her shaky middle, she fled down the hall so Pam wouldn’t see her tears. What would Skip’s fate be if he never walked again? Could his foster family manage that?
IN ROOM 306, Caleb Tanner, Cale to football buddies and fans, reeled from the latest shock. A set of X rays revealed that a compound break at the intertrochanteric line of his left thigh bone hadn’t knit, despite weeks of traction. Worse, ligaments ripped from his left kneecap hadn’t healed, either.
Dr. Forsythe, chief of Caleb’s surgical team, tucked the film back into its envelope. “So that’s why you’re still in pain, even with strong medication,” he said matter-of-factly.
Caleb gripped his agent’s arm. “Dammit, Leland! I want a second opinion.”
Two other surgeons standing at the foot of Tanner’s bed exchanged glances. Forsythe pursed his lips. “We’ll talk again, Caleb.” He motioned to his colleagues. “He needs time to get used to the fact that his football career is over.”
The veins in Caleb’s neck bulged. His mind went on fast forward. Just like it did when he zinged a football through the air to a player who hadn’t even appeared yet in the spot he’d selected.
My career is not over.
Then why was his stomach pitching worse than when a defensive lineman twice his size sacked him? He had to think. I will get well. Unfortunately Leland was in the middle of negotiating a new contract. If the press got wind of this...
“Everyone but Leland, out!” he demanded. “And don’t forget I’m protected under patient-doctor privilege until I consult someone else.”
“See here, Tanner. I stand on our collective credentials,” Forsythe gestured to his pals.
Caleb wished they’d all shut up. He needed a plan. With rent on his posh apartment due, his sister Patsy getting married soon and Jenny’s last-semester college fees fast approaching—to say nothing of having moved his oldest sister, Gracie, into an Austin apartment—he couldn’t afford to take a season off. Truth be known, he was damned near broke. Again. Rationally he knew no amount of the material things he provided for the girls made up for the loss of their parents. But it eased his guilt about not being home for them more.
He wanted them to have the best—not to scrimp or do without. But the expenses just kept mounting. Weddings, college fees, allowances and rent.
Gracie, at twenty-two, had graduated from the University of Texas and had an offer of a good entry-level job, but that meant she needed a nice wardrobe. She wouldn’t be paying her own bills for a while. Caleb was suddenly forced to admit that monthly expenses for keeping the Tanner clan solvent took every penny he made. And according to the team manager, Caleb made a pretty penny, indeed. That was why negotiations had hit a snag.
Hell. Money always slipped through his hands like water through a sieve. Sure, he wore tailormade threads. Sure, he owned a collection of gas hogs and was guilty of giving his dates expensive trinkets. He was a high-profile quarterback. That kind of thing went with the territory. But he should have saved a few bucks. No one knew better than a farmer about saving for droughts or rainy days.
The whole sports world was aware that he’d emerged from dirt-poor fanning roots to end up a star in the NFL. “A melon jockey with magic hands,” was how rural Texas reporters had described his feats with a football at the consolidated high school he’d gone to. There was enough truth to it that his dad had gone out on a limb and mortgaged the farm to ensure his son got a chance to play college ball at & M. The old man enjoyed a one-year return on his sacrifice. Hell of a note.
After college, the Dallas Cowboys had snapped Cale up as relief quarterback. He sent half of his generous salary home. Then, at the peak of his second season, his folks died when their farm truck rolled. That same week, the coach tapped him to lead the team into the playoffs, replacing the regular quarterback, who’d suffered a minor injury. It was a hollow victory, but he’d buried his grief and gotten the job done.
He sat now, twisting the winner’s ring that proved it. He twisted the ring around and around on his finger as he sank under morose memories.
It wasn’t until after the final playoff game—nine years ago now—that he learned county social workers intended to split up his kid sisters and ship them to foster homes. The powers-that-be made it plain they didn’t consider him an appropriate guardian. The court claimed the right to decide, because his parents hadn’t left a will. He damned sure wasn’t going to let strangers take his sisters. He did what had to be done, which included forking over every penny he had to wage a legal battle to keep his family together. It took ten months, but the court finally let his mother’s cousin and her husband move from Illinois to work the farm and raise the three Tanner girls, ages twelve, eleven and ten. Of course he’d covered all the expenses incurred in the move from Illinois.
Settling his family problems cost him more than money. It cost him time. Too much time. Once their regular quarterback recovered, the Cowboys dumped him. After months of running the farm on promises, he finally signed with the New Orleans Sinners.
Until this accident, anyone who knew squat about football agreed that Caleb Tanner was at the top of his game. Sportscasters compared him to Montana and Elway. So no mealymouthed quacks were going to say his career was kaput.
“Just because you graduated from Harvard and Yale,” he bellowed at the departing doctors, “doesn’t make y’all God!” Fighting the fear that gnawed at his gut, Caleb grabbed an empty plastic water pitcher and heaved it across the room.
“Take it easy, Cale.” His agent placed a restraining hand on Caleb’s forearm while the last doctor ducked out.
Caleb shook Leland off. “And you...” He scowled at his agent. “What’s the holdup on my contract? I started the season in good faith.”
“Now, Cale. The money man’s dragging his feet. He wants some kind of assurance he’s not buying a pig in a poke.”
“Then assure him. You tell him I’m starting physical therapy in a couple of days. I’ll be stronger than moonshine before we play Detroit. Tell him that.” Caleb poked a forefinger into the agent’s skinny chest, forcing him to take flight, too.
His hand on the doorknob, Leland ran a skeptical eye over Caleb’s collection of wires and pulleys. “We’ve been associates a long time. I’m telling you, Cale, the chance of signing while you’re in this shape...well, it stinks. I can’t...won’t lie to the man.”
“I’m not asking you to.” Cale’s green eyes fired. “I’m gonna lick this thing.”
“Yeah. For a minute there, I thought... Hell, Cale. A lot of guys retire at thirty-one. You must have a sizable nest egg by now.”
Caleb clenched his hands. The thought of quitting the only work he knew set his heart beating so furiously he was afraid it’d fly clean out of his body. Football and farming were all he’d ever done. If he hadn’t signed the farm over to his uncle and aunt last year...
But he had. He’d deeded them the land. They deserved more for putting their lives on hold to take care of the girls. Gritting his teeth, Cale forced a smile. “Emmitt Smith knows a doc who’s first-rate at getting old bones shipshape. Have Medical Records overnight my X rays. I’m not washed up, Lee. That’s God’s honest truth.”
“Sure, buddy. But I expect we’ll have to wait for the new doc’s report before we go back to the bargaining table. ’Cause the way it stands now, unless they see their money’s buying a sound man, the bastards are saying hasta la vista.”
Stunned by the finality of the notion, Caleb watched the door close. Despair warred with terror. Then a blinding rage welled up from his sandbagged toes. He swept a hand across the surface of his table. Paperbacks, a box of tissues, magazines and a water glass flew, hitting the floor with a satisfying crash.
He regarded the mess. It hadn’t even begun to abolish his gut-deep panic.
Someone rapped on his door. Caleb chose to ignore the intrusion. Leland had probably told a nurse he was in a foul mood. Well, he was. How in hell did they expect a man to feel when he’d just been told his career was over? Dammit, it wasn’t over until he said it was over. And he didn’t think it was asking too much to keep the news of his progress—or lack thereof—quiet. At least until he’d recovered enough to prove he was sound.
The knock sounded again. Louder.
“What do you want?” he thundered when the door opened slightly and a woman, a stranger with a pale face and huge blue eyes, peeked in. She was a bitty thing. If Caleb stood, the top of her shiny dark hair wouldn’t hit him midchest. He ground his teeth. “You’ve landed in the wrong room, Pocahontas.” As the woman eased through the opening, she flipped an ebony braid as thick as his wrist over a slim shoulder, facing him head-on, keeping both hands out of sight behind her back. Hiding a needle, probably. Forsythe must have ordered a shot to calm him.
“You can take that syringe and stab it into some other poor slob’s backside.”
As she noted the debris scattered on the floor, Crystal thought at least he hadn’t disappointed her expectations. It was a shame Skipper couldn’t see his idol in the throes of a tantrum.
“I’m not a nurse.” She met the man’s stormy eyes.
“No? Then who in hell are you?”
“I’m, ah, Crystal Jardin. From WDIX-TV,” she said on a flash of brilliance. After all, what football jock didn’t roll over and salivate at the prospect of gaining a little media attention? Crystal suspected he’d offer his autograph more readily if he figured he’d get something in return. Something he’d consider more substantial than the adulation of an ailing child. But if Tanner didn’t act too arrogant, she might ask the WDIX sports director to send a reporter and a cameraman. That should make the man happy.
Busy congratulating herself on her cleverness, she was slow to realize Tanner wasn’t reacting as she’d anticipated. Instead, his brows drew together over smoking eyes and he bellowed, “Vultures. Bloodsuckers! Do I have to climb off this bed and throw you out, too?”
Then he lunged. Pulleys spun wildly, unexpectedly snapping a cord. The flying hook knocked over an infusion stand that held an empty N-drip container. The monitor mounted above his headboard flashed like a pinball machine. As he all but fell out of bed, a noisy alarm began to bleat in the entryway..
“Please stop!” she begged. “Lie still.” Football forgotten, she charged forward. The sound of crunching glass-and the strangled epitaphs coming from the man who now dangled precariously—sent her into full retreat again. “Help!” she called, with her head stuck out into the corridor. “We need a nurse!”
Two nurses tore down the hall at a dead run. Crystal’s last look at Skip’s hero, after one nurse thrust her aside, was of a man writhing in pain.
Shaken, Crystal felt partially. to blame, although she’d done nothing to warrant his outburst. He’d obviously been confused, thinking she was a nurse. Hurrying back to the children’s ward, she caught a glimpse of herself in a window. He could have mistaken her summery white pants and loose-fitting blue tunic for a uniform.
Suddenly she smiled. So big tough Caleb Tanner was scared of a needle? He’d seen her white pants, thought nurse-with-a-needle and gone ballistic. It did make him more human, she decided, gazing at the football she still gripped.
The problem was, how did she tell the boys that she’d come back empty-handed? At least Tanner’s fear of needles was safe with her. She’d never tarnish his image with boys who’d already been let down by too many male role models.
Or maybe she would. Boys Skipper and Randy’s age ought to admire men who were sensitive and kind. Not ones spoiled by fame and fortune.
In the end, though, Crystal couldn’t trample their rosy picture of Caleb Tanner. It was hard enough having to brave their crestfallen faces.
“Look, guys, I’m really, really sorry. You have my solemn word—” she placed a hand dramatically over her heart “—I will get Skip’s ball signed. Even if they ship Tanner to a private facility, I’ll track him down through his agent.”
Skipper, ever the optimist, accepted Crystal’s word. “It’d be neat if you could get the other guys some signed pictures of Cale in his uniform. Before he got hurt, he handed out a bunch of ’em at a new brew pub in the Quarter. We saw it on TV.”
“Why, you little con artist. I failed my mission today, so I have to hit him up for photos, too? Can’t you phone the Sinners’ PR department?”
The boys exchanged worried looks. “Pablo’s just back from therapy. He heard a tech say the Sinners won’t renew Cale’s contract because his knee ain’t gonna heal. Would Nate Fraser know if that’s true?”
Crystal glanced up from opening her instrument case. Nate Fraser, WDIX-TV’s sports director, could find out if he didn’t know. Even though Crystal passionately disliked Tanner’s choice of career, she experienced an unexpected surge of compassion. She knew how she’d feel if she had to give up her music.
“I’ll ask Nate tomorrow. If the story’s true, maybe we should wait on that autograph. Tanner might be having a hard time dealing with the news.”
“Yeah,” Skipper said, suddenly empathetic. “But maybe hearing that some kids still think he’s number one will cheer him up.”
“It might at that, Skip. Hey, not to change the subject, but would you like me to play some tunes?”
“Yeah!” the boys exclaimed as one. Next to watching TV and talking endlessly about sports, they liked listening to Crystal belt out jazz.
She ran through a few warm-ups. Before long, nurses, residents and interns drifted in to listen. Patients on crutches and in wheelchairs lined the walls.
She didn’t think any audience appreciated her more.
THE MUSIC, AS IT HAD on other nights, filtered into Cale’s private room and shaved the edge off his pain. Closing his eyes, he tried to imagine the talent it took to make an instrument sob and wail like that. A seductive sound. His blood pulsed as the beat possessed him. N’Awlins blues certainly made a man feel... something. Any kind of feeling was preferable to the terrifying emptiness he’d plunged into earlier.
Why had he let the doc’s words get to him? This wasn’t his first injury. He’d always bounced back; he would this time, too. Yeah! He let those deep, shivery notes absorb his anger.
Ordinarily, when it came to music, Cale could take it or leave it. He knew when it was too loud at a party or too fast if he was trying to seduce a new lady with slow dancing. The music tonight lit a fire in his soul. But he couldn’t put into words how it touched him, couldn’t explain the way it made him feel. That was why he’d never asked the phantom soloist’s name. Knowing the nurses, they’d parade the guy in here and expect Caleb to give him all kinds of flowery compliments.
Well, he couldn’t. He could rattle off plays in a year’s worth of football games, but he got tongue-tied trying to express the stuff he felt inside.
When fans waylaid him to praise a great pass, he loved it. He frowned as it occurred to him that musicians probably liked praise, too.
The distant beat slid like silk into a bossa nova, and Caleb felt a sudden urgency to connect with the artist whose music pounded through his veins. He fumbled to locate his call bell, then pushed it repeatedly. He’d just give the dude a locker-room clap on the back and tell him man-to-man that his playing had balls. Yeah. He drummed his hands on the bed covers. Where in hell were all the nurses? He pressed the button again.
A timid aide opened his door. “You rang, Mr. Tanner?”
Caleb had discovered that if you didn’t speak with authority in this place, requests got ignored. “Tell that musician to stop by and see me. Tonight,” he ordered.
“Is that it?” The aide sounded relieved and at his nod rushed out, leaving Cale to contemplate what an asshole he’d been the past few days. That was the word, all right. He’d heard it muttered by one of the nurses. Tomorrow he’d apologize. To the nurses, to Leland and maybe even to that pushy TV reporter.
The telephone beside his bed rang. “Hiya! Hey, Patsy...I’m doing great. Improving every day,” he fibbed to his sister. One of the three girls called every night to check on his progress. No sense worrying them.
“The bridesmaids’ dresses cost how much? Whatever you decide, kitten. Sure. If you want buckets of mums at the church, fine. Have ’em send me the bill.”
Caleb tucked the phone into the hollow of his shoulder. “Of course I’ll walk you down the aisle. Who said I wouldn’t? Gracie? She called Doc Forsythe?” Caleb pinched the bridge of his nose. “Quit crying, puddin’. Listen to me. You know doctors are full of double-talk. Have I ever lied to you girls? That’s right. Never.”
Easing back, Caleb listened to additional plans for the late-October wedding and injected appropriate responses. It was now September 5. His head spun. A few minutes later, the excited twenty-one-year-old rang off. Cale gripped the receiver for a long time, attempting to add in his head the costs she’d listed. Patsy, his middle sister, a homebody who’d practically been their mother’s shadow, had been the most affected by her death. Patsy did poorly in school. Having a husband and a house of her own was all she’d ever wanted. He wouldn’t let his troubles affect her heart’s desire.
It would be all right. By her wedding, he’d be good as new. Better than new. His contract would be signed and money wouldn’t be an issue. Replacing the receiver, he lay down and let the throaty notes of the saxophone transport him to a zone free of stress.
CHAPTER TWO
THE NEXT MORNING, Crystal hopped off the streetcar at the end of its route, near the heart of the business district. Juggling her purse and saxophone case, she waved goodbye to the regulars and prepared to walk the two blocks to Lyon Broadcasting. She could have driven to work. For that matter, she had access to a chauffeur-driven limo. She happened to believe that one less car on the congested roads kept at least a trace of hydrocarbons out of the environment. Besides, she loved the eclectic group of people who used public transportation.
Margaret sometimes teased her saying she ought to write a book about the offbeat assortment of daily commuters. Crystal responded by suggesting Margaret do an exposé on the family. That reminded her—at their last meeting, Margaret had given her the key to a safe-deposit box. She said it contained her will and other documents important to the family. Her instructions were that Andrbé given the key in the event of Margaret’s death.
Crystal recalled thinking that Paul’s death had sparked a morbid sense of urgency in Margie. She’d been adamant that the contents of the box be made public only if she, André and Gabrielle died simultaneously. A thought as gruesome as it was unlikely.
Crystal opened the wrought-iron gate that had guarded Lyon Broadcasting for fifty years. Dam, she wished Margaret would call home! Her continued absence was disturbing everyone.
Going directly to her office, Crystal breathed easier once she determined there’d been no further activity in the bank account. Then she set to work compiling reports for the end-of-the-month board meeting. Margaret would surely return for that.
As Crystal came to the figures from the sports department, she remembered the promise she’d made Skip—to call Nate Fraser and check on Tanner’s retirement.
If she hadn’t been so tired, she might have verified the rumor with Tanner last night. Certainly he’d provided an opportunity. At the end of visiting hours, a nurse’s aide had flagged her down and said Tanner wanted—no, demanded she stop by his room.
Crystal had declined. She wasn’t a masochist. But after she’d boarded the streetcar home, it struck her that maybe he wanted to break the news of his retirement. She’d told him she worked for WDIX, and maybe he wanted to arrange an interview to announce it. In that case, Nate would have her head for missing out on a real coup. Hmm. She’d better go see Nate right now and in person. She didn’t stop to wonder how Tanner knew she’d remained in the hospital.
Entering the noisy newsroom, Crystal wove her way among the cubicles to Nate Fraser’s domain. His four walls were weighted down by sports memorabilia. Crystal knew he’d once played for the Vikings and had won a Heisman trophy, which impressed most people. Crystal and Nate didn’t have a lot in common, unless their endless arguments over his expense account could be considered common ground. Other than that, she liked his wife Jill, a lot. In fact, they’d become fast friends after Gabrielle had introduced them.
The man glanced up when she appeared in his door. “What’s wrong now?” he barked, cracking his nut-brown knuckles one after the other.
“I thought you’d given up trying to intimidate me, Nathan.”
“Can’t help it if your mama didn’t train you right, white girl.”
Shaking her head, Crystal dropped into a chair. “Shall I phone Jill and tell her how you talk at work?” Nate’s brilliant and beautiful Creole wife currently served on the U.S. president’s council for the advancement of race relations. Nate doted on her.
He looked sheepish. “For a woman who detests sports, you play hardball, Miz Crystal. If you aren’t here to hassle me about greenbacks, what is on your mind?”
“Verifying a rumor that Caleb Tanner’s ending his football career.”
Nate catapulted from his chair. “Not our prize quarterback?”
Crystal nodded.
Nate’s eyes glittered with interest. Then he plopped back into the chair, crossed his arms and scowled. “You wouldn’t be jivin’ me, would you?”
“So you can’t confirm it? Shoot. That means I’ll have to brave Tanner’s room again to get Skipper’s football autographed.” She stood up and moved toward the door.
“Wait.” He rounded the desk fast for a big man. “This is no joke? You’ve been in Cale’s hospital room?”
“Yes, and I don’t relish going back. He’s obnoxious and—”
Nate stopped her midsentence. “Every sportscaster in town’s been trying to get past those battle-axes at the nurses’ station. The docs, Cale’s agent and the spokesperson for the Sinners all issued a standard no-comment.” Nate reached around her, shut the door and gently urged her back into her chair. “This is serious. Tell Papa Nate what gave you the wild idea Cale’s cashing in his cleats.”
She inspected her nails. “There’s probably not a shred of truth to the rumor.”
“Let me be the judge.” He listened intently as Crystal explained how she came to be at the hospital and ultimately in Tanner’s room.
“The skinny dude you saw Cale throw out on his ear sounds like Leland Bergman, his agent. So Cale’s in mega-pain? This kid—he’s sure the tech said Cale’s career is in the toilet?”
“Not quite in those delicate words,” Crystal drawled. “But that was the gist.”
“Well, well, well, well.” He rocked forward and back, singsonging the word. After a stretch during which neither of them spoke, Nate grabbed his phone. He made several calls, presumably to- sources, all the while indicating Crystal should stay seated.
“What did you find out?” she asked when at last he hung up and rubbed his palms together excitedly.
“My source believes the Sinners are quietly casting the waters in hopes of landing a new quarterback.”
“Then I guess that’s that.” Crystal got to her feet. “Don’t you. feel the slightest bit of compassion for Mr. Tanner? After all, an injury forced you out of pro sports.”
“Of course I sympathize with his situation.”
“Could’ve fooled me. You look delighted.”
“I am that. My top sportscaster, Jerry Davis, took a job in L.A. If we work fast, we might entice Cale to replace him.”
Crystal, who’d again started for the door, glanced over her shoulder. “An announcer? The man’s like a buffalo in a china shop. You can’t polish his rough edges enough to put him on camera. He wears a gold stud in one ear, for Pete’s sake.”
“The guy’s got a great voice.”
“He bellows.”
“He can charm the frogs off their lily pads.”
Crystal tapped her toe impatiently. “He has the manners of an orangutan.”
Nate smirked. “Yeah. He’ll fit right in. And since you, lovely lady, have access to the man, you’re going to hire him for us before a competitor hears he’s on the loose.”
“Me?” She tried to bolt, but Nate beat her to the door and held it shut with a ham-size palm. “Do your own dirty work,” she snapped. “I’ve got other shrimp to peel.”
“No one else in the media can get near the man,” he said, trying to wheedle.
“Yeah, well, he tossed me out and probably ruptured something doing it.”
“Didn’t you say that later on, he wanted you to stop by his room? I bet he intends to apologize. Cale’s got a rep for being real nice to the ladies. Tell you what. Give me an hour to put together an employment offer and get André’s okay. I’ll have to talk to Michael McKay in Human Resources, too.” He stroked his chin. “Ought to have it ready for you to run over to Tanner by eleven or so.”
“Only if André says I have to,” she said reluctantly. “But I’ll go after work. I’m summarizing a report for the board. Besides, I promised Skipper I’d visit him this evening. I’m not making two trips to the hospital in one day.”
Nate straightened away from the door. “I hate to drag our heels in case somebody else gets wind of this. Let’s see what André and Mike want to do.”
“Deal.” She stuck out her hand and they shook. “It’ll frost in the French Quarter before André gives sports precedence over company finances.”
CRYSTAL HAD A PENCIL stuck in her hair, one between her teeth, and reports strewn all over her desk when her door swung open. Looking up, she saw Nate, André and his son-in-law, Michael, bearing purposefully down on her. “Hey, you guys are causing a draft,” she shrieked, grabbing for a couple of pages that had skittered to the floor.
“Sorry.” Nate closed the door while André and Michael collected the spreadsheets that had landed beside her desk.
“Nate brought us up to snuff on the Tanner deal. Thanks for calling this to Nate’s attention, Crystal.” André tucked the loose papers under her elbow. “Did Cale indicate what salary he’d accept? Can he be had for eighty-five thou?”
Crystal’s chin almost hit the desk. “Eighty-five thousand, as in dollars?”
André tugged at his lower lip. “Probably peanuts to him, all right. But he must have a fortune socked away. We’ll go with eighty-five. If he scoffs or claims to have another deal pending, angle for his bottom line. We’ll try to match it.”
“Why?”
“Why what?” André pursed his lips; Michael merely shook his head.
Nate grinned at Crystal. “I think it just frosted in the French Quarter, kid.”
She stuck out her tongue at Nate, but appealed to André and Mike. “Tanner has no experience. That salary puts him on a par with our managers.”
“We can afford it, can’t we?” Michael asked.
“Yes, but—”
“His name alone will raise our ratings. That’s our offer.” André dug a sealed envelope from his suit jacket and pressed it into Crystal’s hand. “The three of us are going to K-Paul’s for lunch and to organize some plans. Michael has an idea for sending Tanner into the community—chanty stuff, you know, to enhance the station’s image. I’m taking my cellular. Phone us with his answer.”
Crystal watched them walk out, talking animatedly. It was Caleb this and Caleb that. She felt like throwing up. André used to be so levelheaded. Having a son late in life must have affected his brain. Andy-Paul was barely six, but Crystal should have remembered seeing André racing around the yard at Lyoncrest, tossing various balls to the kid. Footballs. Soccer. Softballs. And where was Gaby during all this? Right out there with them, Crystal recalled. Gaby claimed Andy-Paul, a change-of-life child, was a miracle that had given her a new lease on life. That new lease on life had turned André and Gabrielle into sports nuts.
Crystal glared at the envelope. Why should she recruit a person whose profession she didn’t respect for a television station she loved? Because André asked you to.
Well, maybe Caleb Tanner had other plans. She could always hope.
Sticking the envelope in her purse, Crystal retrieved her sax. She left the stack of reports on her desk. “After this, I deserve the rest of the day off,” she muttered.
“I’m running an errand for André,” she announced to the bookkeepers working in the next room. “Field my calls, please, April. If Margaret phones, tell her to use my cellular number. It’s listed in the office directory in case she doesn’t have it with her.”
Ray Lyon burst out of his office across the hall. “What errand are you running for André?” He appeared agitated, more agitated than usual. “Did you mention something about a call from Aunt Margaret? André hasn’t heard from her, has he?”
“If you spent as much time phoning clients with delinquent accounts as you do with your ear glued to the door, profits would double.” Crystal wasn’t in any mood for Ray’s habit of butting into conversations that didn’t concern him. Nor did she care to discuss André.
“Don’t take my head off. Everybody’s talking about the old lady’s disappearance. If you ask me, it just proves she’s short a few dots on her dominoes.”
“Oh, right. Like you came from the deep end of the gene pool. Get a life, Raymond.”
He hitched up his pants. His too-pointed incisors were all that showed when he smiled. “You’ve grown awful big for your britches, missy. I’m gonna love watching the seams split when the balance of power shifts our way.”
Crystal honed in on his size-fifty-two waist. She did nothing more than arch one brow to send him skulking back into his office.
April left her desk and came to the door. “He’s worse than swamp crud, boss. But everyone’s worried about Margaret. Especially the old-timers.”
“Has anyone suggested where she might have gone?”
“No. All the guessing is what’s keeping the pot stirred.”
“I see.” But she didn’t really. She’d been telling herself that Margaret’s jaunt to...wherever was nothing to worry about. That it was her prerogative as a woman of stature and means. Crystal gnawed her lower lip. It just wasn’t like Margaret to worry her family—even if she’d been feeling smothered by their concern. “Has André or Gaby said anything in particular to put employees on edge?”
“Only that if Margaret calls, to let them know at once. You’ve got to admit it’s odd. People You’ve known her a long time say she dotes on André and his kids. Why would she go off without telling him?”
“She may dote on her son and grandkids, but Paul was the other half of her. Losing him dealt her a real blow. She said it was like having her heart tom in two.”
“I can’t imagine loving any man that much, can you, Crystal?”
“It’s possible. For instance—Andre and Gaby, Leslie and Michael, Nate and Jill, Sharlee and Dev. They’re all crazy in love.” She got a distant look in her eyes.
April screwed up her face. “Well, maybe they’ve found true love. My family, on the other hand, believes in supporting their local divorce courts.”
Crystal thought of her father and her ex-fiancé. They’d left footprints on her heart, her dad’s departure leaving the deepest depressions. “I’m not looking for love, April.”
“I hear that love strikes when you’re not looking. Hey, boss, weren’t you going somewhere?” April checked her watch. “We’ve been gabbing for ten minutes. I don’t know where you’re headed, but unless it’s a command performance with the IRS, I could be keeping you from meeting the love of your life.”
Crystal remembered her destination. Caleb Tanner. “I have a greater chance of being abducted by aliens,” she replied.
“Hey, if your love life sucks as much as mine does, I wouldn’t be so hasty to write those guys off. The little suckers are kinda cute, with their big eyes and all.”
Crystal walked away laughing. If April only knew how far off target Tanner was from her ideal lover. No one could be farther from it.
THE WEATHER HAD deteriorated. The sky was dark and with clouds. The monsoons were late, but it looked as if they’d finally struck. Crystal opened her umbrella at the first rumble of thunder. Sure enough, rain began to spatter from those ominous clouds. She debated returning to the office and charging a cab to André’s expense account. But before she could retrace her route, a streetcar arrived.
Laughter spewed from the car as the slanting rain chased her inside. Crystal vaulted aboard quickly and wedged herself in beside a group of German-speaking tourists. They also spoke French, so Crystal pointed out sights until it was time to disembark.
She waved goodbye. If she could have, she would have joined their tour of the Beauregard-Keyes House. Not that she hadn’t visited the historic cottage with its captivating gardens many times. It was more that she wanted to delay the inevitable.
“We’ll come hear you play at the jazz pub on Bourbon Street,” one of her new acquaintances promised just before she hopped out. “Friday night!”
Crystal waggled her saxophone case to let them know she’d heard. It doubled as a shield against the rain, which was falling in earnest now. Her red twill suit was wet through by the time she reached the lobby. She felt the soggy flop of her braid with every step she took. Outside Tanner’s room, Crystal spared the time to unbind the heavy strands. She almost never wore her hair loose. But she wasn’t here to impress Tanner. If André and Nate had hoped to do that, they should have come, instead.
She did, however, run a comb through her frizzy locks. Otherwise he’d take one look and head for the hills from whence he’d come. Are there hills in Texas? Skipper said Tanner had come to the Sinners from Dallas. That accounted for the difference in his drawl. His voice was rich and rough and slightly twangy.
Taking a deep breath, Crystal unearthed the envelope with the station’s offer. Then before she lost her nerve, she knocked.
“Stay out,” called the voice she’d been analyzing. It soared above a background murmur of several people talking.
Now what? Crystal weighed the order. If he had family visiting, she’d return another time. But if he was talking to his agent, she might slip inside and leave André and Nate’s offer with them.
The door gave easily under her hand. As she’d done yesterday, she tried to peer through the crack. No luck. She leaned around the door to see more clearly. Her hair slithered forward, obscuring her face.
“Well, hel-lo.” Cale clicked the remote and switched off the TV, which accounted for the voices Crystal had heard.
Perfect. He was alone. No lights flashed wildly on his monitor today. Likewise, the ropes and pulleys that held him immobile looked solidly hooked. One thing was different, though—a smile that spread crookedly from ear to ear. The smile made him look like a totally different man and gave Crystal pause.
“You’re obviously new on the ward, sweetheart. In spite of what you’ve probably been told, I don’t bite.”
“Your alter ego snarled Stay out?” Crystal couldn’t rein in a laugh.
“That’s before I saw you were prettier than a bushel of roses. Where’d you come from? The morning nursing shift reminds me of a Packer defense line.” He pretended to shudder. “Come talk to me. I’m really a likable guy.”
Crystal snorted. “Modest, too,” she said, using her instrument case to shove her way into the room. “Let’s get a few things straight. I’m not a nurse and I am not your sweetheart. We met briefly yesterday, Mr. Tanner. My name is Crystal Jardin.”
“We met?” His gaze shifted from her hair to the worn instrument case. Almost immediately his eyes lit up. “You must be the musician who shakes down the rafters. I did ask an aide to have you stop by last night. Guess you didn’t have a chance.”
“You heard my music all the way here? Sorry. Next time I’ll shut the door and mute the sound.”
His smile slipped. “You’ve got it wrong. I’m not complaining. Quite the opposite. That Latin tune you played was incredible.”
She blushed. “You know about music? Jazz?” That threw her. She’d have to revise her first assessment of Cale Tanner. “I guess you mean Cannonball Adderly’s ‘Jive Samba.’ He’s the master. I was spang-a-langing his piece, is all.”
“Spang-a-who-ing? You lost me.”
Ah. So he didn’t know the language of jazz. “Spang-a-lang is the rhythmic feel of a sound. Like, messing around trying to hit a certain groove.” Grasping for ways to explain, she said, “It’s the process of finding the ultimate groove.”
“Yeah. Gotcha. You know when what you’ve done gels. It’s the same in football. A lot of times there’re too many men between me and the goal line to see the play I made. But when I’ve connected with a receiver, I know in my gut.”
Crystal’s brow puckered. She didn’t think football compared to music and was on the verge of saying so when his face broke out in a lopsided grin. “Grab a chair and knock back a few songs, why don’t you?”
“Now?”
“Sure. Why not?”
“It’s lunchtime. And it’s not visiting hours.” She almost said she was here for another purpose entirely, but Crystal held off on that. Maybe it had to do with the light she’d seen burning deep in his eyes when he got the drift of spang-a-langing. Whatever else Tanner was, he felt strongly attuned to his sport. She sensed he was a long way from severing that bond. Maybe the rumors of his retirement were way off base.
“For what my insurance company’s paying for this private room, I ought to be able to have an orgy in here twenty-four hours a day if I choose.”
That comment was exactly what Crystal would expect of a football player. She didn’t realize her face showed her distaste so plainly until Tanner narrowed his eyes.
“We have met. I’ve seen that look. Where?” He scrutinized her from beneath indecently thick eyelashes for so long that Crystal felt uncomfortable. So uncomfortable she jumped when he snapped his fingers.
“Yesterday! The reporter.” He scowled at her saxophone. “Do you really play that thing? Or is this another trick to get an interview? If it is, you have ten seconds to vamoose, babe.”
He looked so menacing when he frowned Crystal didn’t know where to begin or what would buy her time. She set her instrument case on his bedside table and opened it to give him a clear view of the gleaming brass alto sax.
“I’m not a reporter,” she said quietly.
He crossed his arms across a muscular chest. “They fired you since yesterday?”
“My purpose for being here yesterday was to get your autograph on a football for a young friend of mine. He’s down the hall in the children’s long-term orthopedic ward.” She plunged a hand into her large jute handbag and produced the ball. “Darn, I returned the permanent marker to the nursing station. You don’t happen to have a pen suitable for autographing leather, do you?”
“You mean I almost killed myself over an autograph?”
“Well, yes, and I’m sorry about that, Mr. Tanner.”
“Caleb. Salesmen call me Mr. Tanner. You wouldn’t be trying to sell me a bill of goods, would you, babe?”
Crystal dealt him a withering look. The kind she reserved for the Ray Lyons of the world. “No one calls me babe. You may call me Ms. Jardin.”
Caleb sidestepped her remark as neatly as he avoided a pileup of defensive linemen. “Uh-huh. Give me the damned football.” Leaning over, he yanked open the center drawer of his nightstand and pawed around until he found a marking pen. “I should’ve guessed you don’t play that horn,” he muttered. “A woman doesn’t have the lungs to make a saxophone whisper one minute, then hold the note so long it spits fire.”
Crystal rammed Skipper’s football into Cale Tanner’s diaphragm with enough force to make him blow out an oof but not hard enough to add to his injuries. “Trumpets, tubas and trombones are horns, Tanner. Saxophones are wind instruments. I play all four. Women have plenty of wind.”
Caleb’s right eyebrow disappeared beneath a shock of wheat-gold hair. “They do at that, Jardin. I stand corrected.” As he lowered his laughing gaze, Caleb scrawled his name across the ball. “Does the kid have a handle?” he asked.
“Skipper West. Uh...Skip. Just make it ‘to Skip,”’ Crystal said, giving Tanner points for not taking his irritation at her out on the boy.
Tanner handed her the signed ball. His eyes returned to the saxophone as he capped his pen.
“Thanks. Skip will be in seventh heaven.”
“You’re welcome. If you’re really a musician who wanted me to sign a kid’s football, why barge in here claiming to work for WDIX-TV?”
“I do. I’m their business manager.”
The same eyebrow shot up again. “Busy lady. Business manager. Ace musician. Messenger for sick kids. Does that about cover your titles? Or is there a main man in the wings waiting to make you a missus something or other?” Cale wasn’t very discreet in grabbing her left hand to check for a ring.
Crystal laughed as she pulled away and stowed the football. “In addition to my work, I play at the Jazz Pub in the Quarter a couple of weekends a month. And I’m more than a messenger for sick kids, as you put it. I entertain in children’s wards around the city when I can, Mr. Tanner. There’s no time in my life for a man.”
“I thought we agreed. It’s Caleb. And you’re Crystal. Pretty name. Pretty lady. So you’ve sworn off guys. Pity.”
The rough singsongy caress of Tanner’s voice spiked a shiver of caution in Crystal’s stomach. Caution—or longing. She shook off the feeling. “I haven’t sworn off guys. There are six of ’em in Skipper’s ward. The oldest is twelve. They all got hurt playing ball. You don’t happen to have five autographed photos hiding in that drawer, do you? I promised I’d ask.” She paused for a couple of seconds. “These boys aren’t as lucky as you, Tanner. Pablo lost a leg dashing off the field after a wildly kicked soccer ball. He collided with a delivery truck. Skipper slipped and fell on a wet football field. Then four kids—who didn’t know he’d twisted his spine—piled on top of him. His injury may be permanent. Randy went for a basketball layup and slammed into a wall, resulting in major nerve damage that affects his whole left side.” Crystal stopped because all color had leached from Tanner’s face. “Sorry. I guess you understand what they’re going through.”
“Yeah, and I’m real lucky, too.” He slapped the mess of ropes and pulleys. “It’s been six weeks since I took the hit, and I still can’t bear weight on my right leg. In case you were fishing, Ms. Jardin, that’s not for publication. I will heal.”
“I told you I’m not a reporter.”
“I know what you said. I also know what can happen if information like that gets to the media. I’ll be out of a job. I don’t think you want that on your conscience, Ms. Bleeding Heart.”
“Rumors are already floating around. Pablo heard the techs in physical therapy talking. Will you play for the Sinners this season?”
“Hell, yes!” He tried to sit forward.
“Stop.” Crystal held him against the pillows. “I don’t want a repeat of yesterday.”
“Who’s saying I’m washed up?” Caleb demanded, every muscle in his long body tensing.
“Are you?” Crystal gave him a penetrating look.
Cale shut his eyes and massaged the bridge of his nose with a thumb and forefinger. “I’m lively as an electric fence. Give me one good reason I should discuss any of this with you.”
She let several silent seconds tick by, then reached for her handbag and pulled out the envelope. Since Cale paid no attention to the rustle of paper, she cleared her throat.
He threw her a wary glance. Crystal saw more than she wanted to see. More than he wanted her to see. The man was hurting, and not just on the outside. She doubted it had anything to do with his physical condition.
“What’s that?” Cale shifted his gaze to the neatly typed page she’d unfurled.
“An offer of employment from Lyon Broadcasting. One of our sportscasters took a job in L.A. Nate Fraser, the sports director at WDIX-TV, wants you to replace him. So does André Lyon, and Michael McKay, head of personnel. It’s all in this letter of intent.”
“I’m not some over-the-hill quarterback you can dress in a monkey suit and slap behind a desk to talk about the game. I’m a player. A damn good one. I’ve got six more years in me if I’ve got a day.” He plucked the letter out of her hand and ripped it in two. As the pieces settled, he said venomously, “Tell Fraser to get the hell out of my face. Goes double for you, lady.”
Once again Crystal changed her opinion of the great Caleb Tanner. He was a spoiled brat. An egomaniac, too. She slammed the lid on her sax case as the outer door opened. In whisked the wiry man she’d seen leaving Tanner’s room yesterday.
“Cale? I heard you shouting all the way down the hall.” The newcomer trained his eyes on Crystal. “I don’t know the problem, so I can’t apologize for my client. I’m Cale’s agent, Leland Bergman.”
“It’s a case of killing the messenger. I could have brought Nate back a simple no just as easily.”
“Nate?” Leland rested his briefcase on Caleb’s bed.
Crystal hefted her sax and her handbag and started for the door, never glancing at Tanner. “I had the dubious honor of delivering Nate Fraser’s offer to hire Mr. Tanner as a WDIX-TV sportscaster.” She inclined her head toward the two halves of the letter. “I’m on my way now to relay Tanner’s refusal.”
“Hold on.” Leland loped across the floor. He tugged Crystal back into the room. After releasing her, he fitted the letter pieces together and read them.
Caleb sat through the whole ordeal without moving, as if carved from rock.
When Leland finished, he dropped the pieces into Cale’s lap and waited until he bad his client’s attention. “It’s a good offer,” Leland said with a catch in his voice. “I don’t mind saying, Cale, it’ll make my news a little easier to take. The Sinners won’t wait on another doctor’s opinion. They’ve given you the final sack, old buddy.”
Crystal had to turn away and blink her eyes. The last time she’d seen a man look so utterly devastated, she’d been eight. The news had been as bluntly delivered. A doctor had stridden into a waiting room where Crystal sat with her father and announced that her mother had died in recovery after a simple tonsillectomy. She’d hemorrhaged, and no one had been able to stop the bleeding. Crystal’s world—and her father’s—had shifted on its axis. Tanner’s had clearly just done the same.
Bergman was talking about a career change, not death. Still, Tanner obviously wasn’t going to do it. In her opinion, WDIX would be better off without him, although Nate and the others would be disappointed. She’d better go call them. Except that she still hadn’t fulfilled her promise to Skip’s friends.
“Mr. Bergman, there are five kids in a ward down the hall who’d love a signed photo of your client. They will always be his fans.”
Caleb rallied, emerging from his misery. “I forgot. Leland, are there any promo shots left in the bottom dresser drawer?”
Leland found them and shoved a stack at Crystal. “You want the little lady to hold off telling Fraser no—don’t you, Cale?”
“I want to play, Lee. Call Miami. They were sniffing around in the spring.”
“As soon as they hear the Sinners wire-brushed you due to injuries, nobody’ll be interested anymore. At least consider Fraser’s offer.”
Cale looked stubborn. “The money’s pocket change, Leland.”
Crystal almost swallowed her teeth.
The agent slicked a hand through thinning hair. “So ask for a hundred grand.”
“They’ll never pay it,” Crystal sputtered, fearing in her heart that they would.
Leland hustled her to the door. “Ask them, darlin’,” he whispered loudly. “Come back later with a counter. I’ll keep the Sinners from releasing a statement until Cale hammers out this deal.”
Crystal found herself outside in the hall staring at the closed door. A hundred thousand dollars to comment on a few games a year? They were out of their ever-loving gourds.
CHAPTER THREE
CRYSTAL DECIDED to grab some lunch and call André before going to see Skip and the other boys to give them their keepsakes. The crowded cafeteria pulsed with noisy chatter. Doctors and nurses who ordinarily ate in one of the hospital’s three open courtyards had been driven inside by the storm.
She chose a shrimp salad and a cup of coffee and settled into a corner table by a window. Fat raindrops beat steadily against the glass. Warming her hands on the cup, Crystal dreaded calling André. It was hard to gauge how he’d react. Probably he’d be upset. She ought to have explained to Tanner how generous the offer really was. But no, he wanted more. He wouldn’t have listened to reason. To top it off, he’d acted as if eighty-five thousand was a paltry amount.
Thank goodness it wasn’t her problem. She coordinated all department budgets and gave input into spending patterns. The decision to spend an obscene amount of money to hire a name—and to Crystal Caleb Tanner’s name was the only thing he had of any worth—belonged to the company principals, mainly André and Gaby. Margaret always backed them. Charles had almost ceased participating, and as for his sons...well, Alain and Raymond opposed everything André put on the table. Jason rarely attended meetings. Scott avoided all family politics. But spending money always caused major bickering.
Still, she couldn’t sit here procrastinating forever. Swallowing a bite of salad, Crystal took her cell phone out of her handbag and quickly punched in André’s number. “Hi, it’s me,” she said inanely in response to his greeting. “Tanner tore up our offer, André. I hope you don’t fall off your chair, but get this. His bottom line is one hundred thousand. Plus benefits, I’m sure. I let him know the figure was preposterous.”
She held the phone away from her ear as André responded.
“You’re telling me to go for it? Do you know how much of a slice that takes out of the sports budget? We paid Jerry Davis half that and he came to WDIX an experienced broadcaster. For all you know, Tanner might freeze in front of the camera.”
Crystal cradled the phone on her shoulder while she poked at the shrimp among her salad greens. The more determination she heard in André’s voice, the less hungry she became. “Okay,” she said. “I’ll concede that might be far-fetched. I realize you’ve seen him field sports interviews. Of course Lyon Broadcasting is solvent. Yes, we have money in the discretionary fund. André, maybe it’d be better if you and Nate came and talked to Tanner. I’ll go back to the office and adjust the short- and long-term planning figures to reflect your decision.”
She shoved her salad away. “I know you want him. It just seemed such an absurd request I didn’t seriously imagine you’d go that high.”
Sighing, Crystal massaged her forehead. “Okay. Will you print another letter of intent with the new dollar amounts and run it over here? Two copies. You sign both and I’ll have Tanner do the same—maybe. If he goes for it. You might want to include a list of benefits. I have a feeling he’ll ask what all we’re offering. Buzz me when you’re a couple of blocks from the hospital. I’ll come out to the curb and collect the envelope so you don’t have to fight for parking.”
After she hung up, she drank her cold coffee and contemplated what quirk in male brains made them elevate sports figures to the top of the salary pyramid. Well, top salary for an independent TV station, anyway. And from Tanner’s remarks it wasn’t even close to what he made throwing a stupid ball around a cow pasture. But then, rock stars pulled down indecent money compared to most jazz musicians she knew. More of life’s unfairness, she supposed.
The cafeteria had begun to empty. Rather than visit the boys while she waited for André’s call, Crystal refilled her coffee cup. Better to sew up this deal with Tanner and get it out of her system. Kids were so perceptive. Skipper, especially, because of the stream of foster families he’d lived with could pick up moods easily. Crystal didn’t want him worrying about her little snit.
Ultimately she downed three cups of coffee before André called. Her teeth might be on edge from an overdose of caffeine, but at least the storm had blown over and the rain had stopped. The sun had popped out and steam rose off the sidewalks by the time Crystal jogged out to the street to meet André’s car. He wasn’t alone. Nate and Michael were with him.
“Sure you won’t handle this, André?” she pleaded again as he shoved the manila envelope into her hand. “I’ll smuggle you past the nurses’ station.”
Nate leaned across André. “Pro athletes can be superstitious as heu, Crystal. We don’t know that Tanner is, but no sense rocking the canoe, if you know what I mean. He’s talking to you, and that suits me fine. Say, André forgot to ask—did Cale mention how long it’d be before we can expect him to come on board?”
“We, uh, didn’t get to the particulars. I doubt we’d have progressed beyond him ripping up our letter if his agent hadn’t shown up.”
André frowned. “Is Bergman involved in our negotiations? If so, the tab may go even higher.”
Crystal flattened herself against the car as an SUV plowed through a puddle and water sprayed from beneath its big wheels. “Mr. Bergman’s the one who urged Tanner to reconsider taking the job. I gathered he’s only just found out for sure that the Sinners aren’t going to renew Caleb’s contract.”
“So it’s official?” Nate played drumbeats on André’s dash. “I’m glad you beefed up the benefits, André. We’ll hit him while he’s still reeling. Stay with him until he signs, Crystal. And be nice. Tell him what he wants to hear. That he’ll have a generous travel allowance and his own expense account.”
“What?” Crystal bent down and thrust her head into the car. “Am I going to have to fight with him over road expenses the way I do with you, Nate? You can’t give an employee an unlimited expense account. It’s financial suicide. Tell him, Michael.”
André cleared his throat. “It’s not open-ended, Crystal. But we’d rather wait to set the parameters after Caleb starts work and we have a better sense of what his duties will be. Can you avoid stating an exact amount? Just indicate it’ll be generous.”
“I think you’re all nuts,” she muttered. “A monkey in silk is still a monkey.”
“Oh, that’s something else,” Nate said. “While Michael drew up the new offer, I did some digging into Cale’s background. He graduated from Texas A & M with a degree in communications.”
“I’ll bet. Everybody knows college counselors give jocks do-nothing courses.”
Nate smiled. “Used to be true, thank heaven. Otherwise I’d have never made it through Georgia State. Now everybody has to pull his weight academically. Cale carried a 3.8 grade point. So give credit where credit’s due.”
“Sure,” she said sweetly. “I happen to know you graduated magna cum laude, Nathan. Jill showed me your college scrapbook.”
“Why’d she do a dumb thing like that?” He frowned.
“Maybe she wanted people at work to know you were more than just a pretty face.”
That brought guffaws from the others. Nate Fraser’s face could be called many things. Rugged. Lived-in. Maybe even kind. But pretty? Definitely not.
Nate slumped back into his seat. “Get on with you, white girl,” he growled. “Quit stalling. André’s blocked the passenger unloading zone long enough. And don’t you be telling Cale I do okay in the brains department. As director, I get more respect pretending to be a dumb jock.”
Crystal couldn’t help smiling as she trudged back to Tanner’s room. It wasn’t often she got one up on Nate. She wished she’d thought to use the information about his academic career before. Like when Nate claimed he messed up his expense account because he couldn’t get the hang of debits and credits.
This time when she approached Tanner’s door, she didn’t hear any noise. On checking, she discovered the drapes had been pulled to darken the room. Tanner was alone, but not asleep. He worked with a set of hand weights while staring dejectedly at a blank TV screen. His lunch tray sat untouched.
The ravaged expression on his face walloped Crystal before she had a chance to erect defenses. “Hi. It’s me again.” Her voice squeaked as she stumbled over the banal greeting.
His eyes, jade-dark and overflowing with dashed hopes, studied her. “I’m rotten company, sugar. On the other hand, I’d just as soon not be alone right now.”
Crystal stepped fully into the room. Nate’s recent directive pounded through her head. Be nice to him. He did look as if he needed a friend. She glanced around and saw that the room had three chairs. Selecting one, she sat and placed her handbag in another, then propped her sax case against the third. “Will Mr. Bergman be back soon?”
“Agents can’t afford to waste their time on cripples. He’s probably glued to his cell phone, looking for new blood.”
Crystal pulled her hair over one shoulder, separated it into three heavy strands and began braiding it automatically. “So you exploded like a volcano and threw him out, huh?”
He stopped lifting the weights. “If you’re planning to add shrink to your list of accomplishments, you can take a hike, too. I’ll have agents beating down my door once this leg heals.” He slapped at the covers, accidentally throwing one of the small barbells he’d been lifting into his injured knee.
His grimace of pain told Crystal all she needed to know. She wrapped a scrunchie around the bottom end of her braid and flipped it behind her. “I don’t want to play devil’s advocate, Tanner, but it doesn’t appear that’ll happen anytime soon. You can’t kick a football until you can walk.”
“I don’t kick the football,” he said coldly. “I’m a quarterback. I throw the ball.”
Her arched eyebrow implied it was all the same thing.
Caleb crossed his arms. “I can see you’re dying to give me the perfect alternative. Well, since you’re back, I assume Fraser came up with a counteroffer. Let’s have it, then,” he muttered. “Get this over with.”
Crystal reached into her bag and removed the envelope. This time she handed him the whole thing, instead of taking out the letter as she had before. “There are two copies of the agreement and a list of benefits. Read it carefully, Mr. Tanner. To be offered more, you’d have to be willing to live in New York or L.A. This is on the high end for a station our size. André’s been more than charitable.”
He flung the envelope down, unopened. Lips thinned into a harsh line, he said, “I’m not a charity case yet. You tell that to whoever the hell André is.”
“André Lyon. The Lyons own WDIX radio and TV. His parents were television pioneers. Our station has left its mark on this country.”
“And you don’t want me tarnishing its sterling image, isn’t that right, sugar? I can tell you think I’m not fit to wipe the feet of those Lyon dudes.”
Crystal gasped. As a rule she masked her feelings well. Unable to meet his challenging green eyes, she lowered her lashes. “What I think or don’t think isn’t the issue here, Mr. Tanner. The offer for employment is a good one, and it’s legitimate.”
“Caleb,” he snarled, grabbing the envelope and ripping it open. “Have you got a beef with the name, sugar? Or with me? Was I rude to you at a game once when you tried to flirt? If so, you have my humblest apologies. So many women slink up and wind around players after a game it’s hard to distinguish one from another.”
This time not only did Crystal gasp, she shot right out of her chair, trembling with anger. “I have never been to a game,” she said haughtily. “I realize this may shock your ego, Tanner, but I don’t consider myself deprived. And if you don’t want the other leg to wind up in a cast, I’d advise you to stop calling me sugar.”
Caleb stared at her a moment, then laughed. “I thought it was unAmerican to dislike the national sport. Which is football, sug...uh, Crystal.”
Suddenly glad for André and Nate’s sake that she hadn’t let her temper totally blow the deal with Tanner, Crystal sank into the chair again and smoothed down her skirt. “There’re probably only a couple of us renegades in the entire U.S. of A.,” she said with a deprecating shrug. I’m certainly not representative of the crew at WDIX. Nor of our viewers. Our sports programs have a huge following. And it goes without saying that sports generates sponsors.”
Drawing the sheets from the envelope, Caleb read through the offer twice before he moved on to the page listing the benefits. His heart plunged as he compared what Crystal thought was a generous salary to what he’d been getting. At a hundred thou, with Uncle Sam’s bite, he’d be lucky to pull off Patsy’s wedding and pay Jenny’s college fees. For sure he’d have to find new digs. The five thousand a month he paid in rent now represented a huge chunk of change.
Crystal cleared her throat. “Is there something about the offer you need clarified? Something that particularly bothers you?”
“Everything about it bothers me, sweetheart How long does Fraser expect me to sign on for? I mean, does he understand I’ll go back to playing when my leg gets to a hundred percent?”
She looked perplexed. “I’m not sure I know what you mean. A two-week notice is standard. Jerry Davis gave three, I think. It’s his slot Nate hopes you’ll fill. But he did wonder when you’d be available. If the doctors have given you a release date, that is.”
“You mean I won’t have to sign a contract for a set amount of time?”
Her lips quirked at the corners. “Ever heard of free enterprise, Tanner? Haven’t you worked in the private sector?”
He gave that question consideration. At last he shook his head. “As a kid, I helped on the farm. You don’t get paid for that. You’re lucky to get three squares a day and a roof over your head. I signed with the Cowboys right out of college.”
“The Cowboys?” She looked blank.
Cale snickered. “Are you for real? The Dallas Cowboys, darlin’. As in NFL champions. Emmitt Smith, Deion Sanders, Michael Irvin.” When she continued to look blank, he quit laughing. “Nobody can be that out of touch with sports.”
“I am. And I don’t consider it a laughing matter. I hate team sports. They’re dangerous and violent.”
“Hell, darlin’, driving a car is dangerous. TV movies are violent.”
“Don’t call me darlin’. We were discussing André’s offer. Are you interested in working for Lyon Broadcasting or not?”
“Not. I’m interested in getting back on my feet and into the game again. But as Leland pointed out before he left, Lyon’s offered me an ace in the hole. Give me a pen and I’ll put my John Hancock on this form.”
Feeling smug at her success, Crystal pawed through her bag. When she failed to turn up a pen, she stood and walked over to his nightstand. “You had pens in the middle drawer earlier.”
“Yeah. Say, is the kid happy I signed his football?”
“I haven’t been to the ward to give it to him yet. He’ll be ecstatic. That’s all he’ll talk about for months.”
Cale started to say something, but the phone on his nightstand rang. “Catch that for me, would you?” he asked, his eyes vaguely panicky. “If it’s any of the guys from the team, tell them I’m being X-rayed or something.”
Sympathy kicking in again, she handed him a pen and nodded. “Hello,” she chirped into the phone, sounding a bit rushed and breathless.
“No, I’m not Caleb’s nurse or therapist,” Crystal said smoothly. She nonchalantly handed him the receiver. “I can safely say it’s not one of your teammates,” she whispered.
Eyes narrowed, he tucked the phone against his ear. “Well, hello, sugar pie. ’Course it’s not inconvenient. You can call me anytime, Jenny.” He signed the second copy of the intent letter, shoved both toward Crystal, then settled into the stack of pillows. From the smile that softened his face, Crystal decided the female caller was his special lady. She felt uncomfortable eavesdropping. He tacked endearments on the end of every sentence. Even when they were evidently discussing his caller’s car.
“Sounds like a clogged fuel filter, hon. I wish I could be there to change it, too, sweet pea. You know I can’t. Call Waylon Gill. Tell him what I think the trouble is. Don’t you worry about a thing, darlin’. What’s important is for you to be on wheels I can trust. Have Gill put it on my card.”
Crystal felt a moment’s envy for the woman on the other end of the phone line. Caleb Tanner dispensed love along with his handouts. Her father had lavished her with money, but she couldn’t remember a time he’d offered loving advice. Or any advice. When she was little, Roger Jardin had expected his aunt Anita to handle any problems that arose. And from the time she turned twelve, he assumed Crystal was old enough and capable enough to work things out for herself. For the most part she had. Still, there’d been times during high school and college when she would have liked someone to rely on. At least someone to run decisions by, to discuss things with.
Now she had Margaret. Or maybe not. Crystal’s fear that something might have happened to her favorite relative tied her stomach in knots. From the minute Crystal had applied for an accounting job at WDIX—really from the minute Margaret realized who she was—the kind nurturing woman had brought her into a family who’d welcomed her, who’d opened wide the doors of Lyoncrest. And she loved living in the historic old house.
Crystal paced to the window. She tugged the heavy drape aside and pressed her nose to the glass, hoping the return of sunshine would calm her unsettled feelings. Paul’s death had cast a gloom over the family. And then, before anyone could finish grieving, Margaret had vanished without a word. Crystal returned repeatedly to one basic truth: it simply wasn’t like Margie to do this. No one was more devoted to family than Margaret Lyon.
“Hey, what’s so interesting outside?”
Crystal turned and blinked. The low light in the room made it seem dark. “Oh—I didn’t hear you say goodbye and hang up.”
“I’m not surprised. You looked a million miles away. Sorry for the interruption. Where were we?”
“Uh...you signed the agreement. I would’ve left, but I didn’t know where you wanted me to put your copy. Also, I thought maybe you might have questions.”
“Will I see you at work?” He grinned rakishly and winked.
Since Crystal had just heard him fawning over the woman on the phone, she thought he had some nerve. Not to mention he obviously paid the woman’s bills, which relegated her to a status beyond that of casual acquaintance.
Crystal mustered the no-nonsense scowl she reserved for employees who’d overshot their budgets or overspent on their travel-expense accounts. “You’d better hope you don’t have dealings with me at work. I manage the money and oversee all department budgets. When people have to see me, it usually means they’re in financial trouble. Not a good place to be.”
For a moment he looked as guilty as a boy caught stealing a slice from a birthday cake. As quickly, his eyes turned serious. “Is it hard to learn how to set up a budget?”
His question took Crystal by surprise. She wondered if the woman’s car problems were the catalyst. Why hadn’t she realized it might be his wife? For all she knew, he could be married and have six kids. Not all men wore wedding rings. “I do more than set up budgets. I manage all financial transactions for the radio and television stations owned by the Lyon family. I have an undergraduate degree in accounting and business administration. I have a master’s in finance, and I’m a CPA.”
“Wow.”
He appeared so frankly impressed that Crystal felt herself blush. “Forgive me for sounding like I was bragging. I’m sure your financial adviser has at least those qualifications. Anyway...you’ll want to notify whoever it is about the change in your financial status. He or she will want to do a new profile and possibly rearrange your portfolio.”
“My portfolio.” Cale couldn’t bring himself to tell her that he’d somehow managed to fritter away ten years’ worth of income. Tough tightfisted Crystal Jardin probably had the first dime she’d ever earned enshrined under glass. “My, uh, portfolio is in good hands.”
She smiled. “Well, we’ve taken care of everything I came to do. Nate and André’s business cards are in the envelope if you think of any questions after I leave. You might tune in to the sports report at five. You’ll be a hot topic, I’m sure.”
The green in his eyes changed so rapidly into muddied distress Crystal let her handbag fall on the chair again. “What’s the matter? Your retirement and launch into sports media are bound to make headlines.”
“Leland said the Sinners won’t make any announcement until they sign a new quarterback,” he said bitterly. “Lee swore he’d give me ample warning. He thinks the coach may play the first two season games with his backup—as if he’s waiting for my return.”
Observing Cale’s rancor, Crystal felt a tug of sympathy again. “You haven’t told anyone, have you. I’ll bet not even your family.”
He shook his head.
“I see.” She sat down again and fiddled with her purse. “So the exercise we just went through is really just insurance for you. Do you really think you’ll be through physical therapy and ready by that third game? You’re counting on the Sinners rehiring you?”
“They should never have let me go,” he said coldly.
“Wouldn’t it have been crueler to leave you dangling? Which is what you plan on doing to WDIX.” Crystal said with equal coldness. Enough to bring color to Caleb’s cheeks.
He picked up the paper he’d signed and shook it at her. “I read this thoroughly. You said yourself it’s a letter of intent. They intend to hire me if and when I become available. You said it’s not a contract.”
“It’s not. But with you signing it, André and Nate are declaring the job is yours. Nate’s filling in until you start. You’re on the payroll as of now, and they won’t be looking for someone else. It’s referred to as a gentlemen’s agreement. Which is apparently beyond your comprehension, Mr. Tanner.”
“It’s Caleb. I thought we agreed.”
“So sue me. You agreed to work for WDIX-TV as soon as the doctor signs your release.”
He raised his hands. “Hold it. Arguing is getting us nowhere.”
“At last. Something on which we see eye to eye.” She crossed her legs at the knee and swung one foot back and forth. “Do you want to start unscrambling the mess?” she asked. “Or shall I?”
“You, by all means. Ladies first. You might start by telling me why you lied when I asked if I had to sign a contract for a certain number of years. You said no.”
“That’s right. I stand by that statement. But you did indicate you wanted to work for us.”
“No. I definitely recall telling you I wanted to play football.”
“Well, yes, but—”
“There’s no ‘but’ to it. From the way you talked, I thought this letter simply meant your boss wanted to hire me.”
“He did. Does,” she stammered. “By signing it, what do you think you promised?”
“To take the job if I’m available after the doctor releases me. I figured it locked me into a salary and benefits and that if one of your competitors showed up and offered me a better deal, I’d have to turn them down.”
Color streaked up Crystal’s neck.
“Bingo! That’s precisely the reason you muscled your way in here and bullied me into signing. I might have grown up on a melon farm, Crystal, but I did not leave my brains underneath a vine.”
“I resent your insinuating I tricked you. I tried to talk Nate, André and Mike out of hiring you.”
He stared at her for a lengthy minute with an odd twist to his mouth. “Do you mind telling me why? Since we’ve never met before...”
“Not until yesterday.” The red extended to her ears now. “Look, negotiations won’t improve if we get personal.”
He crossed his arms and said provocatively, “See there? You’ve admitted to not knowing anything about me. I happen to think negotiations would improve a lot if we got personal. By the way,” he added in a low voice, “you ought to wear your hair down, instead of braided. Men have an age-old fantasy about women with long hair.”
Crystal jumped up, snatched her purse and her saxophone case. “Sexual innuendos aren’t acceptable in the business world. You’re crude. You probably belch, too, and pick your teeth in public. And now you have my objections to hiring you. Goodbye, Mr. Tanner. I’ve done what I was sent to do. If you get the urge to rip up your copy of the letter of intent, do call WDIX Human Resources. Otherwise, our attorney may be meeting with yours. If that happens, remember they’re the ones who eat caviar and drive Lamborghinis.”
His delighted laughter halted Crystal at the door. Before she could ask what he found so funny, the door opened and a burly male orderly blocked her way with a wheelchair.
“Caleb Tanner?” The man with his hand on the chair consulted a clipboard lying on the seat. “I’m a big fan of yours,” the orderly said. And he was if his look of awe was a measure of the truth.
Cale’s laughter died. “Thanks, man. What’s this all about?” He indicated the wheelchair.
“Didn’t Doc Forsythe tell you?”
Cale frowned. “Tell me what? He hasn’t been in today.”
“He signed an order for physical therapy.” The other man eyed Cale’s traction apparatus. “Maybe there’s been a mistake. Although I only pick ‘em up and transport ’em,” he said. “Normally guys don’t start therapy until they’re unhitched from traction.”
Caleb reached for the top pulley. “It’s simple enough to unhook. I’ve been champing at the bit waiting to start therapy.”
“Should you call someone?” Crystal asked the orderly.
He glanced at her as if seeing her for the first time. “Are you Tanner’s wife? That’d be a good idea, ma’am. I’ll phone the physical-therapy office right now.” He crossed to the phone on Caleb’s nightstand.
“I’m not Mrs. Tanner,” Crystal declared at the same time as Caleb said loudly, “I’m not married.”
He wasn’t? Crystal’s pulse gave a peculiar little hop and her breath caught in her throat. By the time she swallowed and managed to breathe, she realized the news that he was single had no bearing on anything. He’d honeyed, darlin’d and sweetied some woman with a sultry Southern drawl. Definitely someone who had the inside track to Tanner’s heart. That was supposing he had a heart and didn’t have a woman in every city the Sinners played.
The rattle and clank of metal on metal dragged her attention from her thoughts. Because Cale had unsnapped and dropped all the ropes and crossbars to his traction setup, the orderly had detoured from his mission to call the physical therapy department.
It wasn’t any of her business, but judging by the agony creasing Caleb’s face as he attempted to swing his leg off the bed, somebody should intervene. Crystal set her things aside and rushed to the bed. She picked up the phone. “What’s the extension for your department?” she asked the orderly. She definitely didn’t like the fact that he was listening to Caleb. Rather than phone for clarification, he’d rolled the chair over to the bed.
“Uh...171. We’re two floors down.”
Not knowing what that had to do with anything, Crystal nodded and punched in the numbers. Caleb caught her eye and glared.
“You have a football to deliver to some kid down the hall, don’t you?”
But she’d tuned him out, suddenly hearing a woman’s voice saying urgently, “Hello. Hello? I’m trying to reach Caleb Tanner. Is this room 306?”
Crystal shushed the men in the room with a brisk wave of her hand. “This is Mr. Tanner’s room. Is this the secretary in physical therapy? No? Oh, your name is Gracie. Ah...I understand. I must have picked up the phone to dial out just as the switchboard transferred your call in.” Covering the mouthpiece, Crystal turned to Caleb, who, although he grimaced in pain, now sat in the wheelchair. “It’s Gracie,” she said.
She expected him not to take the call. To ask her to say he was indisposed. Instead, he spun the chair’s wheels with his powerful arms, and before Crystal could let out her breath, he’d yanked the phone from her hand.
“Gracie, darlin’. This is a treat. Listen, shortcake, can I phone you back? What? Your watch quit and you found one at Nieman’s you like better? It’s yours, sweetheart. And a new suit? Gray pinstripe. A power suit, huh? I thought those were red. Why not red? I think you look pretty snazzy in red.” Caleb glanced up. He sucked in his breath and gritted his teeth as Crystal edged past him, accidentally bumping his tender knee.
“Where in hell are you going?” He clapped a hand over the receiver, then moved it back to his mouth and slid his fingers away. “I didn’t mean you, dumplin’. It’s kind of nutty here, Gracie. Forgive my swearing, shortcake.”
Crystal scooped up her things again and strode out the door with a quick backward glance. More of a glare, really. She hoped it conveyed how she felt about his laying it on so thick to the second woman in one day. How many others would there be? “You’re a cockroach, Tanner,” she said in a voice she hoped was loud enough for poor snookered Gracie to hear. “Slime. Please do rip up André’s letter. If you’re too weak after therapy, the nurses down the hall have a paper shredder.”
She sped out the door too fast to see the baffled expression shared by the men.
“What? Yes, Gracie, the lady did call me names. I know it’s hard to believe, darlin’. But not everybody thinks your brother hung the moon and stars.”
“And you might not, either,” he muttered glumly after they hung up. “If this leg doesn’t heal, and if I can’t bring myself to say no to you three girls, your stupendous fantastic brother may end up in debtor’s prison.”
The orderly chuckled. “I think those went out with the guillotine, man.” His face was still wreathed in smiles as he phoned downstairs to verify that Tanner was indeed scheduled to begin physical therapy.
CHAPTER FOUR
CRYSTAL PUT TANNER and his collection of women out of her mind as she headed down the hall to the kids’ ward. She saw Nurse Pam, who acknowledged her by waving a full oversize syringe. Crystal was awfully glad Pam sped past the boys’ room on her mission of mercy.
“Knock, knock. Incoming adult,” she warned before she invaded the boys’ space. “Hide the stash of peanuts, candy and bubble gum, guys.” All six occupants burst into giggles.
“You’re early.” Skipper punched the mute button on his TV remote control, which garnered loud complaints from his roommates.
“Early, and I come bearing gifts.” Crystal produced the signed football from the depths of her handbag and handed it to Skipper with a brief “Ta-da!” Then she hauled out the signed action shots of Tanner. After counting out one for each child, she discovered she had two left. Maybe she’d give one to André’s son, Andy-Paul. She didn’t have a clue what she’d do with the other. Paste it on a dartboard, perhaps.
“This is so cool, Crystal,” Skip said. “Look, Randy. Cale wrote, ‘To Skip. Kick ’em high, throw ‘em true. Caleb Tanner.”’
Crystal leaned over to look. “I thought he only wrote, ‘To Skip from Caleb.’ I can’t figure out why he’d give such off-the-wall advice. I explained about your accident.”
“I’m gonna play football again, Crystal. Cale knows that.”
“Yeah,” his friends chorused enthusiastically.
She gazed into uncompromising green eyes, realizing for the first time how closely Skipper’s eye color resembled Caleb Tanner’s. Both pairs were indecently dark-lashed, too. The resemblance ended there. Skip had sandy red hair, pale skin and freckles. Tanner’s hair was hard to describe. Full and thick, it seemed to have variegated hues from light blond to toffee. His skin was evenly tanned. Today, she’d noticed his jaw was shadowed by a slight stubble. Based on her limited visits, she judged him to be a man who shaved regularly. Except for the earring, he seemed conventional. And even the earring was pedestrian compared to those worn by some of her jazz compatriots.
Gracious. Why had her mind wandered so far afield? Crystal had barely shaken herself out of her stupor than the orderly she’d encountered in Tanner’s room strode through the door.
“You get around,” he said, grinning at her.
She didn’t respond to that, but asked, “You’re here for Pablo?” Of the six in the room, he alone had progressed to the point of physical therapy.
The orderly, whose name tag read Gibson, checked the top sheet on his clipboard. “Nope. The patient I want is West Skip West. Or if you want to get technical, Sinclair West.”
“Yuck!” Skip rolled his eyes as the other boys made rude gagging noises.
“There must be some mistake,” Crystal said faintly.
“Nah,” Skip said, ducking his head. “It’s awful, but my mom named me Sinclair Malone West. After her daddy. I never met him or nothin’. He died when she was little.”
Before Crystal could explain that she hadn’t been referring to his name, Randy broke in. “How come everybody calls you Skipper, then? Was that what your old man called you?”
Skip shook his head and thrust his jaw out pugnaciously. “I never had no old man. So what?”
“Everybody’s got an old man,” Randy scoffed with worldly knowledge. “My mom says they don’t all stick around after they’ve had their fun bouncing between the sheets.” Over Crystal’s sharply indrawn breath, he added, “It’s plain dumb, Skipper, saying you don’t got an old man.”
The boys paid no attention to the fact that Skip looked ready to explode. Pablo injected his two cents’ worth from the other side of the room. “Yeah, dude. Even test-tube babies got a padre.”
“Well, I don’t!” Skipper shouted. He jabbed a thumb into his skinny chest. “My mom said there was just her and me and nobody else. After she got shot by the coke-head who robbed the store where she worked, there was only me.” His face had turned a mottled red.
Crystal stepped between the beds, put two fingers in her mouth and whistled. Then she made a T with her hands. “Time-out, guys. Randy, you and Pablo read a comic book or watch TV. I want a word with Mr. Gibson.”
Though sullen, the boys settled down. “Now,” she said to the orderly, “could you check with your office? Skip had surgery yesterday. I find it hard to believe they’d start PT today. Have they even had you sit up yet?” she asked Skip.
“Yeah. ‘Course they have.”
“Are you some busybody patient liaison sent by administration to bug me?” Gibson sputtered. “I’m just following orders from my boss, lady.”
Crystal spread her palms. “You questioned whether or not Tanner should have therapy because he was still in traction. I’m merely doing the same on Skip’s behalf. I don’t work for the hospital. I’m the business manager for Lyon Broadcasting, and Skipper’s friend.”
“Nurse Pam said Crystal is a financial wizard,” Skip put in, his temper obviously cooled.
Though Gibson muttered to himself, he looked at Crystal with new respect as he slouched over to the wall phone. In the children’s ward, patients didn’t have telephones beside their beds. Administration was probably afraid they’d run up long-distance bills. The kids came to the ward from all over the state. Pablo, like Skip, was in local foster care. Randy’s mother lived in Baton Rouge. Felipe reportedly had family in the Atchafalaya Swamp; he spoke only French, and Crystal had never seen anyone visit the boy. Barry Hodges needed more specialized care than was available in Vidalia; he had a cousin in town who visited occasionally. Moses Brown, the last of the six to be admitted, never mentioned family; he hardly said boo. Crystal knew he liked the picture of Caleb Tanner only because Moses had immediately tucked it into his pillowcase. Nurse Pam said that was where he squirreled away his few treats. Crystal had heard that Moses was Jamaican. One of a large family. He’d been injured playing street ball. Which specific sport, she didn’t know. Surgery hadn’t rescued his pitifully small body from pain-that she did know. It’d be a while before they scheduled him for physical therapy.
The orderly hung up the phone and turned. “Dr. Snyder ordered this young man to start upper-body exercise today. That way he’ll be able to balance on the bars in two weeks when they cut off his cast.”
Skipper’s eyes glazed in sudden fear. He grasped Crystal’s hand. “I’m scared it’ll hurt. Will you come with me?”
She glanced at the orderly. “Is that permissible?”
Gibson hitched a shoulder. “It’s a big area. If the PT who’s scheduled to work with Skipper has any problem with you being there, he or she will ask you to wait outside. There’s a nice waiting room. We do a lot of outpatient work, as well as inpatient care.”
“Then I’ll go.” She smiled at Skip, who still had a stranglehold on her fingers. He didn’t let go, either, which made it awkward when Gibson tried to transfer the boy to the wheelchair. The man worked around the inconvenience. He kept up a line of banter without making Skip feel like a baby for needing to hang on to someone. For all his size, the man was gentle.
“You’ve obviously been at this job awhile,” Crystal said.
“Six years. I hope to be a physical therapist someday.”
“It’s a tough course, I understand,” she murmured sympathetically.
The man rolled Skip’s chair into the hall. “It’s finding the time and money to take classes. I have a family to support.”
“No wonder you’re so patient with Skip. You have children.”
“Yes. And I’m responsible for two sets of parents who are getting on in years.”
“That’s rough,” Crystal said. “The broadcasting company I work for ran a series recently on what’s being called the sandwich generation. I caught part of it. Mostly people talking about the difficulties involved in juggling care for both.”
He grinned at her. “I wish they’d talked to me. We bought a big house in town. All of us live together. My kids know their grandparents. They’re learning early about love and compassion and helping out around the house. If you ask me, it beats the alternative of growing up in small isolated families.”
Skipper leaned back in the wheelchair so he could look up at the man who pushed him. “Your place sounds neat. I don’t s’pose you have room for one more?” The wistful tone of his voice caused Crystal to tighten her hold on his hand.
“I’m afraid all the beds are taken,” Gibson said lightly. He raised a brow at Crystal as if wondering what he’d inadvertently stepped into.
“Skip is in foster care,” she informed him. Then, speaking to the boy, she asked softly, “You like living at Sandy’s, don’t you?”
“She and Mark are okay,” he said listlessly. “There’s a lot of kids and the house isn’t very big. And Mark doesn’t like us to make noise. Sandy says he takes complaints from customers all day. When he gets home he wants peace and quiet.”
“But they treat you well?” she pressed.
“Yeah. Mark don’t hit any of us like Leroy did at my last house.”
“Good. Because if you were having problems, I’d call Rachel.”
His face brightened. “I forgot you know my caseworker real well. Ms. Fontaine is nice. Not grouchy like some of ’em are.”
“That’s because she’s walked the walk, kiddo. She was a foster child in the house where I live. André Lyon, my boss, would’ve adopted her, but her mom refused to sign the papers. Lucky for Rachel, her mother agreed to permanent foster care. Rachel said the move to Lyoncrest changed her life. She knows the system can work, Skipper. Promise me that if you ever have problems, you’ll let her know at once.”
“Sure. Okay. Wow!” His voice rose excitedly and he tugged on Crystal’s jacket sleeve. “Isn’t that Cale over there?”
Gibson had wheeled Skipper’s chair to the doorway of a huge room that reminded Crystal of a fancy gym. She couldn’t begin to identify all the equipment, but Tanner worked at one machine that seemed designed to strengthen his upper body. Crystal didn’t want to stare. However, she couldn’t seem to help it. Caleb was bare to the waist. Ridges of muscle stood out across his shoulders as he hoisted himself from the seat of his wheelchair using nothing but his arms. Sweat glistened on his skin. A few drops pooled like tears in the rough hair that fanned his broad chest. The thatch of light brown narrowed before it met his navel. Beyond that, Crystal could only guess. And guessing made her uncomfortable.
“Well, isn’t it him?” Skip hissed, his eyes huge and eager.
Crystal wet her lips and cleared her throat. “Y-yes, it certainly is.”
“Wait’ll I tell the guys! He looks terrific. He don’t have a cast on or nothin’.”
As if sensing he was under scrutiny, Caleb glanced toward the door. The minute his eyes met Crystal’s he lost concentration and relaxed his grip on the rings.
Even across the room they heard the slap of his butt as it hit the vinyl seat of the wheelchair hard. Crystal flinched. Her teeth snapped shut and she closed her eyes, imagining the pain. Next the air curdled from his harsh expletive.
Skip’s cheeks paled. “I think that hurt him bad, Crystal. I guess maybe he’s not doin’ as good as he looks.”
“Healing bone and muscle takes time,” she murmured.
The therapist assigned to Skip walked up just then and blocked Caleb from Crystal’s view. But not before she saw him grit his teeth, tune her out and reach up to repeat the exercise. Logically Crystal knew that the other woman with a clipboard, the one who stood beside Caleb, must be his therapist Crystal wanted to scold the woman for assigning Caleb tasks that obviously hurt him.
Crystal didn’t know how long Skip’s therapist had been talking to her when she realized they were both staring at her and that some response was required. “Excuse me,” she said. “I must have zoned out for a moment.”
The young woman grinned. “I understand completely. All the women who work here have been drooling ever since Gib brought Caleb in. All except me. I like nerds. One football jock is the same as the next. It’s body by Mattel, brains by Brio.”
The insult didn’t go over Crystal’s head, but neither did she crack a smile. And when the therapist shrugged and looked at her with pity, Crystal had to wonder why she felt like retaliating on Tanner’s behalf.
“Gib said Skipper asked to have you stay for his therapy session,” the PT said, getting down to business. “I don’t mind. Gib’s bringing you a chair. We’re starting Skip with basic upper-body testing. This session is more or less to evaluate his muscular strengths and weaknesses. Boring stuff, really.”
“Will I hafta do what Cale’s doing, ma’am?” the boy asked apprehensively. “He’s really hurting, don’t you think?”
Crystal followed Skip’s troubled gaze. Indeed, Tanner seemed to be struggling. Veins stood out in his forearms, as did the cords in his neck. His therapist chewed gum and looked on. “His PT will call a halt if Tanner tries to overdo it, won’t she?” Crystal asked.
“Tanner’s her patient. My worry is this young man.” Skip’s therapist knelt to his level. “Call me, Mindy, okay? We’re going to be meeting like this two or three times a week over a long period. We’ll get to be friends. After your cast comes off, I may ask you to stretch some muscles that will hurt a bit, but today we’re doing easy stuff.”
He nodded, although his gaze kept straying to Cale’s corner. It was obvious from his straining that he wasn’t having an easy time of it. “Isn’t this Cale’s first day of therapy, too?” the boy managed in a high threadlike voice. “I think he’s in pain big time.”
Mindy didn’t seem to know how to answer. Crystal intervened. “Honey, I know for a fact that Tanner’s been working out with hand weights in his room. Plus, his athletic training has been far more intense than yours. You concentrate on what Mindy tells you to do, okay?”
“Yes, Skip. Lynelle is taking care of your friend. He’s fine. I promise.”
“All r-right.”
Skip still kept turning to watch Caleb. But how could Crystal blame him when she was sneaking looks, too? Tanner did possess an impressive physique. Broad shoulders, but not too bulky. Each of his hands would probably make two of hers. But they were well shaped and his nails were short and clean.
When Crystal started to imagine what it’d feel like having those hands roam over her breasts, she made herself turn her attention to Mindy and Skip again.
Why on earth do they keep it so warm in here? Crystal stood and walked to the door. She just needed to find the courtyard and get some air. Her sitting here served no purpose; Skip was doing fine with Mindy.
Crystal remained oblivious to the fact that the sway of her hips stopped Tanner’s therapy session cold. He had to lean around his therapist to gain the full effect of Crystal’s sudden departure. Lynelle didn’t like losing his attention. Clearly the therapist, in her spandex shorts and crop top, thought she was hot stuff. But Caleb had never been crazy about buxom blondes. Especially when they were closer to his kid sister’s age than his. Cale had accepted long ago that he might be the only football player on the face of the earth who was that choosy.
As a rule he gravitated toward tall leggy redheads. This week he’d changed his preference to petite saxophone players who wore their long black hair in a single braid. And he didn’t even know why, since he and Crystal Jardin hadn’t gotten past arguing. Then again, maybe that was the reason. Generally, everywhere he went, women of all ages fawned over him. Crystal was definitely not in that category.

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