The Man With The Money

Charly. Odd nickname for a woman, especially one that looked like her, not that she was drop-dead gorgeous or anything. Now that he thought about it, she wasn’t his usual type at all. He tended to gravitate toward the heavily, usually surgically, endowed sort. He liked long hair, blond preferably, blue eyes and stunning figures, stiletto heels and red lipstick. What was it about redheaded, shapely but unremarkable Charly that revved his engines so? It certainly wasn’t the way she dressed! He’d had Sunday school teachers who dressed with more pizzazz.

Funny, he hadn’t thought about that at the time. Now that he did, he was pretty sure she hadn’t been wearing any makeup. Her squarish face was pretty, yes, in a wholesome fashion, her mouth pleasingly plump and dusky rose, nose short and, well, neither wide nor narrow, blunt nor pointed. Her brows were straight, short dashes of red-brown above round eyes that were definitely her best feature. An odd golden color mottled with specks of green and blue, they were rimmed with thick lashes much brighter and lighter than her brows. He’d had the strange sensation of waking up to find those eyes gazing at him from the next pillow, their red-gold lashes sparkling with morning light. He wondered what she’d be like in bed.

He always wondered what they’d be like in bed. That’s what kept him moving on, what made him one of the hottest top ten bachelors in the nation, according to the press, that and the millions he had stashed away. He didn’t fool himself that his appeal to the opposite sex was strictly personal, and while he was definitely not above taking advantage of the appeal of his millions, it secretly rankled, just a bit, that his luck with women had improved so phenomenally once his business had taken off. Maybe Charly was his chance to put that old hang-up to rest. Maybe that was why he’d invented a new identity for himself on the spur of the moment.

Something had told him that Charlene Michman Bellamy would run from D. K. Rudell. So he’d be Darren Rudd and let her run to him instead. It would be a new experience, and new experience, after all, was the name of the game, wasn’t it? Same old same old got boring all too quickly, especially these days. Yeah, it was worth five hundred bucks and more just to see if plain Darren Rudd could pull it off.

Stevens had worried that she might be running a scam, that she might not be who she said she was or soliciting funds for anything other than her own use, but Darren didn’t believe it for a minute. She was much too genuine, this Charly. She might be, in fact, the most genuine article he’d ever come across. He shook his head, wondering why that mattered, why it intrigued. But in the end, he didn’t really care: the game was in play, and, as always, he intended to win.

Chapter Two

She was waiting in the parking garage, ostensibly adjusting the strap of a sandal with a four-inch-high heel, her firm rump all but exposed by the minuscule skirt of her spandex slip dress, when he slid the silver sport car into its assigned space. As he got out of the car, she straightened and feigned surprise, one long-nailed hand flying up to her chest and calling attention to the abundant cleavage exposed by the two tiny triangles which comprised the bodice of the so-called dress. Frowning, she adopted a petulant air, rippling her leonine mane with a practiced toss of her head.

“I’m glad I ran into you like this, D.K. I’ve been wanting to talk to you about yesterday.”

He activated the antitheft device on the car by depressing a button in the tiny remote attached to his key chain and said drolly, “So you’ve decided to apologize for stepping out of line—way, way out of line—and making that scene yesterday.”

She folded her arms beneath her ample breasts and threw out a hip, red mouth pursed in an effort to appear either hurt or repentant and managing neither, despite great inducement. Tawny Beekman had been living rent-free in a luxurious apartment two floors below the penthouse that Darren Keith Rudell called home. He’d offered it to her as a means of helping her straighten out her abysmal finances, since he owned the building, the apartment had been empty and she’d been evicted by her roommate. The couple of months’ reprieve he’d initially offered had stretched to nearly a year, with Tawny tearfully declaring over and over again that she couldn’t afford a decent apartment since she’d given up “dancing” for a living. She was supposedly supporting herself as a waitress, but he had his doubts. During that year she had done her best to renew their brief affair, though he had deliberately ended their very casual sexual relationship even before she’d moved into the building.

D. K. Rudell knew better than to let his casual affairs come too close. He never made passes at the women who lived in his building or worked in his employ. He never played around with married women or the family members of his friends or business acquaintances. He made certain that no woman ever spent an entire night in his bed, and he never, but never, gave any woman, save the cleaning lady and his sister, Jill, the code to his private elevator and a key to his penthouse, not even their flighty mother DeeDee.

Jill had rarely used the access he’d given her, but yesterday had been an exception. She’d been waiting for him when he’d gotten home from work, anxious to speak to him about their mother’s latest folly, an investment scheme in a diamond mine located in, of all places, Missouri. Tawny had seen Jill accessing his elevator and assumed that she was a girlfriend. She’d ambushed him then just as she had today, complaining bitterly that he’d lied to her about not giving out his key to his lovers. She’d wept and exclaimed that she could satisfy his sexual needs far better than that “frumpy brunette.” When he’d explained, through gritted teeth, that the woman in question was his sister, for pity’s sake, Tawny had accused him of leading her on and breaking her heart. He’d left her screaming that he owed her, so he wasn’t too surprised to see her here again today.

“Oh, baby,” she cooed, gliding up to him, “I’m so sorry. How was I to know she was your sister?”

“You weren’t,” he said flatly, “because it isn’t any of your business.”

“I know, I know, but I can’t help myself,” she pouted, sliding a hand lightly over his chest. “You know I’m crazy about you, D.K. You’ve ruined me for every other man. I’ve missed our good times so much.”

“But not enough to move out, I’ve noticed,” Darren retorted dryly.

Anger flashed in Tawny’s artificially green eyes but was quickly replaced by woe. “I thought you wanted me near you.”

Darren lightly placed his hand on her shoulder and pushed her away, saying, “You thought wrong.” He dropped his hand and stepped back several steps, adding, “I tried to help out, but you knew the ground rules from the beginning. I’ve been more than generous. Now it’s time for you to go.”

The spigot immediately turned on. “Oh, D.K.!” she warbled, sniffing and blinking her false eyelashes. “How could you?”

He was immune by this time and just shook his head. “End of the month, Tawny. You ought to have a tidy little nest egg put aside by now. It’s nearly four weeks, so you have plenty of time, but I’ll even help you locate a new place if you want. Hell, I’ll help you move, if that’s what it takes, but one way or another you’re out of here by the end of the month. Understand?”

She was sobbing openly now, her lovely shoulders shaking pitifully, her face buried in her hands. “How can you do this to me? I burn for you. You’ll never know how desperately I want you to—”

“Yeah, yeah,” he interrupted. “The thing is, see, I’ve moved on, a long time ago. It’s past time for you to do the same thing.”

“But I only want you,” she insisted petulantly, reaching out for him.

He caught her arms and pushed them down. “But I don’t want you, Tawny,” he said softly but firmly. “I can’t be any more blunt than that.”

“But why?” she demanded, stomping a foot like an overtired child. “I know I turn you on.”

Oddly enough, she didn’t, not anymore. The awful truth was, in fact, that no one and nothing seemed to anymore, except…He pushed sudden thoughts of Charly Bellamy from his mind and took a good, hard look at Tawny Beekman. She was every man’s fantasy, so beautiful that she was almost unreal. Actually, she was a lot unreal, from her phony nails to those surgically enhanced breasts. In that respect she was not much different from most of the women with whom he’d been involved. For some reason he found all the artifice unpalatable at the moment.

“Tawny,” he said patiently, “it is so over. It has been for a long time, and it’s going to stay that way. So get it out of your head that you can get me back into bed. It’s not going to happen.”

“Then why can’t I stay?” she pleaded.

He almost laughed. Didn’t she realize how transparent she was? Her great passion for him obviously had more to do with free rent than anything else. Once again, it was his money.

“You can’t stay,” he said bluntly, “because I’m tired of you taking advantage of me. You’ve had a good, long, free ride at my expense. Now it’s over. Get used to it.”

She didn’t even try the tears this time, going straight to outrage instead. “You selfish son of a—”

“Oh, that’s rich, when you’re the one mooching free rent.”

“You can afford it, damn you!”

“That doesn’t mean you’re entitled to it,” Darren retorted dismissively, turning away. “Just vacate the apartment by the end of the month.” He began walking toward the exit.

“You’re going to pay for this, Rudell! You can’t just toss me out with the trash! I’m going to get you! If it’s the last thing I ever do, I’m going to get you, D.K.!”

He pulled open the heavy metal door that led to the elevator bank, walked through it and let it close solidly behind him, closing out the sound of her voice as she continued to shriek at him. Crazy woman. What did she think she could do? He was D. K. Rudell, after all, and she was a drama queen who’d hitched a free ride. Well, the ride was over. End of the line. And the instant she was off the gravy train, he meant to tear up the track behind it. From now on, his generous impulses were strictly little league, Little League soccer to be exact, if such a term applied.

As he fitted his key into the slot of his private elevator and punched in the code on the keypad below, he smiled, thinking of all those little kids running around with RuCom Electronics emblazoned on their chests—and a grateful Charlene Bellamy beaming up at him. He felt a fresh spurt of excitement as the elevator door slid open, followed swiftly by sheer relief. How long had it been, really, since he’d felt such eagerness? Pocketing his keys, he stepped into the elevator, turned and pushed the button, then leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes, imagining Charly Bellamy in his arms. His heart thumped in an unexpected fashion. Oddly poignant, it almost hurt. A strange warmth spread through him.

Slightly embarrassed, he cleared his throat and glanced up at the tiny security camera mounted in the corner of the elevator car. Every elevator, every entrance, every corridor in the building was outfitted with them. He often wondered what his security officers saw on those constantly lit monitors. Not much of a criminal nature had happened in this building, despite its proximity to the downtown area. They’d nailed a purse snatcher hanging around the front elevator bank when he’d tried to grab a tenant’s handbag as the elevator door slid closed, and they’d flushed out a couple of prostitutes looking for a clean, out-of-the-way place to take their business. A pizza delivery guy had tried to walk off with a package left outside the door of one apartment on his way out of the building. Other than that, the residents themselves and their guests had to provide any entertainment for the security guys.

Darren had never asked, but he suspected that the silent, blue-jacketed guards had gotten an eyeful more than once, but never at his expense. He was too aware of being watched to misbehave in public or even in the seeming privacy of a closed elevator. It was an unpleasant fact of his life that people were always watching, and not just security guards. Even his most private moments often found their way into the press, however, so he made it a personal policy to break it off with any woman who spoke to reporters about their relationship. It didn’t keep him from being duped by the occasional publicity hound, but it kept him from investing more in them than he could afford to lose.

He was a little surprised that Charly hadn’t recognized him, frankly, but he was also glad. If he was very careful, she might never know who he really was. Perhaps that possibility explained his intense interest in her. Yes, that must be it. It wasn’t her so much as it was the opportunity to step out of his public persona and into a normal life for a time. Normal was something that he vaguely remembered, but he was pretty sure he could pull it off. It must be like riding a bicycle; it came back to you once you climbed aboard and pushed off.

Feeling confident, he whistled as he stepped out of the elevator and into the penthouse foyer. He locked the elevator in place with a holding code, then opened the apartment, inserting the key into the slot in the wall that left his one-of-a-kind door unmarred by the obscenity of a keyhole. The massive twin slabs of polished and elaborately etched steel swung open with a satisfying hydraulic whoosh. Leaving them standing wide, Darren walked into the peaceful silence of his clean, spacious apartment, certain that he was utterly safe, completely untouchable. And alone.

The luxury sedan rocked over the rough ground and came to rest between a fifteen-year-old pickup with flaking paint and Charly’s own sensible, fuel-efficient import. Watching from the sidelines, she knew who it was even before Darren Rudd squeezed out of the car in the limited space. She felt a jolt of anticipation mingled with wariness the instant before an exuberant, near-sighted munchkin in baggy jeans and T-shirt bowled her over. At the impact, she stumbled backward and sat down hard. The child landed on top of her. The next thing Charly knew, she was staring up at blue sky, wondering how it was possible to drown on dry land, for, try as she might, she could not pull oxygen into her lungs.

Suddenly the weight on her chest lifted away, and fresh, fortifying air rushed in. Then a number of faces came into view, most of them small and worried, one of them handsome and rather amused. Small, grubby hands patted her shoulders and head.

“Miss Charly! Miss Charly!”

Ponce shoved his way through the mob of children and fell on his knees at her side, his big black eyes revealing his fear. Curls bobbing, he leaned over her, the angelic features of his face striking her anew with sheer awe. He was a Michelangelo sculpture with café au lait skin and a froth of light, reddish brown curls that must surely hide a halo.

“Mommy!”

Charly fought up onto both elbows and found a smile for him, her heart swelling with love. “I’m okay, sweetie.”

“Just had the wind knocked out of her, I think,” Darren Rudd said. Charly switched her gaze to him just as he let go of the child he’d scooped off her.

The boy pushed his thick, too-wide glasses farther up the bridge of his nose. They slid right down again, and Charly made a mental note to buy the kid an elastic sport band to hold them in place. “I’m sorry, Ms. Charly.”

“That’s okay, Calvin. No harm done. I was just about to call a break, anyway.” She sat up, and Darren Rudd offered her a hand, which she clasped without actually looking at him. He hauled her to her feet with athletic ease. Keeping her face averted so he couldn’t see her blush, she swiped at the surely grass-stained seat of her gray shorts, pushed up the sleeves of her white sweatshirt and addressed her team. “Guys, this is Mr. Rudd. He represents our sponsor, RuCom Electronics.”

“Do you have one a’ them remote cars?” asked the tallest player, Kental, his black face shining.

“Uh, I have one in my office,” Darren answered after a moment.

“Man, them remote cars is cool,” Kental said to the dark-haired little girl next to him.

“Juan gots one,” she crowed, referring to her older brother.

“Uh-uh. The kind I mean costs a whole bunch.”

“Mama bought it at the RuCom store!” Maria insisted.

“Did not!”

“Did, too!”

“Kental, Maria,” Charly interrupted firmly, one hand idly massaging her sore abdomen, “we’re not here to discuss our toys. We have important matters to decide. We have to have a name for our team, and Mr. Rudd has come to help us decide on one. Now I’m open to suggestions. Anyone have any ideas?”

The kids all looked at one another. Some shrugged. Others shook their heads. Then someone suggested, “Electrics! How ’bout the Electrics?”

“It’s electronics, goofy,” Ponce explained. “RuCom Electronics, like computers and stuff.”

“The Co’puters!” someone else cried.

“How about the Comets?” Darren suggested mildly. “The RuCom Comets.”

The kids looked at one another in question and confusion. “What’s a comet?” asked Sarah, pushing stringy blond hair from her eyes. Sarah was missing a tooth, and Charly was convinced that no four-year-old lost a tooth to natural causes, but Sarah clammed up whenever Charly asked what had happened.

Charly bent down to bring her face closer to Sarah’s, smoothed a hand over her none-too-clean hair and explained, “It’s like a shooting star, honey, a big fireball that streaks across the sky. It’s real fast and real hot.”

Kental nodded approval at Ponce, who nodded back. Calvin swaggered, thumped his chest and said, “Shootin’ star.” Maria giggled, and Sarah smiled her gap-toothed smile. Murmurs of “cool” and “sweet” went from one little mouth to another.

“So what do you think?” Darren asked. “Is it the Comets, or does someone have another suggestion?”

“Show of hands,” Charly directed. “Everyone gets to vote. In favor of calling our team the Comets, raise your hand. Against it, keep your hands down.” About twenty little hands went up, some voting twice. “The Comets it is,” Charly announced with a clap of her hands. The kids cheered as she turned to Darren Rudd. He was even more handsome than she remembered. The dark hair waving back from his forehead and temples called attention to those deeply set brown eyes. His angular jaw and chin bore the shadow of a beard that glinted rusty brown in the waning sunlight.

“I’ll let the commissioner know tonight,” she told him. “Thanks for coming by, but you don’t have to hang around. I’m sure you have better things to do.”

He shrugged. “Nope, not really.” He smiled, and his gaze scanned speculatively down her body. Heat blossomed instantly in embarrassing places.

Quickly turning away, she clapped her hands at the children. “Okay, back on the field! Back on the field!” The kids ran to obey, bouncing off one another in the process. “Ponce, will you get the ball, please?”

Ponce ran down the field and gathered up the single soccer ball while Charly attempted to set up a shooting drill. She wasn’t entirely sure what the objective was beyond connecting foot with ball, but she figured if they could accomplish that much, it would be an improvement. They seemed to have better luck kicking one another than the ball. She tried not to think of Darren Rudd watching with folded arms from the sideline as she placed the ball and directed Maria, who always seemed to manage to be first in line, to take a short run and boot the ball. She spent several minutes after that comforting the child, who had managed only to kick herself off her feet and land flat on her back, bouncing her little skull off the hard ground.

When the first parents began to show up to retrieve their children, some walking from a nearby public housing sector and past several other soccer fields, Charly had accomplished little with the team and was somehow exhausted in the bargain. It was like herding geese. Their attention spans were shorter than she had realized, Ponce being the obvious exception, and while she worked with one, the others naturally scattered in pairs and trios to chase and tussle, draw in the dirt and even throw it. Charly was too busy to even think about Darren Rudd—until she turned, an arm draped about Ponce’s small, narrow shoulders, and headed toward the sideline.

There he stood, talking to Kental and his mother, one large hand on Kental’s shoulder. The boy smiled up at him, rapture on his thin face. Kental’s mother shook Rudd’s hand, then turned away, tugging her son after her. Kental skipped happily, literally clicking his heels together at one point. One of his shoes flew off, and the pair stopped so he could pull it back on. Charly had noticed that his canvas shoes, though worn, were too large for him, but whether they were purchased that way in hopes that he wouldn’t outgrow them too soon or were inadequate hand-me-downs, she couldn’t say. Deliberately pushing Darren Rudd from her mind, she began mentally reviewing the practice.

One thing was certain: she needed some help. Corralling sixteen little ones in an open field was an impossibility for a lone adult. Actually teaching them anything was another issue entirely. She wondered which of the parents she should ask first. None of them was likely to be of assistance. They all either had other children to be supervised or were working late shifts or second jobs. At least one of them didn’t even speak English. Still, she felt that she should ask them first. After that, she would ask the soccer commissioner for help, and if that failed she’d start haranguing her friends. Someone had to be willing to pitch in.

Darren slid his hands into the pockets of his chinos and waited patiently for Charly and her son to join him, well satisfied with what he’d seen that day. Charly was so far out of her league that she’d have little choice but to accept his help. He was actually looking forward to it. “Helping” her coach the team would be like killing two birds with one stone. Not only would it afford him the perfect opportunity to get next to Charly, literally, but it ought to be fun. The kids were certainly eager, and she definitely had not overstated the needs of the children. Quite the opposite, in fact. Five hundred bucks obviously wasn’t going to address all the needs. He was already making a lengthy mental list of what they were going to need, including a whistle for the coach. He wondered if she realized how many times—and how ineffectually—she had snapped her fingers or clapped her hands for attention today. More than that, however, he wondered about Ponce, or rather, Ponce’s father.

As soon as Ponce had called her Mommy, Darren had remembered that she’d mentioned having a five-year-old. It simply hadn’t registered at the time, perhaps because he’d been too intent on learning her marital status. He’d never dated a “mommy” before, not that he was dating one now, not yet. The fact that she had a child didn’t bother him particularly. He liked kids. He doted on his nephew. Still, he couldn’t help wondering about Ponce’s dad, though. He must be an exceptionally handsome man, because Ponce was one of the most beautiful children Darren had ever seen.

His own curiosity about the man puzzled him. He wondered why Charly and Ponce’s father had parted and where the fellow was now. Could she still be in love with him? The need to know was like a splinter under the skin, not particularly painful but enough of a nuisance to constantly remind you that it was there. He resisted the urge to pick at it as she stopped beside him and lifted a forearm to wipe her forehead with the sleeve of her sweatshirt. The action left her damp bangs standing on end.

Darren felt a definite tug in his groin. What was it about her? The woman should have been completely unappealing. Her athletic shoes and even her socks were filthy. Her shorts were stretched out and baggy, not to mention grass-stained. In spite of the cool, early-spring air, perspiration had soaked her shirt in spots and left her hair plastered to her head, what wasn’t sticking up. She wore no cosmetics, and a spattering of freckles was even now rising across the bridge of her nose. His palms itched to strip her where she stood. Instead he smiled down at Ponce.