Chapter One
Fifty bucks. Fifty lousy bucks. Charlene Bellamy fought the urge to shove the rumpled bills into her boss’s smug, clueless face. The Dallas law firm for which she worked as an attorney was one of the wealthiest in the entire state of Texas, so she had naturally been encouraged when Pratt had promised her funds for her foster son’s soccer team. She still couldn’t believe that their contribution amounted to a measly fifty dollars.
It was going to take hundreds to outfit and equip sixteen underprivileged four- and five-year-olds, but when she’d pointed that out to her firm’s youngest senior partner, he had blithely suggested that she refrain from performing so much pro bono work and actually try to bring in some income for the firm so they could do better by her next “little project.” The cad knew perfectly well that her pro bono work had left her own bank account near empty. He also knew that, though protracted, her representation of the abused women’s and children’s shelter, her last case, had not only kept the shelter open by removing the threat of a frivolous but dangerous lawsuit, it had also garnered a great deal of positive press coverage for the firm. Unfortunately, positive press meant little at Bellows, Cartere, Dennis and Pratt, at least as compared to cold, hard cash.
What really angered Charly and turned her stomach, however, was the way Richard Pratt, a married man and her immediate supervisor, had stared at her breasts and suggested that he might make a hefty personal contribution if she was “nice” to him. It wasn’t the first such suggestion Pratt had made, and unfortunately it wasn’t likely to be the last, since her complaints to the other partners had brought her only smiles, lectures, reprimands and cleverly veiled threats, in that order. The irony of it was that the firm frequently prosecuted sexual harassment suits—most quite successfully. Yet, the good-old-boys mentality coupled with legal sagacity to let Pratt slide right under the bar needed to prosecute. The moment her employment contract expired—ten months and two days hence—Charly would be out of there. She was weary of being the token woman reluctantly admitted to the fringes of the good-old-boys club, but where she would go next she didn’t know. Her reputation for being unable to resist championing the underdog didn’t exactly make her a much-sought-after prospect for any firm dedicated to profitability.
A half hour later, she found herself standing outside a RuCom Electronics store, where she had more pressing matters to attend. Ponce and his little friends were counting on her. She pushed open the heavy glass door and walked through it into the shop, where her ex-husband was the branch manager. Surely he would help with some donation. A signal chimed. The muted clomp of the heels of her sensible pumps followed as she moved through stacks of computer accessories, telephones, radio-controlled model cars and stereo equipment on special sales promotion. RuCom was well-known for its rock-bottom prices and the stripped-down approach to retailing that made undercutting its competitors possible. The company was also known for its astonishing profit margins, and it was the latter that gave Charly hope, that and her ex-husband Dave’s easy-going demeanor.
While Dave’s level, laid-back manner made it possible for him and Charly to remain somewhat friendly after their divorce, it also added to Charly’s pain over the failure of the marriage. After a single short year of wedlock, she had been stunned when Dave announced that it had been a mistake. She hadn’t realized he was unhappy or that he blamed her preoccupation with work for it. While Charly had been thinking babies and how to fit a family into her schedule, David had been thinking divorce. Two years after the fact, she still smarted, not that she really thought much about Dave himself. It was more the opportunity to fulfill her desire for children that she missed, so much that she’d begun to investigate the possibility of adoption after Dave left her. Foster parenthood had been a step in that direction, and it was Charly’s most fervent hope that she would soon be allowed to adopt Ponce Jack, the angelic five-year-old with whom she’d shared her hectic life this past year. It was because of Ponce that she was here.
Walking up to the counter, she looked at the middle-aged clerk who wore his standard-issue RuCom T-shirt over a long-sleeved dress shirt and pleated slacks. The usual RuCom retail clerk was a teenager firmly rooted in computer geekdom. This guy looked more like an executive.
“Can I help you?”
“Dave around? Tell him Charly’s here.”
The man blinked at her name, then pointed to a posterboard sign on the counter. “Sorry, it’s Retail Staff Appreciation Day. The regular sales staff is off today.”
“Maybe I can help,” said another voice, and a tall, dark-haired man with brown eyes and a strong, square jaw stepped into view, a clipboard in one hand. “I’m in charge of the shop today.”
A blatantly handsome man, he looked to be about Charly’s own age, early thirties. The older fellow slid over and made room at the counter for him, an obvious act of deference. The newcomer wore his RuCom T-shirt with khakis, sans dress shirt, so Charly could only assume that he pulled rank due to actual sales experience. An odd, unfamiliar awareness shimmered through her, which was puzzlingly uncomfortable. She wished David was here, but since he wasn’t, she could only consider her options. The fees for the team had to be paid to the soccer league tomorrow, or the team would not be scheduled for games. If she struck out here, her only option was to borrow against her credit card and pay the fees herself. Might as well give this a shot.
Smiling, she stuck out her hand. “Charlene Michman Bellamy.”
The man put down the clipboard and took her hand in his, brown eyes sparkling. “Darren, uh, Rudd.”
“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Rudd.” Charly took her hand back and tried to relax, but a strange tingle made her tilt her head and shift her weight. “I have a problem I hope you can help me with. Actually, it’s sixteen four- and five-year-olds who need your help. These are underprivileged kids who can’t afford to buy their own school lunches, let alone the cleats, balls and uniforms needed to play soccer. I was hoping that—in exchange for advertisement, of course—your shop could sponsor the team.”
“I see.”
His gaze swept over her, and she wondered just what it was that he thought he saw. Fighting the urge to tug down the bottom of her demure navy business suit jacket, she pushed back her short, wispy red hair and squared her shoulders.
“I take it that your husband is the coach?”
Charly lifted both brows at what she considered a sexist remark. “Certainly not. I am the coach.”
His smile broadened, and he leaned forward, bracing both elbows on the countertop. “That’s cool. I just assumed…I mean, it’s usually the spouse who gets stuck with the fund-raising.”
“Well, I don’t have a spouse to stick with the fund-raising,” Charly retorted, amazed by the speculative gleam in those brown eyes. She cleared her throat. “What I have is a five-year-old who desperately wants to play soccer and no team to play on unless I get this thing off the ground.”
“This ‘thing’ being a team of underprivileged children,” he clarified.
Charly nodded. “The soccer commissioner gave me a list of kids who couldn’t get on teams because there weren’t enough scholarships to cover their fees. I intend to see to it that those fees are covered and the kids get to play.”
“Even if it means soliciting funds and coaching the team yourself,” he surmised.
“Yes.”