The Man With The Money. Arlene James

“What is it exactly that you do, Charly?”

      “I’m an attorney,” she said crisply, and left him standing with his mouth ajar. Satisfaction curved her lips into a tight smile. He was back beside her within steps.

      “I think you’re right,” he said. “Definitely the wrong crowd.”

      Charly laughed. She couldn’t help it. “Where do you want to start?”

      “Let’s start at the top and work our way down,” he suggested, leading the way toward the jerseys.

      It was not the simple shopping expedition that Charly had expected. For one thing, he seemed determined to spend a lot more money than she thought necessary. He insisted on choosing practice uniforms as well as game uniforms in the previously chosen colors of yellow and blue: jerseys, shorts, socks, elbow and shin guards, even shoes. They argued over whether or not she was going to pay for Ponce’s gear.

      “It’s not fair for Ponce to pay when the other kids are getting a free ride,” he pointed out.

      “The other kids can’t afford to pay.”

      “That’s beside the point. You’re doing enough by volunteering your time.”

      “I don’t see it that way.”

      He smiled and tapped her on the end of the nose with the tip of his forefinger. “I don’t think that argument would hold up in a court of law, and it certainly doesn’t with me. Now give over. Coach.”

      She sighed, knowing when she was beaten. “Are you sure you’re not an attorney?”

      “Not even close.”

      “What is it that you do for RuCom, anyway?”

      He seemed to pause, but then he smiled and quipped, “Not nearly enough according to some. Actually, I’m overseeing an educational program at the moment. Few of these corporate types possess any inkling what the average sales clerk does. They see the whole business from the paper and report end. No practical knowledge at all. I’ve made it my mission to change that.”

      “So Sales Staff Appreciation Day was your brainchild,” she guessed.

      “Guilty as charged.”

      “Is it working?”

      “We’ll see. We’re rotating corporate staff in and out of the various stores around the country. So far the reports have been mixed, but all in all, I think we’ll gain a new appreciation for what our front line is actually doing.”

      “I think it’s brilliant,” she told him baldly, and watched in surprise as his eyes darkened almost to black.

      “Do you?” he murmured, stepping closer. “That’s nice.” He lifted a hand and very lightly ran the tip of a finger along the arch of her cheekbone. “Thanks.”

      She found it very difficult to breathe. Until that moment she had half believed that it was her imagination, but now she knew without doubt that he was coming on to her. The pleasure of it swept over her in a glad rush, but the next instant she thought of Ponce and automatically stepped back.

      “We, uh, we still have to pick up some equipment,” she muttered.

      The brilliance of his smile, the confident, predatory gleam of it, filled her with dismaying delight. Her heart pounded, and the tiny, sparse hairs on her arms lifted as her skin came alive. Appalled, she turned on her heel and walked off in the direction of a display of soccer balls, firmly controlling the insane urge to run.

      Darren watched Charly walk away, noting with extreme interest that her hips swayed in a much more seductive manner than before. She was embarrassed about it, but he was, without doubt, getting to her. This was working out even better than he’d hoped.

      Following at a short distance, he walked toward the equipment section of the store, but he did not, as she obviously expected, go to the big wire bin of soccer balls offered at a special price. He knew perfectly well that the balls were probably two or three years old, the last of an unsold lot from a previous batch, which the manufacturer undoubtedly dumped on the discounter for free, or very nearly so, in exchange for a sizable order of new balls to be sold at a good price. Such sale balls were fine for use by individuals, neighborhood play, that sort of thing. Getting booted around by sixteen kids in an hour was another matter entirely. Better to buy good game balls. Charly disagreed.