Knowing the Score Read online

  “You want more, don’t you…”

  It was a statement, not a question, and Ashley opened her mouth in anticipation. Beck slipped the appetizer in, staring at her lips as she chewed.

  “You need dessert. I bet you don’t get enough sweet things.”

  He was already reaching for the mango cheesecake. Ashley stopped him. “I’ve eaten all this food. I want you to share dessert with me.” She picked up the mini cheesecake and offered it to him. He wrapped his fingers around her wrist and took a bite. Her breath quickened. She had never realized how sensuous it was to feed a man.

  The last item on the plate was a fruit tart, the berries drizzled in a syrupy glaze. Ashley swiped some glaze off the top. “Try this.” She offered her fingers to him.

  He slowly sucked the pads of her fingers, his tongue drawing tiny circles long after every bit of food was gone.

  He pulled back and painted her mouth with the sugary liquid. But instead of waiting for her to lick it off, he swooped in with the swiftness she’d seen on the field and kissed her.

  It was a shocking first kiss.

  This was no tentative peck on the lips…this was full-blown seduction.

  Dear Reader,

  Knowing the Score started out as pure fairy tale: hardworking but financially strapped jewelry designer Ashley Craig meets handsome, rich, charming Beckett Emery. Ashley is bowled over by exciting polo tournaments, riding lessons and an exclusive polo club ball, but most of all she is bowled over by Beck Emery. A beautiful woman, a handsome man—all I had to do was write a classic romance and end it with, “And they lived happily ever after.”

  This was such a fun book to research—glamorous people, glitzy events, clothing and jewelry I could describe as if playing dress-up with my characters. But as I continued writing, I began to wonder just who was rescuing whom? Despite Beck’s horseback riding prowess, does he really need to gallop up on his white horse to save Ashley? Or will her drive and determination save him by showing him a broader world?

  In Knowing the Score, I’d say the prince and princess save each other. And of course they live happily ever after—they always do.

  To learn more about my books and me, please visit me at www.mariedonovan.com and www.sizzlingpens.blogspot.com.

  Happy reading!

  Marie Donovan

  Marie Donovan

  KNOWING THE SCORE

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Marie Donovan is a Chicago-area native, who got her fill of tragedies and unhappy endings by majoring in opera/vocal performance and Spanish literature. As an antidote to all that gloom, she read romance novels voraciously throughout college and graduate school.

  Donovan worked for a large suburban public library for ten years as both a cataloger and a bilingual Spanish storytime presenter. She graduated magna cum laude with two bachelor’s degrees from a Midwestern liberal arts university and speaks six languages. She enjoys reading, gardening and yoga.

  Please visit the author’s Web site at www.mariedonovan.com and also her Sizzling Pens group blog at www.sizzlingpens.blogspot.com.

  Books by Marie Donovan

  HARLEQUIN BLAZE

  204—HER BODY OF WORK

  302—HER BOOK OF PLEASURE

  371—BARE NECESSITIES

  403—SEX BY THE NUMBERS

  470—MY SEXY GREEK SUMMER

  493—HER LAST LINE OF DEFENSE

  To Linda, with all my thanks for being a

  wonderful colleague and even better friend.

  Keep fighting the good fight!

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Epilogue

  1

  ASHLEY CRAIG looked up from the glass-and-chrome jewelry case as her friend Letitia Saavedra de Léon burst into her store. Before Ashley could greet her, Tisha burst into questions.

  “So? How many came? Did you get a lot of sales?” Tisha scanned the cases eagerly, her eyebrows pulling together as she saw the full stock still sitting inside.

  Ashley lifted her blond hair off her neck, her shop’s small air-conditioning unit no match for south Florida’s heat and humidity. “Sorry, Tisha. Nobody came to the store and no sales on the Web site.”

  Tisha’s shoulders slumped as she plopped into the pale-peach plush customer’s chair, her expensive white linen pantsuit taking a beating. Ashley wasn’t sure who should console whom. It was Ashley Craig Jewelry, Inc. that was struggling, but Tisha was making a herculean effort to talk up her jewelry designs among her well-to-do acquaintances.

  “Why isn’t your stuff selling?” Tisha demanded, brandishing her arm, which bore a white-gold bangle shaped like a dolphin with sapphire eyes. “It’s gorgeous. It’s unique. It should be the hottest thing out there. What’s the deal?”

  Ashley shrugged. “I haven’t hit the tipping point yet—the one magical marketing device that will take me over the top. When I do I’ll move to a new shop on Worth Drive where all the rich Palm Beach matrons can buy my wonderful jewels.”

  Letitia looked around the small, stuffy shop but didn’t say anything. Ashley appreciated that. They both knew Ashley’s problem wasn’t just marketing, it was money. She sighed. “I should have picked a cheaper career. Maybe I ought to have stuck with making hemp bracelets for the surfer guys on Palm Beach Island.”

  Tisha made a face. “Yeah, nothing says classy like a fishy-smelling, sand-encrusted piece of wrist macramé.”

  “You certainly wore yours long enough.” It was the first piece of jewelry she’d made for Tisha, and it had fallen to pieces eventually.

  “I have the bits in my case at home.”

  “Really?” Ashley was touched. “Do the other pieces of jewelry make fun of it?” Tisha’s husband Paolo came from a wealthy South American family and had bought her some lovely pieces, especially after Tisha gave birth to twin boys a couple of years ago.

  “No, because they know my hemp bracelet will kick their prissy asses. We working-class girls have to stick together.” She patted Ashley’s shoulder and Ashley squeezed her hand.

  “Please don’t feel bad, Tish. Word of mouth takes time, and you’ve done a wonderful job bragging about me around your friends, even hosting that trunk show for me. Why don’t you cool it for a while? You don’t want them to start avoiding you, like somebody who’s trying to sell them food-storage containers or vacation time-shares.”

  “All right,” Tisha said grudgingly, but Ashley knew her friend needed to stop acting as a commissioned saleswoman. Tisha had not been born into the jet set that Paolo’s family inhabited, and she was still scrutinized for her behavior, although her adorable male heirs had gone a long way toward giving her acceptance. “But if you need any help with expenses, tell me. Paolo is generous to a fault and wouldn’t care if I gave my oldest friend a hand.”

  “No.” Her refusal came out more harshly than she intended. “No,” she repeated, giving Tisha a smile she didn’t quite feel. “I will be fine. There are several other ideas I haven’t had a chance to try.”

  “If you’re sure…” Tisha handed her the dolphin bracelet to put back on display.

  “Positive.” She came around the case to give Tisha a hug. “You are a sweetie, Tisha.”

  Tisha scoffed, but looked pleased. “I mean it. You let me know what I can do.”

  “You can kiss my godsons for me tonight at dinner.” Ashley ushered T
isha toward the front door and waved as she drove away in her expensive German sedan.

  Ashley flipped the lock closed. It was almost five o’clock anyway, and a storm was powering up over the horizon if she was any judge. She tucked away the jewelry into the safe in the back room and straightened the cash-register area. Unfortunately, that area hadn’t gotten much action during the day—i.e., none.

  She made sure the burglar alarm was set and ducked out the back door. Her shop wasn’t in an awful neighborhood, but it wasn’t ritzy either.

  Same with her car. Compared to Tisha’s German sedan, Ashley’s compact car was a horse and buggy. But it got her where she needed to go, namely her apartment building.

  She parked and smiled at one of the few neighbors that she knew, Mrs. Weinstein, who was out on her terrace pruning tomatoes, and who called out, “Come by for some vegetables when you change out of your work clothes.” She continued clipping away, dropping leafy stems on the concrete. “It’d be a shame to get tomatoes all over your fancy blue dress, especially when it matches your eyes so well.”

  “I will, Mrs. Weinstein.” She covered a yawn quickly.

  “You work too hard, Ashley.” She gestured widely with her shears. “You’re a beautiful girl, and this is Florida. I bet there are fifty handsome young men dying to meet you.”

  At least ten of those handsome young men were dying to meet each other, but Ashley was too polite to mention that aspect of modern dating.

  Her neighbor continued, “You’d make somebody a fine wife, and he’d take good care of you.”

  Ashley couldn’t help flinching, but hid it by pretending to swat away a bug. She made her excuses and headed upstairs, her neighbor’s words echoing through her head as she tossed her mail on the white wicker table just inside the front door.

  Sure, it would be easy to dress provocatively, go to the clubs where the rich guys hung out and try to lure one into “taking care of her.” But that wasn’t how Ashley worked. Her mother, now, that was another story…

  She kicked off her white slingbacks a bit too vehemently—one crashed into the foyer wall, startling her hamster, currently the only male in her life.

  “Hey, Teddy, did you miss me?” She made kissing noises at the black-and-white teddy-bear hamster in his cage. He looked at her with as much interest as a hamster was capable of and ducked into his wheel to run a few laps to nowhere. Just like Ashley.

  She grimaced. Pity, your party of one has arrived.

  Ashley gave herself a mental shake and moved through her evening routine, changing into a white knit tank top and pink boxer shorts. After she picked up some tomatoes from Mrs. Weinstein, Teddy got some hamster chow and Ashley made herself the human equivalent in the form of a microwave dinner.

  She was sitting on her futon watching the jewelry segment of a cable shopping network when her phone rang. Dang, she didn’t want to be envious of other people’s success, but honestly, some of those items looked as though monkeys had designed them and gorillas had made them.

  She answered the phone. “Hello?”

  “Ash!” Tisha shouted.

  Ashley jumped, spilling the pity-party potato-chip refreshments. “What’s going on? Are the kids okay?”

  “Fine, fine.” She continued breathlessly, “Are you sitting down?”

  Ashley gazed at the crumbly wreckage of her tank top and futon. “Yeah, so tell me what’s going on?”

  “Have you heard of Enric Bruguera?”

  “Of course. He owns Bruguera Boutiques—one is on Worth Avenue, like we talked about earlier. They have super-popular boutiques in Palm Beach, New York, Paris, Rome…” Ashley couldn’t remember where else except that no matter where a Bruguera Boutique was located, it had women flocking to wear the innovative designs.

  “Bibi Herrera texted me that his boutique is helping sponsor the polo tournament at the Bella Florida Polo Club and the man himself will attend. He may even donate several pieces for the Polo Ball’s silent auction.”

  “I’m sure they’ll command a fortune.” And take more potential sales out of her pocket. On the other hand, Enric Bruguera was a household—rather mansionhold—name among the polo set and she wasn’t.

  “Ashley, this could be the perfect opportunity to meet him! You’re the one who told me that these kinds of boutiques are supplied by various designers. Maybe he needs a new designer.”

  “Designers flock to him—it’s not as if he posts an online help-wanted ad.”

  “So, flock to the man!”

  “How, Tisha?”

  “My husband is a rich Argentinian, Ashley. He can get me—and a guest of my choosing—into any polo tournament in the world.”

  Ashley imagined herself and Tisha stalking the world-famous jeweler. “Maybe we can follow him into the men’s room and I can slide my portfolio under the stall door.”

  “Don’t be silly, Ashley. The doors are full-size. You can’t slide anything under them.”

  Ashley rolled her eyes. If that was Tisha’s only objection, they were in trouble. “Tell you what—I will call his headquarters and ask to make an appointment with him while he is here for the tournament.”

  Her friend blew her a raspberry through the phone. “Not good enough. Don’t you remember that old saying we learned in high-school history class? Fortune favors the bold. Calling his office and trying to get through six layers of assistants is not bold.”

  “Really? We learned that saying in high school?”

  “Chica, I took it for my motto. How do you think I got the nerve to sneak into that private party after I saw Paolo going into the club? I knew he was the one.”

  Ashley remembered it a little differently, as Tisha had texted her that she had discovered the hottest ass in south Florida, and she had to see if the rest of him was just as sexy. She was saved from memory lane by an incoming call. “Hold on, Tisha, it’s my store’s landlord.”

  “Ash, I told you I’d help with your rent—”

  “Hello?” Her palms started to sweat. There was no good reason her landlord should call her at home.

  “Señorita Craig, I am sorry to disturb you at home, but there is a problem at your shop.”

  “What kind of problem, Señor Olveda?” Thoughts of robbery, vandalism and expensive mayhem struck. Her fingers bit into the plastic phone case, but she hardly noticed.

  “The tobacco shop next to yours caught fire. Your shop was not damaged by the flames, fortunately.”

  Ashley jumped up. “I’ll go right away.” Her jewelry was locked in a fire-resistant safe, but if the building was severely damaged, someone could walk out with thousands of dollars in merchandise.

  “Of course, of course, you need to see for yourself. The insurance company is sending men to board it up. But the larger problem is…”

  “What?”

  “Smoke damage,” Señor Olveda added reluctantly. “Myself, I enjoy a good cigar after dinner but when hundreds of pounds of tobacco catch fire all at once, well, it is not a good smell. In fact, the fire department called out, how do you say, the hez-met team.”

  She groaned. “Haz mat—hazardous materials.” Great, just great. Now her shop was a public health hazard. She had visions of men in white biohazard suits stomping through her business.

  “Between the smoke and the water damage from the firehoses, the insurance company says the building will be unusable for several weeks, if not a couple of months, while it is cleaned and repaired.”

  Frozen with horror, she couldn’t say anything. A couple of months without her shop? How was she supposed to stay afloat? She skated close to the edge as it was. Maybe it wasn’t as bad as he said. “I’m coming right away, Señor Olveda.”

  “Of course, of course. You will need to make arrangements to take your merchandise somewhere else.”

  She winced. Another expense—hiring security guards to transport her jewelry to rented safety-deposit boxes. Even if her business insurance reimbursed her, it would take months to get the funds. “I’ll s
ee you in a few minutes.”

  She rushed around, tossing on old clothes that she could throw away. Her phone rang again. Tisha had gotten tired of sitting on hold and had called again, wanting to know the dirt.

  Ashley filled her in quickly.

  “That’s terrible! I can’t believe it. What will you do?” Tisha sounded close to tears.

  Ashley straightened her spine. “I’m going to stalk Enric Bruguera and slide my jewelry designs under the men’s-room stall door.”

  2

  “BECK, you son of a gun!”

  Beckett Emery waved his polo mallet in salute and turned his pony to the side of the field.

  His best friend, Diego Castellano, followed, cursing a blue streak in Spanish. “That pony is an old man. How can he run so fast?”

  Beck patted the pony’s neck. “Poor Caesar, don’t listen to Diego. He’s jealous because his ponies run as if they had rocks tied to their saddles.” He swung his leg over the saddle and dismounted, handing Caesar to the groom to be cooled down and watered.

  “Ha!” Diego dismounted, as well. “They ought to arrest you for making that pony bear your great weight. You should ride a Clydesdale.”

  Beck grinned. He was big, especially compared to many of his South American counterparts, but fortunately his six-foot-three frame didn’t run to fat. “My pony knows when I’m riding him, unlike yours, who thinks a pesky fly has climbed into the saddle.”

  Diego’s reply would never be found in any reputable Spanish-English dictionary. Beck threw an arm over his shoulders. “Come on, Diego. I’ll buy you a beer in the club bar.”

  “Only if they have German. American beer is even more frightening than your polo-playing.”

  Diego lifted his beer in a toast once they were settled in the bar. “Salud.”