It's Only Love Read online

  It's Only Love

  Rules: Book Three

  Mel Curtis

  Copyright © 2014 by:

  Mel Curtis

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

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  160621.221345

  Chapter 1

  L.A. Happenings by Lyle Lincoln

  …Basketball coach, Trent Parker, is just as hot as he was when his college team won the Final Four last March. You’ll enjoy watching him transition to coaching the NBA’s L.A. Flash, if you can overlook his squeaky clean image (nicknamed the Reverend) and his underdeveloped fashion sense (Lordy, I can).

  …True or False? Sources say L.A. Flash owner, Jack Gordon, wants to divorce wife, Vivian, but the disposition of assets is too cumbersome. I’m not saying this isn’t true, but I did see the pair a month ago looking friendly as they dickered over…shall we say…more personal assets?

  “You’re making that face.”

  Cora Rule’s morning espresso twerked in her stomach. She crumpled her toes in her zebra designer heels. She wanted to crumple her new client schedule with her new client list, but that wouldn’t be wise in front of her boss.

  “You know the face I’m talking about.” Amber, her half-sister and boss, sat in the same chair in which their father had built the Dooley Foundation, a life coaching service for the rich and famous. Amber looked like a cross between a centerfold and a red-headed Disney princess, especially in her emerald green, gauzy peasant blouse with gold lacings over her cleavage.

  Neither sister took after their father in the looks department, thank God. While Amber was Tinkerbell-short and curvy, Cora was taller than average, less stacked than average, with average brown hair. When she was young, Cora’s supermodel mother had compensated for Cora’s coltish, mediocre appearance by making sure Cora wore the latest fashions. When she was in high school, Lucia made low-cut blouses part of Cora’s fashion repertoire. This was, after all, Beverly Hills. Cleavage was de rigueur and – large or small – a display evened the playing field.

  Cora sighed, tugging at the sleeves of last year’s gray, scooped-neck Michael Kors, feeling drab and trapped. In some twisted slight against her mother, her father’s will prohibited Cora from buying new clothes until she achieved her sales quota. If only meeting her sales quota didn’t involve becoming a life coach to a handful of ex-lovers.

  Her gaze landed on the schedule again. Relations with ex-lovers always got messy after you put your clothes back on. And estranged wives of ex-lovers? She did not want to go there.

  The espresso shimmied in her stomach once more.

  The next few days played out in agonizing 3D:

  “Brian, I’m here to help you on a path to self-discovery,” she’d say at eight o’clock Saturday morning. The young screenwriter would raise his carefully groomed brows, so she’d have to add, “A path that doesn’t include marriage.”

  Because he’d proposed before he’d ever said “I love you” and then wondered why she’d turned him down.

  After Brian, she’d move on to her next ex at nine-thirty.

  She’d smile at Jean Claude and say, “Let me help you overcome your super-sized ego and achieve happiness.” It was a toss-up as to how the stuntman would respond given the last time Cora’d seen him, she’d told him his dick was too small to justify his being such a huge head-case.

  He’d tried to choke her during sex without asking if she was into that! She’d thought he was trying to kill her!

  And then there was the estranged wife of an ex-lover, scheduled for an initial meeting tonight.

  Hard to be tactful when she had to say, “Vivian, it takes balls to hang onto a man who wants to divorce you. But sometimes you’ve just got to say what the hell, move forward, find some balance in your life, and a man who appreciates you.” Because Jack Gordon cared about one thing and one thing only – his NBA basketball team, the L.A. Flash. Anything else was superfluous, including the woman he’d vowed to love until death parted them.

  Cora sucked on the sour taste of espresso and frustration. She could use a little luck here. But Luck always gave Cora the middle finger as it drove past.

  She’d grown up in Beverly Hills and run in social circles with the area’s young, fashionable, and famous. She hadn’t planned on becoming a life coach or working for her father’s company. She’d graduated from the Fashion Institute, accepted an apprenticeship in Paris, and then Daddy died, tying her inheritance to this job. And guess who could afford the Dooley Foundation’s life coaching fees? Yeah, that’s right. The area’s young, fashionable, and famous. Her acquaintances, her peeps, her exes and the six degrees of separation therein.

  “If you don’t want to talk about your face…” Amber sounded like a schoolteacher in a parent-teacher conference regarding a misbehaving child. “How about we discuss the list of clients I gave you? It has someone on it you slept with or pissed off, doesn’t it?”

  Damn Luck to hell.

  Cora needed time to formulate a defense. “First off, I don’t make a face.” As the only child of an Italian supermodel, Cora wasn’t allowed to make faces other than derisive pouts. “Faces” caused wrinkles.

  “You’re making the expression that says you aren’t about to apologize for past discretions.” Amber sighed. “Tell me who you slept with. I’ll figure something out.”

  Amber’s words rendered Cora defenseless. After years of sibling antagonism, it was hard getting used to her sister watching out for her. It gave Cora a rare, sweet feeling, like a warm slice of Starbuck’s lemon loaf.

  But the list hadn’t gone away. Names leapt off the page and took up residence on her shoulders, weighing her down. It wasn’t as if any of their clientele were easy – egos (fragile or bloated), anger (repressed or feral), performance anxiety, romance troubles, confidence issues…The list of their insecurities was long. But ex-lovers…Ex-lovers added a level of complexity Cora chose not to deal with in her personal life, much less on a professional level.

  A too-brief knock on Amber’s office door and Gemma, their receptionist, tromped in wearing a black mini skirt and scuffed combat boots. Two toy-sized dogs, one of them Cora’s fluffy black Chihuahua, Brutus, danced around her. “Here’s your mail.” Gemma placed a small stack of letters on Amber’s desk, and then dropped an envelope in Cora’s lap. She stomped out, taking the dogs with her.

  “Personal delivery?” Cora called after her. “What is it? Christmas?” Cora glanced down. Junk mail. She should have known. She tossed the offer for breast implant surgery in the trash.

  “So.” The schoolteacher was back, arching a brow at Cora. “Who am I taking off the list?”

  The truth balled in Cora’s mouth like a spoonful of peanut butter.

  A seagull swooped past the window, headed toward the Santa Monica Promenade a block away. There was a time when Cora might have followed that bird to a shopping mall rather than share anything personal with Amber. But this tentative new family unit she, Amber and their half-brother, Blue, were forming – and the possibility of a three million dollar a year inheritance – kept her in her seat.

  “You want me to guess? Okay.” Amber perused her copy of the list. “Five guys fit your type.”

  “Types are such a cliché.” The seagull swooped past again, as if offering Cora one last out.

  “Clichés are based in truths.” Amber tapped a gold pen on her blotter. “Your weakness is powerful, handsome men.”

  “Isn’t everyone’s?”

  Amber ran the pen tip down the list. “Tom Langston is a member of the Church of Scientology, so he’s out. You only do
bad boys, which means I’ll need to reassign a new life coach to at least one of four men.”

  Damn, Amber was good. Time to suck it up. Cora reviewed the list with one last protest. “I don’t make a face.”

  Blue opened the door. “Do you need me at Jack Gordon’s meet-and-greet tonight?”

  “No.” Amber set the list aside. “Cora’s transitioning to working with the Flash and she’s taking Vivian Gordon from your client roster.”

  “Viv.” Blue shuddered dramatically. “I hope you have better luck with her than I did.” She’d told the L.A. Happenings column that Blue had problems in the sack. Their clients weren’t just head-cases, they were vindictive, heartless head-cases. “Viv’s a no-win scenario. She still loves Jack.”

  “Impossible,” Cora scoffed. “Money’s the only thing left unresolved between those two.” They’d dallied with break-up sex for a while, but scuttlebutt was they weren’t even doing that anymore.

  “You always did learn the hard way.” Blue’s certainty made Cora wonder.

  If Blue was right, coaching Vivian would be a waste of time, not to mention stressful. What if Viv found out Cora had slept with Jack? It’d be best to remove her from the list. But if Cora requested it, Amber would know she’d had sex with one of their biggest clients. Jack kept them on retainer for his NBA players, and the bulk of his payment was now accruing in Cora’s billing column.

  “Well?” Amber asked after Blue left, “Who am I taking off?”

  Cora drew a breath and focused on the most troublesome of her exes. “It’d be better if you reassigned Cal Lazarus and Jean Claude Zagal.”

  “You slept with…” Amber’s slender eyebrows went up. Way up.

  They’d go up higher if she knew Cora and Cal had done oral nooners on each other in a restaurant restroom. Her orgasm had been intense, but the middle-age movie producer had treated her like a cheap call girl ever since. He was the primary reason she’d given up fuck-buddies and had become celibate. Six weeks and counting.

  “But he requested you,” Amber was saying.

  “He wants more than I’m willing to give.” Yep, present tense. Cal stalked her by midnight text, hopeful for another hook-up. “Maybe next time you’ll check before you assign male clients to me.”

  Amber’s green gaze hardened. “Maybe next time you’ll think twice about sleeping with a guy who’d make a good client.”

  “Thinking twice was never my strong suit.” Cora stood, twisting a lock of long, dark hair over one shoulder, deciding a little sibling torture was in order. “Besides, in Hollywood, every man makes a good client.”

  ~*~

  “Will there be women at this Flash meet-and-greet?”

  The age-worn, smoker’s voice grated on Coach Trent Parker’s last, tightly strung nerve. “You’re not talking to any women, Dad, especially young, attractive ones. That’s how you always get into trouble.” And the last time he’d gotten into trouble, Archie Parker had been caught – hooked, gutted, and filleted.

  “If I hadn’t fallen in love…” Archie flashed a toothy grin and added more Southern twang to his tone. “I wouldn’t be in Beverly Hills, bonding with my – as yet – only child.”

  If Dad hadn’t gotten that co-ed pregnant…

  Trent repressed the need to punch something. He’d repressed a lot lately. When he’d imagined his NBA coaching debut, his father hadn’t been standing beside him on the sidelines in the role of player development.

  His other coaching assistant, Randy Farrell, limped closer to the hotel lobby window, giving the two Parker men some privacy while they waited for the valet to bring Trent’s car around. Randy was another departure from his visualization. An assistant coach with no coaching experience? Randy had just graduated from college, just finished playing Division One ball, just blew out his knee and Achilles and a shot at NBA greatness. He brought little to Trent’s staff, beyond balm to Trent’s conscience.

  Trent should have been solidifying the foundation of his big career move. He’d coached the men’s basketball team at Holy Southern Cross University to a Cinderella win at the Final Four last March. He’d met the President of the United States. He’d ended a stifling, ten-year marriage. He’d been offered a coaching job with the L.A. Flash. The world should have been laid out like a smooth red carpet at his feet. Instead, his toes kept snagging on creases, and he couldn’t stop tripping.

  The valet brought around Trent’s black, 1967 Ford Fairlane. As per its ornery character, it backfired when put in park.

  “For the love of God, buy a new car,” Archie grumbled, following Trent out the door into the late summer afternoon heat.

  “I’m not selling Mom’s car.” It was the last thing he had of hers. Trent tipped the valet, and opened the car door, pulling the seat forward so Randy could fold his six-foot-six frame in the back.

  “Coach Parker without his Fairlane would be like Bert without Ernie,” Randy said, a young prophet in the making.

  Trent winced.

  “This is how you plan to succeed in the NBA?” Archie settled in the front passenger seat next to Trent. “By hiring a former college football coach about to marry a college co-ed and a former college basketball player who references Sesame Street?” His old man shook his head. “Son, straighten out your priorities.”

  Trent glanced in the rearview mirror, noting Randy’s worried frown. “You’re suggesting I fire you?” He gripped the steering wheel tighter. “If I don’t do what’s right, who will? You?”

  “I’m marrying Mary Sue Ellen,” Archie groused. “I don’t need your charity.”

  “And yet, you took it.” Trent edged onto Wilshire, which was congested with Thursday afternoon traffic. Almost immediately, they were at a standstill. He missed Holy Southern’s sparsely filled streets.

  “I could have landed another coaching job.” Archie. Still grumbling. Still lying to himself.

  “Not until the furor over your eighteen year-old, baby mama dies down.” Trent’s mother must be spinning in her grave. It was likely she’d been spinning mere months after she’d passed on.

  “My son, the saint. No wonder they call you Reverend.” His father was the one person who knew the Reverend was a sham. The one person who didn’t buy into Trent’s pious persona.

  Trent ground his teeth. He’d been given the nickname while playing basketball at BYU. It had nothing to do with his religious beliefs, or his too-young marriage to the daughter of a televangelist. He’d earned the title due to his dedication to the sport of basketball and the pep talk he gave before each game, which his teammates had labeled “the sermon.” When Trent took on the mantle of the Reverend, people took notice. Without the Reverend, he’d be nothing.

  As long as he kept up the façade, everything would be fine. People who believed in the Reverend listened to what he had to say. Players sacrificed their bodies for him. Those sacrifices were the only tarnish on his public record, the only seed of doubt in his mind. But he had no room for doubts. He had to play his Reverend cards right, save his father from ruin, and give Randy a new NBA dream.

  Archie thumbed at Randy in the backseat. “He’s a college graduate. There’s no need to let him draft in your exhaust.” Half turning in his seat, his father didn’t let up. “What was it you studied, boy?”

  “Physical education,” Randy mumbled.

  Archie huffed. “That and a cup of coffee will get you a job at your local gym. You may not be able to play ball anymore, but you sure as shootin’ can sweep up during the night shift.”

  Randy stared out the window in silence.

  Pressing his lips together, Trent counted to ten, during which time he reminded himself he’d promised his mother he’d watch out for Archie.

  He’d made it to the NBA. Things could only get better from here.

  Chapter 2

  “We’re being Punk’d, right?” Evan, Amber’s husband, glanced at the special delivery envelope Cora held with a hand that trembled.

  Cora didn’t answer. She co
uldn’t answer.

  It wasn’t every day her father sent her a letter from the grave. His name might not be on the return address, but there was no other reason for this special delivery from Daddy’s lawyer.

  Luck was double-dutching the middle finger today. First, the new client list with ex-lovers. Now, just as she was about to face Vivian Gordon, a letter from Daddy. She couldn’t make her hand stop shaking.

  Voices and booming laughter spilled out the open windows of Jack’s house in fits and bursts. The Flash owner’s meet-and-greet was in full swing. Brutus poked his head out of her shoulder bag and growled. In true Hollywood style, the special courier paused at the sidewalk, turned, and saluted them.

  “This has to be a joke.” Evan’s tall, muscular body would have made him immediately recognizable as a professional athlete, if his famous, product-endorsing face did not. “Why else would a courier be waiting for Cora’s signature at Jack Gordon’s meet-and-greet?”

  “Gemma probably told them where to find her.” Amber’s gaze drifted from Cora’s face, to the envelope, and back. Her red hair blew in the breeze. “Are you okay?”

  Cora shook her head.

  “Do you want me to open it?” Amber tried to pluck the letter from Cora’s fingers.

  “No.” The last time Cora received a missive via special courier from Kremer, Hurley & Smythe, it had been a summons to the reading of their father’s will.

  The tremble worked its way up her arms.

  Amber waved to Ren Du, the team’s seven-foot tall, South Korean center, who’d just turned up the driveway. “You have to open it.”

  “No, I don’t.” It might change her life’s course again. She was just getting used to working full-time at the Dooley Foundation, just coming to care for her siblings after years of resentment. “You know it’s from him.”