Whisper Privileges (2 page)

Alana belted it over the net only this time
the ball was spiked down in an angle to Sydney’s right. She lunged
for it, bumped it with the heel of her hand allowing Alana to slam
it across. But the brunette beast crushed it to Alana’s rear. She
dove for it, but landed flat on her side with an audible grunt.
Damn
, Sydney cursed under her breath. That looked like it
hurt. She strode over to help Alana to her feet and couldn’t help
but glance over at Charlie and his friend. As expected, their eyes
were glued to Alana’s sand-clad figure.

“You okay?”

“
Perfecto
,” she replied and openly
brushed the sand stuck to her breast and bottom. Unlike herself,
Alana didn’t mind the blatant ogling. “Two more points and we
sink
them.”

Sydney smiled, held up two fingers between
them and nodded. “Two more.”

The whistle blew and the ball sailed across
the net straight toward her. She slugged it sideways with a
two-fisted bump, stinging the tops of her hands. Lady of Concrete
leapt up and pumped it back—but Alana was right there. Leaping high
into the air, she met the ball with a downward thrust, hitting the
woman square in the forehead. The ball bounced up and behind her
for the score. Sydney chuckled under her breath.
Nice
six-pack
! Otherwise known as a slam to the face.

While Alana apologized for the hit, an
official tossed the ball to Sydney for the serve. Heading to the
back line, she forced her breathing to slow and deepen, recovering
her breath from the last play.
Focus
, she told herself.
Focus
. Turning to face the net, she checked with Alana’s
backside. Beyond her Sydney noticed Charlie and his friend were
staring at her as she steadied the ball before her. Everyone knew
this one was for the win. She took a deep breath, checked Alana’s
fingers once more and nodded slightly. Exhilaration swept deep
through her midsection.
This one was for the win
.

At the sound of the whistle, Sydney wound
back for the serve and crushed the ball with the heel of her hand.
Brunette raced to meet it, pulverized it back. Alana returned the
hit, but yellow team pummeled it with lightning speed. Sydney ran
forward, her body instinctively diving to make the connection. With
a single-handed punch she hit the ball, crashed to the
ground—landing hard on her shoulder. Alana whirled around,
squatted, and bumped the low hit up and over the net with a
decisive spin. Sydney scrambled to her feet. She prayed the deep
ball would remain inbounds. The whistle blew, the horn sounded.
“Match point!”

“Yes!” Alana jumped up and down, pumping her
fist wildly through the air. “We did it!”

Sydney ran to her. “Way to go, Alana!” Fans
whistled and cheered as they embraced.

“We’re going all the way, Sydney!”

“All the way,” she repeated, heart hammering
in her chest. Briskly brushing hands with the competition in a
quick show of duty, they murmured, “Nice game.”

“Next time, you’re
ours
,” the bigger
one muttered.

Skin flushed from the heat of play, sweat
streaming down the side of her face, Sydney wanted to say there
won’t be a next time if you two hulks don’t sharpen your game. But
she only smiled, indicating she looked forward to the next match.
The intensity of play made her feel alive and powerful. It made her
feel capable, invincible. It made her feel like a winner.

“
Bebita
!”

Sydney turned to see Alana scooped into the
arms of her boyfriend. He twirled her around in a circle and
exclaimed, “
Fantastico
!” followed by a full on open-mouth
kiss. The two proceeded to babble on in Spanish, most of which was
incoherent to Sydney. Despite living in Miami her entire life and
having a Cuban father, Sydney couldn’t carry a conversation in
Spanish if it had two handles. Swiping the perspiration from her
forehead, no boyfriend waiting in the wings to congratulate her,
she turned, in need of some ice-cold water. That’s when she saw
them approach. Her pulse accelerated. Standing alone center court,
dressed in nothing but a glorified bikini, she felt oddly on
display—especially when it came to oglers like Charlie.

“Hey Syd, great game!” he said genially, as
though they were friends.

“Thanks,” she tossed back.

“Awesome game,” his friend agreed and removed
his sunglasses. “You’re an amazing player.”

“Thank you,” she replied. Heart still
pounding, she was stunned by the cobalt shade of his eyes. The
color jumped out at her, almost hard to look at beneath his dark
lashes. They seemed to catch the sun, absorbing light deep within
blue wells of color. Combined with the faded purple of his Polo
shirt, sun-bleached hair combed forward and face tanned from a day
at the beach, the guy definitely looked as if he jogged over with
his surfboard after a quick slice through the waves. The short
white Puka shell necklace worn high around his neck only sealed the
image in her mind.

“You should really go pro,” he said.

“I’m not
that
good.” She pulled her
long ponytail forward over a shoulder and shifted her weight.
“Amateur is about as far as I can make it.”

“I don’t believe it,” he said easily, the
tenor of his smile more intimate than he had a right to be. “You
have natural athletic ability. Why, I bet if you decided you wanted
to go pro...” his smile tilted up to one side, “you’d make it in a
heartbeat.”

While she appreciated his vote of confidence,
he really had no idea the kind of time and training it took for
professional sports. All or nothing it would leave her with no time
for a career. “Thanks,” she returned with a smile. “But I’ll settle
for amateur. Keeps me in the sport, at least.”

“She’s too busy clawing her way to the top of
my company to go pro,” Charlie interjected and then made
introductions. “Sydney, this is my friend Clay Rutledge. Clay,
Sydney Flores.”

“Nice to meet you,” he said and extended his
hand.

“You, too.” She met his hand and noted his
palm was soft, his skin warm.

“Is that Flores, as in flower? Because if it
is,” he paused and lengthened his smile, “it suits you.”

Sydney’s cheeks flushed at the silly
compliment, heightened by the southern drawl he inflected. She
pulled her hand from his, but not before he gave a slight
squeeze.

“We’re headed out for lunch,” Charlie said.
“Wanna join us?”

Black hair, ice blue eyes, sharp features and
muscular build, Charlie may garner attention from many women, but
not this one. “No thanks.” His rot-gut personality blinded her to
any good looks he might have. “My body needs water and rest right
now.” Standing idle, the sun began to sear into her head and
shoulders. “And anyway, Alana and I will have another match
soon.”

“Maybe another time,” Clay said.

Sydney considered the man before her. On the
one hand she was attracted to his appearance; however, his choice
of friends left a lot to be desired. She cast a glance toward
Charlie. The man was a two-timing, self-centered certifiable jerk.
Returning her attention to Clay she replied, “Maybe.” But don’t
count on it. Any friend of Charlie’s must have something wrong with
him.

“Are you playing tomorrow?”

“Depends on this afternoon. Alana and I move
on to the semi-final round from here and then, we’ll see.”

“I’m still waiting for nude volleyball.”
Charlie laughed. “You and Alana would win that one hands tied
behind your back!”

Sydney’s stomach turned at the crude
visual.

Clay turned on him. “What’s the matter with
you?”

He’s an idiot
. Crossing arms over
chest, she glared at the both of them, and then settled on Clay.
Or haven’t you noticed
?

“What?” Charlie looked at Clay in surprise.
“Syd knows I’m only kidding.”

“That’s no excuse for being rude,” he bit
back.

Well there’s a refreshing surprise... By the
tone of his voice, it sounded like this Clay fellow was actually as
disgusted by the comment as she.

“Apologize to the woman.”

Charlie balked, but when Clay continued his
penetrating stare, he relented. “Sorry, Syd.” He looked at the
ground and kicked at the sand. “It was just a joke. You know I
didn’t mean anything by it.”

Yes you did—you meant exactly what you said.
“Whatever.” She had no interest in wasting any more time on Charlie
than necessary.

Clay turned to her and said in a tone so soft
and low, she had to struggle to hear him. “I’m sorry, Sydney. I
didn’t know Charlie could be so crass.”

He’s an ass
, she wanted to say. It’s
what he does. But voicing her true feelings would do nothing to
solve the problem. Charlie had been this way since the day she met
him at JL Conventions and she didn’t expect him to change.

“Great match, Syd!”

The three of them turned.

“Hey, Diego!” Sydney said, warmed by the
sight of her cousin. A fellow volleyball player, he too, was here
as an amateur athlete in the events. Built thick and solid, Diego
was shorter than most players but what he lacked in height he made
up for in enthusiasm. “How’d your match go?”

He beamed, his teeth bright white against the
brown of his skin. “Aced it! Joe and I are advancing to the next
round. You?”

“Alana and I will see you there.” Sydney
turned back to Charlie and his friend. “Listen, I’ve gotta run. It
was nice meeting you.”

“You too,” Clay murmured.

Without a word to Charlie, she asked Diego,
“Thirsty?”

“Absolutely.” Diego passed a glance over
Charlie and Clay and told her, “Joe’s over at the tent now.”

“Great. Let’s go.” Sydney walked off with
Diego and imagined Charlie and Clay’s eyes trailing her backside.
Nude volleyball
. While she tried to eject the juvenile
reference from her brain, it felt like each dimple of cellulite in
her rear cried out, ‘Look at me! Look at me!’

Chapter Two

Leather-bound notebook in hand, Sydney jogged
up the stairs spiraling prominently up the atrium lobby of JL
Conventions. She mentally scrolled through her stats as she rounded
the top step, swinging into a brisk stride down the hall. Located
in downtown Miami, the company comprised three levels—her boss’s
office consuming the corner penthouse suite overlooking Biscayne
Bay. With a view of water to one side, the city beautiful to the
other, it was a space she coveted for herself one day.

But working to help coordinate the Special
Olympics National Games was probably not going to get her there.
The games were being held right here in Miami, but the organization
handled most of the details leaving her nothing to do but run
errands, or so it felt that way. Her job was to make sure they had
everything they needed, from managing local suppliers and
communication between the two to calling the right people in the
event if something went wrong. Athletes were set to arrive
Saturday, opening ceremonies were scheduled for Sunday afternoon
and the first full day of games would commence early Monday
morning. A shimmy of anticipation skirted through her veins as she
neared the office. Over three thousand athletes were expected for
the games, accompanied by four hundred coaches, upwards of thirty
thousand family members and guests not to mention the slew of
nearly ten thousand volunteers who had already signed on to
help.

Sydney had experience with big events, but
these numbers were staggering. From the hotels and restaurants that
would benefit, to the university sports complex and neighboring
businesses, the games were projected to bring in close to fifty
million in revenue for the area in less than two weeks. Talk about
major impact—this one took the cake!

Paid the bill
, she mused soberly. And
the last event she wanted. The Special Olympics National Games were
a far cry from the Celebrity Golf Tournament she’d put in for, but
it wasn’t her job to assign events. Sydney strode through the open
door to her boss’s office. It was her job to work them.

Javier Lopez looked up from his desk with a
smile. “Right on time,” he said, his coffee-brown eyes lighting up
as he took in the sight of her. Full-blooded Cuban, Javier had dark
smoldering looks—looks that could undress you in seconds, seduce
you in minutes. His eyes were lined in soft black, his silky black
hair cut in long loose layers giving him an easy casual
sophistication, one that went hand in hand with his management
style. Setting his pen down, he hitched his chin toward the chairs
across from him. “Have a seat.”

Sydney pulled one of the straight-back art
deco style chairs from his desk and dropped to the cushion.
Decorated with minimalist overtones, his black furnishings were
gloss and shine, accented by a lone unframed canvas boldly colored
and totally abstract. Included were the customary diplomas, but
mostly his walls were adorned with photos of Javier accompanied by
the Who’s Who in Miami. But then again, connections were his
business. Crossing one leg over the other, she pulled the turquoise
edge of her skirt toward her knee and laid her notebook open across
her thigh. Sliding the pen from its secure loop, she tapped tip to
paper, poised to take notes as she asked, “Did you call Henry?”

“I spoke with him this morning,” Javier
replied evenly. “He wants to be sure the family info packets are
set to go. Are we set with maps and area brochures?”

“Yes. I spoke with Lisa over at All American
and she assures me they have everything ready to go for the airport
and venues.” She marked a check by the item.

“Have you seen for yourself that they’ve been
included?” He arched an accusatory brow. “You know it to be
complete?”

“Yes. Went through the order personally and
spoke with the people in charge at each location.”