On the Move by Pamela Britton

potential million dollars or so, and you’d probably set a precedence for other athletes who blow it and indirectly screw their agents. I’m surprised it hasn’t happened before.”
    “You’re kidding,” he asked again, feeling sweat trickle down the back of his neck, and not because it was warm outside.
    “Unfortunately, I’m not. Anyone can file a civil suit, I just don’t think a sports agent has ever sued a client before. It’s unheard of, but not impossible.”
    “Why that no good, money-hungry, piece of—”
    “Wait, Brandon,” she said, clutching his hand. “Don’t let it get that far. Listen to what I’m saying. Toe the line. You won’t regret it if you do.”
    She held his gaze with an intensity that made it impossible to look way. Beneath the shade of the tree they stood underneath she looked worried. And concerned. She still held his hand, too, her fingers clutching his own now. Hell, it almost appeared as if she actually cared.
    Yeah. She cares…she wants the money you’ll earn her if she keeps you in line—just like her boss.
    “Why do you work for such a putz?” he asked.
    She leaned away, dropped her hand and he was sorry for that, he admitted. He liked her touch.
    “Because it’s my job,” she said, her left hand fidgeting with the glasses she held. “Working for Scott pays the rent. I’ll find another job with a different sports agency once I gain more experience.” She frowned. “I probably shouldn’t be admitting that to you, either.”
    But he was glad she did. Not many people were that honest with him. In fact, he could hardly think of a single person.
    Sad, Burke. Really sad.
    “All right,” he said, turning away.
    “Wait,” she said, rushing to get in step with him, heels clattering on the concrete. “Are you saying you’ll behave?”
    He stopped, looking down at her. She hadn’t replaced her glasses and out from beneath the shade of the oak tree, he noticed that her eyes were a true green—not muddied by brown or blue—but an intensely flawless emerald color that was striking.
    “Oh, I’ll behave,” he found himself saying. “Some of the time.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “You’ll see,” he said, his mood suddenly improving. “You’ll see.”

    Y OU’LL SEE .
    The words worried Vicky.
    But contrary to her fears that his “some of the time” meant he’d hassle Mr. Knight when they got back inside, Brandon managed to do a credible job of apologizing. Still, her shoulders were as taut as a stretched rubber band up until the moment Mr. Knight turned the meeting over to Brandon’s new public-relations manager, Flora Parsons. The gray-haired woman’s addition to their meeting had been a surprise. Vicky reasoned out later that Mr. Knight had refrained from introducing the elderly Ms. Parsons until he’d been certain Brandon could be brought to heel.
    “It’ll be Ms. Parsons’s duty to assist you at the racetrack,” Mr. Knight said. “She’ll be your liaison with members of the press.” He glanced at Brandon, narrowed his eyes and said, “You know the drill.”
    Brandon apparently did because he nodded. But Vicky had to wonder, were all PR reps this old? Flora Parsons had to be pushing seventy. She reminded Vicky of the woman who used to run her high-school library. Maybe it was the bagel-shaped bun on the back of her head. Or the pinched mouth. Or maybe it was the frumpy ruffled shirt peeking out from beneath a somewhat older brown suit. Or maybe, Vicky suddenly realized, it was the don’t-mess-with-me eyes. The look had been trained on Brandon from the moment the two met.
    “Nice to meet you,” Brandon said, reaching across the table and shaking her hand.
    That’s the ticket, Brandon, Vicky thought, nodding her approval.
    “I suppose we’ll see if it’ll be a pleasure to work with you, ” Ms. Parsons volleyed back and Vicky was tempted to let the woman borrow her glasses. That frown she gave Brandon would have been much more effective