Better Late Than Never

Chapter One

The moment the door to the examination room clicked shut, Max Dutton pointed a finger at his long-time agent Jason Caldwell and said, “Dr. Stone is a quack. There’s no way I’m paying some high-strung skinny dietician to follow me around for the next few weeks.”

“You don’t have a choice,” Jason said. “Not unless you plan to retire from the NFL a few years earlier than planned.”

Max snorted. “A few hours in the hospital and they start threatening dismissal. Give me a break.”

“You were there for two days,” Jason argued. “They just want to make sure you’re living a healthier lifestyle before they sign you. Routine. Nothing personal.”

When it came to the franchise, Max thought, everything was personal.

Jason tried to contain his exasperation within a deep breath, but Max could see the frustration in his agent’s eyes. “Listen Max. The franchise wants a guy with quick reflexes, good eyesight, a sense of timing and a responsible attitude toward safety. You’re thirty-three years old. In football terms that’s retirement age. You’ve got to stop pretending you’re still twenty-two. I know you think you’ve got to squeeze a lot of life into the next few years, but things have to change.”

Unbelievable. No matter how many times he told his coach and his agent that he no longer attempted sky-high-stoppies on his bike, or attended wild parties on the weekends, they chose to believe the tabloids. He looked Jason square in the eyes. “I’m tired of letting a bunch of suits tell me how to live my life.”

Jason shook his head. “Don’t throw it all away just because you might have to have someone following you around, telling you what to eat for a few weeks. They’re worried about you. Simple as that.”

They both looked toward the door as it came open.

Dr. Stone reentered the room only this time he had a woman at his side. As Dr. Stone made introductions, Max kept his gaze on the woman. She wasn’t tall and skinny after all. Nor was she short and fat. She was just right. Her dark shiny hair was pulled back tight against her head, revealing a heart-shaped face and creamy, flawless skin. She wore one of those crisp white doctor’s coats over a pair of black slacks and practical shoes that made Max wince. Her eyes though, matched the lush green hills overlooking Malibu Lake, thus making up for the shoes.

Being a connoisseur of all things female, Max also noticed that the woman wore no jewelry and hardly any makeup. His sisters would have a field day if they could get their hands on her--doing her hair and adding a little color to her cheeks. The thought would have brought a smile to his face if the woman’s eyes hadn’t gone all wide and surprised the moment she looked at him.

“Is something wrong?” Max asked the woman.

“No,” she said. “It’s just that I-I can’t help you.”

Max looked around the room to see if anyone else heard what she’d just said.

Jason didn’t say a word.

Dr. Stone just stood there and watched the woman turn about and head for the door.

Max should have let her go. Hell, he didn’t even want a nutritionist, but he found himself asking, “Why not?”

With one hand on the doorknob, clearly eager to make her escape, she spared him a glance. “I have another engagement. It completely slipped my mind.” She turned her gaze to Dr. Stone. “I’m sorry for any inconvenience I may have caused.”

Max stepped toward her. “You have something against me personally, don’t you?”

She looked him straight in the eye. “Of course not. I have no idea what you’re talking about, Mr. Um—”

Mr. Um? He wasn’t falling for it. The woman had recognized him the moment she walked through that door. Why else would her chin have hit her chest and her eyes popped out of her head? “Max Dutton,” he said, holding out a hand for her to shake.

She looked at his hand as if it might bite her. For a moment Max thought she might pretend she didn’t see it at all, but she finally, if not reluctantly, dropped her hand from the doorknob and shook his hand.

Her fingers felt tense, her expression guarded, not the usual response he got from the ladies.

“Nice to meet you, Max,” she said without sincerity. “I should be going now. If you’d like, I could give you a couple of names of nutritionists who might be able to help you.”

Max waggled a finger at her. “You don’t like athletes. I can see it in your eyes.”

She let out a small feminine laugh that might have been cute under different circumstances. “You caught me, Mr. Dutton. You’re right. It’s pro football players I have a problem with. They’re needy and, you know, sort of full of themselves. It would never work.” The door opened and promptly clicked shut. The woman was gone.

Silence.

Nobody said a word. In less than two minutes the woman had rendered three men entirely speechless. Despite the warning bells going off in his head, Max found himself hurrying out the door after her. Sure she set his teeth on edge, but he hated the idea of somebody not liking him, especially for no good reason. He was charming. Women of all sizes, shapes, and ages fell at his feet on a daily basis. Besides, something wasn’t right. The woman acted as if they had met before. “Hey!” he called out, “I didn’t catch your name.”

She shot a quick look over her shoulder, but didn’t slow her pace one iota.

He had to jog down the wide carpeted hallway to catch up to her and take long unruly strides to stay at her side. “We’ve met before, haven’t we?” he asked.

She laughed, that is, if air being blown out the nostrils counted as an expression of amusement.

“I really don’t have time for this,” she explained. “Dr. Stone is a well-respected doctor. I’m sure he’ll find someone who can help you.”

“I don’t want just anyone. I want you.”

Bingo! He’d hit a soft spot--or at least a spot because she stopped in her tracks. He did too, then wondered if he’d really just told her that he wanted her. Judging by the sour look on her face, he’d done exactly that.

“We did meet before,” she said matter-of-factly. “Years ago.”

“I knew it!”

She stiffened. “You were naked.”

Max tried not to look surprised, although he found himself scratching his head. Now they were getting somewhere. He flashed a roguish smile that rarely--make that never failed him and asked, “Were you naked too?”

She shoved her hands into the wide pockets of her white lab coat and stood as stiff and straight as the Washington Monument. Intense green eyes met his. For a millisecond she looked sort of sad and maybe regretful. “Yes...yes I was.”

Max found himself wishing he hadn’t followed her out into the hall after all. How often does a guy find himself in a situation like this? And how the hell does that same guy get himself out of such an awkward situation in one piece? His buddies would find his retelling of the story amusing, he was certain. But Max felt anything but. He had no idea when he’d met the woman standing before him. “I feel like an idiot,” he admitted.
“Like pond scum.”

“I’m glad.”

He smiled. “That was your cue to assure me I wasn’t pond scum...that it’s understandable I might forget a face, albeit a pretty face like yours, out of the hundreds I run across.”

“Oh, I see. Do you have a script for me Max?”

A knot formed in his throat. “You’re right. That was uncalled for. I’m sorry. I’m generally charming and witty.”

“Is that right?”

Shoot me now. Max couldn’t help but hope she would run off again. But that would be too easy and they both knew it. She was obviously one of those intelligent sorts and she knew she had him by the balls. “Yeah,” he said, “so I’ve been told. Can I take you to lunch?”

She crossed her arms tight against her chest, shaking her head for good measure.

“Dinner? Restaurant of your choice?”

“No. Never.”

The woman hardly blinked. Didn’t even waver. She was as mean as they came. And damn if he wasn’t completely turned on. “Can you at least tell me your name?”

“Sara,” she said through tight lips.

Sara...Sara...the name didn’t ring a bell...or did it?

She patted his arm as if he were a small child in need of sympathy. “Don’t worry about it, Max. It’s completely understandable that you would forget the name of a woman you slept with, considering there must be zillions of faces and naked bodies swirling within that head of yours. All those nameless faces squished together like tiny gnats. Sheesh, I can’t imagine the difficulty you must have sorting it all out.” She exhaled. “Believe me when I tell you you’re not the biggest jerk in Los Angeles. You’re small, very very small if you get my meaning.”

He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “I do believe, Ms. Sara, I get your meaning.”

“Well good. I must admit it has been delightful talking to you.” She tapped a short unpolished nail against his chest. “I haven’t felt this good in years. Thank you, Max. Thank you very much.”

“My pleasure,” he found himself saying as he stood there and watched her turn and sashay down the hall until her white coat disappeared through the revolving doors.

Footsteps approached from behind as Dr. Stone headed his way. “I don’t think she likes me,” Max told the doctor.

“Don’t worry about it,” Dr. Stone said. “She owes me a favor. I’ll make sure she’s at your house first thing in the morning so the two of you can get started. As soon as she gives you clearance, I’ll sign you off.”

Max thanked him, although he guessed the good doctor had about a chance in a zillion of getting Ms. Sara to agree. Max found Jason waiting for him in the lobby and told him he’d call him tomorrow. He headed off, glad to be on his way.

On the drive home, the name Sara kept popping into Max’s mind, swirling about like the tiny gnats she’d talked about. Sara...Sara...Sara. Damn! Who was she anyhow? And if what she said about them both being naked was true, why couldn’t he remember her? Sure, he’d always had a fondness for the ladies, but he didn’t usually forget a face.
She’d said they had met years ago. What did that mean? High school? He’d dated Alyssa Anderson on and off throughout high school. And Karen Cotler for a month or two...and there was Amanda Rolandelli. He vaguely recalled a girl named Kylie. And then there was dream girl, but she wasn’t real. She’d been an apparition, a ghost. He’d met her on the night he’d come home early from college. The same night he’d found Alyssa messing around with another guy. He could still remember the kick in the gut he felt when he saw Alyssa tangled within another guy’s arms. His chest had felt as if it had been smashed in with a sledge hammer, at least until dream girl showed up and led him up the stairs, showed him that life went on.

Dream girl had made love to him like nobody else. She made love with her mouth, her hands, and especially her eyes, made him feel like the only guy in the world. And it didn’t matter that he’d never met her before, because when she told him she loved him, he believed her.

Max shook off the memory, the apparition, or whatever the hell dream girl had been. Bottom line--he woke up the next morning and she was gone. He never did learn her name. His sisters had no idea who he was talking about when he asked about her the next day. Not one person he’d talked to remembered seeing him with a girl at the party. A few days after being with dream girl his father had died, right there in front of him as they argued in the family room. Max’s life hadn’t been the same since.
His mother sold the house and they all packed up and moved to Santa Barbara to be closer to his grandmother. And thus dream girl became just that--a dream. But he’d never forgotten her.

And the uptight Ms. Sara was definitely not dream girl.

Max drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and kept his eyes on the heavy traffic around him. Everything had changed after his dad died. Upon his passing, his mother learned from the doctor that there was a horrible screw-up in the Dutton gene pool, at least when it came to the male side of the family. Generations of female Duttons had lived long healthy lives, but the male side of the Dutton family had not been so fortunate.

Ever since learning that his probability of living past the age of forty was close to nil, Max’s mother and four sisters had done nothing but fret over him, acting as if he had eight days to live instead of nearly twenty years. Of course now, twelve years later, Max was beginning to understand the panic they felt. He was thirty-three years old, which meant he had about seven years to live, if he was lucky. If Max thought his mother was a worry wart, his four sisters were three times worse. And now his agent and every suit in the Los Angeles Condors’ franchise had started doing the same damn thing-—fretting. Damn. He needed this contract if he wanted to continue to sleep at night, knowing his sisters and mother would be living a comfortable life long after he was gone. Sure, he might be able to snag a coaching job or try announcing, but it could be years before the money would match his current salary. And time was one thing he didn’t have.

A siren sounded behind him. Heavy traffic wouldn’t allow him to pull to the side. An ambulance whizzed by, shifting his thoughts back to Sara. Damn. Not dozens of irritating gnats swirling in his head, only one annoying female gnat making him crazy.
Max tightened his grip on the steering wheel and decided if Dr. Stone did somehow manage to convince Sara to work with him, he’d have to work double time to charm the hell out of her and convince her to sign him off as healthy, hopefully within the first week. Any other woman would sign him off in the first twenty-four hours, but he had more than a hunch that Ms. Sara would do no such thing. A week with the woman should give him plenty of time to figure out who Sara was and when exactly they’d gotten down and dirty together. He’d think of it as a challenge. He always enjoyed a good challenge. In fact, he felt better already.

Fifteen minutes later, Max pulled off on Alvarado, took a right on Wilshire Boulevard and made a left at Stanton before he stopped at the bottom of his driveway. He pushed the button on the remote and waited for the iron gates leading to his house to slide open. He sped up the driveway, past dozens of giant imported palms.

Parked in front of his five-car garage was Breanne’s shiny blue Honda, a little something he’d given his kid sister for her twenty-fifth birthday three weeks ago. Before he put his car into park he saw Breanne in his rear view mirror, running out the front door and sprinting down the wide flagstone stairs.

Even from a few feet away he could see she was upset. He climbed out of his Porsche and met her half way. “What’s wrong?”

“Where have you been?” she wailed as if he had telepathic powers and should have known she’d been waiting for him.

Not wanting to upset her further by telling her he’d been at the doctor’s office, he said, “Just out running a few errands. What’s going on?”

“I’m pregnant,” she blurted.

Growing up with four sisters had taught him to think things through before he reacted.
Max ran his fingers through his hair, a ploy to buy time before he responded. Breanne lived with her boyfriend. They were engaged--worse things could happen. “It’s not the end of the world,” he finally said. “It could be a boy,” he added without nearly as much thought as he reached a hand out to rub her flat belly. “A chip off the ol’ block.”

Sniffles turned to sobs, reminding him of the male Dutton gene. “I’m sure it’s a girl though,” he added.

Streaks of mascara streamed down both sides of her face. Nothing he could say would help, so he offered her a lame pat on the back. “Does Jared know?”

She didn’t bother wiping her eyes, she just grabbed hold of his shirt and twisted the ends into her small fists. “He says he’s not ready for kids,” she sobbed.

Warm heat flushed Max’s face right before he turned and headed back for his Porsche. “I’m going to go have a little talk with Jared right now.”

Breanne refused to let go of his shirt, forcing him to drag her along with him.
She tugged hard, threatening to disown him if he touched even one tiny hair on Jared’s head. Max refused to listen, not until he jerked around to face her again and found himself looking into big brown puppy-dog eyes. “Damn!” He waved a frustrated hand through the air. “I wasn’t going to hurt the guy. So what do you plan to do about it? Sit here and cry?”

She started bawling again.

He rolled his eyes. Breanne was the toughest of his four sisters. He’d never seen her look so darn pitiful. “Okay, okay,” he said as he put an arm around her shoulder. “Let’s go inside and talk this through.”

Max led Breanne back the way she’d come, up the wide set of flagstone stairs, through the double doors, across the black and white checkered marble entry and into the sprawling kitchen with its floor to ceiling windows and breathtaking view of Beverly Hills. He set his keys and wallet on the black-veined granite countertop and turned Breanne about so she had no choice but to look at him. “It’s okay,” he said in a reassuring tone. “Everything will work out. You just need a plan. Tell me what you want to do about this.”

She sniffled and wiped her nose on the tissue he handed her. “I want to move in here with you.”

Shit. His body tensed. He had to go and ask. He usually had more time to prepare for these things. He usually got a call from his mother hours before things got out of hand. Reverse psychology might have worked. His sisters were all stubborn as hell. If he’d come up with the idea to have her move in with him, she never would have agreed to it. Instead, she would have been horror-struck by the idea.

Despite his unease, he found himself telling her she could stay as long as she needed to. Anything she desired--it was hers. All she had to do was ask. What else could he do? His mother and sisters had come to depend on him emotionally and financially. By the time he was contracted with the Los Angeles Condors, his salary had hit seven figures. He’d been lavishing expensive gifts on all the females in his life ever since.
Why not? It wasn’t as if he needed to save for the future—for Max Dutton there was no future.