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Speakman looked up at the Central American and dismissed him with a soft “Nada más. Gracias.”
Manuelo and Mrs. Speakman met in the open doorway. He stepped aside so she could come into the room, then he left, pulling the double doors closed behind him. But Griff was no longer interested in Manuelo. He was focused on Mrs. Speakman. Laura, her name was.
She didn’t give off crazy vibes. In fact, she seemed perfectly composed and in control of her faculties. She didn’t look toward Griff, although he created a sizable silhouette even in a large room like this one. Instead, she crossed to where her husband sat in his wheelchair. She placed her hand on his shoulder, leaned down, and kissed his cheek.
When they pulled apart, Speakman said, “Laura, this is Griff Burkett.”
Since she had ignored him up till now, he was surprised when she walked toward him, right hand extended. “Mr. Burkett. How do you do?” He met her halfway, and they shook hands. Like her husband’s, her handshake was dry and firm. A businesswoman’s handshake.
Griff limited his greeting to a simple “Hi.”
She dropped his hand but maintained eye contact. “Thank you for coming. Didn’t you get released just this morning?”
“We’ve been over that,” Speakman said, humor in his voice.
“Oh, sorry. I would ask you about the long drive, but I rather imagine that topic has been exhausted, too.”
“It has,” Griff said.
“Small talk sounds even smaller in this particular situation, doesn’t it?”
He wasn’t going to touch that with a ten-foot pole.
She said, “I’m sure you were offered something to drink.”
“I was. I’m fine.”
“If you change your mind, let me know.”
They might have been missing critical marbles, but their manners remained intact.
“Please sit down, Mr. Burkett.” She took the chair nearest her husband’s wheelchair.
Griff hadn’t had time to speculate on what Foster Speakman’s missus would be like, but if he had to define his initial reaction, it would be surprise. There was nothing in her handshake or straightforward gaze that could be interpreted as nervous, flirtatious, or coy. Nor did she seem embarrassed by the topic they now had in common. He could have been there to talk about cleaning their carpets.
She didn’t act submissive or browbeaten, either, like this was something her husband had cooked up for his own gratification and she had agreed to go along with it under duress.
Hell, he didn’t know what he had expected, but whatever it was, Laura Speakman wasn’t it.
She was wearing a pair of black slacks and a white shirt, sleeveless, with pleats—he thought that was what they were called—stitched in rows down the front. Like a tuxedo shirt. Low-heeled black shoes. A serviceable wristwatch, a plain wedding band. Some of the players on the football team had worn diamonds in their ears much bigger and flashier than the ones in hers.
Her hair was dark and cut short. Sort of…swirly. He figured it would curl if it were worn longer. She was on the tallish side of average, slender, and, judging by her bare biceps, fit. Tennis maybe. A couple of times a week, she probably did yoga or Pilates, one of those women’s workouts for toning and flexibility.
He tried to keep from staring, tried to avoid looking at the features of her face too closely, although his overall impression was that if he had spotted her in a crowd, he probably would have done a double take. She wasn’t a babe, not like the kind of silicone-fortified Dallas dolly who used to hang out in the nightclubs frequented by him and his teammates, single or not. But Laura Speakman wasn’t homely. Not by any stretch.
And another thing, she looked healthy enough to have a baby. Young enough, too, if she didn’t waste time. Mid-thirties, maybe. Around his age.
He felt awkward, standing there in the center of the room, the two of them looking at him as though waiting for him to entertain them.
“Mr. Burkett? Griff?” Speakman nodded toward the chair facing them.
He’d told himself that the first chance he got, he was going to say “Thanks, but no thanks” and bolt. But he felt compelled to stay. Hell if he knew why.
Well, there was the six hundred grand. The figure had a nice ring to it that was pretty damn compelling.
He walked over to the chair and sat down. Looking directly at Laura Speakman, he said, “Your husband told me you’re all for this. Is that true?”
“Yes.”
