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“What are you afraid of? That you’re not going to win the five thousand...or that you’re going to be mine for three days?”
Ensnared in his gaze, she had nowhere to hide, nowhere to escape. She was starting to hate rich people. If he didn’t have the kind of money he did, he wouldn’t be able to throw out crazy-ass propositions. He wouldn’t be able to put her in the tough spot of risking her body for a cause that could really use the money. Outside of Ben, she didn’t have the connections to raise that sum. How could she deny the neighborhood five thousand dollars? Somewhere in this world, the good guys had to prevail.
But she didn’t want to give Ben what he wanted. Maybe it was a childish impulse. Maybe she was being stubborn. Maybe she didn’t want to be his little fucktoy. Maybe.
“If you’re not going to make a donation because it’s the right thing to do,” she said, “then you’re a pretty damn worthless billionaire.”
He raised his brows. There was a look on his face she had never seen before, but she was done talking to him and had turned away from him.
“Actually,” she said, turning back. “I’ll play you after you make a donation. And if I win, you keep the Tribune running.”
He stared at her. He was going to refuse, but she had to throw it out there. He wasn’t the only one who could proposition the other.
“Fine.”
She did a double take. He was accepting?
“And if I win,” he confirmed, “I get you.”
She grabbed the ball out his hands. “You’re on, motherfucker.”
His brows went up. He stepped toward her, invading her space. It sent her breath scattering.
He lowered his voice. “Talking trash. I’m going to have a lot of fun punishing you for that, pet.”
Chapter Twenty
Unable to think up a comeback, Kimani merely dribbled the ball and made her way to the court, as if his words didn’t merit a response. She didn’t want Ben to see her stumped or the fact that he had rattled her.
Don’t pay him any attention.
They watched a three-on-three game finishing up. While she collected herself, she evaluated how she was going to win. Given Ben’s height, he could easily block her shots, so she would have to create some space or beat him to the basket. Her shot technique was more solid than his, and that would have to carry the day because defending against him would be hard. He could power his way to the basket.
What had she gotten herself into?
She toyed briefly with the idea of trying to get into his head somehow, but that was perhaps his greatest asset. If she tried to mess with his mind, chances are it would backfire. And if she somehow made him mad, well, he might react as Reggie Miller did in the first game of the 1995 playoff series and lead the Pacers to victory against the Knicks.
“Twenty-one?” Ben asked as the game before them finished.
“Sure,” she said, agreeing to the popular version of street basketball. “How do you play?”
“However you wish.”
She went through the rules she knew, and he agreed to the variations.
“Jump ball?” she asked.
He shook his head. “Ladies first.”
She took the ball up top and started dribbling. He took a defensive stance before her. She faked right, then driving left, was able to get around him for a layup. In a game of Twenty-one, that meant she got up to three free throws.
“Hey, can we join?” asked a young man from the sidelines.
A crowd was starting to gather.
“No,” she answered as she made her free throw.
Nothing but net.
