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transgressions.
    Dylan
smiled at her three-inch heels. “Well, there is that. But I was just thinking
you are the only one not having fun.”
     “I’m
having a great time, Mr. Burke. And about the other day, please accept my most
sincere—”
    He
dismissed her apology with a wave of his hand, turning slightly toward the
field. She was losing him. She touched his arm lightly with her fingers and
leaned microscopically forward, so that her cleavage was almost visible from
his vantage point.
    “Well,
I just want you to know that I am usually the soul of discretion with all my
clients,” she said, making her voice just the tiniest bit husky and drizzling
the Southern accent like warm butter. “This week has been exceptional.”
    “Really,
forget it,” he said to her blouse. “I know my family’s not what you’d call
traditional.”
    “No,”
she conceded, ignoring his leer. “I guess they’re not.”
    He
redirected his gaze, after a minute, back to her eyes. He seemed to assess her,
his youthful green eyes sparkling with surprising intelligence. Suzanne
couldn’t tell what conclusions he was drawing about her, but his mouth curved
up just for a split second. “Anyway,” he said louder than before, drawing the
nearby partygoers into their conversation. “What you need to do is loosen up a
bit. Enjoy the game. I realize it’s not squash or water polo or whatever you high-society
types enjoy down at the country club, but it is America’s pastime.”
    She
smiled at him through gritted teeth. You little jackass . Clearly Dylan
had picked up on her desperation to keep him as a happy client, and was now
exacting his revenge for her behavior on the phone the other day.
    He
threw his arm around a petite blonde in a pink baseball cap and impossibly tiny
camouflage shorts. “See, Ms. Hamilton, you can’t always judge by appearances.
Now look there.” He pointed at the field and squeezed the little blonde closer
simultaneously. “That’s my buddy Jesse McCreary in right field. He has a
six-million dollar contract, but he ain’t afraid to get his hands dirty. I’ve
been fishing with him and he can clean a bass faster than you can fill up one
of your expensive teacups. But I guess that wouldn’t mean much to you, would it?”
    He
looked expansively around at the crowd, grinning smugly. They were eating it
up. She wanted to kick him in the balls and storm out. Nothing was worth this.
    “No,
I guess it wouldn’t,” Suzanne replied softly, feeling her face go red again.
She refused to break eye contact, despite her embarrassment. The two thoughts
most present in her mind were that she wanted desperately to smack Dylan in the
face, and that she wished like hell she had not chosen to wear her mother’s
pearls today. She’d been aiming for professional and refined, but to Dylan
Burke’s circle she came off stuffy and aristocratic.
    Dylan
was clearly enjoying his advantage. “See there? I sure hope you learn, Ms.
Hamilton, that”—here he broke into a loud clear melody—“ scruffy don’t always
mean stupid .” A murmur of laughter and smattering of applause rippled
through the box crowd as they recognized the lyric from one of his early hits.
He winked at her and turned toward the field, the microscopic blonde in tow.
    Screw
it. Let him fire me. “Actually, Mr. Burke,” she said, calling him back with the most sugary sweet
tone she could manage. “The reason I am not impressed by Jesse McCreary’s
fishing prowess is that it seems to detract from his performance on the field.
No offense to your friend, but he’s way overvalued. Sure, his batting average will
stay in the 300s until the end of May or so, but he’s not clutch. His stats go
down every year the closer we get to October and his percentages with runners
in scoring position is just pathetic. Those high-profile homeruns might be fun
to watch, but they won’t be enough to get us to the World Series unless he can
do it with runners on base. I