Family Fortune

“Well, hel-lo.” Cale clicked the remote and switched off the TV, which accounted for the voices Crystal had heard.

Perfect. He was alone. No lights flashed wildly on his monitor today. Likewise, the ropes and pulleys that held him immobile looked solidly hooked. One thing was different, though—a smile that spread crookedly from ear to ear. The smile made him look like a totally different man and gave Crystal pause.

“You’re obviously new on the ward, sweetheart. In spite of what you’ve probably been told, I don’t bite.”

“Your alter ego snarled Stay out?” Crystal couldn’t rein in a laugh.

“That’s before I saw you were prettier than a bushel of roses. Where’d you come from? The morning nursing shift reminds me of a Packer defense line.” He pretended to shudder. “Come talk to me. I’m really a likable guy.”

Crystal snorted. “Modest, too,” she said, using her instrument case to shove her way into the room. “Let’s get a few things straight. I’m not a nurse and I am not your sweetheart. We met briefly yesterday, Mr. Tanner. My name is Crystal Jardin.”

“We met?” His gaze shifted from her hair to the worn instrument case. Almost immediately his eyes lit up. “You must be the musician who shakes down the rafters. I did ask an aide to have you stop by last night. Guess you didn’t have a chance.”

“You heard my music all the way here? Sorry. Next time I’ll shut the door and mute the sound.”

His smile slipped. “You’ve got it wrong. I’m not complaining. Quite the opposite. That Latin tune you played was incredible.”

She blushed. “You know about music? Jazz?” That threw her. She’d have to revise her first assessment of Cale Tanner. “I guess you mean Cannonball Adderly’s ‘Jive Samba.’ He’s the master. I was spang-a-langing his piece, is all.”

“Spang-a-who-ing? You lost me.”

Ah. So he didn’t know the language of jazz. “Spang-a-lang is the rhythmic feel of a sound. Like, messing around trying to hit a certain groove.” Grasping for ways to explain, she said, “It’s the process of finding the ultimate groove.”

“Yeah. Gotcha. You know when what you’ve done gels. It’s the same in football. A lot of times there’re too many men between me and the goal line to see the play I made. But when I’ve connected with a receiver, I know in my gut.”

Crystal’s brow puckered. She didn’t think football compared to music and was on the verge of saying so when his face broke out in a lopsided grin. “Grab a chair and knock back a few songs, why don’t you?”

“Now?”

“Sure. Why not?”

“It’s lunchtime. And it’s not visiting hours.” She almost said she was here for another purpose entirely, but Crystal held off on that. Maybe it had to do with the light she’d seen burning deep in his eyes when he got the drift of spang-a-langing. Whatever else Tanner was, he felt strongly attuned to his sport. She sensed he was a long way from severing that bond. Maybe the rumors of his retirement were way off base.

“For what my insurance company’s paying for this private room, I ought to be able to have an orgy in here twenty-four hours a day if I choose.”

That comment was exactly what Crystal would expect of a football player. She didn’t realize her face showed her distaste so plainly until Tanner narrowed his eyes.

“We have met. I’ve seen that look. Where?” He scrutinized her from beneath indecently thick eyelashes for so long that Crystal felt uncomfortable. So uncomfortable she jumped when he snapped his fingers.

“Yesterday! The reporter.” He scowled at her saxophone. “Do you really play that thing? Or is this another trick to get an interview? If it is, you have ten seconds to vamoose, babe.”

He looked so menacing when he frowned Crystal didn’t know where to begin or what would buy her time. She set her instrument case on his bedside table and opened it to give him a clear view of the gleaming brass alto sax.

“I’m not a reporter,” she said quietly.

He crossed his arms across a muscular chest. “They fired you since yesterday?”

“My purpose for being here yesterday was to get your autograph on a football for a young friend of mine. He’s down the hall in the children’s long-term orthopedic ward.” She plunged a hand into her large jute handbag and produced the ball. “Darn, I returned the permanent marker to the nursing station. You don’t happen to have a pen suitable for autographing leather, do you?”

“You mean I almost killed myself over an autograph?”

“Well, yes, and I’m sorry about that, Mr. Tanner.”

“Caleb. Salesmen call me Mr. Tanner. You wouldn’t be trying to sell me a bill of goods, would you, babe?”

Crystal dealt him a withering look. The kind she reserved for the Ray Lyons of the world. “No one calls me babe. You may call me Ms. Jardin.”

Caleb sidestepped her remark as neatly as he avoided a pileup of defensive linemen. “Uh-huh. Give me the damned football.” Leaning over, he yanked open the center drawer of his nightstand and pawed around until he found a marking pen. “I should’ve guessed you don’t play that horn,” he muttered. “A woman doesn’t have the lungs to make a saxophone whisper one minute, then hold the note so long it spits fire.”

Crystal rammed Skipper’s football into Cale Tanner’s diaphragm with enough force to make him blow out an oof but not hard enough to add to his injuries. “Trumpets, tubas and trombones are horns, Tanner. Saxophones are wind instruments. I play all four. Women have plenty of wind.”

Caleb’s right eyebrow disappeared beneath a shock of wheat-gold hair. “They do at that, Jardin. I stand corrected.” As he lowered his laughing gaze, Caleb scrawled his name across the ball. “Does the kid have a handle?” he asked.

“Skipper West. Uh...Skip. Just make it ‘to Skip,”’ Crystal said, giving Tanner points for not taking his irritation at her out on the boy.

Tanner handed her the signed ball. His eyes returned to the saxophone as he capped his pen.

“Thanks. Skip will be in seventh heaven.”

“You’re welcome. If you’re really a musician who wanted me to sign a kid’s football, why barge in here claiming to work for WDIX-TV?”

“I do. I’m their business manager.”

The same eyebrow shot up again. “Busy lady. Business manager. Ace musician. Messenger for sick kids. Does that about cover your titles? Or is there a main man in the wings waiting to make you a missus something or other?” Cale wasn’t very discreet in grabbing her left hand to check for a ring.

Crystal laughed as she pulled away and stowed the football. “In addition to my work, I play at the Jazz Pub in the Quarter a couple of weekends a month. And I’m more than a messenger for sick kids, as you put it. I entertain in children’s wards around the city when I can, Mr. Tanner. There’s no time in my life for a man.”

“I thought we agreed. It’s Caleb. And you’re Crystal. Pretty name. Pretty lady. So you’ve sworn off guys. Pity.”

The rough singsongy caress of Tanner’s voice spiked a shiver of caution in Crystal’s stomach. Caution—or longing. She shook off the feeling. “I haven’t sworn off guys. There are six of ’em in Skipper’s ward. The oldest is twelve. They all got hurt playing ball. You don’t happen to have five autographed photos hiding in that drawer, do you? I promised I’d ask.” She paused for a couple of seconds. “These boys aren’t as lucky as you, Tanner. Pablo lost a leg dashing off the field after a wildly kicked soccer ball. He collided with a delivery truck. Skipper slipped and fell on a wet football field. Then four kids—who didn’t know he’d twisted his spine—piled on top of him. His injury may be permanent. Randy went for a basketball layup and slammed into a wall, resulting in major nerve damage that affects his whole left side.” Crystal stopped because all color had leached from Tanner’s face. “Sorry. I guess you understand what they’re going through.”

“Yeah, and I’m real lucky, too.” He slapped the mess of ropes and pulleys. “It’s been six weeks since I took the hit, and I still can’t bear weight on my right leg. In case you were fishing, Ms. Jardin, that’s not for publication. I will heal.”

“I told you I’m not a reporter.”

“I know what you said. I also know what can happen if information like that gets to the media. I’ll be out of a job. I don’t think you want that on your conscience, Ms. Bleeding Heart.”

“Rumors are already floating around. Pablo heard the techs in physical therapy talking. Will you play for the Sinners this season?”

“Hell, yes!” He tried to sit forward.

“Stop.” Crystal held him against the pillows. “I don’t want a repeat of yesterday.”

“Who’s saying I’m washed up?” Caleb demanded, every muscle in his long body tensing.

“Are you?” Crystal gave him a penetrating look.

Cale shut his eyes and massaged the bridge of his nose with a thumb and forefinger. “I’m lively as an electric fence. Give me one good reason I should discuss any of this with you.”