Page 70 of A Game of Deception
“Well, as long as he performs on the field, the rest is manageable,” he said, setting his glass down. “Shall we move to the dining room? Dinner should be ready.”
I followed him through the house, past walls adorned with expensive art chosen for investment value rather than aesthetic appeal. The dining room was a study in tasteful opulence, a long mahogany table that could seat sixteen set for an intimate dinner for two. Or so I thought.
Just as we entered, the doorbell chimed. My father checked his watch and smiled—a small, satisfied expression that set off alarm bells in my head.
“Oh, I forgot to mention,” he said, though the calculated gleam in his eyes made it clear this was no oversight. “I invited Diego Mano. I know you two have been exchanging glances.”
My stomach dropped.
I stood frozen as my father went to greet him. The trap was so obvious it was almost insulting. After the scene at the nightclub—Diego’s possessiveness, Xander’s kiss, my slap—my father was making his move. He knew damn well Diego had been hitting on me since day one, his flirtations as relentless as they were unwelcome. And now, Father was shoving him in my face, not because he truly cared about matchmaking, but to rattle me, to remind me who pulled the strings in my life. To mess with my head and keep me off-balance, especially now that Xander was in the picture.
I heard them before I saw them—Diego’s too-loud laugh, my father’s measured response. Then they rounded the corner intothe dining room. Diego Mano was dressed in an expensive suit that looked like it had been selected to impress rather than for style, his dark hair slicked back, his smile wide and predatory as his eyes landed on me.
“Dr. Swanson,” he said, moving forward to take my hand before I could avoid the contact. “You look beautiful tonight.”
He lifted my hand to his lips, and it took every ounce of self-control not to pull away. I forced a polite smile instead.
“Mr. Mano. This is a surprise.”
“A pleasant one, I hope,” he replied, his thumb brushing across my knuckles before finally releasing my hand. “Your father has been telling me about how you skipped two grades in high school. Fascinating.”
“How thoughtful of you, Father,” I said, the words coated in enough sugar to cause diabetes. “Though I’m sure Mr. Mano has better things to do on a Friday night than discuss my high school days.”
“Not at all,” Diego replied, his eyes never leaving my face. “And please, call me Diego. I think we’ve moved beyond formalities, don’t you? Especially after our... moment at the club.”
I felt my face heat at the reference. Of course he would bring that up—the night I’d slapped Xander after our kiss. In Diego’s mind, that action had been a rejection of Xander, not a desperate attempt to salvage my professional reputation.
“Well,” my father interjected smoothly, “shall we sit? Carmen has prepared her famous paella.”
The next hour and a half was an exercise in controlled torture. Diego sat to my right, my father at the head of the table.Throughout the meal, Diego found every excuse to touch me—his hand brushing mine as he passed the bread, his knee pressing against my thigh under the table, his fingers grazing my arm as he emphasized a point in conversation. Each touch made my skin crawl, but I endured it with a fixed smile, knowing my father was watching every reaction, gauging how far he could push me before I cracked.
The conversation drifted from team dynamics to Diego’s career aspirations to Miami’s social scene. Diego made pointed references to clubs and restaurants he thought I might enjoy, clearly angling for a date. My father encouraged him at every turn, praising Diego’s judgment and taste with nauseating enthusiasm, all while shooting me subtle, knowing glances that said, See? This is what I choose for you.
“You know, Tara rarely takes time to enjoy the city,” my father said, signaling Carmen to clear the dinner plates. “She’s always been so focused on her work. Perhaps you could show her what she’s missing, Diego.”
Diego’s smile widened. “It would be my pleasure, sir. In fact, there’s a charity gala at the Vizcaya Museum next weekend. Very exclusive. I happen to have an extra ticket.”
The trap was closing. I could feel it tightening around me with every passing minute. If I refused outright, my father would question why. If I accepted, I’d be encouraging Diego’s pursuit. I needed a third option—one that wouldn’t raise suspicions.
“That’s very kind,” I said carefully, “but I’m not sure my schedule will permit it. We have away games coming up, and I need to make sure the medical team is prepared.”
“Surely you can spare one evening,” my father pressed, his eyes gleaming with that manipulative spark. “The team will survive without you for a few hours.”
I was saved from having to respond by Carmen’s return with dessert—a delicate flan that I had no appetite for but pretended to enjoy anyway. As Diego launched into a story about his last charity event (which seemed to involve more celebrities and alcohol than actual charitable work), I noticed my father checking his watch.
“I just remembered,” he said, interrupting Diego mid-anecdote, “I need to take a call from our Tokyo investors. They’re considering a significant stake in the team, and with the time difference...” He stood, smoothing his trousers. “Please, continue with dessert. This shouldn’t take long.”
He left the dining room, his footsteps echoing down the hallway toward his office. I could practically feel the smugness radiating off him—he thought he was so clever, leaving me alone with Diego to foster this unwanted connection, to throw me off my game and remind me of his control.
Little did he know, he’d just handed me exactly what I needed: access to the house while he was occupied.
“Finally,” Diego said as soon as my father was out of earshot. He shifted his chair closer to mine. “I’ve been wanting to get you alone all night.”
I forced a tight smile. “Mr. Mano?—”
“Diego,” he corrected, his hand coming to rest on my knee under the table.
I removed his hand firmly. “Mr. Mano, I think there’s been a misunderstanding. My father may have given you the impression that I’m interested in pursuing something personal with you. I’m not.”
