90 Days to Score

<p><strong>In Texas, football isn't all fun and fanatics...it can be fatal.</strong></p><p><br></p><p>Two years ago, I'd married for love.</p><p><br></p><p>Little had I known I was marrying into a threesome.</p><p><br></p><p>Now my wannabe ex is dead, and everybody thinks I did it.</p><p><br></p><p>Worse-I inherited everything...including the Roughriders, the NFL franchise the locals follow with a religious fervor bordering on a cult-like fanaticism.</p><p><br></p><p>Imagine, in Dallas, a <em>woman</em>, and worse, a <em>Northerner</em>, running their sainted team?</p><p><br></p><p>My name is Brinda Rose, and I'm a Jersey girl caught in the net of Southern pretense, privilege, and back-stabbing, with nary a rule book to guide me.</p><p><br></p><p>The whole city seems out for my blood.</p><p><br></p><p>But the NFL gave me 90 days to solve my pesky little legal issues and prove I am up to the task of running an NFL franchise. Big of them.</p><p><br></p><p>My pal, Lucky O'Toole sent reinforcements in the form of a long, tall, drink of Texas charm named Paxton Dane, although he's as clueless as I am in the kind of voodoo needed to fend off the coffee-klatch of bored, bitter wives of the power brokers in town.</p><p><br></p><p>Intent on protecting their positions (even if it means defending the scum they married) they feast on newcomers with a piranha frenzy.</p><p><br></p><p>As if this wasn't bad enough, I keep seeing flashes of a guy tailing me who looks a lot like my ex.</p><p><br></p><p>Could he be alive? The thought has me sleeping with a handgun and doubting my sanity.</p><p><br></p><p>With a fortune on the line and everyone from players, to coaches, to investors, to even my former father-in-law, hiding secrets and working angles, 90 days seems an impossibly short amount of time to solve my problems, and an impossibly long amount of time to stay alive.</p><p><br></p>