Game On (12 page)

He didn’t answer and she wouldn’t turn around. She heard the handle of his door click and released a sigh.

And I’ll lie there alone, in the dark, and wonder why I choose to tease us both by mentioning my body and bed in the same sentence.

Clara pressed the door handle, but it wouldn’t budge. Again, she slid the card into the slot. Red light. She rammed it in again, once, twice, while jiggling the door handle with her other hand. Still red. What was wrong with this bloody door?

He’d made no sound, but she knew the nanosecond Luc came up behind her. Her skin pebbled with gooseflesh, her heart tripped, and a hummingbird hovered in her midsection. She closed her eyes, flustered by his proximity.

“Allow me.” The baritone timbre of his voice against her ear sent her core temperature into a fever zone. “You’re shoving it in too hard, too fast. I don’t know how you do things in Europe, but here we like to slide it in, slow and easy.” He wrapped his large hand around hers and guided it toward the slot. His voice dropped to a sultry whisper. “Like this.”

Clara held her breath. The skin-to-skin contact triggered a wave of moisture between her thighs.

“Nice and relaxed, one smooth motion. Easy in, easy out.” He dipped his head so his breath fanned her cheek.

Clara leaned back into him and swallowed. His knee pressed against the back of her thigh, hard firm quadriceps against her buttocks. She gripped the cold hard steel of the handle so she wouldn’t puddle to the floor in a helpless, drippy mess.

“No, no,” he said, encircling her wrist with the fingers of his free hand…long, capable fingers…fingers that had touched her,
there…

“You mustn’t put pressure on the lever prematurely,
ma belle
, or you’ll render it useless.”

She eased her hold on the metal, but he didn’t release his grip. Surrounded by him, engulfed by his maleness, she couldn’t help herself…she shivered.

Surely he felt it. If he did, he didn’t comment.

“Be patient,” he crooned. “Wait for it. Wait for it…and
voila
.”

To Clara’s vast disappointment, the green light flashed. She exhaled.

“Now the lever,” he said, exerting gentle pressure against her wrist. The latch clicked and the door moved.

“That wasn’t so hard, was it?” His gravelled, suggestive tones went straight through her, from the tip of her varnished toenails to her scalp, a zing of charged particles that left her throat dry, her stomach muscles clenched.

“Th-thanks,” she whispered.

It took all of her will, every ounce of strength, to step over the threshold without turning around and throwing herself in Luc’s arms.

Though throwing herself over a live bomb would have been easier.

“Clara Elizabeth Bean, you
are
a silly cow,” she said to her tired-looking reflection in the mirror. She had laid awake half the night thinking of Luc. Obsessing about Luc. Fantasizing about Luc.

At five a.m., still hopelessly tired but unable to find solace in slumber, she went for a run along the shores of Lake Michigan. As her sneakers slapped against the pavement, all she heard was
Luc, Luc, Luc, Luc
. She was quite sure the scenery was breathtaking, but her mind’s eye only saw the blue of his eyes under dark brows, the beauty of his cheekbones, the curl of his hair on the back of his collar.

And now after a refreshingly chilly shower, she dressed with one thought in mind: Luc.

Sex with Luc was not an option, so why, why, why did she dab perfume behind her knees and between her breasts? And why was she dressing with a tart’s intent? She should put on a burlap sack and call it a day, not her favorite pair of jeans, the ones that made her ass look high and round. And if she didn’t want him to focus on her body, why on earth did she choose the tightest black tank top out of her suitcase, the one she usually slept in, not wore in public?

She gathered her hair into a mussy French twist, letting a few strands casually stray around her face, added some hoop earrings, and gave herself a once over.

She replaced the yellow silk scarf around her neck with a longer, finely knit piece, its delicate threads woven loosely so a flash of skin could be seen beneath. It was Lydia’s handiwork, no doubt crafted during a period of extreme anxiety. Clara knew her friend well. The more stress, the finer the creation, and this particular scarf felt like cashmere and had the pinkish-orange-gold glow of sunrise. That it just happened to compliment her skin tone was a bonus considering the toll the lack of sleep was having on her face.

“You need medication. Strong medication.” She adjusted the drape so it landed a smidge above the swell of her breasts.“Sick. Sick and twisted and completely out of your mind.”

She stepped into worn leather riding boots. One more swipe of clinical strength deodorant—her second or third application, but better safe than smelly—and slipped into a butter-soft leather coat.

She stopped talking to herself during her walk to Daniel’s Grille, lest the good people of Chicago think to commit her, but the chastising thoughts continued for blocks. As her steps brought her closer to the restaurant, closer to Luc, who’d arranged to meet her there because he’d had some appointments in the morning, her thoughts turned from her own mental issues to Luc’s physical ones. It must be tremendously difficult for him to write about a sport he loved but could no longer play. She wondered if his career choice as a hockey analyst reflected his strength of spirit or weakness for the game. She’d have to ask him if an opportunity arose.

And what about her own handicap, a personal suffering she was forced to endure in silence? Was it her strength of spirit , her weakness for the ego ride associated with being one of Europe’s top food critics, or just plain stubbornness, a refusal to give into that which plagued her that was keeping her going?

How long could she continue this charade? The doctors gave her only a twenty percent chance for full recovery of her olfactory senses, which wasn’t good enough considering her profession. If there was no improvement soon, she’d have to come clean to Charlie and Bartel before the web of lies choked her.

She popped two breath mints, chewed quickly, and entered the restaurant. It bustled with the midday lunch crowd, the booths overflowing with families and shoppers.

She placed a hand on her belly and took a deep calming breath so she’d be prepared to face Luc.
Luc.
She loved the way it sounded in her head. Like a wake-up call to the rest of her body.

Luc.
Would he find her attire hip or slutty? Attractive or desperate?

She spotted the top of his head, the run-your-fingers-through wave, in a horseshoe-shaped booth in the corner.

And he wasn’t alone.

Chapter 14

“C
lara!” he said with such
enthusiasm, her heart skipped and tossed flower petals. “Come on, girl. We’re already a drink ahead of you.”

“Hello,” she said and bussed Luc’s cheek as he rose to greet her. “Didn’t know we were having a party,” she said between her teeth.

“You said it was better with a group, so I invited a few friends,” he whispered back. He turned to introduce her to his companions, a stunning redhead with eyes so green they had to be artificially enhanced, and a blonde, whose legs were so long, they stuck out the side of the booth.

“Clara, meet Kaitlyn and Caitlyn.”

Sure she’d misheard, she proceeded with polite care. “I’m sorry, did he say you’re both Kaitlyn?”

“I’m Kaitlyn with a K,” explained the redhead.

“And I’m Caitlyn with a C,” added the blonde.

“Okay,” Clara replied, sure her eyebrows had met her hairline. She looked around suspiciously, wondering if she was on one of those gotcha television shows. “Well, it’s lovely to meet you. Both.”

“Oh, you’re English!” The redhead’s green eyes got bigger. “That is so cool. Luc,” she said, tugging him down to sit next to her while Clara slid into the horseshoe next to the blonde. “You didn’t tell us your friend was from England.”

“I’m from London. Just visiting America,” Clara, still dazed by the bizarre turn of events, felt compelled to explain.

“Say something else,” said Caitlyn, her brilliant smile burning onto Clara’s retinas.

“Like what?”

“Anything.”

“We want to hear your accent,” said Kaitlyn.

“Shall I recite Tennyson, Milton, or perhaps Chaucer is more your cup of tea?”

“Who?” Kaitlyn giggled.

“Never mind,” Luc said. “Clara is teasing you, Kaitlyn.”

It didn’t seem to faze her. “Do you know Jude Law?”

“Or Prince William?” asked the other.

“Never mind him,” said the first. “Do you know hot Harry?”

“No, I’m afraid not. On all accounts.”

Caitlyn’s smile disappeared. Though Clara was relieved to preserve her eyesight from its blinding beauty, she felt strangely guilty about taking it away. “Ah-ha! I just remembered. I did meet Harry once at a gallery opening.”

“Get out,” said the redhead. “He’s like my favorite royal. I feel like I have a connection to him, you know, because we’re both ginger.”

Right,
Clara thought.
Except one of you gets it from a bottle.

“Is he a total fox up close, or what?” Caitlyn asked.

“Very nice looking and seems a nice lad. The press paints him a bit wild, but weren’t we all in our youth?”

“Youth?” Blondie laughed. “He’s older than me.”

“Shall we order?” Luc said, cutting off Clara’s retort. “Remember what I told you,” he said to the C/Kaitlyns. To Clara, he added, “I briefed them on the rules before we got here.”

“It’s so exciting, isn’t it?” Kaitlyn clutched Luc’s arm with her bubble-gum pink nails and pressed her ample bosom into him. “Luc, a restaurant critic!”

Clara needed a drink. A double G and T. Perhaps a triple.

The rest of the meal became an exercise in self-control. Clara firmly boxed and taped her sarcasm, leaving her virtually speechless. She tried to get the girls to describe the smells, the subtle hints of herbs and spices, but they were so busy feeding Luc forkfuls of their entrees and cooing over his muscles that she might as well have been talking to the walls. Everything he said seemed to send his little cling-ons into titters.

She hated her meal. The creamy texture of the penne Toscana made her stomach churl, the wine turned to acid on her tongue, and the restaurant’s signature berry crepe was sour with unripened fruit. Luc’s meal, what little she tasted of it after the C/Kaitlyns picked at it, didn’t go down much better.

“Something wrong, Clara?” he asked between signing autographs. She couldn’t believe how many people recognized him and rudely interrupted their meal. The more timid fans staged walk-bys while their friends surreptitiously aimed camera phones. Clara put her hand up to block her face, but she needn’t have bothered. They clearly weren’t interested in getting her in the frame, just Luc and his
drapes
.

“Yes, something is wrong.” There was no use denying it. Her anonymity was possibly compromised and she was miffed, inconvenienced, and bugger all, she hated to admit it, even to herself—
jealous.

After all the time she had spent in front of the mirror, he barely glanced at her. She wanted to take her beautifully hand-knit scarf and wrap it around C/Kaitlyns’ swan-like throats and tug until their sparkly eyes popped.
Yes, something was wrong!

“Why don’t I get the girls into a cab and we can talk,” he said, motioning the girls out of the booth.

“
Awww
,” said the C/Kaitlyns in stereo.

“I thought we were going to hang out, Luc?” one said.

“Just like old times!” said the other.

Clara closed her eyes and twisted the cloth napkin into a tight knot. It was the only way to stop from picking up a butter knife and flinging it between a set of fake green eyes.

“Can’t today.” Was it her imagination, or did Luc sound brusque? “I’ve got pre-game interviews this afternoon.”

She didn’t hear the rest of the conversation, thank the patron saint of pity, as they drifted out of earshot.

Clara waited until they were out of sight and slipped out the back door of Daniel’s Grille.