Game On (13 page)

“I’m sorry,” he said when she came into earshot.

Her cheeks were flushed, her hair windblown, her up-do gone. She must have walked at a furious pace. He’d taken a cab to beat her back to the hotel and hadn’t arrived more than two minutes ahead of her.

Clara looked up, the surprise in her hazel eyes clear as she spied him leaning back against her door. “For what?”

“I think you know.”

“For that charade at Daniel’s? For making me share a meal, a
working
meal, with those bimbos—”

“Puck bunnies,” he corrected. She skewered him with a look that made him want to drop to his knees and beg for mercy. “Never mind. Continue.”

“—or for ordering the Ahi tuna
again
, or for compromising our identities with your multitude of fans?”

“All of it,” he said, playing it safe. “The charade,”—he was tempted to imitate her pronunciation of ‘char
ah
d’ but didn’t want to piss her off more than she already was—“And for whatever else made you upset today. I’m apologizing for everything. Except the tuna. It was really good.”

Clara shook her head and pursed her lips. “It’s all a game to you, isn’t it?”

He shrugged.

Normally a pretty clever, some might even say
cocky,
fellow, Luc found himself unable to come up with a single response that would put a smile back on Clara’s face. And he desperately wanted to. What started out as a brilliant idea to get her attention, show her what she was missing, only made him sick to his stomach. He didn’t really want her to know about that side of him, the playboy hockey player with ego and libido enough for an entire team.

The moment she walked into the restaurant looking fresh and sexy, carefree and sexy, confident and sexy, the moment he saw the leather boots,
oh so fucking sexy
, and the dainty little scarf that did nothing to cover up the swell of her breasts, he regretted calling the C/Kaitlyns. Keeping his eyes off of her at lunch was like sitting in the penalty box. He wanted in the game so bad, his balls hurt.

He did his best to ignore her because had he given in to his need to stare at her flawless skin, to engage her in conversation—always compelling and witty and enlightening—to even acknowledge her during the meal, would have been flirting with insanity.

Luc dropped his chin, fully aware he’d lost crucial game points.

Clara reached passed him and slid the key card into the slot. Easy in, easy out. The green light flashed, but Luc didn’t move.

“I’m
really
sorry. Please forgive me?” he asked.

She rolled her eyes and gave him a half smile, so he supposed he was half forgiven. Too bad because he was about to piss her off again and would have been happier starting in a more favorable position.

Luc pushed the door handle down and backed into the room ahead of her. Maybe he’d save the bad news for later.

“I suppose. But really, Luc. What were you thinking?”

I was thinking that if you saw how other women wanted me, you would, too. I was thinking that you’d be jealous. I was thinking with my dick, like any red-blooded male who was forced to work with a woman who wouldn’t stay out of his dreams.

He shrugged. “The more, the merrier?”

“Next time, let’s leave it to the pros.”

Clara sat on the end of her bed and stuck a booted foot into the air. “Help me with these, will you?”

Luc stifled a growl and tugged.

“What’s the plan for tonight?” she asked. “How are we getting to the arena?”

Tell her.
“Meet me in my room at seven,” Luc said as he gripped the heel of the second boot and pulled.

“Not in the lobby?”

Tell her.
“No. Just knock on my door at seven. Don’t be late.”

“I wouldn’t dream of being late. I’m rather looking forward to my first ice hockey game.” She got off the bed and lined up her boots tidily by the closet door, bending over to do it. She had no fucking idea what that pert little ass was doing to his head. “I’ve never even watched it on the telly.”

He could feel his fists clench into tight balls of pure sexual frustration.
Tell her!
“It’s not called that here.”

Clara’s eyebrows scrunched together. “Alright then,
tee vee
.”

Tell her we’re not going.
He couldn’t bear to. “Not television. I’m talking about hockey. You keep calling it
ice
hockey, but over here we just say hockey. Everyone knows it’s played on ice.”

“Oh. It’s just that…we play field hockey in England so…um…” she did a one shoulder shrug. “I’ll remember that. Thanks.”

Awkward. He wanted to bite off his tongue. He shouldn’t have corrected her. It was no big deal. He wanted to cup her chin and kiss the tension from her mouth and tell her she could call it stick hockey or puck hockey or over-the-goddamn-moon hockey. It didn’t matter.

But he couldn’t kiss her. It wasn’t in the rules. So he changed the subject. “What are you going to do for the rest of the afternoon?” he asked.

“I, um… I thought I’d take a nap. I didn’t sleep well.”

She looked away when she said it, and it hit him. She was feeling it, too! The weird air between them, the sexual tension, the burden of denying the chemistry that made them look at each other a fraction too long, pull away quickly at the slightest touch. And when she spoke, she didn’t seem to know what to do with her hands, so she touched her hair and twirled the ends of her scarf until she finally wrapped her arms around her middle as if she needed to hold on to something. He’d rather it be him.

He needed to go.

“And you?” she asked. “What’s on your agenda?”

“I’ve got some calls. I managed to get a pre-game interview with both coach and manager of the Blackhawks, so I have to go make some notes.”

“Do you need me there? For the interviews?”

“No! No. But thanks. You’d probably find it boring and—”

“Because I could, if you need me to—”

“We’ll be talking draft picks and starting lines, that sort of thing.”

They were talking over each other. Luc needed to go. He should go. She was looking at him with such expectation, but of what? She had made the rules, laid them out clearly. So why was she looking at him like she wanted him to kiss her?

“Clara?” Could she hear the need in his voice?

“Hmm?”

“You don’t want to rethink this…this…thing between us?”

Clara turned and rushed toward the window as if she needed to put distance between them. “There’s a reason for all those idioms, Luc. ‘Don’t dip your pen in the company ink,’ ‘don’t keep your honey where you make your money.’ ”

“Don’t fish off the company pier,” he offered, desperately hanging on to his sense of humor, not to mention his pride.

“Don’t look for nookie where you keep your cookies.”

“Don’t score in your own net.” He made that one up.

“I’ve never heard that one,” she laughed but still wouldn’t turn around. “But yes, that applies.”

He sighed, surrendering. “Sleep well.”

Luc measured his paces to the door, slow, steady, even. Like a normal person. But in his mind, he was running like a crazed lunatic.

Chapter 15

C
lara knocked at precisely ten
minutes to seven, despite the fact she’d only awoken from her nap at six thirty. She purposely left herself short on minutes so she wouldn’t spend an inordinate amount of time worrying over her wardrobe or hair.

Nope, not tonight.

She wasn’t setting herself up like she had earlier; she wasn’t a stupid girl. She learned from her mistakes—rather quickly, if she dared say so herself. She finger-combed her hair, brushed her teeth without looking in the mirror, swiped her cheeks and forehead with a warm cloth, restricted herself to two pumps of the body spray atomiser, and threw on a forest green sweater. Perfect for an ice-hock—or rather, a hockey game.

Clara knocked a second time. Surely he hadn’t left without her. As she rapped a third time, the door swung open.

“You’re early.”

“Apparently.”

Luc greeted her bare-chested, a towel around his neck, his ebony hair a tousled mass of damp waves and one side of his face smeared with shaving cream. His jeans, unbuttoned, rode so dangerously low on his hips, she had an intoxicating view of his abdomen, all six packs, and a thin line of black hair that began under his navel and disappeared into—

Oh God. She was ogling. Ogling, gaping, staring, leering, and she couldn’t bloody well stop. She swallowed, once, then again, her saliva glands on overdrive. “Maybe I should wait in the lobby.”

“No, come in,” he said, stepping aside for her. “I’ll just be a sec. Have a seat.”

Luc went back into the bathroom to resume his shave but left the door ajar. She could see his reflection in the mirror, watched the razor make a swath through the white cream, scraping the contours of his angled jaw.

Stop looking! Shake your head, move your eyes, claw them out, do something
—

Oh God, he met her eyes in the mirror. He caught her totally checking him out!
Nicely played, Bean.

She turned quickly, wished she waited in the hall. Or in a tub full of ice chips.

Luc was all around her. His stuff. Everywhere. Wristwatch and phone on the bedside table, opened suitcase, jumbled mess of clothes. Just this once, she was glad not to be able to smell him, for his scent would surely be her undoing.

“Hey, how’d you score a king bed?” she asked as realized his room was remarkably different than hers. “This is a bloody suite!”

At least twice the size of Clara’s compact yet functional accommodations, Luc’s room had a leather sofa, coffee table, fireplace, and an alcove with a desk where his computer was set up. Much to her chagrin, it also had a humongous flat-screen television. Though it struck her as a funny place to put a telly, smack in front of the balcony doors, the cords running across the front of the curtains.

“I used to stay here a lot,” he said, coming out of the bathroom. “The manager must have upgraded me.”

“Perks. Nice,” she said under her breath. No matter where she went, the best EuroNow would do was run-of-house rooms, a gamble she often lost.

Luc grabbed a gray tee-shirt from his suitcase and pulled it over his head, making it somewhat safe for her to make eye contact with him again.

“You haven’t eaten yet?” Clara said, indicating the room service tray on the coffee table. She wished she could smell whatever was under the silver dome next to the ice bucket and two wine glasses.

“Just a snack,” he replied.

“Like a pre-game ritual?”

“More like a during-the-game ritual.” He stuck a finger in the top of the dome and uncovered the mystery. A platter of fully loaded nachos. “Voila!” he said with a smile that put Clara’s heart into overdrive. “And may I assure milady that the cheese is genuine Wisconsin cheddar and not the faux variety.”

“You certainly know the way to a girl’s heart, good sir.”

“Sadly, they did not have Beaujolais nouveau—the bartender said it doesn’t come out until November—so I took the liberty of choosing this fine Chablis, which I believe will complement the spicy jalapenos.”

“A perfect choice, to be sure,” she said, playing along. “But how are we going to eat all this and make kick off?”

“Faceoff,” he corrected and hit the power button on the remote control. The giant screen lit up the room.

“But I thought we were going to the United Center to see the game live?”

“Uh…no. Change of plans.”

“So we’re watching it on television? Here?” Clara couldn’t conceal her shock. Or disappointment.

“Hm-mm.”

“But, we can’t!”

“Why not? The game is the game is the game. Doesn’t matter if we watch from here or there.” He sank onto the leather sofa and patted the seat next to him.

“Bollocks! How can you soak in the atmosphere, feel the spectator frenzy, or the surge of fan energy when the puck thingy goes into the goal?”

“Television has replay and slow-mo,” he said as if that would appease her.

“You do this often, then? Watch the games from your living room?”

“Of course.”

“But aren’t you cheating yourself and your readers? It’s the equivalent of me reviewing a restaurant based on take-out.”

“Think about it, Clara. I watch as many as ten to fifteen games a week in order to do my Sunday analysis. There are multiple games being played in multiple cities. I can’t be everywhere at once.”

“But
tonight
, Luc, as part of our assignment, this Date Night crap, we’re supposed to actually physically go to the game,” she argued. “So let’s go.”

“Can’t,” he said without looking at her. “We don’t have tickets.”

“Yes, we do. I saw them.” Clara stomped to the alcove desk where she’d spied the itinerary envelope. “They’re in here, with the others.”

“I gave them away.”

“You
what?
To whom?”

“The Kaitlyns. It’s season opener tonight and they couldn’t get any, so I gave them ours in exchange for helping us with the restaurant review.”

“What? Without consulting me? Why?”

“It doesn’t matter, Clara. It’s better this way. It’s far more comfortable than stadium seats,” he said and proceeded to pour two glasses of wine. “We have food, drink, we can put our feet up, and you can ask questions without worrying about disturbing anyone around us. And if you get really bored, you can take a nap,” he said, nodding toward the bed.

Fat lot of good her English degree was. Clara couldn’t access a single word in her extensive vocabulary to aptly describe her current state of disappointment, puzzlement, and anger.

Was this all part of the plan to seduce her into his king bed? Clara loathed being manipulated, hated that he blatantly played on his charm and looks and her obvious attraction.

Who the hell did he think he was? Who the hell did he think
she
was? Just because she found him somewhat beautiful did
not, not, not
mean she’d fall into his bed after nachos with real Wisconsin cheese.

Well, maybe it did.