Game On (14 page)

But she’d laid out the ground rules, and he needed to respect that!

Besides, if she did sleep with him, if she did develop some sort of feelings for him, it would be impossible to lie about her condition. It was bad enough she had to lie to Charlie, to her co-workers, and now Luc. If they became more than friends, if they became lovers, her conscience would drive her to madness. She’d crumble. Her confidence would be lost and she’d return home to London without Luc, without a shred of self-esteem, without a job, or worse…without her heart.

“Well, if that’s the case, I might as well watch it in my own room.”

“Clara, don’t,” he said, holding the wine glass out toward her. “How are you going to write your part of the article without my help? You don’t know anything about the game. Stay. I’ll explain the rules.”

“Oh, I know the rules of
this
game, and I’ll tell you what,” she said, having no clue what she was going to say next. She was hanging on by a very thin thread. She wanted to stomp, to cry, to scream! She’d wanted to go to that game, be seen with him, hold his arm in the presence and safety of a large crowd. She wanted to lean into him as he explained this dumb game, wanted to ask him silly questions, just to hear him talk. She wanted to stare at him without his knowing while he watched his ex-colleagues skate around. “You write the hockey bit and I’ll write the restaurant bit, and we’ll call it done.”

“You know that’s not what Bartel wants—”

“I’ll watch in my own room,” she stated firmly. Clara emptied the travel packet Shelagh had entrusted to Luc and took out one of each ticket. “And I’m taking these with me.”

Luc put the finishing touches on his article and sent it to the marketing department, who would get it up on the BMG blog. He looked at the clock. The airport wouldn’t be open for a couple of hours, but he couldn’t stay here a second longer. He’d catch an earlier flight to Boston; hell, he’d walk if it meant staying away from Clara.

Luc rubbed his palms down his face. He was tired, physically and mentally. Why was he doing this to himself? He didn’t need the money, didn’t need the aggravation. And he’d asked himself the same question hundreds of times. The answer hadn’t changed: What else was there? Hockey was all he knew. Writing about it was his only link, and some days that was even too much to bear. Everything Clara said last night about being there, live—the adrenaline-charged atmosphere, the fans, the rush of excitement when the puck slid into the crease—made his stomach burn. Clara had hit on every reason he avoided live games like the plague. But still, he craved it, craved the action and attention, the competition and camaraderie, and most of all, the winning.

He slammed his laptop shut, harder than the machine deserved.

Why couldn’t he have met her then, when he was somebody? When he wasn’t a fucked-beyond-institutional head case? She wouldn’t have had the rules then. Oh no. She would have thrown herself at him, like the rest. Or maybe not. Clara wasn’t like the rest.

Luc tipped the sleepy bellman and got into the cab.

If he tried, if he really wanted Clara, he could get her to break. There was something between them, something strong and undeniable. The question was, how bad did he want it?

Bad.

Clara was simply the most gorgeous, amazing woman he’d ever met. Sure, she had her quirks—he’d never seen anyone who popped more breath mints, she obsessively smelled everything she put in her mouth and questioned him about it, too, but she brought out this fierce protectiveness in him he’d never felt. He wanted to take care of her, make her smile, make her laugh in that adorable way that made him think of angels. He wanted to make love to her. He wanted to make her love him.

So the question now was how?

He might be delusional, but he didn’t buy the
we work together
bit. Maybe she was commitment shy? Or maybe he came on too strong? Some women preferred being the instigators, the aggressors. She certainly made no big deal out of looking at him as a one-night stand before, in which case, he needed to get her back in the game. Only then, she’d realize his desire to win was greater than hers to play by the rules.

Chapter 16

“C
harlie, I can’t talk now,”
Clara lied. She could, she just didn’t want to. “I’ll call you when I get to the hotel.”

“But Clara dove, Kingsley has his knickers in a twist about this. I have to tell him, reassure him, that you and Luc—”

Bugger!
Just the name made her blood pressure rocket. “Charlie! Charlie, stop. I have dreadful reception and can barely hear you. Boston is full of underpasses and tunnels, one of which we’re about to enter. I’ll ring you from the hotel as soon as I check in.” She peered out the tinted window of the airport limo. Clouds gathered above, throwing Boston into a dull shade of gray. Just like her mood.

“Alright then, dove. I’m at home. But you mustn’t call too late or you’ll wake Sue. You know how she likes to turn in early to—”

Clara hit
end call
before he could finish.

She arrived at the hotel feeling no better than when she departed Chicago. Luc had slipped a note under her door, telling her he’d taken an earlier flight. Just knowing he’d been outside her door whilst she tossed and turned and fought to sleep made her heart ache.

“No ma’am, no messages. But Mr. Bisquet has already checked in.”

She looked around the lobby. Coast clear. But she asked for a bellman’s assistance, just to be safe. The last thing she needed was another intimate hallway encounter.

She slid the key card into the slot—easy in, easy out, wait for it, green light, depress lever.

The room was brilliant! She’d stayed in countless hotels, but this one was even nicer than the one in Miami. Clara let the bellman pass with her things as she admired the exquisite accommodations, wondering if Luc had anything to do with her getting a suite this time. The living area was bigger than her flat at home, with stunning views of the Charles River beyond a wall of windows. There was a fully stocked wet bar and fireplace, two overstuffed couches with a frosted glass coffee table between them and, though there was no desk, there was a long, rectangular dining table—a perfect place to set her laptop.

She sent the bellman away with a generous tip before searching out the bedroom. There were four doors to choose from, but only one was ajar and through it, Clara could just make out the corner of a bed.

The bedroom, done in shades of gold and cream, had a large four poster king at its center. Plush and looking deliciously comfortable, it would be perfect for the desperately needed nap after yet another sleepless night with Luc, Luc, Luc on her addled brain.

Speaking of, she wondered what kind of room
he
had this time. She wandered back out to the main room and noticed, on the dining table, an envelope with her name on it.

“Clara,”
it read.
“I’m out for the afternoon. Dinner reservations are for six-thirty under the name Sutter. Hope you like the suite. I’ve claimed the connecting bathroom but the other one is bigger and has a whirlpool bath.”

Connecting
what?
Clara stormed back into her room and entered the bathroom. It was long, with a marble-topped counter running along one side, a shower and tub on the opposite wall, and another door at the end. Toothbrush, shaving cream and a sports magazine lay next to the sink.
They were sharing the room?

Jaw clenched, she whipped open the second door and found the other bedroom.
His
room. Smaller, windowless. Luc’s suitcase lay open on the double bed.

It was a two-bedroom suite. The emotions hit her quickly: relief, anger, excitement, anger, longing, anger.

Danger.

She’d be safer playing with a book of matches at a gunpowder factory than sharing living space with Luc.

Clara took a deep breath and searched out the second bathroom, situated clear across the living room, next to the wet bar. Maybe she’d sleep in here, in the big soaker tub, as far from Luc as possible, a sturdy locked door between them.

After a tediously long telephone lecture from Charlie, Clara only had time to freshen up, change her clothes, and find a way to get to the restaurant.

Spencer James, food editor for the BMG, chose a fairly new establishment for them to review. The chef, who hailed from a two-star Michelin-rated restaurant in London, had opened a fusion cuisine place in Boston’s Leather District. She was looking forward to it, but she had mixed feelings about seeing Luc.

“Excuse me. Are you Miss Bean?” the doorman said as she exited the hotel with an eye out for a cab.

“Yes?”

“Your car is waiting.” He motioned forward a long, sleek, black limousine.

“There must be some mistake,” Clara said, hoping there wasn’t. She’d never been in anything grander than a London taxi. “I didn’t order a car.”

“Mr. Bisquet arranged it for you, ma’am.”

Speechless, Clara climbed into the backseat. “Th-thanks,” she said before the doorman closed her in.

“A pleasure, madam.”

By the time she arrived at Silk and Ivory, she felt as pampered as a movie star. The driver pulled to the curb and people on the street stopped to see who would come out. Hardly the way for an incognito restaurant critic to arrive, but she could care less. She felt divine!

“Reservation for Sutter,” she told the hostess, glad Luc had the good sense to choose a name not his own.

“Ah, yes. Your dinner companions are already seated.”

Companions?
Bugger, not again. All the happy-joy feelings from her limo ride evaporated.

Clara followed the hostess, dread building with every step, to a table in the center of the restaurant. Luc was in deep conversation with someone whose back was to Clara.

And that someone was a man.

Luc looked up when he saw her approach, stood, and gave a tentative smile. He searched her face, as if gauging her mood. She smiled and winked, an unspoken thank you for the car, a symbolic declaration of truce. It was a
two
-
bedroom
suite, after all.

“Clara.” He didn’t kiss her cheek this time, just slid his hand down her bare arm from shoulder to elbow as he pulled her chair out. “You remember Riley Sutter.”

“Mr. Sutter!” Overwhelmed with relief, Clara couldn’t help breaking out into a broad smile. Of course she remembered him. He’d been as smitten with Lydia as she’d been with Luc. “How nice to see you again. I wasn’t expecting this.”

“The pleasure is mine,” Riley said, pulling her into a friendly hug. “And please call me Riley. The
Mistah Suttah
thing makes me sound way too important.”

Just as delightful as she remembered, Riley proved the perfect dinner companion. Eager to play covert critic, he gamely tried anything that Clara suggested and excellently communicated his thoughts on each dish. Most importantly, he helped ease the tension between Luc and herself. She actually forgot she was annoyed with him and found herself laughing at the hilarious banter he and Luc shared.

“Why do I get the feeling that your relationship goes beyond that of superior and subordinate?” she said after Riley shared a particularly amusing story.

“Probably because our friendship precedes his employment with BMG,” Riley said. “You want to tell it, or should I?” he asked Luc.

“I’d better,” Luc said. “I’m sure my version is more interesting.”

“Just stick to the facts, my friend, though I know it’s hard for you.”

Luc muttered something in French, too fast for Clara to pick up even an odd word. Whatever he said seemed to amuse Riley, whose sarcastic tone couldn’t be masked in any language. He switched to English and said, “Just get on with it, Luc. You’re so damn long-winded, Clara will get to review the breakfast menu before you’re done.”

“Riley here was a green-eared intern with another paper,” Luc began, “hungry to prove himself. He knew the only way he was going to land on the sports page was to get something big, something to impress the higher-ups at the paper he was working for, so he starts stalking the shining star of the NHL—”

“Oh please,” Riley muttered.

“So I took pity on him and gave him his first exclusive.”

“Bullshit. You wanted to chat up my sister, who, for the record,” he said to Clara, “wanted nothing to do with him or his king-sized ego.”

“You’re so full of shit,” Luc laughed. “Tell her the real story! How you hounded me like a sad little fan boy—”

“The real story,” Riley interjected, “is that The Biscuit here avoided the press like it was his knocked up ex-girlfriend. He came off as cocky, so naturally everyone thought he was a condescending son of a bitch who was too good to talk to the press, but I saw through him. He wasn’t cocky, he was shy, too timid to open his little froggie mouth. But I finally broke him down. That was just days after the ’02 Olympics.”

“Broke me down, my ass! He threatened to tell the world that I confessed to jacking off with my medal every night before bed if I didn’t do his little Q and A, knowing that I’d never go public with a denial.”

“That is such a lie! Clara, don’t believe him. All I said—”

“Not by far!”

“Ah, but there’s poetic justice in this story, Clara.
Had
Monsieur Bisquet talked to the press
before
the Olympics, that daft sports announcer likely wouldn’t have mispronounced his name and he’d never have been called The Biscuit.”

Luc rolled his eyes and shook his head, making Clara laugh.

“Well,” Clara said, feeling positively high from being around these two and their spirited banter, “that certainly explains why I couldn’t find out much about him prior to two thousand and two.”

“What do you mean ‘couldn’t find?’ Were you looking?” Luc asked.

Bugger, bugger, bugger!
Clara felt her cheeks grow warm. Riley showed sudden interest in his spoon.