Love and Other Games (19 page)

The room hummed with polite conversation. It was not difficult to pick out the athletes – lithe and powerful bodies obviously uncomfortable in cocktail attire – from the marketers. Every hand clutched a drink, even if it was just champagne flutes of water in the hands of athletes who had yet to compete.

Brandon engaged his practiced I-belong-here stance. He strolled amongst the growing crowd until he found two male athletes in the midst of an awkward, dying conversation. He flipped through his mental flashcards of all the athletes and coaches. One was a Russian hockey player and the other a German speed skater, but he couldn't recall their names. Their only chance of a sponsorship was an epic underdog Gold, which explained why none of the brand sponsors were talking to them. Both men glanced around, looking for an escape. Brandon would give them one.

"Quite a party, isn't it?" he said, flashing them a wry smile.

Each man took a second to size him up. Brandon waited. He had to play this perfectly.

"I do not … " the German began. “Which sport do you compete in?"

The comment almost caught him off guard. Sure, he liked to keep in shape, but never thought he'd get mistaken for an Olympian. But he still noticed the way the German spoke. His English was nearly perfect and his accent was light, which were bad signs for Brandon's purposes. He had obviously been educated in either the United States or Great Britain, and probably had a wealthy family. Barring some scary medical history, those types of athletes rarely had an interesting story to tell. Natural talent at a young age, tortuous hard work, and probably a move to be closer to a good coach – the same story every other Olympian could tell.

Brandon let his gaze fall for a half a second as he smiled in a self-deprecating way. "Oh, no. That's flattering, really. But I'm not an athlete. Nothing outside of my local Y anyway."

The German and the Russian raised their shoulders and stood straighter. Brandon almost let his smile turn cocky, but caught it just in time. Now they thought he was a sponsor rep. And he didn't even have to flat-out lie, even though he wasn't opposed to that.

"Who do you represent?" The Russian's accent was thicker and less practiced.

Brandon threw a glance over each shoulder. "I'm not really supposed to say, I think. My boss isn't here yet. He sent me ahead to scout for him." He gave the men a roll of eyes.

Brandon made small talk with the two men, keeping an eye on the door. They would be his instruments, not his end game.
The sooner the better,
he thought. Playing the self-doubting newbie clashed violently with his natural personality, and he couldn't wait to shed the persona.

Finally, the door swung open. An older man wearing a Nike polo walked in the room. Several athletes twitched with recognition and shifted, watching him closely. Brandon almost laughed at his good luck.

"Please excuse me," he said to the two men and abruptly turned away from them.

He approached the older man, who greeted several people with a warm smile, but still stood alone, scanning the crowd. Brandon wasted no time; he needed the man to be alone if this was going to work. He thrust his hand forward with confidence and casualness.

"I just wanted to introduce myself, sir. Brandon James."

The man was confused, but maintained his professionalism. He gave Brandon's hand one firm shake. "Nick Walker," he said. "You're not an athlete."

Brandon laughed like they had just shared an old joke. "No, sir. Just a fan of your work."

He could see the gears turning behind Mr. Walker's eyes, trying to figure out Brandon's angle. But he didn't have one, not with this guy anyway. He was just another instrument in his plan, and he'd already worn out his usefulness.

"Nick!" a woman called from behind Brandon's back.

Brandon moved to the side and faded into the crowd as Mr. Walker's attention shifted to the woman. From the corner of his eye, he saw the German and the Russian staring at him, mouths slightly open.

Perfect.

Lia flexed the arches of her feet for the fiftieth time in the past hour. She didn't know how women wore shoes like this all the time. The tight, slinky dress didn't exactly add to her comfort, either. She would've traded it for boots and cargo pants on the farm any day. She took a sip of her wine, then another, letting the liquid warm her stomach. She didn't compete for one more day and her nerves were frazzled.

"Stop fidgeting," Del scolded in Greek.

"Why bother? No one wants to talk to me anyway."

"Because you're fidgeting. Uncomfortable people make people feel uncomfortable."

The room had grown crowded and people stood in small groups all around the two Greek women.

"Can we speak English, please? I need the practice for interviews."

Del nodded. She was short, but had the kind of presence no one could ignore. Her body had lost a lot of its athletic power over the years, but it seemed her personality had found it all. With her blazing green eyes and shoulder-pad jackets, she was still a force of nature.

Lia fought the urge to tug her neckline up. She'd at least wait until Del flitted away to scold another client. She reached up to touch her evil eye necklace before remembering, halfway through the motion, that Del had made her take it off before she'd arrived at the party. She froze, hand awkwardly hanging in the air. She tried to cover it up by switching her wine glass to the raised hand, but she knew she was caught.

Del cast her a reproachful look. "You'll survive one night without it."

"I never take it off. What if someone calls me a medal favorite or worse?"

Del let loose a tormented sigh. "You and your superstitions."

At least the necklace was still with her, in the small clutch Lia kept pressed tightly to her side. "They've worked for me so far, haven't they?"

Del ignored the question and surveyed the room. She must have been nervous that no sponsor reps had approached them yet because she smiled at several of them. They returned her smile, but didn't move.

"I heard there's a new Nike rep this year." Her eyes flashed hungrily. "Young, green. And good-looking, according to one of the Germans. Keep an eye out for him."

"And do what with him if I find him?"

Del's lips drew into a tight line. "What do you think? Convince him you're worthy of a huge sports bra campaign or something."

Oh, of course. That easy. "And how should I do that? He's with
Nike
."

"Well, don't be your normal charming self, that's for sure."

Mr. Chancey's words from that morning came back to Lia and repeated in her head. "Del?"

Something in Lia's voice softened the older woman's eyes. "Yes, dear?"

"Am I ‘likable’?" She made air quotes around the word.

Her manager didn't answer right away, which was a bad sign, Lia knew. Her heart dropped into her stomach, and she took a long pull on her wine glass. She barely noticed the waiter who refilled it on his way around the room.

"Why do you ask that?" Del asked, her tone cautious. She'd told Lia countless times that she needed to be nicer to the press, that she should give more interviews and chat with fans every now and then.

No, it was stupid. Lia refused to let the words of some balding, overweight man get to her. And she wasn't sure she could take it if Del agreed with him. "Forget it. It's nothing."

But Del knew better. Scrutinizing, she took in Lia's posture and face. "How is your family doing?"

And with that, the woman had changed the topic to probably the only thing that could make Lia feel worse. She sighed. As business-focused as Del was these weeks, Lia knew she was only asking because she really did care. Del was the only non-family member who knew the situation her family was in. Well, her and the bank.

Lia shook her head. "Alex is working his butt off, and I'm sure his studies are failing. It's not enough. I know my little brothers want to help, but mama insists they stay in school. They're probably going to need the education when the farm shuts down."

"If," Del said, taking her hand. "If the farm shuts down. And we're not going to let that happen."

"The bank is going to take the tractor."

Del squeezed her hand. "Don't worry about it, Evangelia. You'll win the medal and we'll get a good deal for you. We'll save them."

To her credit, Del didn't flinch when Lia reached for her missing necklace.

"Delia!" A girl called from ten feet away, rushing towards them. Kassandra Patera was a sparkling vision in her sapphire draped-silk dress, her dark curly hair spilling over her shoulders and cheeks as pink as a baby's. The girl continued on quickly in Greek. "I need you. This man says if I make it to the finals tomorrow, he wants to offer me a contract."

Del gave Lia an apologetic smile. "I have to go. Don't let it get you down. And remember, charm them."

Lia smiled, but it fell away as soon as Del turned her back. Kassandra certainly didn't have any trouble charming people. She was the only Greek Olympic figure skater in who-knew-how-long and looked like Aphrodite reincarnated to boot. She was the Greek national sweetheart, providing hope and light in a dark time in Greece's economic crisis. Though their sports were very different, Kassandra was Lia's functional rival for sponsorships. Nobody would want two Greek athletes on their advertisements. And, unlike Lia, everyone absolutely adored Kassandra, with her bubbly personality and legendary sportsmanship.

She was staring after Del and Kassandra, draining her wine glass, when a hand brushed her elbow. It was a gentle touch, but firm. Not an accident. Swallowing the wine, she spun to face the elbow-toucher. She choked on the last of the Cabernet and coughed.

"I'm sorry," a smooth, deep American voice said. "I never meant to startle you."

"You didn't—" Lia stopped when she saw who spoke to her.

She had to tilt her head up to see the face resting atop broad shoulders. The contrast of bright blue eyes set against caramel skin stalled the words on her tongue. His smile was friendly, warm, charming. The blood in her veins pounded towards a sprint and her mind went blank.

"I made you cough on your drink," he said. "Here, have mine. I haven't drunk out of it yet."

He handed her a beer she could only assume was American, due to the red, white, and blue packaging. She took it in her hand and the cold glass against her palm helped to clear her mind.

"Are you okay?" he said, ducking his head to meet her eyes on her level. Real concern swam in those marvelous blue oceans.

Her stomach flipped like an aerialist who'd lost control in the air. He'd been charming and classy since the second she turned around, while she'd sputtered at him like an angry goat. She knew she should probably say something.

"No, I'm just clumsy," she mumbled, barely remembering how to pronounce the English words.

He laughed. It was a good laugh, she thought. A strong, true one.

"There's no way anyone who can land back-to-back triple-twisting triple somersaults in international competition is clumsy."

Interesting. So he knew who she was. Could this have been the Nike rep Del had told her about? He was the youngest non-athlete in the room. And, as fit as he was, he wasn't an Olympian, she was sure of that. Muscles formed at the gym and muscles formed by training had a very different look. And maybe "good looking" in German actually meant mind-numbingly, devastatingly sexy in every other language.

His eyes flashed to her raised eyebrow and he smiled again. She had a feeling that smile – and those oceanic eyes – would be her undoing.

"I'm sorry, I have you at a disadvantage. I know your name, so it's only fair you know mine." He placed his hand out. "Brandon James."

"Evangelia Milonas," she responded automatically, raising her empty hand to meet his.

His big, warm hand wrapped completely around hers, dwarfing it. As he held her hand – longer than what seemed truly necessary, Lia noticed – his eyes never left hers. An electric current tingled against her skin where they touched.

"Oh, I know who you are, Evangelia."

Her full name on his lips sent shivers from her neck down to her toes. She crossed her arms across her chest and flitted her gaze about the room.

"My friends call me Lia." Her words sounded lame to her ears, but Brandon's smile took on a wanton tilt.

"I hope to earn that right, then."

She giggled. Evangelia Milonas, tomboy and unlikeable athlete, giggled. What had this man done to her? Not knowing how to respond, and not wanting to giggle ever again, Lia took a sip of Brandon's beer. The flavor was light and crisp, but not nearly as strong as she usually liked.

He effortlessly picked a fresh beer off the tray of a passing waiter and raised his glass to toast. She made a move to clink her bottle against his, but he pulled it away.

"Nunhuh," he said. "Look me in the eyes when you toast."

Lia gave him a quizzical look, but did as he asked.

"Why?"

"It's a German and French superstition." His eyes bored into hers, not even flinching when he added, "Something about seven years bad sex."

Lia felt a flush warm her cheeks. "In that case … " She raised her glass to meet his, meticulously maintaining the eye contact.

They both took a slow drink, keeping their gazes locked the entire time.

"Are you superstitious, then?" Brandon asked.

She didn't really want to admit it, but she couldn't bring herself to lie to him either. "My manager says I am. So does my family. So, I guess so."

He seemed to consider her for several tense, awkward seconds. "Has anyone told you about the torch?"

Lia didn't respond, thinking she had heard him wrong. When he didn't clarify, she said, "
Everyone
has heard of the torch. They make a big TV deal about it. Some legendary Italian opera singer lit it this year."

One corner of Brandon's mouth quirked up. "No, not that one. The lucky one."

Lia shook her head, trying not to act as interested as she really felt. An Olympic superstition she had never heard of? Surely Del would have known. Why hadn't she told her?