Plotting to Win (3 page)

Felicity gulped. Now she knew why they were making the contestants draw the names. No matter whose name she drew, that person was going to be infuriated with her. Already, they would have resentment within the group. Great — just great. Why did this have to be number two?

Being careful not to allow her face to reveal her disconcertment, she stepped forward, trying not to totter on her heels with nervousness. Feeling all eyes on her, she carefully looked away — was that bathroom meant for writing? She fingered a paper in the hat.

On cue, Ophelia plucked it from her hand as soon as she withdrew the paper.

Crinkling sounded again.

“Oh, man,” someone whispered.

Another contestant shuffled, his shoes making noise on the hard floor.

“Tiffani Love, you have room two.”

“What?” The blonde’s mouth fell open and tears welled in her eyes. “You are kidding, right?” She aimed the question in Felicity’s direction.

Felicity gave her a helpless shrug. “I didn’t see the name on it. I just pick —”

“Ms. Love, you can see your name on here clear as day. Did you not write your name just like this?” The talk show host held the white piece of paper open for them all to view. Though Felicity had to squint to see it, it did, indeed, say
Tiffani Love
with big, bold, curly script, complete with a heart on the end of the word love.

“I-I did, but —”

“Excellent, Ms. Love, you are next to draw. Room three, Mr. Brown.” And just like that, Tiffani and her tears were dismissed.

The erotic writer glared at Felicity as she walked past on her way to room two. “Thanks a lot.”

Felicity didn’t bother to reply. What could she say? She hadn’t known what was on the paper. She caught Victor grinning at her, and she turned just in time to see a dimple in his cheek before his expression became serious once again as another name was about to be called.

Room three appeared to be a coffee shop with a long table and chair — not very comfortable looking, but not the worst. It had a tiled floor, a laptop on the table, coffee-themed pictures on the beige walls, and a cappuccino machine at one end.

Felicity smiled. They had been pretty creative with this.

“Victor Guzman,” Ophelia announced.

“Cool.” Victor didn’t appear the least bit perturbed. Felicity wondered if he actually did write in coffee shops. Did he go by himself or did he have a lovely woman on his arm? Why was she even remotely curious?

“Arnold Manning,” the literary agent called.

“What? Do I get room four? It doesn’t really suit me.” The redheaded horror guy looked panicked, and Felicity could see why. Room four was nice, but wouldn’t help to create a scary story. A daybed with a ruffled floral-printed comforter was against one of the walls. A box seat with pillows under a window — there were two windows, after all — was another seating option. A table with a few drawers was against the last wall. A pink throw rug was centered over wood flooring.

It was perfect … for a teenage girl.

“No. It’s your turn to draw.”

Arnold looked both nervous and relieved. He eyed them as he stuck his hand in the hat.

Ophelia wasted no time in retrieving his choice and reading off the name. “Felicity James.”

Felicity sighed but nodded. It wasn’t a very romantic setting, but it could be worse. At least she’d be comfortable.

“Let’s go to the other side, please.”

Obediently, they followed Mr. Brown to room five: the cozy fireplace setting.

Felicity bit back another sigh. She could just imagine lying on that rug, a handsome Latino feeding her S’mores.

Latino? Wait, hold up. That Victor must be mind-fucking me somehow
.

She allowed herself a quick glance in his direction. He winked.

Oh, the nerve! He probably knew how badly she’d wanted this room. She glared and crossed her arms, not caring that she was being childish. If she was going to be in a child’s room …

“Arnold Manning, you have room five.”

She’d missed the drawing. Oh, well.

They moved on to room six, and there were a lot of appreciative murmurs, not because anyone wanted the hard park bench, but because it was such a unique idea.

“This is kind of neat.”

“I sometimes write in my park.”

“I’d bring my dog here.” Someone laughed.

The room’s floor was covered with fake green grass. The park bench sat against a far wall, a large potted tree next to it. A sunny day at the park mural was painted on the opposite wall, allowing the occupant to stare at happy smiling children with their mothers, dogs chasing Frisbees, and birds catching worms.

But the light was so bright.

“Shit, is that a hot lamp, like, for a lizard?” Arnold again.

“Wow. It is. Someone will need some sunglasses,” Dez agreed.

Carmen was drawing the name this time.

“Roy Meachum, you are in room six.”

A few chuckles ensued. Some even slapped the poor guy on the back. Felicity hoped he’d brought some sunscreen. He was one of those really
white
white guys, and his hair was so short, she could see patches of skin.

She cast him a sympathetic smile, but he merely shrugged and checked out his new cave. “I’ve survived worse. I was in the war.”

“Thank you for your service,” Felicity murmured to him as they headed to the last room.

She was rewarded with a genuine smile, the first real one without malice she’d received since first meeting Tiffani. Yea, Tiffani wouldn’t be aiming any more smiles her way.

“I guess there’s no need to draw my name as I’m the last one left.” Dez’s shoulders slumped as the other contestants began to laugh.

Felicity drew close enough and peered around shoulders until her fears were confirmed. There was no mistaking room seven for anything other than a bathroom, with its tiled floor, claw-foot tub, and toilet.

“You got the best room, actually.” Victor slapped Dez on the back. “You can take care of business while the rest of us have to hold it.”

“We could just borrow his room when we have to go.” Arnold guffawed.

“Hell, no. I don’t want all of you stinking up my room.”

This warranted more laughter. Even the judges were smiling. At least Dez was taking it with good humor. The black man merely stood there, shaking his head, a sardonic smile on his face.

Felicity decided to join in the conversation. “Just throw a few pillows in that tub, and it will actually be more comfortable than you think. Why do you think us women love bubble baths?”

Victor aimed his dark, hooded gaze her way, his lips curling up. Felicity’s face heated. Was he imagining her in a tub? Naked? Under bubbles?

“Authors, you now have your assigned writing caves. These are to be your caves until the first elimination. Only then may you compete for another cave, the newly vacated one.” Ophelia was taking over again. “Now, you shall be taken to the loft, where you will all sleep, eat, and socialize during your time with us.”

“Thank God I don’t have to sleep on the toilet!”

Chuckling, good humor mostly restored, they followed punk girl up the stairs to what was to be their home for the next seven weeks.

The beautiful light-chocolate-skinned woman kept looking at him — probably because he kept looking at her. It was a relief to hit the stairs. Victor held back long enough to make sure she was in front of him, allowing him a delicious view of her rear end as she climbed ahead of him. He could look, just briefly, to his heart’s content, with her none the wiser.

Or to his dick’s content, as it was certainly forming a hard opinion.

Every woman with killer curves like hers should wear form-fitting slacks. He’d noticed her from the moment she’d pulled up in the cab. Warm brown eyes, soft curls framing an oval face, pink lips with some kind of shiny gloss. Like he said, he wasn’t here to make friends. But he could look.

He grasped the bannister as their steps made loud clomping sounds on the wooden stairs. Be hard to sneak out of this place, even if we were allowed.

Show rules stated they would get all their food, entertainment, and sleep time right here in this loft. Victor didn’t look forward to that part of the show: being confined to one area for so long, but he understood the need to keep the outside world, viewers, fans, and press from getting hints or warnings as to what was happening on the show.

Then again, maybe being cooped up with the lovely Felicity wouldn’t be too bad, if she stayed as long as he did. He certainly wasn’t going home, not with that badly needed hundred grand at stake. His mother needed it. He couldn’t take care of her anymore, and home healthcare was out of his budget.

The thought of his mother’s pitiful cries in the night as she woke to realize she’d walked into the living room in her confusion and had mistaken a sofa cushion for the toilet caused his jaw and his resolve both to harden.

She barely remembered who he was some days. Alzheimer’s coupled with a stroke made her unable to speak now and he couldn’t watch her twenty-four seven. The time had come to admit he had to relinquish some of the responsibilities, but that took money he didn’t have. It had taken a whopper of a loan to provide full-time care while he was on the show.

In all her years of caring for him, she’d never stopped to take care of herself, never had insurance. It wasn’t until she was hospitalized that he discovered the dire circumstances of his mother’s financial situation. Medicare only covered so much.

Growing up, his mama had said repeatedly, “Writing, Vic? Writing is not a stable profession. You must have a backup plan.”

Well, mama, this writing gig is going to take care of you
.

Because Victor Guzman was going to be the next bestseller.

He had to resist the urge to palm the lovely rear in front of him. Would she slap him? Could he get away with saying, “Oops. Accident. Thought I was going to fall.”?

Just as the temptation grew too great and his palm too itchy, they reached the top of the stairs and the rear end moved to the right and away from him.

“Oh no. We have to sleep together?”

“Where do we change clothes?”

“I’m hungry. Where’s the kitchen?”

“Can we order pizza?”

Victor grinned as he viewed the loft. It appeared to take the entire length of the ‘cave’ but unlike the bottom floor, the top had sloped ceilings. Like the lower area, there were walls dividing the loft into sections, but there was no question they were all, indeed, sleeping together. Directly in front of them was a sitting area consisting of sofas, coffee tables, a small dining set, and a couple of armchairs … more than enough seating for the seven contestants.

Behind the seating area were two rows of beds, running down the middle of the loft, with walls behind them. Three beds on one side and four on the other. Victor figured a kitchen and a bathroom was in there somewhere, most likely behind closed doors.

“So, where are we in camera zone?” he asked, hoping his voice carried to the punk girl with the clipboard. She seemed to be the organizer.

“Okay, ya’ll. I’m only going to explain this once.”

The chatter immediately piped down as they all waited to hear what she had to say.

“This is the loft and where you’ll be living when not competing during the next seven weeks. In front of you is the seating area and behind that, your beds. I’ll show you the kitchen, rec room, and gym in a minute. Be warned that every room is on camera except the bed area, bathrooms, and kitchen.”

“Wait a minute,” the military man — Meacham — stepped forward, “you expect men and women to sleep in the same room?”

Victor was also surprised by this, but he wasn’t going to complain — not as long as that chocolate beauty was here. His cock throbbed at the thought of bunking next to her.

“Yep. You’re all bunking down here. If it makes you feel better, you can do women on one side, men on —”

“I’m not comfortable with that.”

“What, army man, you didn’t work with women soldiers?” This was from the chick lit writer. “What’s the problem? We’re all created equal.”

“You have tits.” Horror writer shook his head. “It makes a world of difference.”

“But I only brought negligees!” This, of course, came from Miss Erotica.

Oh, this was ridiculous. Victor decided to step in. “I don’t know about you guys, but personally, I love sleeping with women.” He aimed a cocky grin at Felicity and winked. He could swear her dark skin coloured just a little in the lighter areas of her cheeks. Leaving the ensuing argument and laughter behind him, he eliminated the distance between him and his target and leaned down to speak huskily in her ear, getting a whiff of decadent perfume as he did so. “Matter of fact, why don’t we sleep next to each other?”

“You’re just trying to throw me off my game, and it’s not going to work, Mr. Guzman.” Felicity targeted him with a hard stare and placed one hand on her hip saucily.

Damn, she was hot. He’d love to have a character like her. Maybe she could be a lawyer who ate men like him for breakfast, or a vixen with a gun. Yea, she’d make a great vigilante character.

“I’d like to throw you somewhere, but it’s not off anything. More like on.” He allowed his gaze to fall to his throbbing cock — thank God he wore baggy pants — and knew he was being a jerk, but she was right. He had to throw her off her game. Something told him she’d be his biggest competitor. She carried herself with confidence and was the only one not voicing five hundred complaints. Plus,
she
was throwing
him
off his game.

Time to reverse the tables.

A sigh emitted from those pink lips, just a small puff of air, but he knew he had her wound up. “I thought you weren’t here to make friends?” One dark eyebrow went up with the question.

“Who said we had to be friends?” He was so close to her now that if he moved four more inches, he could taste those pink —

“Oh God. I don’t have time for this.” She huffed and pushed him out of the way. “I’m here to write.”

He smirked. “I’m used to being called that. It’s okay.”

She gave a grunt and stomped away, off to view the bathrooms and kitchen and whatever else was behind closed doors.