Plotting to Win (8 page)

He was expecting a brusque brush-off, but to his surprise she just sighed and shook her head. “I don’t know. I … feel guilty for being relieved it wasn’t me. He was a good guy who got a bad assignment. I don’t think I would excel at literary fiction either.”

Victor laid a hand on her elbow and followed her to the sofa. Tiffani had wasted no time in taking Arnold’s vacated chair at the table, and he didn’t want to sit across from her.

“So … Arnold, huh? How did he take it?” Roy crossed one ankle over the other and glanced at the three who had just come back.

“Hard to say, they just asked him to close his manuscript and go home, and he turned around and walked to his writer’s cave, and we were told to come up here. No drama,” Felicity informed him.

“What did they say to you guys?”

“Well, mine was impeccable, Felicity’s was runner-up, and they tore Tiffani’s apart again. ‘Find the line between erotica and porn and stay on one side’,” Victor mimicked.

“Shut up, you arrogant prick,” Tiffani shouted, silencing everyone’s laughter.

“They should have sent you home. I’d be careful not to get sent up there again.”

Victor did a quick double take, surprised at not only the words coming out of Felicity’s mouth, but also the ferocity behind them. She was sticking up for him?

“How dare you?” Tiffani rose from her chair, anger radiating off her. Her hands were shaking where they rested on her hips. Her cheeks were red, her bosom heaving — literally. Victor laughed as the overdone romance cliché came to mind.

“You make a mockery of romance writing, and that’s all I’m going to say. I am tired of defending my genre because of people like you crossing that fine line. Romance is about love, not sex. Get your shit together or get off the show before you do my genre more damage.”

Victor felt Felicity’s body tense, saw the tightening around her mouth. She really meant what she said. The woman was passionate about what she did and wrote, and she made a good point, something he’d never thought about before. He was one of those who just threw all kinds of romance books in the same bin: worthless and unrealistic. For the first time ever, he was rethinking his attitude. There were apparently different divisions and classifications of romance.

“I don’t have to listen to you,” Tiffani stated coldly before turning and stomping out of the room.

Victor let out a whoosh of air he hadn’t realized he was holding. He’d been afraid there would be a nasty fight and that Felicity would be hurt, not because she couldn’t hold her own, but because she was too nice a type to harm another, even in self-defense.

And again, why the hell did he care? He felt like a blow landed in his solar plexus as he admitted to himself what he hadn’t wanted to think about: he was seriously starting to like Felicity James.

Uncomfortable with this train of thought, he scooted away from the object of his attraction.

Finally, Carmen broke the awkward silence. “Well, Dez, you going to put dibs on Arnold’s writer’s cave, or are you going to stick with your crapper?”

“How do you feel about being eliminated today?”

The redhead shook his head. His shoulders slumped. He stared at the floor instead of the camera. “I feel pretty disappointed. I feel like I didn’t even have a chance to show what I can do. We’re not tattoo artists. We shouldn’t have to be versatile. You choose something you want, you write it, and if you’re lucky, someone buys it.” He shrugged, glanced up finally, his lips downturned. “People don’t come to us saying, ‘write me this’.”

Silence greeted him. He blinked rapidly. “I’m going to keep writing though. Someday, you’ll see a book out there with my name on it.”

“A head-hop is a sudden point of view switch.”

“What?” Felicity glanced up from the book she was reading — one of Nicole Roberts’s. She’d actually packed it, having no foresight whatsoever that the woman she’d long admired was going to be judging her.

Victor sat on the edge of her bed, turning his body just enough to face her where she was propped against the headboard. “Like, if you are in Mookie’s point of view and you’re telling us how Mookie feels … that Mookie desires Dookie with a fierce passion he’s never felt before and then you suddenly switch over and tell us what Dookie is feeling … you’re switching POV. It can be jarring to a reader. Some publishers allow it. Some don’t. It’s something to watch for in your genre of writing.” He watched her intently as though waiting for her response.

Her book discarded in her lap, Felicity didn’t know what to say. She was unnerved by his sudden kindness and also by the fact he was on her bed, next to her, and he looked good enough to … no, no.

He blinked at her and apparently assumed she didn’t comprehend, because he continued, “Mookie and Dookie are … are eating sandwiches. Mookie is thinking his salami tastes too peppery and doesn’t Dookie look funny with her hair all messed up? And then suddenly Dookie is thinking Mookie looks like he’s tasted something bad. Basically, you have to choose one point of view, Mookie’s or Dookie’s, and stick with it. Say you choose Mookie. If Mookie can’t see it, hear it, taste it, feel it, touch it, he can’t tell us about it.”

Throughout his explanation, his hands moved animatedly, pantomiming different things: eating a sandwich, having messy hair, the act of hearing, but Felicity couldn’t get past one thing.

“Where the hell do you come up with your character names?” She chortled with laughter. Her insides hurt she laughed so hard, and her spirits lifted. Tears ran down her face. He looked bewildered momentarily and soon joined in, his dimples flashing.

“I mean, those names are
sooo
unromantic. I have no words,” she finally gasped out when she got control of her wits.

“Well, I don’t know. I’m a guy.” He spread his hands out, palms up.

Felicity turned serious, thinking about what he’d said. “So, the five senses? Like, if I’m narrating a scene and you don’t convey something, I can’t know what you’re thinking, unless you say it aloud or something in your body language tells me. I have to hear it or see it myself to tell the reader about it.”

“Exactly.” And suddenly, before she could react, he reached out and tenderly touched her cheek, brushing away an escaped tear.

Felicity held her breath. His touched burned a trail on her face. She fought the urge to close her eyes and just savor it, this second of … of … whatever was between her and this guy. If she could capture the moment and bottle it, she would. She’d dab the feeling all over her body every day.

She cleared her throat as his finger left her face. “Why are you helping me?”

“I don’t know.” His voice was strained, tired. His expression was one of bewilderment. What was going on behind the brown depths of his gaze? “But I’m not in cahoots with Tiffani. I want to just get that out of your pretty head right now.”

He thinks I’m pretty?
Aloud, she said, “Then what was that about? Yesterday? What Tiffani said?” She crossed her arms over her chest, the only barrier she had at the moment, but what was she protecting? Her pride? Her heart?

He sighed and stared at the floor next to her bed. “I was a fool and ended up hurting myself more than you. The extent of our corroboration is switching beds. I thought my nearness — yes, arrogant ass, I know — would throw you off your game, ‘cause, frankly, I see you as the biggest threat.”

“Um…” He’d managed to insult her and compliment her at the same time. Felicity couldn’t stop the wrinkle marring her brow. “Okay, well, ‘thank you’ and ‘what the fuck’ both come to mind.” She released an uncomfortable laugh and fingered the pages of her novel. They’d all be dog-eared by the time she was done. Hopefully, Ms. Roberts wouldn’t see it.

He offered a sheepish grin.

“So you thought my game could be thrown off as easily as that? I’m not some high school girl. I’m a grown-ass thirty-year-old woman, and I’m not easily sidetracked.”
Well …
she bit her lips to stop the smile that threatened to emerge.

His t-shirt pulled against taut muscles as he pushed himself off the bed. The urge to reach out and grab him, to pull him down until his long body covered hers almost overwhelmed her. Hot fire built in her lower belly, and she was grateful for her dark skin. If she’d been a pale woman, the heat and desire within her would be evident as it burned through her flesh.

“I realize that now.” His voice was low and husky. He had his hands in his pockets as he turned away from her bed.

“Wait,” she called after him. “How did you end up hurting yourself?”

“You snore,” he said over his shoulder. “I can’t sleep a wink with all that racket.”

“What?” Felicity gaped at his retreating back and before he got too far away, she hefted her pillow and threw it in his direction. It landed on the floor next to him, and he laughed all the way out of the room, great, shoulder-moving gusts of laughter.

“Before we go on to the second round of challenges, does anyone wish to compete for Arnold’s writing cave?” Nicole Roberts stood in front of them, near the lone vacant dining chair, hands clasped in front of her, patiently waiting.

Oooh, the room with the fireplace … dare she? Felicity was doing just fine where she was though. Would she change her luck if she moved?

“Me. I want it,” Tiffani rushed to get her name in.

“Oh, hell yea.” Dez stuck a finger in the air. “I could use a change of scenery.”

“What happened to ‘I can write anywhere, I’m just that good?’” Carmen snickered.

“Thought about it,” Roy said, “but thanks to the sunscreen, I’m all right. It’s a nice spot. There’s even a tape or something that plays the sounds of birds.”

“Anyone else?” Nicole glanced around, waiting, giving them — giving her — a chance. Felicity bit her lip. She did want the room, but, really, Dez had to sit on the toilet, and while she wouldn’t mind beating Tiffani, she didn’t want to stir up more trouble. The woman was glaring at her from across the room.

There were six more rounds to go, and she didn’t want to worry about being murdered in her sleep.

Victor caught her eye, and she shook her head.

“All right then. Tiffani and Dez, come on downstairs and get the official instructions on your writing challenge for the cozy fireplace room.”

Tiffani and Dez followed Nicole from the room, leaving four of them lounging.

“Why didn’t you try for it? It seems like a romance writer’s room.” Victor raised a cup of coffee to his lips and peered at her over the rim.

Felicity shrugged. “Honestly? I hope Dez wins. As much as I want to walk away with this prize, confining the guy to a bathroom the full seven weeks …”

Carmen scoffed and swung her leg back and forth over the arm of her chair. As usual, she wore a look of perpetual boredom. “You’re too soft to win this thing. You’re going home if you play nice.”

“Could be she’s just secure enough in her writing not to throw obstacles at others,” Roy interjected, running a hand over his buzz cut.

Felicity offered the older man a grateful smile.

“Watch it, old man,” Carmen warned.

Felicity couldn’t pinpoint why or when it had occurred, but the brief rapport she’d felt with Carmen had long since disappeared. The woman made her uncomfortable now. She wanted to send her home, even more than Tiffani.

“I think you should just worry about yourself,” Victor retorted, winning a few more points in Felicity’s book.

I think I’ll make my next hero a handsome Latino
.

She raised her own mug, pretending to take a sip of her now cold coffee, when, really, she just wanted to hide her smile. Lately, the man had a habit of lifting her spirits in moments of doubt or turmoil.

But damn him, she was tired. Constantly waking up at night out of fear she was snoring was taking a toll.

The sound of laughter and pool balls cracking would normally fill Victor with good cheer, but tonight he only had a splitting headache. Instead of getting into the ‘we weren’t eliminated’ party, he was musing in a quiet corner, alone, watching everyone drinking beer around the pool table.

Except for Felicity. She was drinking wine. The smile she was aiming Roy’s way as they conversed — probably more war stories — caused his breath to hitch in his throat.

He wanted to tell her to stop looking so damn sexy all the time, but that would only give her whatever edge she needed to win, to beat him.

And he needed this money. He couldn’t fail his mother, not again.

He hadn’t been able to save her from all those men, though he had tried. He’d barely saved her after her stroke. She was living in a shell of her former self. What kind of life was that?

The least he could do was win this damn contest and provide for her.

He raised his cold beer can to his flushed face.
I need a good roll in the hay, that’s all. No romance, no love, no going googly-eyed over a pretty woman I’m supposed to beat — just a good lay, no strings attached
. Unfortunately, that wasn’t going to happen, not for another six weeks.

He rose abruptly and quietly slipped out of the room, leaving behind the smiles, jokes, banter, and rap music playing on the speakers. Socializing wasn’t high on his agenda. His manuscript wasn’t calling to him either, not that inspiration was striking.

He strode to the bedroom area with the intention of just lying down for a while.

“Hey. What are you doing?” Halting in his tracks, he eyed the woman on the floor by his bed.

Tiffani looked up at him coolly. “Just borrowing a romance book.”

“From Felicity? She’s letting you borrow a book?” Something wasn’t jiving here. He placed his hands on his hips.

Tiffani pushed herself off the floor, kicking the backpack she’d been rifling through back under the bed — Felicity’s bed.

“Yea. Um, she has Nicole’s latest release, and I haven’t read it yet.” She held up the romance novel he’d seen Felicity reading the day before.

He grimaced at the sight of a long-haired, ridiculously muscled man cradling a woman in his arms, their lips locked in a passionate kiss. “Ugh.”

“So, you don’t feel like partying?” She stepped closer to him, her breasts almost touching his chest. Her pink tongue darted out, licking her lips.