The Kissing Game (12 page)

And here he was. In Boston. Frankie had had a ten-minute jump on him leaving the key, but she'd gotten to the hotel a solid five hours earlier. It was nearly seven-thirty now. Please God, Simon prayed as he picked up the extension the con cierge offered him and listened to the phone ring up in Frankie's room, please let Jazz be fashionably late for their dinner date.

But the phone rang and rang and rang.

“I'm sorry, sir,” the man said without a whit of apology in his expression, “the young lady is not in her room at this time.”

It was entirely possible that Simon was too late.

Frankie was with Jazz right now.

Oh, God, he was too late.

Simon knew exactly what he'd do if he took Frankie out to dinner. He'd bring her someplace nice, somewhere with music—a band or piano player. In between the salad course and the soup, he'd pull her out onto the dance floor and take her into his arms. She'd fit against him perfectly as they danced, and he'd close his eyes, reveling in
the full body contact. But before the song ended, he'd lean down and claim her lips in a slow, lingering, delicious kiss. He'd dance with her again and again, and before dessert and coffee arrived, he'd stand up, but this time they wouldn't go onto the dance floor. This time they'd leave the restaurant, go to his hotel room ….

Jazz was no fool. If Frankie was even the least bit willing, Simon wasn't going to see her until late the next morning, after she spent the night with Jazz.

Man, he felt sick.

The concierge was eyeing him nervously. No doubt he hadn't missed the sudden tears that had sprung into Simon's eyes.

“I'm really disappointed,” Simon admitted to the man. “See, I've got it bad for this lady, but I got here too late and now she's out with some real butt-head. I'm afraid she's going to fall in love with this guy, and that's making it hard for me to breathe, you know? I didn't expect to feel this way, and I'm scared to death.”

To his surprise, the concierge nodded, compassion in his normally expressionless eyes. And when he spoke, his upper-crust accent was gone.

“Can I getcha anything, pal?” the man asked in a thick local Boston accent.

“A room and stiff drink or six,” Simon said miserably. “Not necessarily in that order.”

“If you trust me with your driver's license and a credit card,” the man said, “you can head on into the bar and I'll bring ‘em back to you with a room key in less than five minutes. You can leave your luggage behind the counter too. I'll have it sent up to your room.”

Simon took both cards from his wallet and placed them on the counter. He leaned forward to read the man's name tag. “Thanks, Dominic.”

He turned toward the bar, but the concierge stopped him. “Hey, Mr. Hunt.” Simon turned back. “At the risk of not minding my own business, I gotta tell you, pal, you might stand a better chance of finding the lady
without
the drinks.”

It was a good point. “Do you live here in Boston?” Simon asked the man.

He nodded. “Have for all my life.”

“Where would
you
take a woman out to dinner if you really wanted to impress her?”

The concierge smiled. “Attaboy. I knew you weren't a quitter. I'll make you a list and call you
a guy I know, drives a cab. Meanwhile, why don't you start with the obvious? We got a four-star restaurant right here in the hotel.”

“I really appreciate it, Dominic.”

Dominic nodded. “There used to be a girl I loved the way you love yours, but I let her get away. Not a day goes by that I don't regret that.”

He turned to his computer screen, leaving Simon staring at him.

Love ….
? Who said anything about
…. love?

Sure, he was upset at the thought of losing Frankie to Jazz … But
love?

No, it couldn't be. Could it?

Simon stopped just inside the entrance to the hotel's crowded restaurant, letting his eyes get accustomed to the romantic lighting. Music was playing. A trio was set up in the corner of the room, and they were performing an old standard. It was slow, romantic, and easy to dance to. The dance floor was near the band, and a number of couples swayed in time to the music.

Simon searched the faces for Frankie. She wasn't on the dance floor. And she wasn't sitting at the tables nearby. She wasn't near a small bar
that occupied another corner of the room She wasn't ….

She was.

She was
there.
She was sitting at one of the secluded tables near the windows. She was wearing some kind of a white shirt and her hair was brushed back from her face and—

She laughed at something Jazz Chester said, and Simon felt his heart lodge in his throat. Dear God, she looked so beautiful. When she smiled, the entire world seemed to light up around her.

He loved her. Dominic was right. It
was
love. Simon was totally, mind-blowingly, completely in love with Francine Paresky. He had to sit down ….

“May I help you, sir?” The maître d’ stepped in front of him as he headed toward one of the empty seats at the bar.

“I need a drink.”

“I'm sorry, sir,” the man said loftily, “but after seven-thirty our bar is closed to all but dinner service. There's another bar across the lobby—”

“No,” Simon said. On the other side of the room, Jazz Chester, damn his eyes, reached across the small table and took Frankie's hand. On this
side of the room Simon could do little more than watch. Jazz didn't know her, not the way Simon did. Jazz had never read Frankie's diaries. Jazz didn't even know that she wrote down her every thought, every wish, every desire. But Simon did.

Simon knew from the way Jazz was looking at Frankie that the man's number-one priority was to get inside her pants, not her head. Sure, Simon had his own sexual agenda, but there was so much more to what he was feeling than that. He wanted to be with her, to talk to her, to watch her eyes as she talked to him, as she told him her secrets.

Oh, God. He loved Frankie. How had this happened? When had this become more than a game?

“Perhaps you'd like a table …. ?” the maître d’ asked.

Simon pulled his gaze away from Frankie and forced himself to smile. This guy was a real load. “Preferably one with a seat, please.”

“There's a forty-minute wait for a table,” the maître d’ told him with barely concealed sadistic pleasure. “Perhaps you'd enjoy a walk around the block, or a seat in the hotel lobby?”
Simon shook his head. “No, you don't understand—”

At that moment the concierge appeared at Simon's elbow.

“Any luck, sir?” he asked, his fake upper-crust accent securely back in place.

Simon nodded. “She's here, Dom, but there's a forty-minute wait for a table.”

The concierge looked at the maître d’. “Mr. Hunt can be seated at the bar, Robert.”

“I'm sorry, Mr. Defeo.” The maître d's lips were tightly pressed together. “But as I told this gentleman, the bar is closed.”

Dominic lifted an eyebrow. “Then …. open it.”

“But it's after seven-thirty and we've got only one bartender on duty.” He sniffed primly. “The rules
clearly
state no paying customers at the bar after—”

Dominic leaned closer, lowering his voice, dropping his accent. “Seat him at the bar, you rigid idiot, and give him his drink on the house— that way he's not a paying customer and everyone's happy.”

The maître d's mouth opened in a silent oh.

“Seat him yourself,” he said, walking away in a huff.

Dom tapped his forehead. “Creative thinking, Bobby,” he called after him. “You should try it sometime.” He handed Simon his credit card, driver's license, and a room key as he led him to the bar. “Good luck,” he said. “Let me know how it all turns out.”

Simon clasped the older man's hand. “Thanks. I will.”

“Hey, Vinnie,” Dominic said to the bartender. “Set my friend here up—but keep his drinks watered down. He's gonna need his wits about him.”

“Sure thing, Mr. Defeo.”

“Just a ginger ale, Vinnie.” Simon was looking at Frankie, and Dominic followed his gaze.

“That her?” he asked.

Simon nodded. “Yeah.”

As the two men watched, Jazz Chester stood up. He tugged at Frankie's hand and she rose gracefully from the table. Together they moved onto the dance floor.

Simon heard Dominic chuckle. “How'd she manage to get past Mr. Rules and Regulations wearing jeans?”

The bartender put a glass of ginger ale down on the bar near Simon's elbow. “Bob told me she told
him
she was some kind of famous movie star,” he said. “That's why he waived the dress code. I'm also supposed to keep an eye out for paparazzi. Run interference if necessary.”

Dominic looked at Simon questioningly, his bushy eyebrows raised. “A famous movie star?”

Simon laughed, shaking his head no. “She's like you—a creative thinker. She's a private investigator who lives on the west coast of Florida. She moonlights as a cabdriver.”

“She looks kind of like what's-her-name,” Vinnie said. “You know the girl I mean. Good actress.”

“The one who's in all the pictures these days,” Dom said. “Italian-sounding name. Very pretty girl.”

Simon fell silent, watching Frankie and Jazz dance. Frankie was actually wearing jeans and a plain white T-shirt. She had cowboy boots on her feet. Cowboy boots and faded jeans in a four-star restaurant …. Her jeans fit her snugly, hugging her compact, slender body in a way that had turned his head for years. For years he'd been content to
watch her walk away from him, but that was going to stop right now.

Jazz pulled her closer, and she shut her eyes, resting her head on his shoulder.

Simon's heart sank. She looked so peaceful, so content. Jazz Chester was as handsome as Simon had remembered him. His brown hair was darker and he'd filled out, but he was still in good shape. His picture-perfect features had thickened a bit, but the effect only made him better-looking, more rugged.

According to Frankie, Jazz was the nicest guy in the world. Simon had never been accused of that in his entire life.

“She looks happy,” Simon whispered.

“Wait a minute. What's with this noble-sacrifice crap?” Dominic asked in disbelief. “You're not gonna pull some kind of I-love-her-enough-to-let-her-go stupid-ass stunt here, are you?”

As Simon watched, Jazz pulled Frankie's lips up to his own and kissed her slowly, tenderly. Simon's own lips were dry. She was the one. Frankie was the one, probably the only one he was ever truly going to love, and he was going to lose her before he even had her.

“I was thinking about it, yeah. On the other hand, I may just throw up. I suppose I could do both simultaneously …. “

“So you love her enough to let her go,” Dom said. “That's real sweet, but give
yourself a
break, pal. Love
yourself enough
to fight for her. Besides, look at her body language. She's not comfortable kissing him. She's not sold on this guy—not yet.”

Simon didn't see it. He didn't see discomfort or distance. All he saw was Frankie in someone else's arms.

“Dom, they're calling you from the front desk,” Vinnie murmured.

“Don't be a fool, Mr. Hunt,” Dominic said as he walked away.

Simon watched as Jazz kissed Frankie again. He stood up, uncertain of what to do. Should he just cut in? Should he tap Jazz on the shoulder mid-kiss? Should he wait until they went back to their table and pull up a neighborly chair?

Or should he stand up on the bar and shout across the room that he loved her? Yeah, that would be incomparable fun. He wasn't sure he'd be able to get the words
I love you
past his lips even in private. It would be much too risky ever to
reveal himself that way. It would be emotional hara-kiri. Three little words would rip him asunder, spilling his quivering feelings out naked onto the floor for her to kick aside or walk on.

Simon took a step toward the dance floor. Cut in. He was going to have to cut in.

But before he took another step, Frankie pulled back from Jazz and asked him something. Jazz shrugged and tried to pull her close again, but Frankie resisted. She gestured toward the top pocket of his jacket. Again Jazz shrugged. Frankie gestured again, pulling free from his arms, and Jazz finally took something from his pocket and handed it to Frankie. Frankie looked at it carefully and handed it back to him.

And then, while Simon watched, she hauled back and punched Jazz Chester in the jaw.

Jazz went down onto the dance floor, and a gasp went up from the other restaurant patrons. Frankie turned and made a beeline for the door.

Simon stepped toward her. “Francine …. “

She didn't hear him, didn't see him. She pushed right past him in her haste to leave the room.

Simon glanced back at Jazz. He'd picked himself up, shaking his head ruefully at the waiters’
and maître d's attentive concern. He made no attempt to go after Frankie.

Which was just as well, because Simon followed her, picking up his pace as she headed toward the elevators.

FRANKIE CLOSED HER
eyes and let the elevator carry her up to the fifth floor.

Damn
Jazz Chester. Damn him to hell. And as long as she was angry and hurt, she might as well add Simon Hunt's name to the list. Damn Simon too. Damn him for being right, and damn him for not being there now, of all times, when she needed him the most.

Frankie opened her eyes and stared at the numbers lighting up above the elevator door. One more floor. She'd promised herself she wouldn't cry until
she made it into her room and locked the door behind her.

But her knuckles on her right hand were bruised and raw from punching Jazz in the face. It was the final blow to both her pride and her psyche—the straw of pain and embarrassment that was trying its hardest to break the camel's back.

Frankie couldn't hold in slightly hysterical-sounding laughter. She'd
punched
Jazz Chester in the
face.
God help her if Simon ever found out. She and Leila had once argued with Simon for hours over the theory that women were superior to men because they reacted to bad news and disappointment by discussing their emotions rather than internalizing or lashing out.