Game On

chapter 12


“WELL, I GOTTA GO. IT was nice meeting you, Joe, Keith,” he said with a nod to each before walking toward Clara. She wore a slim-fitting black mini-skirt, ankle boots with heels that gave her a three or four-inch boost, a form-fitting silvery top that accentuated her cleavage, and a silky black scarf around her neck. And he was supposed to concentrate on food?

“Wow.”

“If that’s a compliment, I’ll take it,” she said, coming to a halt before him. “Who were those guys?”

“Oh, them?” Luc turned and sure enough, the fan boys were still standing there, as enraptured by Clara as he was. “Joe and Keith. Buddies of mine.”

“Would they like to join us for dinner? It’s always better to go in a crowd.”

“No way,” he said, a little too quickly, and turned her toward the exit. “I mean, they’re not that good of buddies.”

Luc insisted on a taxi to the nearby restaurant, using her footwear as an excuse rather than reveal the deep throbbing ache in his leg—damn Chicago wind.

Clara approached the hostess stand while Luc nervously scanned the handful of diners. Just as he’d hoped, at this early hour, there were less than a dozen people, none of whom paid them any attention.

“Reservation for Holmes,” Clara said.

“Holmes? Someone joining us?” he whispered to her while the hostess picked up menus from the tray behind her.

“No,” she whispered back. “I never dine under my own name.”

Right. He knew that. She had to remain anonymous so restaurants wouldn’t treat her any different than a regular customer. Once they were seated, she continued, “But it is always better to come with a group of three or four. Looks less conspicuous and makes it easier to taste lots of different dishes.”

“I still can’t believe you get paid to eat out.”

“I can’t believe you get paid to watch games.”

“Analyse sports. And I qualified the hard way.”

“Touché,” she said with a smile. “But I have to practically starve myself between these dinners out and exercise like a fiend so I don’t balloon up and float into the next hemisphere.”

“So that’s how you keep your lovely figure,” Luc said, struggling to keep his eyes on her face and not roam her body. “What kind of stuff do you do? Aerobics? Yoga?”

“I run five kilometers per day, three on weekends and holidays.”

Impressive. That was quite a regimen and he did recall, vividly, how toned her thighs and ass felt under her dress.

He tore his attention away and tried to focus on the specials of the day. Her breasts, visible over the top of the menu, were the most delectable things he’d ever seen, rising up, dipping down with every breath she took. His fingers itched to touch. He raised the leather-bound booklet a notch higher, blocking out everything but her face.

Immersed in her own menu, she murmured in an offhanded tone, “You’re welcome to run with me tomorrow. Work off this dinner.”

He’d like to do a lot of things with her tomorrow, but running wasn’t one of them.

“Can’t,” he replied, stretching his leg under the table. “The parts aren’t up to it.”

She looked puzzled for a moment, then the dawning, then the embarrassment, then the sympathy. He’d gotten a lot of that over the years, but coming from her, it was different. He wasn’t sure how different, except it was. He didn’t want sympathy. Not hers.

“Your knee,” she said quickly, covering up the myriad emotions with a pitying smile. “Of course. I’m sorry. How insensitive of me.”

He hated that part, hated that people looked at him like a victim, an invalid, hated that she saw his weakness. He wouldn’t let his voice betray him. “No, don’t apologize. I can run, but it’s not recommended, so I stick to swimming and cycling.”

Luc felt a ridiculous need to show a bit of testosterone. He wanted her to bestow that other smile—the one that made his head buzz—and since he didn’t have the luxury of showing off his manhood by slamming a puck into a net, he needed another means.

“I try and do thirty or forty miles a day on my bike.” Liar. “And I swim. I live close to the beach so if the weather’s nice, I do a couple of miles in the ocean. That’s in addition to pumping weights. Daily.”

Clara regarded him with an unreadable expression. Tabernac! He’d just made a colossal ass of himself. What the hell was wrong with him? He drove his fingers through his hair and looked around.

“So, what do you think of this place?” he said, hoping the chic decor of Daniel’s Grille was subject change enough.

Before Clara could answer, a perky, black-clad server appeared to take their drink order and tell them the specials.

“I would have preferred to come mid-week,” she said in a hushed tone once the waitress left. “Places like this that cater to young urban professionals have a totally different vibe during a regular workday.”

“So why do we have to come back tomorrow for lunch?”

“Different chefs, different wait staff, sometimes they even offer a different menu.” Clara scanned around them to see that nobody was within earshot. “There are a few things about ordering you need to know. Always ask for a recommendation. It’s a good indicator of how well the communication flows between the kitchen and the front of the house. Second, don’t order the same thing as me. That way we can experience six dishes instead of three.”

“Whoa. What do you mean six?”

“Appetizer, entrée, and dessert. Why? Do you think we should have a forth? A soup or salad to begin?”

“No, but wow. You eat all that?”

“Of course. It’s my job.”

“I’m guessing you haven’t been introduced to American portions yet.”

“Why? Are they large?”

As if on cue, a server placed a brimming basket of plump bread rolls between them—enough to make an entire meal of. Luc nodded. “Understatement.”

“Do they seriously expect us to eat all of that?”

“I think they’re just showing off what they’re capable of by giving us every conceivable choice.”

“They presumably discard anything we don’t eat?” she commented.

“No doubt.”

“We’ll just have to nibble a bit of everything then, won’t we? White or dark rye?” she asked.

Luc couldn’t help but grin. He appreciated a girl who would eat more than a breadstick and a diet soda in the company of a man. He had hated dining out with Valentina. Not once had he witnessed consumption of an entire meal. She didn’t eat; she nibbled. Sparingly. Everything was analyzed for saturated fat and calorie content.

He watched his companion choose a crusty white roll and slather it with herbed butter. Something deep in him stirred, pulled, made him want to grab her by the shoulders and pull her across the table. Clara’s luscious curves and toned legs trumped Valentina’s emaciated body any day.

“Right, where was I?” she asked. “Mix things up. If you’re getting a sushi appetizer, don’t get fish for your main entrée. And when you eat, make sure your palette is clean. Take a bit of water before each course and don’t…” Clara stopped to take a bite. She closed her eyes, clearly savoring the taste. “Mmmm… for heaven’s sake, don’t fill up on the bread.”

“Should I take notes?” Luc asked, proud of himself for pocketing a hotel notepad and pen.

“Heavens, no. That’s a dead giveaway. If you must, use the notepad feature on your phone. To anyone watching, it looks like you’re texting.”

After their order was placed, Clara looked at him thoughtfully. “What does it smell like to you in here?”

“Like a restaurant.”

“What else? Food wise, what strikes you first?”

“Garlic. But that’s probably just the butter,” he replied, spreading it on a piece of multigrain. “And something else, something meatier.”

“The people behind you are eating steak.”

“What about you? What do you smell?”

“Same thing,” she said, looking away.“I just wanted you to be aware of it.”

They talked ambience, décor, the all-black uniform of the stick-thin servers, and every so often, Clara tapped at her phone.

Halfway through his appetizer of seared Ahi tuna, Clara called for a switch.

“Can’t we just share a taste?” Luc pleaded. “I really like this.”

Apparently not. After smelling it, which she oddly insist he do before eating anything, he dug into the rest of her brie and cranberry salad. At least it had robust croutons.

Not surprising, he was also required to sacrifice half his blackened steak to her maple glazed salmon.

Luc enjoyed food, always had, but not so much when he had to think about things like presentation, texture, color, and aftertaste when all he wanted to do was masticate and stare at Clara’s cleavage.

Meat and tits. Men were not uneasy to please.

“What do you think of the raspberry tart?” she asked, digging into his orange crème brulee. He was sorry to see that go.

“It’s no hot dog with faux cheese, that’s for sure.”

Clara’s spoon hesitated on the way to her mouth. “Yes, about that. My apologies if I insulted you. I didn’t mean to.”

“Of course you did. And it worked, especially with that hoity-toity accent of yours.”

He enjoyed seeing her indignation, her mouth full of crème brulee and unable to answer until she swallowed. “What? I don’t have hoity—”

“Oh, you so do,” he said, cutting her short with a wave of his dessert fork. “And you were counting on the fact I wouldn’t know what Beaujolais nouveau was.”

“Do you?”

“I do.”

He watched her eyes flit away in embarrassment before letting her off the hook. “I Googled it right after you left.”

Her laugh chimed adorably. It was completely worth admitting his ignorance just to hear again.

“I did overreact, didn’t I?” she said, her smile humble and cute. Sacre bleu, her bow-shaped lips, whether talking, eating, or laughing, were sensuous and erection-inducing.

“A bit.”

“Well you didn’t look too happy about the arrangement, either, if I recall.”

“I wasn’t.” Because I’m an ass.



“And now?”

“Jury’s still out.” A big, stupid, horny ass.

“Oh.” She looked away.

“Not because of you,” he quickly added, hating that he made her smile disappear. “It’s…it’s a long story. But why were you so against it?”

“You wouldn’t understand.”

“So we’ll leave it at that, then? My story’s too long and I wouldn’t understand yours, so we’ll just grin and do our jobs?” He held his wine glass up for a conspiratorial toast.

“Something like that.” She tinked her glass against his.

“So have I lived up to your last Biscuit?”

“You certainly have better table manners.”

“Well gee, thanks.”

“And you’re much better looking.”

“Than a poodle?” Luc said sardonically. “I should be flattered.”

“Biscuit wasn’t a poodle. He was an Affenpinscher with a severe under-bite and wiry, ungroomable fur,” Clara laughed.

“You definitely traded up then,” Luc said, running his hand through his hair with mock conceit. “But tell me, if anonymity is so important to this gig, wasn’t taking a dog into restaurants a bit of a giveaway? I mean, you don’t see many people with poodles under their arms around here.”

“Not here, no, but in some countries, France for instance, it’s perfectly acceptable to bring your dog.”

“That’s disgusting and probably breaks dozens of health codes.”

“They consider their pets as family, like children,” Clara said with a wistful tone, no doubt missing her dog. “You’re French, Luc. Haven’t you ever heard the endearing term, ‘Avoir du chien?’ ”

“That’s not endearing. You’re saying ‘to be a dog,’ which is a pretty ugly insult,” he explained, sure she must have her phrasing or context wrong.

“Yes, but in France, to be compared to a beloved dog is a compliment, an honor.”

“Fine, they like their dogs. But it’s still disgusting to take them into a restaurant. Do they get their own chair? Do they eat from the table?”

“It’s not disgusting that they treat their animals with love and respect! And no, of course they don’t get their own chair. Sometimes they stay on the lap, but mostly, they stay on the floor or under the table.”

“Mostly? I dunno, Bean,” Luc said with an affable shake of his head. “There’s a lot to be said for health and safety regulations.”

“Spoken like someone who’s never had a pet.”

“Not true. I had a cat when I was growing up.”

“A cat?”

“Yes. She slept at the foot of my bed. On my feet if it was a cold night. She ruled the house but we’d never have taken Maxwell Smart to a restaurant.”

“Maxwell Smart? I thought you said she?”

“I named her when I was four, and she didn’t seem to mind. And we called her Maxie for short,” Luc said, wishing he’d never brought her up. Maxie that cat wasn’t boosting his man-points. He should have pretended to have a German shepherd. Or a Doberman. “Can we revisit our conversation on politics and spanking?”

“Ha!” She delicately held her napkin over her mouth while she laughed. “Oh, Luc. We’d better steer clear away from those hot topics. Look how much trouble we got into last time.”

“Trouble? That was foreplay, baby.”

She dropped her napkin and her smile. Luc couldn’t decide if her darkened eyes meant she was horny or annoyed. His cock stirred under the table, deciding for him. Figuring now was as good a time as any to broach the subject, Luc said, “I wanted to ask you about your email.”

She picked up her coffee and took a small sip. “Mmm?”

“You said something about a misunderstanding, that when you came out, I was gone.”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“Yeah, but see, I waited for like ten minutes. Probably more.”

“I, um, took longer than I intended.”

“What were you doing?”

“Tidying up,” she answered quickly. Too quickly. “The room was a pigsty, things strewn all about. Wasn’t fit for a man’s eyes, trust me. It was an absolute tip.”

“Ah,” he said with an understanding nod. She seemed to relax, so he pushed on. “But I knocked.”

“I must have been in the loo. It was messy in there, too. Makeup and girly things all strewn about.”

She was lying. He didn’t know how he knew it, he just did. And it disappointed him. He let the silence be her judge. As he suspected, she filled it.

“…and perhaps I jumped into the shower for a quick rinse. You know, to freshen up.”

“Mmm,” he said with a nod. “And you didn’t call out…how was it worded? Oh yes, ‘just go away?’ ”

The restaurant’s mood lighting didn’t hide the fact that Clara’s face suddenly paled. “Luc, no. I swear—”

“Because I’m pretty sure that’s what I heard.”

Clara’s eyes widened. “No, I promise you. I think at one point I shouted ‘don’t go away’ because I realized that the five minutes had likely passed, but you must believe me, I did come back…No, please don’t look at me that way. I’m being honest.”

“So if I’d stuck around, you and I would have…” He didn’t have to say it out loud. She knew, from the flush that had appeared in her cheeks, exactly what he was asking. His heart felt like a rock in his chest, waiting for her reply.

“I…I…I don’t know how to answer that,” she said, twirling her napkin around her thumb. “We may have talked, we may have progressed to some sort of intimacy—”

“Oh, I’d say we’d progressed to that stage already.” He didn’t mean to put her on the spot again, but might as well call a spade a spade. “Unless an orgasm isn’t intimate enough for you?”

Again, she blanched. She leaned forward and rested her forearms on the table. She turned her cheek and a tendril of hair escaped its clip and fell forward, obscuring her face. How badly Luc wanted to reach out and tuck it back into place. His fingers twitched to touch it again, feel its silky softness. Feel all of her silky softness—all of her—wrapped around him. Lust coursed through his veins; anticipation of the night ahead stopped the breath in his chest.

“Luc, please,” she said without looking at him. “You’re making this awkward. We can hardly pick up where we left off.”

“Why not?”

“Because the circumstances have changed. We work together now.”

“We worked together before. For the same company, anyway.”

Clara looked him in the eye. “Yes, but now we work closely. We can’t jeopardize our professional partnership to slake a twinge of lust.”

He searched her eyes for a sparkle, a hint of mirth. “Please tell me you’re joking.”

“Of course I’m not joking.” She reached out, as if to take his hand across the table, but pulled it back quickly. “Look, it’s best if I just be perfectly frank.”

Luc knew he wasn’t going to like what was about to come from those sweet lips of hers.

“Lydia had just lost her position with EuroNow, and I was quite convinced I was following suit. The two of us decided to have some fun on our last night in America, a shag, a fling or whatever you want to call it. One last hurrah, leave with a bang. Oh,” she cringed. “I didn’t mean to word it quite that way.”

“Oh, so I could have been short, fat, and bald, and you still would have invited me to your room that night?”

“Yes. No! Heavens, no. No, no, no.”

“So you do find me attractive?” he pressed.

“Yes. No. Yes! I mean, you’re very beautiful—handsome! I meant handsome, of course. Oh dear, I’m not explaining this well at all.” Her shoulders dropped. He’d flustered her and damn if that didn’t please him. At least he was having some effect.

“No, but it’s fascinating, none-the-less.”

“It’s just that we…I was looking for a one-time situation. If we finish now what we began then, our entire working relationship will be compromised. Trust me, I know. I dated a co-worker, and it was an unmitigated disaster. It was unbearably uncomfortable for everyone in the office, and both Scott’s and my work suffered for it. If you and I get together, we’ll begin acting all weird, and I just cannot do that again.”

“Huh. I see.”

“No, I’m afraid you don’t. This couldn’t go anywhere. We live and work an ocean apart.” This time she did take his hand. Her voice softened. “One of us would get hurt, Luc. You do understand that, don’t you?”

He looked down at her pale fingers, so delicate and feminine, the tips painted a lovely shade of coral, and thought about kissing every one. He understood, alright.

He understood perfectly.

Game on.