Game On

chapter 13


EVERYTHING ABOUT LUC BISQUET MADE her think about sex.

With him.

A slow burn had been building between them all night and it needed dousing, urgently, so Clara wasn’t upset about the awkward turn in their conversation. In fact, it offered a refreshing splash of iciness to an unbearably steamy situation.

Clara slipped the Miss C. Holmes credit card, one of a dozen aliases she used, into the leather sleeve and prayed the waitress would be quick. She wanted to get back to the hotel and lock herself away. A hot bath and cup of tea would hopefully take her mind off the fantasy sitting across the table, typing furiously on his phone’s touch pad.

Yes, getting the rules on the table was a very good thing. It was hard, of course, but absolutely necessary.

She should have stuck to Plan A: to lay out the ground rules during their walk to Daniel’s Grille so they could dine without obsessing over what would happen after the meal, but the quick taxi ride and chatty driver killed that option.

She should have stuck to Plan B, which she’d formulated while ignoring the chatty driver: to bring it up as soon as they sat down.

She should have, but didn’t. How could she? When he looked across the table at her, she could barely breathe. How could she, when she watched the way his lips wrapped around the fork, the way his lids drifted shut when he savoured the food and everything, everything led her thoughts back to that night, when he used that mouth on her.

The conversation that night had indeed been foreplay. Tonight was supposed to be about business, about food, about the article, but her silly-cow-self watched his lips move and thought of nothing else but kissing him, slow and deep.

The rules, for better or worse, had now been established.

They nodded their thanks to the hostess as they left. The absence of Luc’s hand on her elbow or the small of her back, guiding her along as he did when they’d entered, was noticeable. And missed.

“You’re angry.”

“Not angry.” With a little shake of his head, he said, “I don’t know what I am.”

“Frustrated?”

“Maybe,” he smirked.

Me too.

“It’s a gorgeous evening,” she replied, determined to move to safer ground.

“Shall we walk back?” he suggested.

A walk would be dangerous. She’d want to take his arm…like before. She’d want to look up when he spoke, stare at the angle of his jaw, the cords in his neck…like before. She’d think about reaching up to his nape so that the curled ends of his black hair could wrap around her fingers…like before.

“My heels,” she lied. She could run a marathon in her boots, they were so comfortable, but sequestering herself in the safety of her own room, as soon as humanly possible, was the only option.

The cab ride was quick. Silent. She missed the chatty driver.

“It’s early,” Luc said as they entered the hotel. “There’s a jazz pianist in the lounge. Shall we go in for a drink?”

Yes!



“I don’t think so,” she said, placing a hand on her tummy for effect. “I couldn’t bear to choke down a glass of water, I’m so stuffed from dinner.” And I can’t bear being with you and not touching you.

The elevator ride was quick. Silent.

He paused in the hall between their hotel rooms. “I’ve a got an eighty-inch television in my room. Want to watch a movie or something?”

“Am I supposed to fall for the come see my big impressive equipment line?” Clara laughed.

“It’s not a line. I really do have a big screen, with high def and surround sound.”

“Sure you do,” she said, sliding her card in the lock. “And I have a twelve person hot-tub with integrated mojito bar.”

“Fine, don’t believe me,” he said over his shoulder as he opened his hotel room door. “You can go watch your little nineteen-inch with bad reception. If you change your mind, you know where to find me.”

“Yes, I’ll remember that,” she said and turned her back to him, key card in hand. “But it’s after midnight in London and my body hasn’t adjusted to the time change yet, so after I jot down preliminary notes for my article, I’m going to bed.”

He didn’t answer and she wouldn’t turn around. She heard the handle of his door click and released a sigh.

And I’ll lie there alone, in the dark, and wonder why I choose to tease us both by mentioning my body and bed in the same sentence.



Clara pressed the door handle, but it wouldn’t budge. Again, she slid the card into the slot. Red light. She rammed it in again, once, twice, while jiggling the door handle with her other hand. Still red. What was wrong with this bloody door?

He’d made no sound, but she knew the nanosecond Luc came up behind her. Her skin pebbled with gooseflesh, her heart tripped, and a hummingbird hovered in her midsection. She closed her eyes, flustered by his proximity.

“Allow me.” The baritone timbre of his voice against her ear sent her core temperature into a fever zone. “You’re shoving it in too hard, too fast. I don’t know how you do things in Europe, but here we like to slide it in, slow and easy.” He wrapped his large hand around hers and guided it toward the slot. His voice dropped to a sultry whisper. “Like this.”

Clara held her breath. The skin-to-skin contact triggered a wave of moisture between her thighs.

“Nice and relaxed, one smooth motion. Easy in, easy out.” He dipped his head so his breath fanned her cheek.

Clara leaned back into him and swallowed. His knee pressed against the back of her thigh, hard firm quadriceps against her buttocks. She gripped the cold hard steel of the handle so she wouldn’t puddle to the floor in a helpless, drippy mess.

“No, no,” he said, encircling her wrist with the fingers of his free hand…long, capable fingers…fingers that had touched her, there…



“You mustn’t put pressure on the lever prematurely, ma belle, or you’ll render it useless.”

She eased her hold on the metal, but he didn’t release his grip. Surrounded by him, engulfed by his maleness, she couldn’t help herself…she shivered.

Surely he felt it. If he did, he didn’t comment.

“Be patient,” he crooned. “Wait for it. Wait for it…and voila.”

To Clara’s vast disappointment, the green light flashed. She exhaled.

“Now the lever,” he said, exerting gentle pressure against her wrist. The latch clicked and the door moved.

“That wasn’t so hard, was it?” His gravelled, suggestive tones went straight through her, from the tip of her varnished toenails to her scalp, a zing of charged particles that left her throat dry, her stomach muscles clenched.

“Th-thanks,” she whispered.

It took all of her will, every ounce of strength, to step over the threshold without turning around and throwing herself in Luc’s arms.

Though throwing herself over a live bomb would have been easier.





“Clara Elizabeth Bean, you are a silly cow,” she said to her tired-looking reflection in the mirror. She had laid awake half the night thinking of Luc. Obsessing about Luc. Fantasizing about Luc.

At five a.m., still hopelessly tired but unable to find solace in slumber, she went for a run along the shores of Lake Michigan. As her sneakers slapped against the pavement, all she heard was Luc, Luc, Luc, Luc. She was quite sure the scenery was breathtaking, but her mind’s eye only saw the blue of his eyes under dark brows, the beauty of his cheekbones, the curl of his hair on the back of his collar.

And now after a refreshingly chilly shower, she dressed with one thought in mind: Luc.

Sex with Luc was not an option, so why, why, why did she dab perfume behind her knees and between her breasts? And why was she dressing with a tart’s intent? She should put on a burlap sack and call it a day, not her favorite pair of jeans, the ones that made her ass look high and round. And if she didn’t want him to focus on her body, why on earth did she choose the tightest black tank top out of her suitcase, the one she usually slept in, not wore in public?

She gathered her hair into a mussy French twist, letting a few strands casually stray around her face, added some hoop earrings, and gave herself a once over.

She replaced the yellow silk scarf around her neck with a longer, finely knit piece, its delicate threads woven loosely so a flash of skin could be seen beneath. It was Lydia’s handiwork, no doubt crafted during a period of extreme anxiety. Clara knew her friend well. The more stress, the finer the creation, and this particular scarf felt like cashmere and had the pinkish-orange-gold glow of sunrise. That it just happened to compliment her skin tone was a bonus considering the toll the lack of sleep was having on her face.

“You need medication. Strong medication.” She adjusted the drape so it landed a smidge above the swell of her breasts.“Sick. Sick and twisted and completely out of your mind.”

She stepped into worn leather riding boots. One more swipe of clinical strength deodorant—her second or third application, but better safe than smelly—and slipped into a butter-soft leather coat.

She stopped talking to herself during her walk to Daniel’s Grille, lest the good people of Chicago think to commit her, but the chastising thoughts continued for blocks. As her steps brought her closer to the restaurant, closer to Luc, who’d arranged to meet her there because he’d had some appointments in the morning, her thoughts turned from her own mental issues to Luc’s physical ones. It must be tremendously difficult for him to write about a sport he loved but could no longer play. She wondered if his career choice as a hockey analyst reflected his strength of spirit or weakness for the game. She’d have to ask him if an opportunity arose.

And what about her own handicap, a personal suffering she was forced to endure in silence? Was it her strength of spirit , her weakness for the ego ride associated with being one of Europe’s top food critics, or just plain stubbornness, a refusal to give into that which plagued her that was keeping her going?

How long could she continue this charade? The doctors gave her only a twenty percent chance for full recovery of her olfactory senses, which wasn’t good enough considering her profession. If there was no improvement soon, she’d have to come clean to Charlie and Bartel before the web of lies choked her.

She popped two breath mints, chewed quickly, and entered the restaurant. It bustled with the midday lunch crowd, the booths overflowing with families and shoppers.

She placed a hand on her belly and took a deep calming breath so she’d be prepared to face Luc. Luc. She loved the way it sounded in her head. Like a wake-up call to the rest of her body.

Luc. Would he find her attire hip or slutty? Attractive or desperate?

She spotted the top of his head, the run-your-fingers-through wave, in a horseshoe-shaped booth in the corner.

And he wasn’t alone.