Game On

chapter 36


“MMM, CAN YOU SMELL THAT Miami air?” Clara asked, inhaling deeply. She took the towel from her hair to let it air dry in the afternoon breeze that wafted across Luc’s generous balcony. It was the first time her hair had been properly washed and conditioned since the accident four days ago and, aside from the tender, itchy spot on the back of her scalp where the stitches were, she was back to her old self.

Luc stepped through the French doors with two giant bowls of cereal. “Hope you don’t mind cereal for dinner. It’s all I have in the house.” He pushed a few flakes around with his spoon, scooped out a raisin, and deposited it in her bowl. “If I knew we were coming back early, I would have asked my housekeeper to stock the fridge.”

“I’m so sick of hospital food, anything will do,” she answered. Before she could get a spoonful into her mouth, he’d picked out another few raisins and dropped them into her bowl.

“Don’t you like raisins?” she asked.

“I like them just fine.”

“So why are you picking them out?”

“So you don’t feel raisin-gypped,” he said and winked. “I’d hate for you to review my humble establishment negatively.”

“Never,” she said and swallowed a sigh. “It’s perfect.”

She ate her cereal, each bite full of sweet goodness that turned to leaden weights in her stomach. This entire business was making her ill, but if you used the very definition of the word sacrifice, which, according to Messieurs Merriam and Webster was to destroy or surrender something precious for the sake of something else, then she was making the right decision. At least, that’s what her mind was telling her. Her body, however, clung to the balcony rail as an ominous shiver travelled the length of her spine.

Luc took her near-empty cereal bowl out of her hand and wrapped an arm around her from behind. She didn’t fight him, didn’t have the strength or the will, and settling back against him was frightfully easy.

“What do you want to do tonight? We can go to a club or take a moonlight stroll on the beach. You haven’t seen much of my city, so it’s your call.”

Clara remained hypnotized by the lines of white waves, the purple sky above. She focused on every detail, including Luc’s strong frame against her back, his big hand caressing her upper arm, engraving them on her mind like the names etched in the black memorial wall.

“Is there no game on?” she finally said.

“Not tonight.”

“I’ve had my fill of sightseeing, Luc. I’d rather just stay in.” With you. Alone.

“Of course. You’re probably still tired.”

“Mmm.” Not really. She had slept for the better part of four days, her body needing to catch up and heal the latest head wound. And when she wasn’t sleeping, she was pretending she was. The less said, the less damage…

He turned her in his arms and kissed her forehead. “You’re not tired of me yet, are you?”

…but tonight would be different. Tonight, she pushed all the accusations and hurt from her heart, squashed all thoughts of Valentina, and focused solely on Luc and his kisses. She would have one more selfish night before her atonement, a final farewell before she moved on.

“Oh yes, indeed I am. You’re a complete bore, like being in a room of drying paint and growing grass. I’m stifling a yawn as I speak.”

He tilted her chin up to kiss her and, as their bodies aligned, she added these feelings to her memory banks—his radiant heat, thigh touching thigh, solid chest against her breasts, his thick black waves curling around her fingers. She smiled as he pressed his mouth to hers. Her Luc. At least for tonight.

They kissed, long and deep, passionate, yet without the frenzy that normally had them ripping each other’s clothes off.

He took her hands, twined her fingers with his, and wordlessly led her to the bedroom. His bedroom. And while he undressed them, he kissed her more, taking the time to enjoy the simple pleasure of his lips on hers, sometimes engaging her tongue, just as often not.

Luc touched her, massaged her muscles, played with her hair. He kissed her toes, her elbows, her breasts. He whispered poetic things into her ear.

She did the same, tracing every ridge, every plane, every scar with her lips. He was so beautiful, so perfect, body and soul, she wanted to weep.

The fire built slow and lasted for hours and when he entered her, deep and filling, it was unhurried, reverent, and beyond lust. Whatever his sins, whatever happened between him and Valentina that night, when they looked into each other’s eyes, Clara knew that she was in the company of her soul mate.

Luc.

Her Luc.

Her sacrifice.

Her friend, her lover, her demon, her god, and she loved him so much, she thought she would die of it. She probably would.





Clara pretended to be asleep until Luc left the condo at sunrise. She was getting very good at pretending. In fact, if there were a category in the Oscars for ‘best female pretending to be normal’, her performance since the Washington phone call would have garnered her that golden statue, hands down. And maybe another for ‘female coward of the year’ because it was the mile-wide yellow streak that made her roll over and snuggle under the covers as Luc left for his golf game with Riley Sutter and the boys, all because she couldn’t face him. He’d know, in the way she would have said the word goodbye, that it wasn’t temporary.

Cowardly, yes. Necessary, double yes. But she couldn’t let herself dwell on how much it hurt. And she didn’t want to imagine what he would think when he came home to find her gone. No, no, no. No thinking, or she’d never go through with it. And though it seemed the perfectly logical thing to do when she’d come up with it all those days ago in the middle of the night, actually sticking to the checklist of action items on her escape plan left her heart feeling like it had been dipped in molten rock and left to dry: cold, cracked, broken.

Glad she had the forethought to write the note in advance, for her hands shook so badly, it dropped to the floor twice before she got it settled on his pillow, she then quickly threw her things into her bags. Determined not to cry, she let the door click behind her without daring to glance back at Luc’s home, without turning to drink it all in, his furniture, his pictures, everything that was him. She only had two things to take with her—memories, and a little something of Luc’s she hoped he’d never miss. Every step toward the waiting taxi pricked her eyes like shards of hot glass. She’d reckoned she’d need no less than ten packets of travel-sized tissues for this flight.

One more hurdle to jump, she asked the driver to take her to BMG headquarters.





“Clara Bean!” Kingsley Bartel boomed as she set her luggage down in his private lobby. “To what do I owe this visit?”

“I’ve come to say goodbye, sir,” she said, pulling an envelope out of her briefcase, “and to thank you, and to give you this.”

His exuberance faded as turned it over in his hand. “I hope this isn’t what I think this is.”

“It is. I’m sorry.”

Kingsley furrowed his brow and straightened his shoulders. “I think you’d better come in to my office.”

She followed, though a personal confrontation was not what she wanted, what she tried to circumvent by laying it all out in the letter.

“Please explain,” he said, leaning against his desk. He looked larger than she remembered, blocking out the view of the endless ocean behind him.

She swallowed, wishing she had a drink of water. “I’m leaving the company, sir. Going back to England.”

“Why?” he said, tapping the envelope on the edge of his desk. “I fail to understand. Why would you leave something you’re good at? I knew you were initially unhappy with co-writing with Luc, but I thought it went splendidly in the end.”

Keep it together, Bean. Dignity, grace, professionalism. “It did. Luc’s been brilliant to work with, and the assignment was educational and fun.” She took a deep breath, thankful her voice didn’t crack. She hadn’t realized how hard it would be to say his name aloud.

“But?”

“Mr. Bartel, I explained everything in the letter. And I really must run or I’ll be late for my flight—”

“There are other flights to London, Miss Bean, and I want to hear it from you why you’re giving up a promising career with BMG. I thought we were breaking new ground together, thought you were excited to be part of our global team.”

Clara sighed. There was no other way but to be honest. “Have you ever heard the term anosmia before?”

Bartel furrowed his brows. “Not that I can recall.”

“I had an accident, hit my head—”

“Yes, yes, puck to the head. I had the full report from Mr. Sutter.”

“Mr. Sutter wasn’t aware of the lasting damage.” She averted her eyes, unable to face him while she used Riley in her lies, unable to face Bartel’s scrutinizing look.

“Of what nature?”

She wondered how she should approach this. It couldn’t be like her tearful confession to Luc, it had to be emotionless, businesslike, and succinct. The textbook version. “The axons that run from my olfactory neurons to my brain were sheared, severed, rendered useless.” Clara’s body shook from head to toe. It was the first time she’d ever said it out loud. “I have anosmia,” she said, letting it sink in. “In other words, I can’t smell a thing.”

“I see,” Bartel said, tapping his finger against his chin.

She could practically see his brain weighing the issues, knew the minute he got it.

“I see,” he said, rubbing his big square jaw. “We’ve excellent doctors in the United States, Miss Bean. I’m sure they could fix this problem. BMG would pay, of course.”

“I appreciate that, sir, but there is no cure for anosmia. And only about a twenty percent chance that the nerves will ever mend over time. So,” she shrugged. “It’s impossible for me to continue being a food critic.”

“Hmmm. And Charlie? What does he say about all of this?”

“He doesn’t know yet. I’d rather tell him in person.”

Bartel pressed the envelope with her letter of resignation into her hand. “You save this for him, Clara. And good luck.”

Clara turned to leave, but hesitated at the door. She would get through this without breaking down. She had to. Because once the tears began, she doubted they’d stop. Ever.

She bit the inside of her lip until she tasted blood.

“Something else Miss Bean?”

She turned and looked the older man in the eyes. She thought he’d understand if he could see her expression. “Luc doesn’t know,” she said, her throat parched and cracky as an autumn leaf.

“So be it,” he said with a nod.