Game On

chapter 37


“THERE WAS A FLIGHT THAT left for London Gatwick at seven thirty this morning,” Shelagh said. The sound of her clicking computer keys in the background matched Luc’s racing heart. “And another at nine twenty, bound for Heathrow.”

“No, those would have been too early. She never would have made it,” Luc said to BMG’s travel coordinator. “Bartel’s secretary said she was sure it was Clara in with the boss just as she arrived at work about eight forty-five.” He dragged his fingers through his hair as he paced.

“There was one at eleven forty,” Shelagh continued, “which makes sense considering she would have had to be through security at least an hour before her international flight, unless she connected out of Altanta. Then she would have left earlier.”

God damn, tabernac, and f*cking hell. He should have never stayed for lunch in the clubhouse, but when he called home after the eighteenth hole and she didn’t pick up, he assumed she’d gone shopping. He might have been able to stop her, talk her out of it, at least had the chance to say goodbye.

He thanked Shelagh for her help navigating the airport information and wished he had the kind of phone he could slam. Tapping the red bar on his touch screen, no matter how hard he pushed, did not have the desired effect.

Blood roared in his ears; useless adrenaline coursed through his body. He’d felt angry, pissed right the hell off, and a bit crazed with disbelief since he found the note in her prim handwriting, left on his pillow. There was no Dear Luc, just:

Charlie called to say he had a new assignment waiting, so I had to dash to catch a flight. My apologies for not sticking around for a final meal, but I have a very tight connection. I’m headed to Istanbul!! Can you imagine how wonderfully smelly it’ll be? If not for that lucky puck…

It’s been a brilliant few weeks—thanks for introducing me to your country and your game of ice hockey. I’ll be out of England, probably for ages, but if you’re ever over my way, do pop in for a cup of tea.

Best regards, Bean

He read and reread the note, looking for clues, anything that would make him feel better, give him some idea as to how she could have left without a goodbye. The impersonal tone, the implication she wouldn’t be there if he called, the fact she reverted to calling it ice hockey, left him feeling cut. And she knew he despised tea!

His jaw hurt, the muscles around his mouth refusing to relax from the tight frown. It’s like he didn’t know her, this “Best regards, Bean” person, like she didn’t know him.

Maybe he drank up every detail about her because he was completely smitten. Maybe to her, he was just that one-night stand that lasted a month and she had absolutely no emotional investment. She was clearly excited about visiting Turkey and didn’t seem at all regretful about her departure. Maybe that was her nature. What did he really know about her? She travelled from country to country, like a nomad, just her and her dog. She probably didn’t allow herself to become attached. Did she have other men, lovers in every country she visited? She admitted to Franco in Italy. Was he just her American fling?

Best regards. She’d signed it “best regards,” not even “love, Clara” or “cheers,” that charming little word she used to end a telephone conversation.

He slunk into his cave and collapsed onto the leather sofa.

Surely he didn’t imagine the gut-rightness every time they connected. And last night was f*cking magic! She was insatiable and so…so…so f*cking amazing. There was this buzz when they came together, when he was inside her, a bond that ran so deep it was like… like… f*ck! It was love. He looked at the letter one more time before crumpling it in his fist.

He loved her.

And she left him.