Game On

chapter 8


CLARA WATCHED THE SKY GROW brighter and tried to ignore the empty, hollow feeling in her gut. This was why she avoided one-night stands, this is why she took care never to have casual, throw-away sex. Because it made you feel discarded and cheap.

Especially when they didn’t even stick around to complete the act.

She was usually quite good at reading people, but Luc had her head on spin cycle. She really thought they’d hit it off, shared a connection, a combustible chemistry. Clearly, he didn’t agree.

She may have been a few minutes past the five she’d begged for, but surely it hadn’t been that long. Had he even bothered to stick around or had he bolted the moment she shut the door? The worst of it was she’d never see him again to even ask. Not that she would ask…preserving one’s dignity and all that. Still, she’d like to know if her odor drove him to flee.

Or perhaps he never had any intention of completing the act. She didn’t think she’d been acting too slutty, though all that talk of spankings may have turned him off and he’d just hidden his shock. Who knew what went on in the mind of an American male?

Lydia!

But she was somewhere over the middle of the Atlantic by now.

Clara reached for her phone on the bedside table, prepared to text message her sorrow but there was already a message waiting for her: Were you good? Or was he? See you back home, lots to tell! xoxo LT



She snapped the cover shut.

As much as she wanted to crawl back under the covers and wait for the ego bruises to heal, the shower beckoned, and sulking wouldn’t get her out of her meeting with Bartel. Like Charlie said, she’d have to pull on her big girl knickers.

With less than an hour to dress, pack, and get taxi to BMG headquarters for her eight o’clock meeting, Clara would miss breakfast. With luck, the firing process would be short and sweet so she could pick something up at the airport before her flight. Then again, airport food was ridiculously expensive and she’d have to keep a tight rein on her purse now that she was, or momentarily would be, out of a job.

Oh, bollocks on the savings! Clara preferred to blow her nest egg on a holiday. Bermuda or Barbados, anywhere warm and carefree. She and Lydia could rent a bungalow on the beach, sip rum punch and flirt with cabana boys until her banker called, which would be in the space of nine, maybe ten days, tops.

In the meantime, she’d be productive and use the hours stuck on the airplane to tighten up her curriculum vitae and make a short list of prospective employers. Or she could use the eight hours and twenty-two minutes to relive one of the most fabulous nights of almost-sex she’d ever had, sans humiliating conclusion.

Clara turned the shower off and stood dripping and cold on the tiled floor, feeling too pathetic and undeserving of the fluffy white towel. She ran her hand across the mirror to clear the steamy surface.

Ah, look. There was the shoulder he caressed, the neck he kissed, the nipple he plucked. Her skin was still tender and red where his beard had rubbed, her lips still swollen, her lady bits still tingly. She grabbed the towel and rubbed furiously until she was dry, until she could no longer feel his phantom touch.

She applied a generous swipe of deodorant, used almost half a bottle of body spray, and applied a second coat of deodorant. It was going to be a very long day.

With a jaw-stretching yawn, Clara pulled on fresh underwear. She was glad she had packed a sunny yellow pencil skirt to go with her white, cap-sleeved blouse. At least she’d appear bright and chipper, even if she felt black and blue.

She dabbed concealer under her eyes to hide the dark circles but, considering the lack of sleep she’d had in the past seventy-two hours, only an Arctic night would erase them. Perhaps she’d nod off on the trip home and dream a different ending to this affair, one in which Luc stayed, made love until sunrise, and fed her a buttery croissant for breakfast. He would clearly suffer at the news of her departure, barely hold himself together long enough to take her to the airport, where he would sink to his knees and declare his undying love. They would embrace a final time and plan to meet at the top of the Eiffel Tower one year to the day of their magical night. They would agree not to call or email, but every Wednesday at noon, a dozen red velvet roses would magically appear on her doorstep, accompanied by a hand-written poem, smudged by the drop of a tear. And she would know they were from Luc.

Or maybe she needed a good hard kick in the arse.

It wasn’t like she’d fallen in love.

Her feelings for Luc boiled down to simple math: two fairly attractive people plus Miami’s sultry heat multiplied by the number of times her champagne was refilled for the sum total of lust. Nothing more, nothing less.

Clara threw her toiletries into her satchel with a shake of her head. The blighter ran out so fast, he didn’t even get her last name, never mind address or phone number. Hairy Rodrigo in the fishnet shirt had more manners, to be sure. He’d have been a devoted suitor, serenading her on his mandolin, sneaking out while she slept so she’d wake up to a feast of fresh fruit and warm pastries.

Ewww.

The thought of Rodrigo’s back hair drifting into her cheese Danish was enough to snap her out of the world of fantastical men. They obviously didn’t exist in any culture.

“Lust, Clara Elizabeth Bean, should not, will not, override your good sense in the future,” she told herself. “Next time, you will remember to conduct yourself in a ladylike manner, and if you desire to succumb to your baser needs, you’ll remember to buy batteries for your vibrator!”

She shoved the outfit from the night’s rooftop soiree into her satchel, but her fingers froze on the zipper. Without thinking, she snatched the sundress out and brought it to her nose, wishing to the very marrow of her bones that she could smell evidence of Luc.

Nothing. No hint of aroma since the accident in Rome when she flipped off her scooter and cracked her head on the ancient cobblestoned street. When she regained consciousness a day later, Lydia, the emergency contact listed in her passport and who just happened to be in nearby Milan for a fashion show, was fussing over her.

Franco, the sexy Italian photographer who had talked her into getting onto the scooter without a helmet in the first place, popped in once or twice to assuage his guilt. He was, after all, the reason for her mishap.

“Bella mia,” he’d said. “I want to capture your beauty. Let the wind tease and toss your bee-oo-tee-ful hair!” If she’d kept her eyes on the road instead of looking at Franco, smouldering intensely behind the lens of his camera, she would have seen the gelato cart.

It took days for the swelling in her brain to go down and, though the skull fracture eventually healed, Clara was left without her critical sense of smell.

A food critic without olfactory ability was like a crippled athlete. The art of experiencing cuisine was dependant on one’s nose. With the help of Lydia, master of brilliant deception and willing to eat out a lot, and Biscuit, who turned out to be quite the connoisseur of gourmet dining, wagging his little tail at anything with a succulent aroma, Clara managed to bluff her way through the restaurants of Europe with little trouble.

But Biscuit was dead, she thought glumly as she stepped into the waiting BMG limo—she’d been surprised and grateful to see a driver waiting in the lobby for her—and she had no idea how she was going to go it alone. Or if she’d even be given a chance.

Clara had researched BMG as soon as the take-over rumors began. She knew they had a food editor on staff, one Spencer James, though what he did—restaurant openings, chatting up famous chefs, enlightening readership on the world of gastronomy—was technically much different from the anonymous reviews she did. Many papers, in the interest of economy, combined the two concepts. Did she stand a chance against a fifty-something man with twenty years tenure at BMG? Doubtful.

Nonetheless, Clara would face Bartel with the dignity and grace of a professional English woman, and she would be careful to step over the pools of blood on her way out the door.

She rode the elevator to the top floor of BMG headquarters, mentally rehearsing her exit speech.

Yes, Mr. Bartel, I understand, but I do think you’re making a mistake.

With no disrespect, sir, you’ll find that Biscuit and I have a loyal and extensive fan base that spans numerous countries.

No, Kingsley—may I call you Kingsley?—I don’t believe Biscuit’s death will affect my column or my readership.

Fine sir, I’ll see myself out. I wish you only the best of luck in your European endeavours.



Upon exit, her final, unselfish words would be, “Please be good to Charlie.” Because she was genuinely fond of the chap.

Dignity, dignity, she mentally recited as she approached Kingsley’s lair. She must, under any and all circumstances, keep her dignity.

She stopped at the receptionist’s desk, vacant at this early hour, and nicked a few tissues to stash in her handbag in case things got ugly.

Bartel’s door was open. “Come in, Miss Bean, come in,” he called when he noticed her standing in the lobby. She tilted her head for a better view. His office was immense. She could see a grand wooden desk in front of a wall of windows, the sparkling Biscayne Bay beyond practically blinding her with its vast brilliance. It would take her an awkward day just to traverse the room and reach Bartel for a handshake.

Clara straightened her spine, tilted her nose upward a degree, and strode across the threshold with a bearing Queen Victoria couldn’t fault.

There was no doubt in her mind her knees would not have buckled gracelessly had she not noticed Luc leaning against the sidebar, sipping a tall glass of orange juice, looking like a blue-eyed devil.