Game On (22 page)

“Oh.”

“Oh?”

“You’re not shagging your ex. Got it.” Her tone was surprisingly not bitter.

“So you believe me?” It couldn’t be this easy. He’d geared himself up for a long session of accusation, rehearsed his defensive moves for every possible assumption.

“The hotel operator said there was more than one Bisquet listed, so yes, I believe you.”

“Thank you.” Luc stretched back on the bed and closed his eyes. Keeping a woman happy was mentally exhausting. “And whatever Val implied about our non-existent relationship was utter crap, okay? So you can stop avoiding my calls.”

“She didn’t say anything, actually. And I wasn’t avoiding your calls, my cell phone charger seems to have vanished.”

“Oh. Well, ignore the dozen messages from me. Delete them. They’re not worth listening to.”

“Really? What did you say?”

“They started out simple. I asked you to call me back. But by the fourth or fifth, I was a bit on edge, so I may have begged a bit.”

“Hmm, I’m intrigued. No pleading?”

“Not until the eighth.”

“And the ninth and tenth?”

“There may have been a note of pathetic desperation, but I admit to nothing.”

Clara’s laugh made his heart swell.

“God, I miss you,” he said. Though acknowledging it didn’t ease the ache.

“You crossed my thoughts a time or two as well.”

“Good to know, love.” He wondered if she could hear the smile in his voice. “So why did Charlie take you away? To torture me?”

“Long story,” she said hesitantly. “Did Valentina bring it up…or ask why I’d left?”

“No,” he said, feeling as if he were missing some essential pieces of this conversation. Valentina, who hadn’t met Clara to his knowledge, had said some pretty cryptic things. Perhaps he shouldn’t have been so quick to dismiss her. “Why do you ask?”

“It’s nothing, but it leads to my next question. How will our next blog report work? Are we simply supplanting Valentina’s report for my own? I mean, she’s not a food critic, so why Bartel thought to send her is beyond me.”

“Oh, Bean, you have no idea what an understatement that is.” Luc launched into the two disastrous meals he’d shared with his ex. He had Clara chuckling. “But she took lots of notes on the fashion faux pas of the New Jerseyans.”

“Not much to work with in, other words,” she said.

“No, but I’ve got an idea that I’m hoping you’ll go for.”

Clara listened, asked the right questions, and agreed to his plan.

“I put together a highlight reel of the Devils game and emailed the file to you along with my notes so you have something to do on the plane.”

“Excellent. I was worried we’d miss our deadline. And you feel confident to tackle the restaurant on your own?”

“Absolutely. It’ll play up the conflict of us pretending each other’s jobs are easier than our own. I think our audience will have a good laugh.”

They continued to chat until Clara insisted she go pack or she’d miss her morning flight. Their conversation wasn’t as awkward or as stilted as he’d expected in the aftermath of her learning of Valentina’s presence, but he wished he could see her face, wished he could touch her, read her body language. Hell, he wanted so badly to touch her silken hair, it was physically painful.

“Clara? You and me…we’re good, right?” he said.

“We’re amazing,” she replied softly. “See you in New York.”

Despite her reassurances to Luc, Clara felt emotionally bruised. The conversation with Charlie played like a loop in her head, and every time she got to the part where he called her a selfish little girl, she felt as though she would vomit.

She’d taken a few blunt-force punches the past two days and was finding it increasingly difficult to keep everything in perspective. And the Valentina factor was giving her an ulcer. As she repacked her suitcase, she wondered how she’d managed to complicate her life so thoroughly. There were so many knots and loose threads in her, she felt as if she were unravelling.

Thanks to a two-hour flight delay, Clara settled at an airport café, drank tea, nibbled on a lemon scone, and tried to work through her the knots. She was a journalist. Journalists dealt in facts. If establishing facts could cut through the tangle of her situation, perhaps she’d gain some objectivity.

Clara opened her notepad to a fresh sheet. Keeping in mind the Who-What-Where-How and Whys, she wrote:

Fact: Franco’s appearance brought attention to my accident.

Fact: Sketchy timing. Who/Why involved Charlie?

Assumption: Val.

Assumption: Revenge on Lydia or jealous of my association with Luc? Wants my job, too?

Fact: Charlie has access to insurance claims and admitted seeing the medical reports.

Questions: How much does V know? What will she do with this information? Has she told Luc? How did he/will he react? How to determine if he knows?

Bigger Questions: Why didn’t V go to Bartel? Or has she? What can I do to stop her?

Assumption: Charlie made some kind of deal with V to keep her quiet until the blog tour is over.

Options: 1. Take Lydia’s advice and carry on as usual. 2. Man-up and spill it to Luc, take lumps like a big girl.

Action: See option 1.

With her situation laid out on paper, the tension in her shoulders eased. No, she didn’t have all the answers, but she felt immeasurably better to have at least got the questions down.

Once on the flight, she managed to watch the hockey clips—much to the enjoyment of the sports enthusiast sitting next to her—finish her half of the blog post, and get a good chunk of dreamless sleep. She’d zonked so hard, in fact, that when the flight attendant shook her arm, Clara woke to find an empty plane.

She wiped the drool from the corner of her mouth and dashed into the first ladies room she could find in the arrivals hall to splash cold water on her face. She took an extra few minutes to reapply her makeup, comb her hair, and mist body spray under her shirt. She popped a breath mint and went in search of her luggage. Her phone vibrated, signalling an incoming text. Luc’s name lit up her display. She needn’t have bothered with blusher after all, for just seeing his name initiated a flash of heat that colored her cheeks.

Luc:
Where are you?

Waiting for bags. Just landed. Flight was majorly delayed.

Luc:
Have you eaten?

I had a meal on the plane.

Clara spied her bags on the carousel, the only ones circulating in the mostly empty claims hall. She threw them onto a stray luggage cart and made her way to Customs. Or was it Immigration? She always got the two confused. Either way, the lines were blessedly short, and she had Luc’s messages to keep her entertained.

Luc:
Airplane food. Yuk. What was it?

Gelatinous yellow curry sauce on what I *think* was chicken, though it could have been fish.

Luc:
Revolting.

That’s being generous.

Luc:
You must be starving.

I’ll live. The bread and butter pudding was palatable, though clearly a victim of economic cutbacks.

Luc:
Small portion?

No, but there was only one measly raisin!

Luc:
Travesty.

Be warned…I don’t take raisin-gyp lightly. Have you eaten?

Luc:
Dry clubhouse from room service.

Why didn’t you go out? Must be hundreds of decent delis within a stone’s throw.

Luc:
My knee was bothering me.

Poor dear, she thought as her paperwork cleared, but didn’t dare type it. She knew he was sensitive to sympathy. Steering with her elbows, so her hands were free to text, she tapped:

What are you doing now?

Clara turned the cart toward the exit and hoped there’d be an available taxi. She was eager to get to the hotel, shower, search out some decent nosh, and see Luc. Not necessarily in that order.

His reply:
Watching the most beautiful girl ever to step foot in New York.

Chapter 24

L
uc stood just beyond the
glass doors of the arrival hall, leaning casually against a pillar, his breath-catching handsomeness freezing her in her tracks. He held a single rose.

“Excuse me,” someone behind her said. She’d unintentionally blocked the flow of people, but she didn’t care. She only cared about the man standing yards away, looking her up and down.

She moved forward, surprised her legs still had the strength to carry her. A silly grin spread across her face, and she was helpless to stop it. He was here, for her.
The
Luc Bisquet. Waiting for Clara Bean. Her insides melted to drippy goo, but she somehow managed to keep moving toward him, through the sliding doors, one foot in front of the other.

It was like a romantic film. In Hollywood’s version, she’d be played by someone cool and chic, like Carey Mulligan or Emily Blunt, and Luc…well, there was no actor gorgeous enough to play him, nor one that could fill a leather jacket quite so well.

Emily/Carey/Clara would look up and see him, her face would brighten, she’d drop her bags—because there are never wheelie carts in movies—and run into his arms. He’d twirl her, and they’d kiss with such passion, everyone around them would stop and applaud. The overture would begin and he’d say, “What took you so long? I’ve been waiting all my life…”

But this wasn’t a movie. It was Clara Bean: Diary of a Selfish Little Girl featuring a character who still had a career-ending secret and a self-conscious unawareness of her own body odor. And as much as she wanted to throw herself in his arms, she wasn’t really that kind of girl. Instead, she gave a nod and said, “Biscuit.”

“Bean,” he smirked. “What took you so long?”

Her heart leapt.

“The flower is starting to wilt.”

She took it and smiled, touched he came and was sweet enough to think flowers. “It’s lovely, thank you.” Watching his expression, she brought the flower to her nose and inhaled. His expression didn’t change, aside from looking inordinately pleased with himself, which could only mean
he didn’t know
.

She sighed with relief. “My bags were last off.” Thank God, thank God,
thank God
she’d taken the time to freshen up. “And thank you for coming. It’s a lovely surprise, but I could have met you at the hotel.”

Luc put a knuckle under her chin and tipped her head back. Clara white-knuckled the flower stem as he dipped to kiss her. He paused, inches from her mouth. “I couldn’t wait that long.”

It was a soft, undemanding kiss, dry and simple yet bursting with promise and things unsaid. Clara pressed a hand to her stomach to keep the butterflies in check.

“Get a room,” someone heckled.

“Yes, let’s,” Luc whispered.

The taxi ride to the hotel pushed her to new levels of self-control. Clara looked out the window, tried to absorb the city, the buildings, the honking traffic, while doing her best to not focus on Luc’s every breath. Conversation was unnecessary because they both knew if they spoke, they’d have to make eye contact and looking at one another without touching, without clinging, without tearing each other’s clothing off, was nigh impossible, a Herculean task. It was far easier to ignore one another, ignore the heat between them, and let the silence act as a buffer. She clung to the stem of the rose and pretended she was alone in the taxi until her knee bumped against Luc’s thigh on a sharp turn and reminded her she was in the company of the finest man on planet Earth. He cleared his throat in response, as though he, too, was thrust into the same combative zone of lust versus restraint. The driver, bless his cotton socks, cracked a window open and the October wind diluted the thickened air.

“I already checked you in,” Luc said as they pulled up to the hotel. He passed her a registration envelope, his hand lingering on hers a second longer than appropriate. “Why don’t you go on up,” he said in a suggestive tone. “I’ll bring your suitcase and take care of the driver.”

Clara’s limbic system soared into overdrive while her cerebral cortex warned it was not okay to rip a man’s clothes off in a public foyer.

“Right, cheers,” she said, and scrambled out of the backseat before the limbic system won. It was just like him to be considerate enough to let her go on ahead to freshen up.

A tingle of anticipation crept up her spine as she sought out the bank of elevators. Would it be another suite, another whirlpool tub? Would there be views of the Hudson River? Or was it the East River? She had not yet read her New York guidebook.

As she waited for the lift, Clara brought the flower to her nose, inhaled deeply, and reached into the depths of her memory to imagine the scent of a single rose. Light, spring-after-a-rain fresh. The very recollection made her floaty and content. All that worrying for nothing. The angst, the sleeplessness, the eternity masquerading as three short days…it was over. She could enjoy the next few weeks in Luc’s company, and, as prescribed by Lydia, throw herself into the temporary affair with reckless abandon. Enjoy, avoid emotional attachment, and move on.

As the lift arrived at lobby level, Clara opened the slim folder for the room and floor number and noticed the registration form clearly stated
Clara Bean, single occupancy
.

Single. The box under
number of occupants
held a bolded 1.

The rose fell from her fingers as the steel doors slid shut.

The room was indeed a single. One untouched king-sized bed, one bathroom with nary a hint of male presence, one standard hotel-issue television set with a non-HD curved screen.
Bugger
!