Game of Love (6 page)

“It is strange to be known so universally and yet be so lonely.”
~Albert Einstein

on’t draw attention to yourself,” Gemma told Tish.

“Me? I’m a fuckin’ saint.”

“Dear Lord.”

The lift chimed, and when the door opened, she saw him.
The American.
He was leaning against the lift’s back wall, studying his mobile. He wore a crew neck sweater, tight around his sculpted shoulders and chest, sleeves rolled up to expose muscular forearms. He had not seen her yet. She hesitated, considering her next move while Tish inched forward.

The American glanced up. A momentary pause, before his eyes lit up with recognition. But he said nothing, just smiled. When the door began to close, he leaned forward and stopped it, letting it slide back open. “Going down?” he asked, tone even.

“Yes,” Tish said, and sauntered in. “That’s one impatient door. Thank you.”

“Any time.”

Gemma stepped in then spun toward the closing door. The lift dropped, while her heartbeat accelerated. She zeroed in on the panel, watching the floor numbers flicker past one by one. Was he staring at her? She studied her reflection on the semi-shiny surface of the door, happy with her choice of clothes. She shifted her gaze to see if he was checking her out. His head was down, focused on his mobile, not her.

The lift chimed. Lobby.

The door had barely opened when Gemma slid out and marched toward the bar.

Tish hurried to catch up. “What’s the rush?” she asked.

Gemma was not ready to speak quite yet. Instead, she listened to the footsteps behind her. The light tapping of leather soles against marble tiles. She glanced over her shoulder. He was following.

Tucked in a far booth at the bar, Gemma read through Twitter, Facebook, and e-mail messages, pretending to catch up on things, but her thoughts were disjointed.

She now knew who she’d play in the semifinals. A rematch against Sonia Wilkins, no less. Her American albatross. The experts were already wondering if Sonia would dismantle Gemma again, just like she had in Australia months earlier. It had to be against Sonia if she wanted closure.

That had been her last tournament–the one that nearly ruined her career. But she was back thanks to Xavi–her Malibu home house-sitter, her personal guru–the man who had become her confidant. With his help, she had returned, determined to win a major by crushing all distractions in her path there.

At least that had been the plan. Right now, she had a distraction at hand. The American. Even Tish had noticed Gemma’s wandering eyes. Thankfully, he hadn’t been following her, but joined two older men. She glanced in his direction, unable to deny an interest, a curiosity.

What was this American’s story? Was he the typical scoundrel she met in places like these? Possibly. After the way he had ogled her during breakfast, there could be little doubt he’d seen something he liked.

She glanced again. His humility and youth confused her. The way he dressed and the way he carried himself shouted power–the type of man she’d fancied in the past, but had sworn off after Johnny. But the way he had taken a stand for the waitress was unexpected, beautiful in a way. To this day, no one had ever taken a stand for her.

“You keep staring at him. You want me to call him over?” Tish asked, never lifting her face from her mobile.

“What? You’re mad,” Gemma said, feeling a flush creep up her ears.

Tish lifted her eyes. “He’s no Johnny Flauto, but handsome in his own ‘Merican way.”

“Shut it, will you?” Gemma said. She could do without hearing Johnny’s name everywhere she turned. “If you weren’t my best friend–”

“And only friend.”

Gemma glared. “Fine, if you weren’t my best and only friend, I’d sack you for insubordination.”

“Promises, promises.” Tish’s green-gold eyes sparkled as she turned her attention to the American while she fiddled with the beads on her long braids. “Do you sometimes wonder if a relationship with a normal person would be different?”

“Normal? What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You know, as opposed to celebrities and such.”

Gemma shrugged. She didn’t know, nor did she care. All relationships were trouble. Even innocent dates turned into a mess, leaving her ravaged. Her broken heart seemed to be a perverse form of entertainment.

An only child, gifted with the skills to compete in the loneliest sport… Maybe she was designed this way for a purpose. What she knew for sure was that in all her attempts to break her solitude, she had made one poor decision after another, falling for those who would eventually hurt her. Her latest with Johnny had been her poorest choice to date. She had to learn to choose better.

Gemma turned her gaze toward the American’s table against her better judgment.

“So,” Tish said, “what’s the story with your friend?”

“Not my friend,” Gemma said.

“If you say so.”

Gemma sighed. “Remember how I asked you to contact the restaurant’s manager and ensure the waitress wasn’t reprimanded? Well, he’s the bloke who was scorched this morning when the waitress tripped.”

“Oh, no shit.” A beat. “Wait. I’m missing something. Then why did you give him the cold shoulder in the lift? I thought we wanted to avoid a potential lawsuit. That was a perfect opportunity.”

“It wasn’t
that
perfect.”

“Do you have marbles in your head? You could have made peace with him right then and there. Flash your smile, put on the charm, and we’re in the clear.” Tish shook her head. “A perfect opportunity blown. In Ethiopia we have a saying: Give advice; if they don’t listen, let adversity teach them.”

Gemma studied Tish, processing her words. A few moments passed as thoughts clashed. Months back, when she was ready to quit tennis, Xavi had reminded her that life was about choices and action.

Choices and action.

“I don’t like that man. I must get to know him better.”
~Abraham Lincoln

emma waved down the waiter.

“
Oui, Mademoiselle
Lennon
?
”

“Can you please ask the young man at that table to join us?”

Both the waiter and Tish followed her finger. Then they turned back. Tish’s eyes widened.

“Do you mean
Monsieur
Reyes? The gentleman in the gray sweater?”

“Yes, him,” she said. At least now she had a last name.

“Right away,
Mademoiselle
.”

“Interesting move. Do you have a game plan, or are you improvising?” Tish asked.

A game plan? Of course not. But it had to be done. Closure was best. “We’ll find out soon enough, I guess. Give me the play-by-play.” She dropped her eyes to her mobile, feigning disinterest.

“Right. The waiter’s saying something. They’re looking in our direction now, but he’s not moving. I’m smiling–hello.”

A few seconds passed.

“Well? Now what?” Gemma sounded more anxious than she intended.

“We’re good,” Tish said, whispering now. “He’s up with drink in hand, following the waiter. He’s here in three, two–”

“Hi again,” he said.

Gemma looked up. “Hello, Mr. Reyes, will you join us?” Gemma’s voice did not waver, but inside she was a wreck.
Settle down.
Others were supposed to be nervous, not her.

“Sure, thanks,” he said, then turned to Tish. “I’m Andre.”

Tish introduced herself with a slight grin as he sat across from Gemma.

“I hope you don’t mind being pulled away from your friends,” Gemma said.

“Not a problem.”

Men usually gushed and went out of their way to impress, but not him. He created the impression he didn’t care.
Don’t be an egomaniac
.
He’s not interested.
But if he wasn’t interested, then why had he stared during breakfast?

“How’s the burn?” Gemma asked.

“Improving. Thanks for asking.”

He locked on her eyes, and her heart rate quickened. She broke eye contact and shifted her glass.
What’s wrong with you?
“About the incident this morning,” Gemma said, “I’m not sure where to begin.” She glanced up at him.

Something changed in his demeanor. “Don’t worry about it. It was an accident. I’m fine and the waitress didn’t get in trouble. It’s all forgotten.”

The waitress.
Forget the damn waitress, you’re in the clear. He won’t sue.
But she couldn’t let go. The waitress was pretty and he had handed her a card. What kind of man was he? Why had he really protected her?

“Do you know her?” she asked.

“Who? The waitress?” A crease appeared on his forehead.

“Yes–the pretty one.”

He blinked then his eyes narrowed. “I don’t know her at all.” He placed his arms on the table. “What are you asking?”

Crap.
Now she’d done it. “I’m just curious, that’s all. You don’t see that anymore–jumping to a stranger’s rescue the way you did.” She paused.
You sound shallow
.

His gray eyes turned dark, nearly black. He tucked a strand of his longish black hair behind his ear, never breaking eye contact. “It’s simple. If not me, then who?”

Silence.

Say something.

“I’ve seen too many who work hard, try their best, and yet bad things happen,” Andre said. “I can’t sleep well when the innocent get screwed.”