Game On (3 page)

Luc had no delusions as to what role he filled. He wasn’t merely a sports figure—the world was littered with guys who could kick, hit, and throw balls. No, Luc was Bartel’s personal hat trick; a French-Canadian ex-hockey player, Olympic gold medalist, and victim of a sensational crime.

Though Luc had grown up in a bilingual suburb of Montreal and spoke flawless English, without a trace of accent, he always made sure to stay in character around Bartel.

“Monsieur Bartel,”
Luc said, approaching with his hand out.

“Ah, bonjour Luc!”
Bartel gripped his hand and patted his opposite shoulder.

“Bonsoir. Ca va?”

“Très bien, merci. Et vous?”

“Very well, thank you.” Luc switched to English in deference to his boss’s limited vocabulary.

“I’m pleased to see you were able to carve a few moments from your busy schedule to accommodate us this evening.”

“I wouldn’t have missed it.”

“Big night for BMG, Luc. Big night,” he said, taking two glasses of champagne from a passing waiter. “We’ve finally managed to recruit a European player, so to speak.”

“So I have heard. A newspaper,
non
?” Luc lifted his glass and murmured, “
Salut
.”

“Not just a newspaper,” Bartel said, returning Luc’s toast. “EuroNow. They have circulation in twelve countries. Their main office is in London, but they’ve satellite desks in Spain, Germany, and France. Ever heard of them?”

“
Oui,
I’ve heard, but not read.”

“There’s a stack of samples on the display table. Take a few back copies on your way out.” Bartel lifted the crystal flute to his lips. He lowered his voice and leaned in conspiratorially. “Study them, Luc. Familiarize yourself with the tone, the style, the cadence. We’ll discuss it in the morning.”

Luc pulled back and nodded, though he was puzzled. What did the cadence of a Western European newspaper have to do with him? Before he could press for an explanation, Bartel turned his attention to the next minion who approached his circle.

Luc shook hands with a few acquaintances as he made his way to where Riley Sutter was standing with someone from marketing. He thrust his chin in greeting.

“Do you not own a watch?” Riley asked.

“Sure. I got one free with my magazine subscription,” Luc said, mocking the latest BMG incentive. The marketing exec shot him a smirk and left.

“Your hour starts now,” Sutter said. “And didn’t I tell you
no
black?”

Luc shrugged. “The day I start taking fashion advice from a sports editor is the day I cover figure skating.”

He felt rather smug about his appearance, though it had taken him ages to search through his closets for the only non-sports-affiliated black he owned. He had chosen a feather-light, short-sleeved shirt he assumed was silk—a gift from his mother—and black dress slacks. He’d have been more comfortable in chinos and a golf shirt, but he lived for pissing off Sutter.

Sutter shook his head in disgust. “Have you paid homage to the king yet?”

“Just now.”

“So you know we’ve been summoned to the throne room first thing tomorrow?”

“Apparently, though he was short on details. What’s it about?”

Sutter gave a one-shoulder shrug. “I really couldn’t say, but I suspect it’s got something to do with this EuroNow business. Otherwise, he’d wait until they were gone.”

“He told me to study their paper.”

Sutter took the flute from Luc’s hand and downed what was left. “Let’s get some real drinks.”

They made their way through the crowd to the cabana-style bar. Once he had a scotch and soda in hand, Sutter picked the conversation up where they’d left off. “He’s played this whole takeover very close to the vest—keeps talking about ‘big plans’ but hasn’t told anyone squat. I tried to get some deets from O’Leary and Karakas at the last exec meeting, but they’re shrugging their shoulders like the rest of us.”

“And they would know,” Luc replied in reference to Bartel’s right and left hands in the news division hierarchy. “No use speculating since we’re seeing him in the a.m.”

“Eight o’clock, Luc,” Sutter said, tapping the face of his Rolex. “And you can’t be late for that one.”

“I’m
French
Canadian, Riley, not
Stupid
Canadian.” He knew better than to mess with Bartel. The old guy was friendly but ruthless when it came to the business end.

“Yeah, yeah, and don’t drink too much. Bartel can smell a week-old hangover.”

“Have you thought of adoption?” Luc asked while holding two fingers up to the bartender, the universal sign for make-it-a-double-before-I-murder-someone.

Sutter’s eyebrows drew together. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, if you want children so badly, adopt one and stop treating me like your orphan.”

“I can’t help it, Luc. You’re such a lost soul,” Sutter said with a sympathetic shake of his head. “I’ll tell you what. See that gorgeous blonde over there?” Sutter cocked his head toward the reps from EuroNow who stood in a loose group across the terrace, dead-easy to spot because most were too overdressed for a rooftop party in Miami. The only two not about to expire from the humidity were the odd couple at the center. Sutter’s blonde wore an electric blue sheath dress and looked as if she just strode off a catwalk while the petite brunette standing next to her just strode into Luc’s next wet dream.

“She’s too tall for you,” Luc said without taking his eyes off the pixie. He wondered what color eyes went with the auburn streaks in her chestnut-brown hair. It was cut short, barely to her chin, but the ends curled, framing her heart-shaped face. And when she nodded or turned her head, it swung and bounced. Luc needed to touch it. He could almost picture his fingers delving into the silky mass, the tendrils wrapping around his fingers.

She wore a pale-pink-and-white striped sundress that complimented her looks—but if asked to explain how or why, he wouldn’t have the words. It just did. The flouncy skirt was made for twirling, and the tight bodice showed off her flat tummy. He’d be remiss in not paying proper homage to the cleavage, a hint of rounded flesh, just enough to tease any man with a heartbeat. It was demure but sexy, classy but fun, feminine without being nauseating. Thin straps met in a bow behind her slender neck, leaving her shoulders and arms bare.

Her skin was rose-tinted cream, smooth and flawless, made to be caressed, to be kissed—

“Not really,” Sutter said, interrupting his lustful perusal. “She’s wearing fuck-me stilettos that give her a four-inch advantage,” he said, referring to the blonde. “Convince her to bear my children and I’ll abandon your pathetic cause in a heartbeat.”

Luc let out a low whistle. “I’m only here for an hour, Sutter. I’m not a miracle worker.”

“You’re not a comedian, either. And you’ve been penalized for lateness. I get an extra half hour.”

Luc shook his head slowly, part of him hoping it would dislodge his eyeballs. He wasn’t usually one for staring, but the brunette was amazingly easy to look at. And it would be an interesting way to spend the next hour and a half.

“There are too many in the herd,” he mused, as much to Sutter as to himself. “You’ll only have a chance if you can isolate her from the pack.”

“That’s what I like about you, Luc. It’s all strategy.”

Chapter 3

“S
o he fired you?” Clara
tipped champagne into her mouth, hoping that the alcohol would somehow make Lydia’s story less bewildering. Some former Miss America with a minor in journalism and a cosmetics contract had convinced Kingsley Bartel that Lydia wasn’t needed in her fashion department, but had the nerve to expect Lydia to share her contacts at Prada, Chabot, and the likes.

“Not technically, no. He did offer me the job as Valentina’s assistant,” Lydia replied and popped a crab puff into her mouth.

“Bugger. I hope you told him to get stuffed.”

Lydia swallowed, dabbed the corner of her mouth with a napkin and said, “My exact reply was,
I am Lydia Fucking Truelove. I assist no one
. And then I quit.”

“Oh Lyds, I’m so sorry. Do you at least have your needles with you?”

“No, damn it. Didn’t think I’d need them this trip. I’ll have to handle my stress the good old-fashioned way,” she said with a laugh, and held her empty glass up for a passing waiter to fill.

“So what will you do?”

“In the interest of not burning any more bridges than necessary, I told Mr. Bartel that I’d take Miss Congeniality as far as Milan. After that, she, like me, is on her own.”

“That’s awfully good of you, Lyds. You’re clearly more mature than I could have been.”

“Mature? Darling, don’t you know me at all?” Lydia said with a moue. “I’m going to drop her off in the hands of the master of Italian fashion.”

“Antonio Ferralusco?” Clara asked in respectful disbelief.

Lydia smirked.

“But he’ll eat her alive!”

“One can hope.”

“Oh Miss Truelove, you do know how to use your powers for evil.”

Clara would have envied Lydia for her cool attitude if her friend’s trembling hands hadn’t given her away. Lydia’s world had just been rocked, but she, as always, was a master of composure.

Clara, by contrast, was a mess. Her stomach was in knots over her morning meeting. She’d no doubt come to the same end and wished Charlie had just fired them all in England instead of dragging them across an ocean for an international execution.

“Miss Bean, as much as I hate to change the subject, I do believe we’re being ogled,” Lydia said as she chose another canapé from an offered tray.

“Oh, do tell, Miss Truelove,” Clara replied, giving her head a little shake at the waiter. If she had a high-speed metabolism like Lydia, she’d have gladly inhaled the entire plate of spanakopita puffs. Alas, she had to stop after two or she’d be borrowing clothes from Charlie.

“They’re standing by the bar but, for heaven’s sake, don’t look over,” she warned, stopping Clara in mid swivel. “They might take it as an invitation. Let them get their testosterone jacked up first. It’s always more amusing when they swagger.”

Clara loved this game like she loved flu shots. Lydia always got the attention of the savvy international businessman while Clara inevitably attracted the balding comic book enthusiast with back hair, so there was no hiding her sarcasm when she asked, “Anything to make my lady business tingle?”

“They’re not bad, actually.”

It took quite a lot to reach
Not Bad
on The Lydia Scale, but Clara had to take into consideration her friend’s current state of vulnerability, not to mention the four refills of her champagne flute, so she’d have to have a look for herself.

“Oh bloody hell, Clara, don’t you dare turn around. One of them is practically undressing you with his eyes.”

“Is he an overweight, hirsute man in a fishnet shirt? Because I’m not travelling that road again.”

“Eww, no,” Lydia said, horrified. “But do tell.”

Clara gulped her drink for recall courage. “Portugal. His name was Rodrigo. I was going through a needy stage.”

Lydia winced and turned her face away. “Stop please.”

Two more waiters swept by, one with champagne, the other with smoked salmon on toast points. Clara held her glass to Pato—it was oh, so important to know the name of one’s beverage server—for a libation top up but shook her head at the food. Lydia eagerly helped herself.

“Don’t think I’m up to this tonight, Lyds. I simply can’t imagine trying to play nicey-nice with the locals while my stomach is still in a twist over Biscuit and this pending unemployment situation.”

“That’s where we differ, darling. I can’t think of better remedy to life’s woes than a rollicking good orgasm.” Lydia popped the second canapé into her mouth without getting a crumb stuck to her lipstick.

“That’s your remedy for everything.”

“Because it works, darling. Now be a good sport, drink more bubbly, and let’s have some fun.”

Clara gave a little shrug and downed her champers. It was the good stuff, not the eau de catpiss Charlie served every year at the holiday party. Pato, in his smart white short-coat and shiny gold nametag, reappeared before the chill of the last swallow left her throat.

“How do you do that, Pato?” Clara asked, peering into the bottom of her glass. “Is there a sensor at the bottom of this thing?”

Pato winked and poured.

“Still not feeling this, Lyds. You know my policy on chastity in the workplace.”

“Scott completely ruined you,” Lydia said, referring to the disastrous office romance that left Clara skittish about mixing business with pleasure. “Bloody wanker,” she mumbled.

“He was that.” Clara had been ready to declare her undying love to the political analyst when she arrived at the office late one night to find him
inflagranti dilicto
with the paper’s fact checker. Lesson learned.

“But as you’ll be unemployed by elevenses tomorrow, it really doesn’t qualify, does it?”

Clara sighed, thinking she could indeed have her mid-morning cup of tea over the employment ads. “Can you at least describe the potential candidates?”

“Both tall, one’s roguish looking, dressed entirely in black with a surly look about him, the other’s a blond god.”

“You’d better have your eye on the surly funeral director,” Clara warned. She had no tolerance for men who sheathed themselves from head to toe in black. It showed a distinct lack of imagination, so unless there was a specific dress-code in effect, she generally avoided them.

“That would have been my natural choice, but he seems to only have eyes for you.”

“How can you tell? You’re not even looking.”

“I’ve superior peripheral vision.”

“Your talents are endless, Miss Truelove.”

“You haven’t seen half of them, Miss Bean.”

“No doubt.”

“Laugh and give your head a toss.”

“Are you joking?” Clara asked at the odd request.

“Just do it.”

Clara pretended her friend said something amusing and feigned a giggle. She didn’t know how to toss her head without looking ridiculous so she tucked her hair behind her ear instead.

“I think you just gave the poor man a hard-on.”

“Oh Lydia, stop being dramatic,” Clara laughed for real. “Aside from being angry, does my funeral director at least have a nice face?”