Game On (9 page)

Sick to her stomach at the thought of trying to pull this off, she dug into her handbag for an antacid. Instead, she pulled the tissue out to blot the sheen of moisture from the bridge of her nose. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Luc watching her.

Cocking her head sideways, she meant to skewer him right between his baby blues, but the look on his pale, drawn face was pure lust. Amidst the cauldron of bubbling acid in her stomach, Clara felt the tiniest thrill.

It only lasted a millisecond.

“Luc.” When Bartel said his name, his face became a mask of indifference. “Riley Sutter is waiting for you in his office. He’s got Shelagh with him—she’s our travel coordinator,” he said for her and Charlie’s benefit. “And they need your input on the cities and games you’ll want to see. Then we’ll get you, Clara, together with our food editor, Spencer James. You and he will go over a list of potential restaurants. Once the arrangements have been solidified, you, Miss Bean, will have what, about two weeks? Luc, is that when the season officially starts?”

“One,” came the terse reply.

“One, then. One week to get home, pack for the month, and get back to the U.S.” Bartel looked inordinately pleased with himself as he smiled and nodded to each of them. “Good. Right. Any questions? Great. Off you go.”

Chapter 10

“Y
ou knew about this?” Luc
was able to control the volume of his voice, but the door he shoved open bounced back and slammed against the jamb so hard that Shelagh jumped right out of her chair.

“Sorry, S.” He meant to sound sincere but his apology was forced through clenched teeth.

“Yeah, sure,” she said, collecting her notepad from the edge of Sutter’s desk. “I’m going to go make a few calls. You boys can come get me when you’re done. And try not to get testosterone all over the rug.”

Sutter leaned back in his chair and waited until Shelagh closed the door, softly, behind her. “I’m sensing a problem, Luc. What’s up?”

“I am replacing a dog. A fucking dog!”

“Well, not technic—”

“And you knew and didn’t bother to tell me,” Luc said, slamming his palms against Riley’s desk. He was so mad, he could punch something. “You let me walk in there and be made a complete fool of. Do you think, man to man, friend to friend, you may have mentioned this last night?”

Riley stood up so fast, he knocked his chair against the credenza behind him. “Sit. Down.”

Luc didn’t move. He could feel the anger threatening to bust out of his chest, could feel his nostrils flare as he tried to control his breathing. He eyed Sutter, who stared back, unflinching.

He didn’t sit. But he backed away and folded his arms over his chest. “Explain.”

“Obviously,” Sutter began, in a voice that was patronizingly calm. “I didn’t know about this last night or I would have told you. Now
sit the fuck down
before you bust a blood vessel.”

Luc sat.

“Charlie Holmes, O’Leary, Karakas, and I were in that throne room since six-goddamned-thirty this morning, Luc. You don’t think I tried to shoot this mess down?”

“I don’t know,” Luc barked. “Did you?”

Sutter blew out an impatient breath. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered and plunked back into his chair. He rubbed his hands over his face—a face, Luc realized, that looked as tired and drawn as his own. At least Luc had time to shave. “You’re an ass sometimes, you know that?”

Luc felt a twinge of guilt for raging at his buddy. Of course Sutter would have tried to block Bartel’s stupid scheme. He knew about Luc’s issues, knew it would be impossible to send him on the road. And in the folds of his overtaxed brain, a small spark in his logic center suggested his anger and frustration started about three hours
before
he walked into Riley’s office, in the corridor at the Sagamore Hotel.

“You wanna go for a beer?” It was the best apology he could offer. “Figure out how we’re going to play this fucked-up mess?”

Sutter smirked. “It’s barely nine a.m., Luc.”

“How about breakfast, then? On me.”

“You’re on,” Sutter said, rising. “Steak and eggs would go down real nice.”

“
Sacre bleu!
I only slammed your door. I didn’t punch you.”

“You raised your voice to me,” he countered, ushering Luc out the door. “My feelings are hurt.”

“Okay, Petal. You can have your steak.”

“And you’d better get a croissant for Shelagh or you’ll be Greyhounding between Motel Sixes.”

By the time the waitress refilled his coffee cup a second time, Luc’s anger had ebbed.

“You know what burns my ass? I read that stack of damn EuroNows and had no idea that Clara was the Bean in ‘Biscuit and Bean’ until Bartel dropped his bomb. I looked like a total bonehead in there.”

“I had no idea either, and I read the guest list and saw her last name. Just wasn’t paying attention.”

“No, she’s purposely deceitful. The little drawing at the top of her column is a chick-lit cartoon of a leggy blonde holding a French poodle. Far cry from the petite curvy reality.”

“I think it’s an anonymity thing,” Sutter shrugged as he ran another chunk of steak through a puddle of golden yolk. “Should have put two and two together last night when she mentioned her dog died. Hey, are you sure you won’t have any? It’s good for the hangover.”

“I don’t have a hangover.” Luc grimaced and pushed his plate away, the bagel untouched. His appetite was nonexistent.

“Did you like her articles?” Sutter asked between bites.

“Yeah,” Luc nodded in earnest. “I did. I really did.”

He should have known it was her voice in the piece, especially after talking to her half the night. Reading her column actually served to get his mind off the debacle back at the hotel for a few precious moments.

“She’s a fantastic writer. Her descriptions were almost palatable.” How could he have not known it was Clara’s voice on the page? Luc shook his head. “Unbelievable wit.”

He was honored to team up with an established, popular journalist, yet worried his writing would look dull and lifeless beside hers. And wait until she found out he was too much of a fucking wuss to walk into a crowded room, let alone a hockey arena.

“We’ll sort this out, you know,” Sutter said, reading his mind. “I’ll hook you up in the press box so you never have to be with Johnny Q Public.”

“I can’t do it, Ry.” Luc pushed both hands through his hair. “You’ve got to get me out of this.”

“Oh Lyds,” Clara wailed. “This is a disaster!”

Clara sank down onto her suitcase, too exhausted to stand, too tired to traverse the seven steps to a chair. She had only just arrived from Heathrow, her raincoat still belted and cutting into her waist as she slumped forward. Telephoning Lydia, knowing she’d get the moral support she desperately needed, was all she’d clung to on the long ride home. She spilled the entire humiliating, gut-wrenching story in three very long run-on sentences. “It’s a travesty! A cock-up to end all cock-ups! This is going to be the very death of me!”

“Oh bollocks, and do stop with the bloody dramatics.”

“Lydia!”

“Clara.”

Clara looked at the telephone receiver in disbelief. She was surprised, hurt, and completely flummoxed by Lydia’s lack of support. “I…I…I don’t understand you, Lyds. Are we not friends anymore? Are you pissy because I’m not joining you in the unemployment line?”

“Clara Elizabeth Bean, I love you more than my own sister—”

“You love everyone more than your own sister!”

“True that, the twee bitch. But darling, you know what I mean. Of course you’re my friend, my best friend, and that’s why I’m going to be completely honest with you and tell you to stop acting like a silly cow.”

“Silly cow?” Had she dialled the wrong number? Lydia would never speak to her this way. Where was the empathy, the “Right, let’s go for a G and T and sort this out” Lydia that she was counting on? “Lydia Truelove. I hardly think, under the circum—”

“Stop interrupting me, you silly cow.”

“Fine.”

“Now listen.” Lydia’s voice, crisp and impatient, snapped her out of hysteria. “Are you listening?”

“Yes.” She pressed her thumbnail between her teeth to keep from slinging a few choice farm animal insults back. Silly cow, indeed.

“First, you must clear up this unfinished corridor business. You don’t know for sure that Luc was referring to you. In all the years I’ve known you, you’ve never smelled of any of those things, let alone a combination of the three. The smell could have wafted in from another room, an open window, or what have you.”

“I suppose,” Clara said, gnawing the chipped enamelled tip. “D’you think it could have been those other people from the lift?”

“Well
yes
, darling. That’s rather obvious. Thanks for finally tuning in.”

Clara made a face at the receiver but remained mute.

“So I suggest that you begin with simple email—‘My dear Luc, it was great getting to know you, blah, blah, blah…such a shame we were interrupted when the night was about to get interesting, blah, blah, blah…I’m sorry you had to leave so unexpectedly but please don’t think I was hurt or upset to find the hall empty when I returned.’ Make sure to emphasise that bit, darling, ‘
when I came back out
’ or whatever gets the point across. Then continue with ‘obviously, our wires were crossed, blah blah blah…I look forward to collaborating with you soon. See you in Chicago.’”

“But Lyds, I can’t—”

“Shush! Second, I cannot believe you’re not viewing this as a major career boost, an opportunity to expand your fan base. Darling, do you realize you could potentially become bigger than that bloke in New York, that Frank Bruni fellow, or Giles Coren from the London Times? You’ll be famous in both Europe and America. This is the opportunity of a lifetime, and I am simply gobsmacked over your unreasonable reaction.”

“But—”

“
And three
—” Lydia cut her off again before Clara could remind her of the fact she couldn’t smell rancid manure if she were bathing in it, so how was she supposed knock Messers Coren and Bruni off their pedestals? “And three, you get to spend weeks on the road with one of the sexiest men on the planet. Which segues back to my original point. Stop being a silly over-dramatic cow and enjoy yourself. Are we clear, Miss Bean?”

Clara practically felt the bucket of cold water being dumped on her head, the slap across her hysterical cheek. “Clear,” she surrendered.

“Thank God, darling, because I’ve got to run. I’m at this very moment searching the lobby of the Principe Di Savoia for our American beauty queen. She is no-bloody-where to be found and we’re meeting Ferrilusco in his studio in twenty minutes.”

“You’re five-starring it? Wow, Bartel is a good sight more generous with the travel allowance than Charlie.”

“Ha! Bartel knows nothing of it. I told Miss America that it was the only place to stay in Milan and she totally bought it and since it’s all on her expense account—Ah, I see her coming now. Good Lord, what
is
she wearing? Ta, darling, and good luck!”

Lydia ended the call before Clara had the chance to wish her the same. She replaced the receiver and rubbed her hands over her face. She could only assume the lack of sleep and abundance of worry had completely addled her brain because, on some level, her friend made absolute sense.

Chapter 11

C
lara fingered the key card,
mentally repeating her room number over and over while waiting for the lift to descend. Despite the tantric breathing she’d done on the flight from New York to Chicago, the butterflies in her tummy continued to jitterbug. The very thought of seeing Luc again had her nervous system on overdrive. Would she find him as attractive now as she did a week ago, when she was a sleep-deprived bundle of despair, or would he be knocked from his demigod status by the light of a new day?

Just as the metal door scraped open, she heard someone call, “Clara?”

Luc dashed toward her, tugging his suitcase, the attached laptop bag causing it to list to one side.

Her hand shot out to stop the doors from sliding shut.
Déjà vu.

“Hey, you made it,” he said and gave her a lopsided grin.

Clara had hoped he’d sprouted a chin wart or an acne rash, anything to mar the hotness and prevent her from going all drippy at the very sight of him. No such luck. Demigod he remained.

“Hey back,” she replied, returning his smile.

“Good flight?”

Drip…
Oh, that voice. Deep and sexy. She’d almost forgotten how gooey it made her. “Long and uneventful.”

“Best kind,” he said as the door closed. “The uneventful part, I mean.”

He regarded her with a curious expression, head cocked slightly to the side. It was only when his glance moved to the panel of buttons that she realized she had control over the car.

“What floor are you on?” she asked quickly, her finger poised to punch the number pad.

“Fourteen.”

Drip, drip…
“Oh, me too,” she said and pressed the button with her knuckle. Germs and all that.

“Yeah, I know. I told Shelagh to book adjacent rooms.”

“Oh?”
Drip, drip, drip…

“In case we need to compare notes. Or whatever…”

“Of course.”
Total meltdown.

Clara could see Luc’s reflection in the steel doors, and knowing he was likely regarding her right back made her fidget like a flea-infested cat.

Thankfully, she’d taken a few moments to freshen up between flights at La Guardia. She’d thrown on a fresh shirt, touched up her makeup, and reapplied her deodorant. But she still felt like a rumpled mouse next to Luc’s poster-perfect-sports-hero self, who managed to turn an ensemble of jeans and white tee under a pale–blue, vee neck sweater into something that could easily be seen in a fashion ad.

The first thing that hit her when she noticed him was how he moved, smooth and assured, in absolute control over every muscle, bone, and nerve in his body. The soft, worn denim clung in all the right places, and the thin sweater, shades lighter than his eyes, accentuated his broad shoulders and chest.