The Player's Club: Lincoln (17 page)

“No, it wasn’t.” He reached for her, and she dodged.

“You might know me, but I don’t know a damned thing about you, Lincoln.”

He took a deep breath. Then sat on the couch. “Fair enough.”

She nodded, seemed uneasy. “So why don’t you—”

“I am the illegitimate son of a famous politician.”

She blinked. “What?”

He swallowed hard, the words he’d never admitted to anyone almost choked him. He swallowed again, then continued shakily, “My mom was a young housemaid, working for his family. He was married, but claimed he was in love with her. Well, that lasted for a while, until she turned up pregnant. Then, they paid her some hush money, threatened her when she tried to contact him again. That was in Massachusetts,” he said. “She moved all the way to San Francisco to get away from his family’s bulldogs.”

“Oh, my God.” She sat next to him, eyes round.

“She worked at a hotel, cleaning rooms,” he said. “We never had that much money—the hush money covered hospital bills and stuff. She told me I had a rich father, but I could never ask who. When I was about ten, I found some love letters he’d written to her…ones he’d put his name on. I found out who he was. From then on, I hated rich people who treated my mom and me like garbage, who acted like they could do whatever they wanted with no repercussions. Ones that never valued what they had. When I was a teenager, I wanted to find him and ruin his life.”

“What happened?” she asked, her voice filled with a sort of horrified fascination. It forced him to keep his own voice neutral.

“It was the only time my mother ever hit me,” he said, remembering. “She slapped me across the face. Said that if it weren’t for publicity, she might have been able to keep my father. Said that absolutely nobody could know.”

Juliana made a low, sympathetic sound.

“From then on, I was a hell-raiser. I ran with a group of stupid kids…got into a lot of trouble. I stole a lot. And I was a little too smart for my own good. I read up on things, learned how to break security systems and pick locks, pull some con jobs. I think I would’ve headed for jail if I’d kept it up.”

She took his hand. “What changed?”

“My mom died.” To this day, it still made his throat clog. He took a second, then shrugged. “Cancer. She hadn’t told me about it, but it was fast moving and by the time she could tell me, it was a little too late. When she died, she made me promise not to confront my father, and above all, not to go to the press. So I promised, and I’ve kept it.”

“So that’s why you hate publicity,” she murmured. “Why you hate the press.”

He nodded.

“Have you ever…” She paused. “I don’t mean confront, but have you considered contacting him?”

“I didn’t have to,” Lincoln said.

Don’t tell her,
the voice inside him ordered.
You can’t tell anyone.

“He found me.” She gripped his hand, hard. “I was doing okay, at a nothing job, when this guy comes up to me. I was going to community college, working two jobs actually, trying to make ends meet. And this guy says that he’s my father. I tell him he’s full of it, but he tells me he doesn’t have a lot of time. Besides, he’s the spitting image of me. So we go to my apartment.”

“Was it him?”

“Yeah.” He ran his hands over his face. “I wanted to light into him. And he told me he’d always loved my mom…that losing her was one of the biggest regrets of his life. He’d been so on the political bandwagon, and needing his family’s approval, that he’d basically killed the only happiness he ever had. Now he was a big politician, but he was dying. Of cancer, ironically,” Lincoln said with a dry, harsh laugh.

“So he wanted to make amends.”

“Right. He wanted to meet his son, since he’d never had any children with his wife.” Lincoln couldn’t believe it, but now that he was finally telling someone, the words were tumbling from his lips before he could stop them. “Beyond that, he wanted to make sure I got my legacy, my inheritance. He wanted to give me something before he died. All I’d really wanted was his love and recognition. Instead, he gave me cash.”

Juliana put an arm around his shoulders, and he was surprised to feel his eyes welling up. He blinked and swallowed until the tears receded.

“He gave me his entire personal fortune,” Lincoln confessed. “Let’s just say it was a lot.”

Juliana gasped.

“He put it in a Swiss account, so his wife couldn’t find it. She had her own money, he reasoned…and she’d been bleeding him dry. He had a hell of a nest egg, though.” Lincoln smiled sadly. “When he died, it was all they could talk about—my father’s vanished bank account. They thought maybe gambling, drug habit, something. They never found out about me.”

He knew the instant when Juliana guessed his father’s identity. The scandal had been huge—anybody who followed the news would be able to figure it out.

“Now you know more about me than anybody,” he said. “More than even the club does.”

“Why did you tell me?” she breathed.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. Then leaned his head against her shoulder.

When she clutched him tightly, kissed him gently, he thought that perhaps he had an idea of why he told her.

10

JULIANA FOUND HERSELF back in Stephen Trainer’s office, her laptop in her purse. She could’ve emailed him the footage; could’ve transferred it to disk. But the idea of it getting spread around, stolen, made her sick to her stomach.

This wasn’t just about her. Not anymore.

And it wasn’t because of her—whatever it was—and Lincoln. Although, now that she thought about it, thinking of him in her bed did add another loop to the knots already forming in her gut.

“Jules, tell me you’ve got something,” Stephen said, tapping his fingers nervously on the surface of his desk. “And I’ll cut you a check right now.”

She sighed. “I need some assurances.”

He took a deep breath, releasing it slowly. “I’ll make sure you’re an executive producer, in writing. And you’ll get a standard cut, Jules. I can’t do more than that, financially....”

“It’s not that,” she said hastily, and she could tell that he was surprised. “I’m just showing you this footage to give you a taste of what the show’s going to be like. It’s awesome. I mean, I filmed it on a hidden camera, and it’s still amazing.”

“So show me already!” He smiled eagerly.

She held a hand up. “I still haven’t gotten the releases from the guys on this stuff—they don’t even know I took it. So this is just pitch stuff—
it can’t be aired,
do you understand? I don’t want anybody on the show that doesn’t want to be.” She paused. “Not just for legal reasons, either.”

He looked at her quizzically for a minute, tilting his head. “Started drinking the Kool-Aid, did you?”

She stiffened. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Never mind, it doesn’t matter. Why don’t you show me what you’ve got in your hands here, and let me be the judge as to whether or not you’ve got a show or not? Okay?”

She nodded, swallowing against the feeling that she was doing something very, very wrong. She held out the netbook, the scene already cued up. She watched his expression as he took in the scenes.

“Jeez,” he breathed. “They look and sound like fraternity terrorists. What’s that they’re doing?”

“You know that mural? The one over in the Tenderloin?”

His eyes widened, impressed. “They did that?”

She nodded. “There could be criminal stuff attached—no way does this get televised,” she said sharply. “But you can see…”

“You’ve got a show, all right,” he said, grinning. “Hell, yes, you’ve got a show. Especially if you can conjure up something like this every week!”

“I don’t think we’ll be breaking the law every week.” She was biting at her lip hard enough to draw blood, and her fingers knotted and unknotted the strap of her Hermès bag. “But yeah, there will be challenges.”

“Challenges. Huh. We’ll find a better name for it, something sexier,” Stephen said. He buzzed his assistant. “Deanna, would you come in here for a second?”

Deanna, his assistant, came in, looking very professional and cool in a tailored suit that was off-the-rack but well accessorized.

“Is this thing on a memory stick or something?” Stephen asked Juliana, gesturing to the footage on the netbook.

She winced. “No. I don’t want a lot of copies made....”

He sighed, beleaguered. “Hon, if you want to protect them so badly, you can’t let anybody see this video,” he pointed out, his tone gaining an edge. “And if nobody sees this video, you don’t get a show. No show, no cash.”

She hid a wince. No cash, no condo…no parties. No friends.

Total failure.

Without a word, she handed the netbook over to the assistant.

“Be a love, and make a DVD—just one—of the video file that’s on here, okay?” Stephen instructed Deanna. “In fact, Deanna, how about you put it on one of those TrustCon Secure flash disks—that way, nobody else can upload it, send it via email or copy it. I’ll hand-deliver the pitches myself.”

Juliana let out a breath she hadn’t known she’d trapped in her chest, and actually felt tears sting at her eyes. “You’d do that?”

“Oh, now, don’t cry,” Stephen said, alarmed. He waved Deanna off. “It’s fine, Jules. It’ll be fine.”

Deanna paused in the door frame. “By the way, Stephen, your two o’clock is here.”

“Yeah, send him in.” Stephen looked at Juliana warily. “You got it together?”

“Sure, sure.” She felt embarrassed, and relieved. “Listen, I’ll get out of your way, although…I hate to be mercenary, but I’m going to need that check.” Rather, her bank was going to need that check. She didn’t even want to think about everything she was behind on.

“We can discuss it in a minute. First, I want you to meet your production partner.”

She was so ready to leave, so fixated on the amount of the check, she barely paid attention to what Stephen was saying. Then her mind latched on the crucial word:
partner.
“Please tell me you don’t mean…”

Right on cue, George Macalister swaggered into the room, his smile unctuous. “Nice to see you again, Jules. Heard you got some challenge footage.”

This was bad. George would only make the situation more complicated. She got the feeling she could trust Stephen, but George?

Not in a million years.

What about the condo payment? What about the bills?

She growled low in her throat.

Screw the condo.

“Sorry, Stephen,” she said quietly. “But I’ve been doing a lot of thinking and frankly I don’t think I can work with George.”

George looked at Stephen, who was rubbing his face with his hands. “Sweetie,” George chastised, “I don’t think you really have a choice on that one. I’ve been working through a story arc with Stephen, here, and besides, I’ve got a whole new group setup.”

“A whole new group…?” She blinked at him. “What are you talking about?”

“If
you
film the Player’s Club, it’s going to be a documentary and it’s going to be a yawn.” George propped himself on the corner of Stephen’s desk and ignored Stephen’s look of irritation. “You know, I’ll bet she didn’t even have any footage worth selling, Steve. We really don’t need her, don’t need her at all.”

Before she could interrupt, Stephen said, “Actually, she brought in some great stuff.... I’ve got Deanna running off a dupe as we speak. It’s rough, but fantastic—very exciting. And with Juliana’s embedded-reporter angle, and having the actual Player’s Club involved, I think we’ve got a better chance of selling it.”

“I was one of the founders,” George scoffed, “and trust me, they’re just a bunch of pansies now. No, I’m setting up a new group—the
Extreme
Player’s Club. Every week, we’ll start with a group of guys and haze them…and somebody’ll get voted off. Whoever’s left standing will become a new member. We could do that for years.”