Playing the Game

by Stephanie Queen

  “You look beautiful, even though I hate to admit it. You be careful tonight. Don’t drink too much. And especially don’t flirt too much,” Bonnie said, sipping her nightly scotch. Roxanne laughed.

  “I’ll have a great time.” Roxanne flashed one last smile before turning to go. Tonight she was going to have fun. Thoughts of Don’s death and his mother still haunted her, but at least she had a plan to deal with her immediate financial crisis. She could manage to put aside the rest of it for one evening. She was determined to place the image of Donald’s broken body lying on that stretcher in the furthest recesses of her mind. Roxanne shivered involuntarily. She had to concentrate on Barry Dennis tonight.

  She strode out the door, buoyed at the prospect of getting her well-paying TV job back. She tried not to think of how, exactly, she was going to talk Barry Dennis into doing another interview. She would have to think on the fly.

  Chapter 2

  PENELOPE BOSWELL sat at her desk shuffling through the stack of photos like a deck of cards, sorting them into two piles. One pile of pictures with Roxanne, and one pile of pictures without her. Lifting one picture, she paused, remembering the day, the time, clearly. She, Donald and Roxanne were at the house on Marblehead Neck. Donald had invited her over to see the decorating they’d just completed. He’d been so proud.

  Penelope remembered feeling like an outsider even then. At first she’d been thrilled to receive the invitation, but as always, it seemed, her son’s concerns centered around that woman. Penelope resisted the urge to crush the photo in her hand. After all, Roxanne had taken it. She grudgingly had to admit that the picture was one of the best she had of her and her son together. They had been captured in a happy moment, smiling into each other’s eyes.

  She finally put the photo down, into a third special pile. That was how she would like to remember her son—smiling happily at her with brilliant sunshine all around them against the sparkling backdrop of the Atlantic.

  Glancing at the pile of pictures she had placed facedown, she then looked determinedly at the fireplace where she intended to burn them when she was finished sorting. She wished it were that easy to rid herself of the woman. Why hadn’t it been Roxanne that died that night? Why was it her son? Surely if there’d been a struggle he would have had the upper hand?

  Running over the scene in her mind as she envisioned it that night, she knew at least part of the reason must have been that he’d been surprised. There was another possibility, but she dismissed that.

  The woman had obviously planned the confrontation with Don. She had another lover waiting in the wings, Penelope was sure. But Roxanne was smart, Penelope had to give her that. She’d covered for herself well. It was proving difficult to find enough evidence to have her arrested, let alone convicted of murder. Detective Turner remained unimpressed after looking over their report outlining evidence of an affair with Mark Baines as her motivation for murder.

  Looking out the long window overlooking her garden, Penelope snorted with disdain. That woman obviously had the police detective under her spell, the same way she had Don. Well, good luck to him, Penelope thought. He would need it. Roxanne would ruin him like she had ruined Donald.

  And to think, she had actually liked Roxanne when they first met at that charity auction three years ago. Penelope had liked her enough to introduce her to Donald. But all the charity work in the world couldn’t redeem her for what she did to him. Now it didn’t matter. Nothing seemed to matter anymore. Except ruining Roxanne.

  A knock sounded on the door, muffled by the solid wood panels. Penelope rose from her chair. “Come in.” She was pleased by his punctuality. Melvin Lipman, her private investigator, walked to the center of the room.

  “I got your message. I’m sorry to hear you are unhappy.” Melvin said.

  “Mr. Lipman, there’s obviously been a misunderstanding between us. It’s not that I don’t appreciate your efforts, but, as I mentioned before, the Boswell family name is a very proud one. It’s not my aim to have that name splashed all over the area news media like some cheap tabloid item.” Penelope noticed the man’s face turn pink.

  “I’m sorry. I thought the articles were done very tastefully and in no way a bad reflection on the Boswell name since they were aimed at the girl herself and her affair. After all, her name is still Roxanne Monet. She’s not a Boswell,” Lipman said.

  The strain was evident in the man’s voice, but it was obvious to Penelope that he simply did not understand. For a moment she regretted having hired him. But what else was she to do? She couldn’t afford to involve yet another person in all this. Maintaining her air of indifference, she spoke again.

  “When I say discreet, I mean absolutely no media involvement. I’m sorry if that makes your job more difficult. But I not only forbid the solicitation of media exposure, I would like you to go out of your way to keep this from reporters.” She paused, then chose her words carefully. “It’s been a very distressing time. I don’t want to add to that by having the family embarrassed.” The articles insinuating Roxanne’s affair with Mark Baines as the murder motive hadn’t been of any help at all, Penelope thought with disgust. They only made Donald look like a fool.

  “You got it. Too bad, though. Publicity sometimes helps flush information out into the open in cases like this.”

  Penelope couldn’t help the hot blush that came to her cheeks at the man’s crassness. Working hard to cover her distress and maintain her calm outward appearance, she unclenched her fingers and hoped it wasn’t a mistake to hire an investigator after all. She cleared her throat.

  “I would like you to turn your attention to assisting my lawyers in any way you can to get the house from her, or at least prolong the litigation.” She lifted a card from her desk and handed it to the man. “Here’s their number. Call them. The house is important to me. I have memories there.” She thought of the photograph and glanced over at it on the desk as if by doing so it might jump to life. She turned from him.

  “Good day, Mr. Lipman.”

  “Good day, Mrs. Boswell.”

  She listened to the door closing behind him and then wiped the tears from her cheek. There would be no more good days for her, thanks to that woman.

  When Roxanne arrived early at the country club, she let the valet whisk her car away. With a smile on her face, she swept into the room where the party was to be held. The night was going to be part fund-raising and also part fun. Sauntering toward the center of the room she scrutinized it from every corner and then headed for the kitchen to find the function manager for a conference.

  “The room is really lovely, but we must have the podium as the center of attention. We can’t very well have the Club’s management presenting a check to the hospital off in a corner.”

  “Of course, I totally agree. It will be done immediately.” The man smiled.

  As guests arrived, she greeted them, most by name, and took their invitations. Laura came in through the kitchen to join her. After a good number of people had arrived, she left the entryway and zeroed in on a group of older patrons.

  “I’m Roxanne Monet, representing Children’s Mercy Hospital. We’re very pleased to have you as our guests tonight. We hope you have a very exciting time and please do not hesitate to let me know if there’s anything you want.” With that she winked at the silver-haired gentleman and squeezed the hand of his pink-faced wife and sauntered on her way again. Now she was having fun.

  All the while she laughed her way around the room, enjoying the patrons and making mental notes about how the arrangements were being carried out. She believed the littlest details had the most impact, like the brass golf ball paperweights at each place on the tables and the ceramic golf bag vases filled with flowers and miniature golf clubs. Standing at a spot in the far corner of the room, near the kitchen entrance, she lifted a Baccarat crystal champagne flute from a passing waiter’s tray. She joined a group of newer patrons, to welcome them, when she saw Barry Dennis arrive.

  A c
rowd immediately surrounded him in the middle of the room. She couldn’t resist watching him. The quirky smile never left his face, except to be interrupted by a hearty laugh or a witty comment for his fans’ amusement. Roxanne admired the way he handled people. It was a talent she knew well and could appreciate far more than his ability to shoot a basketball.

  When she caught his eye, she smiled and nodded at him. When he didn’t smile in return she knew she was in trouble. He must still think she was a married woman, a wicked married woman. Or worse, maybe he’d read about her in the paper and thought her a greedy murderer. It was time for her to seriously consider how she was going to convince this man to give her an interview. An explanation was in order, she knew, as she twirled the champagne flute between two fingers.

  Barry continued to entertain the crowd of people. He looked princely standing above the group in his dark suit and tie. She watched as the jacket tightened across his shoulders when he folded his arms across his massive chest. God damn, but there was something about him, she thought. He was not the only handsome man in the room. But he was the only man in the room who fascinated her.

  Turning to a group of people near her to join in their conversation, she knew she was only postponing the inevitable confrontation with Barry. But this was an event and she had a job to do first. Eventually she would get to Barry and then she would somehow convince him to do the interview and be damned with what he thought of her. If he was going to refuse to give her an interview, she would see to it that it was a tough decision.

  In the meantime, she would see to it that everyone enjoyed themselves. After all, they were paying a lot of money to play in this tournament. It was her role to encourage them to find it in their hearts to donate generously to Children’s Mercy Hospital.

  Laura joined her as she stood near the bar surveying the crowd. “Not a bad evening. Barry Dennis sure is a big attraction,” Laura said, waving her hand in the man’s direction.

  Roxanne checked her Rolex and took a deep breath. “He certainly is.” The party would be winding down soon.

  “I noticed you haven’t spoken to him all night,” Laura prompted. “And I know you worked hard to charm the wallets out of the pants and purses of everyone else tonight.”

  Roxanne laughed. “Just doing my job.” It was time she talked to Barry. She’d been chicken long enough. “But you’re right. I’m going to remedy that right now.” She zeroed her gaze in on him and walked toward him, but she was stopped before she got there.

  “I realize you don’t know me, but I’d like to introduce myself. I’m Kevin Moroni, sports writer with the Boston Globe.” He put out his hand. “I know who you are. In fact, didn’t I read somewhere in the paper that you were recently widowed?”

  The reporter’s freckled face and youthful appearance gave him a Mr. Nice Guy look. She imagined he did very well interviewing people

  “Yes, I bet you did—along with all kinds of other juicy insinuations I’m sure. Let me guess, you would like to know if any of it is true? Are you going to ask me if I murdered my husband, Mr. Moroni?” Never allowing her eyes to waver from his, she knew she easily outdid the man in the bold approach department and waited for his next move.

  “No, no. Of course not,” he said, his face reddening.

  “Of course not. Then what exactly is it you want to know, Kevin?” She leaned the slightest bit closer. He seemed to stand a little taller.

  “I understand you’re running the show here?”

  “That depends.” She waited for his response. His mouth was open but it took him a few seconds to actually speak.

  “Depends on what?” he finally asked. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he gulped.

  “On what you mean by ‘the show,’ of course.” She sharpened her smile. She assumed he’d be asking questions about her late husband and her alleged fortune hunting like all the media lately. Red-faced, he gave a nervous, weak laugh and opened his mouth, but he was saved from having to continue when Barry’s deep voice interrupted them. Roxanne turned around.

  “Trying to make time with the lady, Kevin? Let me give you some advice: Give it up.”

  She was about to speak until she looked up and met his intense blazing eyes.

  She felt vulnerable, standing there before Barry. She wondered what he thought of her; if he thought she was some kind of Jezebel, or if he knew the truth—that she was a widow. Roxanne shook her head to clear her thoughts. She had to stop this drifting. She must grab hold of life; grab hold of the present.

  She grabbed hold of Barry Dennis instead.

  Putting her arm through his, she transferred her attentions completely from the baffled reporter to Barry.

  “I’ve been wanting to talk to you…” She trailed the sentence off with the suggestion that what would follow was for his ears only. Kevin Moroni got the hint. He excused himself and left in a rush. Roxanne laughed with a shake of her head. There went another man with a terrible first impression of her. If she kept it up, she would certainly never have to worry about getting involved with any man—at least not any decent or sane man.

  “Did I scare him or did you?” Barry looked down into her eyes and asked her. Her arm was still hooked through his and he didn’t seem to mind so she led him toward the door.

  “It doesn’t matter. I think he was up to no good.”

  “Where are we going?” He stopped her when they got to the coatroom.

  She responded with a lift of her brow. Barry Dennis didn’t need to be hit over the head to get the point. The quick intake of his breath and the slight quirk of his mouth told her that he understood exactly what she had in mind.

  “First I’d like an answer.” He withdrew himself from her grasp and leaned back against the wall with his arms folded, looking for all the world like he’d wait till doomsday for an answer, and like he half expected he may well have to wait.

  “To what?” Roxanne stood squarely in front of him, close but not touching, with her own arms folded and her feet spread apart.

  “You know. But I’ll spell it out for you, seeing that you like to play games so much. Why did you let me think you were married?”

  They stood leveling smoldering stares at each other. Roxanne’s pulse picked up and her blood felt like flames running through her veins. She couldn’t remember the last time a man made her feel this way.

  “No reason. Except maybe I thought I should try and stay out of trouble ever since that night the police found my husband dead and everyone but them has accused me of murdering him. Does that answer your question?” She offered him a satisfied smile while he mulled over her answer.

  “Not exactly, but it’ll do. Your place or mine?” He lifted himself from against the wall and reached one arm out around to the small of her back, his fingertips skimming over her bottom.

  It was her turn to be surprised, but only for a moment and then she laughed and let him guide her toward the front door. “Your place. But first I have to take care of a few last minute details with Laura,” Roxanne said, excusing herself from Barry. When she found Laura they went to speak to the manager and sign off on some invoices.

  “Don’t worry about a thing, Laura. Everything has gone very smoothly. People will be leaving in a short while. You can handle the rest of the evening. Harry is here.” Roxanne turned to leave. Laura and her boss Harry could handle the rest of the night.

  “What about your resolve to stay away from men? I see you’re not even wearing your wedding band anymore.” Laura noticed. “Where are you going with Barry Dennis anyway?”

  “Don’t worry, I won’t hurt him.” Roxanne shrugged a shoulder at her friend and turned to leave with a wave. She didn’t want to explain why Barry was exempt from her man-moratorium. Mostly because she hadn’t figured out why.

  “I’m not worried about him, but Roxy, he is the star attraction of the party…and tomorrow’s golf tournament.”

  “Don’t worry.” Roxanne left her friend with a reassuring wink then headed out to meet with B
arry in the entry hall. Some fans had found him and he was signing autographs when she caught up with him. He smiled at the young man when he gave him back his pen and paper and then whisked Roxanne out the door without a pause. The valet stepped up to serve them, but Barry waved him off as he stepped off the curb and crossed to the VIP parking lot.

  Neither of them spoke as he led her to his car. He opened the door to the driver’s side and she got in and slid over. He followed her. Barely in the car, he took her into his arms with both hands. She let him hold her tight. His mouth came down on hers in a hard kiss. The raw need of his strong hold, his moist lips, and thrusting tongue was stunning. But even in her absence of recent experience, the thrill of exciting a man to this height of passion brought Roxanne to respond openly, inviting him for more.

  He moved his hands down over her body, pushing the silk of her dress away from the silk of her skin. His mouth moved from her lips to suck at the hot, sensitive skin of her neck. It had been too long since she felt this powerful throbbing excitement. Maybe it had never been this exciting.

  Then he pulled away from her, slowly raising himself upright as if any quicker movement would overtax his laboring body. She watched him, motionless. Without saying a word, he drew his eyes from hers and put his key in the ignition. Another man, she thought, would have felt the need to explain such quick and bold passion. But for some reason, the fact that he didn’t brought a smile to her lips.

  He seemed to study her face. “That sexy smile of yours is going to drive me crazy. It’s not quite an invitation—more like a dare.”