And just like that it's over.
But even as I write these words, I know that from this moment on, it will never be over. From this moment on, my life will never be the same. Unlike my little fish, I'll never really be free again.
Simon slowly closed the notebook, slowly set it down on the floor.
Then he stood up and went to look for Frankie.
Simon was standing on the beach as Frankie came out of the ocean. She swept her hair back from her face, using her hands to squeeze out the water. The ocean had cooled her, cleansed her. She always felt so damn dirty if she so much as thought about that awful day.
The sky still held a slight hint of red-orange from the setting sun, but it was the moon, two-thirds full and waxing, that lit Simon's face.
Without his usual smile he looked older, harder, and entirely unforgiving.
“Tell me their names,” he said as she stopped in front of him, “and I'll track them down and beat the crap out of them.”
Frankie moved up the beach to where the clothes she'd had on over her bathing suit were lying in a pile. “I don't remember their names.”
“Like hell you don't.”
She glanced back at him. With his mouth set in that grim line and his blue eyes glistening in the darkness, she could almost believe him capable of doing injury to the men who had nearly raped her all those years before. Funny, she'd never thought of Simon as the aggressive type, but he looked as if he might actually enjoy this particular bloody encounter.
“Why didn't you press charges?” he asked.
“There was no proof,” Frankie told him, trying to sound matter-of-fact. “Preston Seaholm believed me—he told me he'd back me one hundred percent, whatever I decided to do. But the D.A. told me it's hard enough to convict someone of rape, let alone attempted rape.” She heard a trace of bitterness creep into her voice. “ You didn't take my word at face value—why should a courtroom full of strangers?”
“I'm sorry,” Simon said, and he actually looked as if he were. “It's just …. I know what you told Leila, and I had to believe that if you hadn't told her the entire truth, then you wouldn't tell me.” He spoke softly, uncertainly. It was the first time Frankie had seen him with his self-assurance and supersmooth charm stripped away, with his heart laid bare.
But, no. It wasn't. The night before at the resort restaurant she'd seen a similar look in his eyes, right after that moment when she'd been so convinced he was going to kiss her ….
“If you had been raped, and you hadn't even told your best friend, you damn well wouldn't have admitted it to me,” Simon continued. “I mean, can you honestly stand there and tell me that you would have told me the truth?”
Frankie shook her head. He was right. She wouldn't have been able to tell him.
“That's why I had to read it myself. So don't be …. mad at me, okay?”
Frankie nodded. Okay.
Simon nodded too. He stood there in the moonlight, just looking at her, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his shorts, his usually laughing eyes so somber and serious.
“You got any other awful secrets for me to stumble across, Francine?” he asked with only a ghost of his usual smile.
Frankie's heart was beating hard. She'd always found smooth-talking, devil-may-care Simon Hunt outrageously attractive, but knowing that he was capable of this quietness, knowing he had this vulnerability, made him damn near irresistible.
Any other awful secrets? Only that I desperately want to feel your arms around me. She shook her head, shivering slightly as a cool breeze blew in off the water. “No,” she lied.
But it was as if he could read her mind. He stepped toward her, taking his hands from his pockets, and drew her into his arms, wet bathing suit and all.
Frankie closed her eyes, letting her head rest on his shoulder, knowing that she'd lied to herself as well.
She wanted more from him than a comforting embrace. She wanted so much more.
SEVEN
SIMON SAT IN his car outside Frankie's house.
This was weird.
He'd often been infatuated with women—that was nothing new. He knew how to charm his way into their lives and their beds. He was good at that. He knew how to play that game. But this time there was a twist. Yeah, he wanted into Frankie's bed. But nearly as much as he wanted that, he wanted something else. He wanted to read more of her diaries.
Yeah, it was definitely weird.
He took his cup of coffee from the cup holder and climbed out of his car.
It was seven A.M. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been up and showered and dressed this early in the morning. But Frankie had sent him home the night before, determined to sort through her diaries on her own.
Simon had been unable to sleep. He'd gotten out of bed around 2:30 in the morning and found himself in his car, driving past Frankie's house. The lights had been on in her windows, but he didn't stop. He didn't let himself go in. He didn't dare. She'd told him in no uncertain terms that his position as her assistant was riding on his good behavior. If he came on too strong, he'd be out of the picture. And showing up on her doorstep at nearly three o'clock in the morning was definitely coming on too strong. He could make any excuse in the book, but she would know exactly why he was there.
It must have been four A.M. before he finally fell asleep. And when the phone rang a few minutes after six, he could barely mumble the word hello. But he woke up quickly enough when he realized who was on the other end of the line. It was his old friend who worked at Boston University.
He'd recovered from the flu, and had come in early to catch up on missed work—and to check the computer records for Jazz Chester.
Good old Jazz had made a generous tax-deductible donation to the alumni fund just a few months earlier, before the end of the year. It was likely that the address and phone numbers Simon had scribbled on a piece of paper were current.
Simon climbed the steps to Frankie's porch. The front door was locked—the knob didn't turn in his hand, but the door wasn't latched and it swung open. He opened the screen and stepped inside.
The house was quiet, and he stopped, listening for Frankie. Thinking she might be asleep, he moved quietly down the hall toward the kitchen.
He knew the kitchen door's hinges squeaked, so he pushed it open slowly, careful not to make too much noise as he peered inside. The light was on and the table was covered with the photocopied pages from the rental record books and several of Frankie's diaries.
Frankie's diaries.
Simon stepped into the kitchen, letting the door swing shut.
“Hey!” He jumped in alarm, sensing a flash of movement out of the corner of his eye. He turned just in time to see Frankie. She'd been standing, hidden by the door.
He met her eyes, saw the sudden shocked flash of recognition—just as the gigantic frying pan she was brandishing swung down and hit him squarely on the top of his head.
Boing. He thought it made a rather interesting sound as he dropped to his hands and knees on the kitchen floor.
“Oh, my God, Simon!” The frying pan clattered onto the table as Frankie knelt on the floor next to him.
He'd dropped his cup of coffee, and the steaming liquid gurgled slowly out of the small opening in the plastic lid, but Frankie only pushed it out of the way.
His ears were ringing slightly and his brain felt a touch scrambled, but she'd whacked him where his skull was particularly thick. He'd hit his head far harder before with only a small lump to show for it. He would probably be tender for a few days, but it wasn't really that big a deal.
But Frankie didn't know that. She cupped his face with cool fingers, her eyes dark with concern. “Oh, Si, are you all right?”
Her face was inches away from his as she helped him down so that he was lying on his back. She leaned even closer to run her fingers lightly across his head, searching for the spot where she'd hit him.
Despite the bump on his head, it felt sinfully good. He could smell her
sweet scent—some kind of herbal shampoo, the warm aroma of coffee on her breath, a hint of sunscreen and her own unmistakable and very female perfume. She was kneeling next to him, her thigh pressed against his hip, fingers in his hair. It was entirely possible that he'd died and gone to heaven.
“I better get you some ice,” Frankie said.
He didn't need any ice. Not for his head anyway. It was other parts of his anatomy that could use cooling down. But she was back beside him in a flash, lifting his head onto her lap.
He was okay. The ringing in his ears was almost entirely gone and his knees no longer felt rubbery. But the ice pack felt good against his slightly bruised scalp, as did her fingers in his hair. Her other hand gently stroked the side of his face, and his cheek pressed against the softness of her belly … Oh, this was too good an opportunity to pass up.
Simon let his eyelids flutter shut.
“Oh, no,” Frankie said, worry in her voice. “You're not supposed to go to sleep with a head injury. Come on, you better sit up while I call Doc Devlin.”
Simon let his muscles go limp.
“Simon?” She tried pushing him up, but without his cooperation he was too difficult to move. He felt her lower his head to the floor, and then move around in front of him. She tugged at his shoulders, trying to pull him into a sitting position. “Come on, Si, talk to me. How did you get in here? Dammit, you scared me to death. The door was locked. I always lock up at night.”
“Wasn't latched,” Simon murmured. “Sorry I scared you, honey …. “
Honey. The last time he'd called her that, she'd damn near had a heart attack. She'd given him a two-hour-long speech on sexist terms of endearment. This time she didn't say a word.
She tugged harder at his shoulders, finally straddling his legs to get more leverage. She gripped him tightly, all of her muscles straining.
“What are you doing up this early anyway?” she asked.
Simon let her pull him up, but then wobbled slightly so that she'd have to hold him tightly. She did, her breasts pressed against his chest, her arms around his back, her thighs gripping his hips. It felt too intensely good. He couldn't keep a strangled sound of pleasure from escaping.
“Does it hurt that bad?”
Hurt? Not exactly ….
“Simon, come on. Open your eyes and talk to me!”
Simon opened his eyes and knew he'd gone too far. Her expression was filled with anxiety and concern, and her eyes were brimming with worried tears.
“Hey.” He reached up to blot a tear that had caught on her eyelash. “Hey, I'm really okay, Francine. The ice is working, and you didn't hit me that hard.”
She pulled back slightly, lifting his chin to look more closely into his eyes. What she saw made her own eyes narrow.
“You were faking,” she breathed. “You son of a bitch! I can't believe it. I thought I nearly killed you, and you were faking it.”
Simon gave her his best smile. “At least I'm not going to die, right?”
“Don't count on it,” Frankie muttered.
“Next time use a cast-iron frying pan,” he advised her. “Aluminum just doesn't cut it.”
“Shoot, Simon, that was just plain mean. Why would you make me think that …. “
Her voice trailed off and her eyes widened a little as she realized the intimacy of their position. She sat, frozen, gazing at him, awareness in her eyes.
The sudden heat was incredible. It crackled around them, a furnace blast of sexual fire unlike anything Simon had felt in close to an eternity. Time slowed and stretched out, each second seeming like a lifetime as she gazed into his eyes.
Holding her this way felt so good, so right. She was a perfect fit in his arms, and he knew she felt it too. But slowly, almost jerkily, she pushed herself off him, and the moment was gone.
She'd been up all night. She was still wearing the same shorts and T-shirt she'd had on the evening before. She was still wearing her bathing suit underneath her clothes. She stood up and poured a cup of coffee from the pot on the counter, bringing the mug of steaming liquid to her mouth with a shaking hand.
“What are you doing here so early?” she asked.
Jazz Chester's address and phone numbers seemed to burn in Simon's pocket. If he as much as mentioned Jazz's name …. What was he thinking? That if he mentioned Jazz's name he might as well kiss good-bye his chance of making it with Francine? The truth was, he had no chance to start with, at least not just then. Hell, she'd pulled an all-nighter reading her diary entries from Jazz Chester's early visits to Sunrise Key. Simon would have no chance with Francine until she found Jazz and found out that real life rarely holds up to fantasies.
She wasn't unaffected by this encounter, Simon knew that. But he also knew without a doubt that pushing the issue would be a major mistake.
But Frankie didn't give him time to answer. “I was just about to crawl into bed—defeated.” She picked up his travel mug from the floor and used a sponge to mop up the spilled coffee. “I narrowed the list of men named John down to three,” she explained. “John Marshall, John McMahon, and John Carter. But when I double-checked the phone numbers with directory assistance, none of them was right. All three of these men moved years ago—and there's no way to get their forwarding addresses or phone numbers.” She sighed. “Did you know there are forty-seven John Carters in Baltimore? And another seventeen J. Carters too. That's assuming our John Carter even lives in Baltimore anymore. Heck, he could be anywhere.”
Simon pulled himself to his feet, setting the ice pack down near the sink as he took Jazz's phone number and address from his pocket and handed it to Frankie.
She stared at it: “217 Oxen Yoke Road, Wellesley— What's this?”
“Tim finally called.”
She looked at him blankly. “Tim?”
“My friend who works at Boston University.” Simon refilled his mug with coffee and took a sip.
Frankie stared at the piece of paper. “Is this …. ?”
“Jazz Chester's address and phone numbers— both home and work. It's current—at least as of four months ago.”
“I don't know whether to kill you or kiss you.”
Simon laughed, raking his hair back from his face, wincing as his fingers touched the lump on his head. “I don't seem to have any problem with that decision, if you want me to make it for you.”
“No, thanks.” She quickly looked away from him, as if suddenly remembering the sensation of his body against hers. God knows, Simon was remembering it. It was damned difficult to think about anything else.
She looked down at the paper again, looking at it as if it were both a winning lottery ticket and a warrant for her arrest. “Suddenly I'm scared to death.”
“Do you want me to call him?”
“No, I can do this. I want to do this.” She squared her shoulders and risked another look in his direction. “In fact, if you'll give me some privacy, I'm going to call him right now.”
Simon glanced at his watch. “It's not even eight o'clock. Are you sure—”
“Jazz was a morning person. I'm betting he still is, and that he's already at his office,” Frankie said. She picked up the kitchen phone and gave Simon a pointed look. “If you don't mind …. ?”
Simon didn't want to leave. He wanted to stay. And listen. “I guess I'll be in your office.”
“With your ear pressed to the wall? I don't think so,” Frankie said. “Why don't you head home? I'll call you later.”
Simon crossed his arms. “No way am I leaving without stepfather John's phone number. Remem ber me? I've got a client to keep happy too.”
“There's no way you're getting John's phone number before Clay Quinn does,” Frankie countered.
She was right. It would be unprofessional and unacceptable. And it had nothing to do with the real reason he wanted to stay.
“I'm sorry, you're right,” he admitted. “It's just…” He trailed off, out of excuses.
“I know I'm not the only one who sta
nds to make a lot of money on this deal,” she said, “but I'm not thinking about the money right now.”
He wasn't either, but he wasn't sure she'd believe him if he told her the truth.
“This boy used to mean the world to me,” Frankie continued, waving the piece of paper with Jazz's phone numbers. “If you want to know the truth, I believe I was truly in love with him. Leila once told me that she thought I was secretly still in love with Jazz, still waiting for him to come back, even after all these years. For all I know, she could very well be right.” She took a deep breath. “But what I do know is that I don't need you and your games to get in my way.”
His games. Her words stung particularly harshly, because he knew they were true. He did play games. His entire life was one giant game— never too serious and not particularly hard to win since he alone was responsible for writing and rewriting the rules. He was silent. What could he possibly say?
“Can you try to understand, just a little bit?” “Yeah.” He understood. More than she'd believe. He took his mug of coffee from the counter and pushed open the kitchen door. “I'll be on the beach.” He paused, looking back at her, wishing his stomach weren't in a knot, praying that Jazz Chester was married, or a priest, or gay, and at the same time praying that the man was everything Frankie wanted him to be, everything she needed. She deserved happiness, and he knew that he himself—he and his games— couldn't bring her that. He tried to smile, hoping the words he was about to say weren't going to stick in his throat. “Good luck.”
She'd never know how much it had cost him to say that. She'd never know that his heart felt as if it were breaking in two.
The door closed gently behind him as she began to dial the phone.
Frankie closed her eyes, listening to the telephone ring. It rang four times and then clicked over to an answering machine.
She didn't know whether to feel relieved or alarmed. She was going to have to leave a message. What was she going to say?
The Kissing Game Page 7