It wasn't Simon.
It was the starchy-sounding concierge from the hotel's front desk. “Several large boxes have been delivered for you,” he said, his blue-blooded voice tinged with disapproval. “Shall I have the bellboy bring them up?”
“Yes, thank you.”
She hung up the phone, silently berating herself. Of course it wouldn't be Simon on the phone.
Simon hadn't bothered to show up for the airline flight off the key. Apparently, he'd thought better of their parting argument, and cut his losses. No doubt he'd moved on—exactly as she'd said—to his next “target.”
No, he wouldn't be calling her here. Besides, even if he did do something as certifiably insane as follow her to Boston on a later flight, there was no way he'd find her at the ritzy Parker House hotel.
Frankie had called Clayton Quinn on her flight from Orlando to Boston. She'd filled her client in, letting him know she was close to finding his great-aunt Alice's mysterious friend John. Clay had been thrilled at her progress. He'd been ecstatic at the news she'd discovered John's last name was Marshall, and that his current phone number and address were—hopefully—packed in a box in Boston.
Clay had recommended that Frankie stay at the Parker House while she was in Boston. In fact, he had more than recommended—he'd insisted. He'd reminded her to keep her receipts for lodging and meals. Whatever she spent would be reimbursed as a travel expense.
She'd made her room reservation from the plane, and had been shocked to find out that one night's stay in the fancy hotel cost more than she normally spent on four weeks’ worth of groceries.
The towels were heated on steam-filled bars in the bathroom. There were telephones in every corner of the room. Huge windows overlooked downtown Boston. The furniture and decor were elegant and made Frankie feel a touch nervous— as if she might accidentally break something priceless.
No, Simon would never think to look for her here.
There was a knock on the door—the bellboy with the boxes sent over from the storage facility. He frowned, recognizing her from the front desk, where she'd insisted on carrying her own small suitcase up to her room. Still, he was servitude incarnate, making sure he placed the boxes exactly, precisely where she wanted them, and offering to open them for her. Frankie tipped him—too little from the look on his face—and then he was gone.
She closed the door and turned to gaze at the big boxes. Somewhere inside one of those boxes were a phone number and an address that were going to solve her first big-league case and get her that $10,000 bonus.
So why didn't she feel excited? Why wasn't she giddy with euphoria? Why wasn't she doing a victory dance and slapping a high five?
Well, there wasn't anyone to high-five, for starters.
Simon should have been with her.
Frankie shook her head. Where had that crazy thought come from? She certainly didn't need Simon around, distracting her with his bedroom eyes. No, she didn't need Simon, subtly stealing her focus away from everyone and everything else around her, until all she thought about was his smile, the sound of his laughter, the touch of his hand on her arm, the look in his eyes as he undressed her ….
And that was one fantasy she was never going to live out. Simon had given up on her. True, she'd fired him, but when had something like that ever stopped him before? It was clear he'd decided she simply wasn't worth the effort.
Dear Lord, she was exhausted. She'd been up all night. She'd caught a few hours of sleep on the plane, but she wasn't a happy flyer, and her nerves kept her from feeling truly rested.
No, this wasn't disappointment she was feeling, it was fatigue. Simon Hunt was nothing but trouble, and she was a thousand miles away from that trouble right now, and that was a good thing. Wasn't it?
Jazz. Think about Jazz, not Simon.
She had approximately thirty minutes to shower and transform herself into something that looked more alive than dead before Jazz Chester came to take her to dinner.
Frankie pulled out the blue-flowered dress she'd thrown into her suitcase along with a clean pair of jeans, a few extra T-shirts, and several changes of underwear.
When she'd called Jazz from the hotel, he told her he'd have his secretary make a reservation for dinner at the restaurant right there in the Parker House. Frankie had caught a glimpse of the restaurant from the front desk. It was not a jeans-and-T-shirt kind of place.
Only someone with Simon's confidence and charisma could walk into a fancy restaurant wearing blue jeans and a T-shirt and look as if he were properly dressed. Simon had that slightly amused, so-what attitude ….
Frankie skimmed off her clothes and climbed into the shower. She closed her eyes and let the water pound down on her head.
So what. It was a good attitude to have, and in her current state, not impossible to adopt.
So what if she was having dinner with the first boy she'd ever loved. So what if she didn't feel like wearing some stupid wrinkled dress. So what if the restaurant didn't serve her because she was wearing jeans and a T-shirt—they'd go get pizza. So what if Jazz disapproved ….
And if she never even so much as saw Simon again ….
Try as hard as she might, when it came to Simon Hunt, Frankie couldn't summon up a single so-what.
“I'm sorry,” the hotel concierge told Simon. “I can't give out room numbers for our guests, but I can connect you to Ms. Paresky's room.”
Simon had a pinpoint spot of pain directly over his left eyebrow that was threatening to explode into the biggest headache he'd ever had in his life. It had started before he'd sat in traffic for more than forty-five minutes in the taxi that took him from Logan Airport to the Parker House. It had started before the flight he took from Sara -sota was delayed for two hours. It had started before he'd been unable to charter a plane off Sunrise Key and had had to rent a car and drive all the way to the Sarasota airport. It had started when he'd realized he was going to miss the 10:50 flight off the key, when he'd stopped to play the messages on his answering machine. One of his best clients had left half a dozen distressed calls about several priceless twelfth-century pieces she was trying to unload to a buyer in Jacksonville who hadn't done more than give her a verbal commitment.
He'd returned the call, calming the elderly lady down and promising to get the agreement in writing as soon as he returned from Boston. But his client was so upset—her grandson's college education depended on this sale—he had to draw up a written agreement. It had to be faxed to both the seller and the buyer and reworded and re-faxed, and before Simon stood up from his desk, it was just after eleven. The sale was binding, his client was relieved, but he'd missed Frankie's flight.
And here he was. In Boston. Frankie had had a ten-minute jump on him leaving the key, but she'd gotten to the hotel a solid five hours earlier. It was nearly seven-thirty now. Please God, Simon prayed as he picked up the extension the con cierge offered him and listened to the phone ring up in Frankie's room, please let Jazz be fashionably late for their dinner date.
But the phone rang and rang and rang.
“I'm sorry, sir,” the man said without a whit of apology in his expression, “the young lady is not in her room at this time.”
It was entirely possible that Simon was too late.
Frankie was with Jazz right now.
Oh, God, he was too late.
Simon knew exactly what he'd do if he took Frankie out to dinner. He'd bring her someplace nice, somewhere with music—a band or piano player. In between the salad course and the soup, he'd pull her out onto the dance floor and take her into his arms. She'd fit against him perfectly as they danced, and he'd close his eyes, reveling in the full body contact. But before the song ended, he'd lean down and claim her lips in a slow, lingering, delicious kiss. He'd dance with her again and again, and before dessert and coffee arrived, he'd stand up, but this time they wouldn't go onto the dance floor. This time they'd leave the restaurant, go to his hotel room ….
Jazz was no fool. If F
rankie was even the least bit willing, Simon wasn't going to see her until late the next morning, after she spent the night with Jazz.
Man, he felt sick.
The concierge was eyeing him nervously. No doubt he hadn't missed the sudden tears that had sprung into Simon's eyes.
“I'm really disappointed,” Simon admitted to the man. “See, I've got it bad for this lady, but I got here too late and now she's out with some real butt-head. I'm afraid she's going to fall in love with this guy, and that's making it hard for me to breathe, you know? I didn't expect to feel this way, and I'm scared to death.”
To his surprise, the concierge nodded, compassion in his normally expressionless eyes. And when he spoke, his upper-crust accent was gone.
“Can I getcha anything, pal?” the man asked in a thick local Boston accent.
“A room and stiff drink or six,” Simon said miserably. “Not necessarily in that order.”
“If you trust me with your driver's license and a credit card,” the man said, “you can head on into the bar and I'll bring ‘em back to you with a room key in less than five minutes. You can leave your luggage behind the counter too. I'll have it sent up to your room.”
Simon took both cards from his wallet and placed them on the counter. He leaned forward to read the man's name tag. “Thanks, Dominic.”
He turned toward the bar, but the concierge stopped him. “Hey, Mr. Hunt.” Simon turned back. “At the risk of not minding my own business, I gotta tell you, pal, you might stand a better chance of finding the lady without the drinks.”
It was a good point. “Do you live here in Boston?” Simon asked the man.
He nodded. “Have for all my life.”
“Where would you take a woman out to dinner if you really wanted to impress her?”
The concierge smiled. “Attaboy. I knew you weren't a quitter. I'll make you a list and call you a guy I know, drives a cab. Meanwhile, why don't you start with the obvious? We got a four-star restaurant right here in the hotel.”
“I really appreciate it, Dominic.”
Dominic nodded. “There used to be a girl I loved the way you love yours, but I let her get away. Not a day goes by that I don't regret that.”
He turned to his computer screen, leaving Simon staring at him.
Love …. ? Who said anything about …. love?
Sure, he was upset at the thought of losing Frankie to Jazz … But love?
No, it couldn't be. Could it?
Simon stopped just inside the entrance to the hotel's crowded restaurant, letting his eyes get accustomed to the romantic lighting. Music was playing. A trio was set up in the corner of the room, and they were performing an old standard. It was slow, romantic, and easy to dance to. The dance floor was near the band, and a number of couples swayed in time to the music.
Simon searched the faces for Frankie. She wasn't on the dance floor. And she wasn't sitting at the tables nearby. She wasn't near a small bar that occupied another corner of the room She wasn't ….
She was.
She was there. She was sitting at one of the secluded tables near the windows. She was wearing some kind of a white shirt and her hair was brushed back from her face and—
She laughed at something Jazz Chester said, and Simon felt his heart lodge in his throat. Dear God, she looked so beautiful. When she smiled, the entire world seemed to light up around her.
He loved her. Dominic was right. It was love. Simon was totally, mind-blowingly, completely in love with Francine Paresky. He had to sit down ….
“May I help you, sir?” The maître d’ stepped in front of him as he headed toward one of the empty seats at the bar.
“I need a drink.”
“I'm sorry, sir,” the man said loftily, “but after seven-thirty our bar is closed to all but dinner service. There's another bar across the lobby—”
“No,” Simon said. On the other side of the room, Jazz Chester, damn his eyes, reached across the small table and took Frankie's hand. On this side of the room Simon could do little more than watch. Jazz didn't know her, not the way Simon did. Jazz had never read Frankie's diaries. Jazz didn't even know that she wrote down her every thought, every wish, every desire. But Simon did.
Simon knew from the way Jazz was looking at Frankie that the man's number-one priority was to get inside her pants, not her head. Sure, Simon had his own sexual agenda, but there was so much more to what he was feeling than that. He wanted to be with her, to talk to her, to watch her eyes as she talked to him, as she told him her secrets.
Oh, God. He loved Frankie. How had this happened? When had this become more than a game?
“Perhaps you'd like a table …. ?” the maître d’ asked.
Simon pulled his gaze away from Frankie and forced himself to smile. This guy was a real load. “Preferably one with a seat, please.”
“There's a forty-minute wait for a table,” the maître d’ told him with barely concealed sadistic pleasure. “Perhaps you'd enjoy a walk around the block, or a seat in the hotel lobby?” Simon shook his head. “No, you don't understand—”
At that moment the concierge appeared at Simon's elbow.
“Any luck, sir?” he asked, his fake upper-crust accent securely back in place.
Simon nodded. “She's here, Dom, but there's a forty-minute wait for a table.”
The concierge looked at the maître d’. “Mr. Hunt can be seated at the bar, Robert.”
“I'm sorry, Mr. Defeo.” The maître d's lips were tightly pressed together. “But as I told this gentleman, the bar is closed.”
Dominic lifted an eyebrow. “Then …. open it.”
“But it's after seven-thirty and we've got only one bartender on duty.” He sniffed primly. “The rules clearly state no paying customers at the bar after—”
Dominic leaned closer, lowering his voice, dropping his accent. “Seat him at the bar, you rigid idiot, and give him his drink on the house— that way he's not a paying customer and everyone's happy.”
The maître d's mouth opened in a silent oh.
“Seat him yourself,” he said, walking away in a huff.
Dom tapped his forehead. “Creative thinking, Bobby,” he called after him. “You should try it sometime.” He handed Simon his credit card, driver's license, and a room key as he led him to the bar. “Good luck,” he said. “Let me know how it all turns out.”
Simon clasped the older man's hand. “Thanks. I will.”
“Hey, Vinnie,” Dominic said to the bartender. “Set my friend here up—but keep his drinks watered down. He's gonna need his wits about him.”
“Sure thing, Mr. Defeo.”
“Just a ginger ale, Vinnie.” Simon was looking at Frankie, and Dominic followed his gaze.
“That her?” he asked.
Simon nodded. “Yeah.”
As the two men watched, Jazz Chester stood up. He tugged at Frankie's hand and she rose gracefully from the table. Together they moved onto the dance floor.
Simon heard Dominic chuckle. “How'd she manage to get past Mr. Rules and Regulations wearing jeans?”
The bartender put a glass of ginger ale down on the bar near Simon's elbow. “Bob told me she told him she was some kind of famous movie star,” he said. “That's why he waived the dress code. I'm also supposed to keep an eye out for paparazzi. Run interference if necessary.”
Dominic looked at Simon questioningly, his bushy eyebrows raised. “A famous movie star?”
Simon laughed, shaking his head no. “She's like you—a creative thinker. She's a private investigator who lives on the west coast of Florida. She moonlights as a cabdriver.”
“She looks kind of like what's-her-name,” Vinnie said. “You know the girl I mean. Good actress.”
“The one who's in all the pictures these days,” Dom said. “Italian-sounding name. Very pretty girl.”
Simon fell silent, watching Frankie and Jazz dance. Frankie was actually wearing jeans and a plain white T-shirt. She had cowboy boots on her fee
t. Cowboy boots and faded jeans in a four-star restaurant …. Her jeans fit her snugly, hugging her compact, slender body in a way that had turned his head for years. For years he'd been content to watch her walk away from him, but that was going to stop right now.
Jazz pulled her closer, and she shut her eyes, resting her head on his shoulder.
Simon's heart sank. She looked so peaceful, so content. Jazz Chester was as handsome as Simon had remembered him. His brown hair was darker and he'd filled out, but he was still in good shape. His picture-perfect features had thickened a bit, but the effect only made him better-looking, more rugged.
According to Frankie, Jazz was the nicest guy in the world. Simon had never been accused of that in his entire life.
“She looks happy,” Simon whispered.
“Wait a minute. What's with this noble-sacrifice crap?” Dominic asked in disbelief. “You're not gonna pull some kind of I-love-her-enough-to-let-her-go stupid-ass stunt here, are you?”
As Simon watched, Jazz pulled Frankie's lips up to his own and kissed her slowly, tenderly. Simon's own lips were dry. She was the one. Frankie was the one, probably the only one he was ever truly going to love, and he was going to lose her before he even had her.
“I was thinking about it, yeah. On the other hand, I may just throw up. I suppose I could do both simultaneously …. “
“So you love her enough to let her go,” Dom said. “That's real sweet, but give yourself a break, pal. Love yourself enough to fight for her. Besides, look at her body language. She's not comfortable kissing him. She's not sold on this guy—not yet.”
Simon didn't see it. He didn't see discomfort or distance. All he saw was Frankie in someone else's arms.
“Dom, they're calling you from the front desk,” Vinnie murmured.
“Don't be a fool, Mr. Hunt,” Dominic said as he walked away.
Simon watched as Jazz kissed Frankie again. He stood up, uncertain of what to do. Should he just cut in? Should he tap Jazz on the shoulder mid-kiss? Should he wait until they went back to their table and pull up a neighborly chair?
The Kissing Game Page 9