Or should he stand up on the bar and shout across the room that he loved her? Yeah, that would be incomparable fun. He wasn't sure he'd be able to get the words I love you past his lips even in private. It would be much too risky ever to reveal himself that way. It would be emotional hara-kiri. Three little words would rip him asunder, spilling his quivering feelings out naked onto the floor for her to kick aside or walk on.
Simon took a step toward the dance floor. Cut in. He was going to have to cut in.
But before he took another step, Frankie pulled back from Jazz and asked him something. Jazz shrugged and tried to pull her close again, but Frankie resisted. She gestured toward the top pocket of his jacket. Again Jazz shrugged. Frankie gestured again, pulling free from his arms, and Jazz finally took something from his pocket and handed it to Frankie. Frankie looked at it carefully and handed it back to him.
And then, while Simon watched, she hauled back and punched Jazz Chester in the jaw.
Jazz went down onto the dance floor, and a gasp went up from the other restaurant patrons. Frankie turned and made a beeline for the door.
Simon stepped toward her. “Francine …. “
She didn't hear him, didn't see him. She pushed right past him in her haste to leave the room.
Simon glanced back at Jazz. He'd picked himself up, shaking his head ruefully at the waiters’ and maître d's attentive concern. He made no attempt to go after Frankie.
Which was just as well, because Simon followed her, picking up his pace as she headed toward the elevators.
TEN
FRANKIE CLOSED HER eyes and let the elevator carry her up to the fifth floor.
Damn Jazz Chester. Damn him to hell. And as long as she was angry and hurt, she might as well add Simon Hunt's name to the list. Damn Simon too. Damn him for being right, and damn him for not being there now, of all times, when she needed him the most.
Frankie opened her eyes and stared at the numbers lighting up above the elevator door. One more floor. She'd promised herself she wouldn't cry until she made it into her room and locked the door behind her.
But her knuckles on her right hand were bruised and raw from punching Jazz in the face. It was the final blow to both her pride and her psyche—the straw of pain and embarrassment that was trying its hardest to break the camel's back.
Frankie couldn't hold in slightly hysterical-sounding laughter. She'd punched Jazz Chester in the face. God help her if Simon ever found out. She and Leila had once argued with Simon for hours over the theory that women were superior to men because they reacted to bad news and disappointment by discussing their emotions rather than internalizing or lashing out.
She'd just “discussed” Jazz's face with her fist, and shot that theory to hell.
Lord, her hand hurt.
Her heart hurt worse.
The old-fashioned elevator doors opened on the fifth floor, and Frankie stepped out. Her room was around to the left, past the fire stairs and—
The door that led to the stairs burst open, and a man leapt out. Frankie jumped back in alarm and assumed a fighting stance.
But the man didn't move toward her. In fact, he was breathing hard and he leaned back against the wall in a very nonthreatening way. He was blond, like Simon, and tall, like Simon, and ….
He glanced over at her, taking in her martial arts pose, and laughed. “Lose your frying pan, Francine?”
It was Simon. It was Simon? Frankie slowly stood up, staring as he doubled over, hands on his knees, head down.
“Are you all right?” She asked it at the exact same time he did. “Owe me a Coke,” he added, still trying to catch his breath. He raked his hair back from his face as he looked up at her from his awkward position.
What was he doing here?
“Stitch in my side from running up five flights of stairs,” he explained, still holding his side as he carefully straightened up. “Oh, man, look at your hand … We've got to get some ice for this.”
He reached for her bruised hand so gently, with so much concern on his face, that Frankie felt her eyes well with tears. She fought hard to blink them back. “I punched out Jazz,” she told him.
Simon didn't seem shocked or appalled or amused or even the least bit surprised. “I know,” he said gently. “What happened?”
Frankie shook her head. She couldn't tell him. Not yet.
He led her toward a small room that held a soda machine and an ice maker. “Don't tell me I'm going to have to sneak a look in your diary to find out exactly what he did to get you so mad.”
Frankie couldn't talk about it. She couldn't think about it. Not until she closed the door of her room. Not until it was safe to cry. She took a deep breath instead. “What are you doing here? I fired you.”
He smiled, letting go of her hand as he opened the sliding door to the ice maker. “Here's a hot tip from the Fortune 500 big book of business rules: You can't fire someone who's never been on the payroll in the first place.” He looked around for something to hold the ice, but there was nothing— no containers, no plastic bags. He pulled the front tails of his shirt out of his pants.
“But you weren't on the plane.” Frankie's voice trembled slightly. Lord, everything was a trigger for emotional distress. The day had been fraught with too much disappointment and too little sleep. The combination was crippling.
He glanced down at her, his gaze sharp. “Did you miss me?”
She couldn't answer that—not without giving herself away. She folded her arms across her chest, holding on to herself tightly. “I thought you changed your mind.”
“You didn't really think you could scare me off that easily, did you?”
“I thought …. “ Frankie had thought whatever this game was that he was playing with her was of such little importance to him that when something or someone more interesting surfaced, he'd had no problem shrugging her off.
“I missed the flight.” Taking the scoop, Simon held out the front of his shirt like a bowl and began filling it with ice. “One of my clients had the audacity to expect me actually to do business and make a sale for them, can you believe it? I had to catch a later plane out of Sarasota.” He closed the ice maker's door and straightened up, holding his shirt out slightly from the smooth, tanned muscles of his stomach. He was wearing khaki Dockers, and with his shirt pulled up, the tiny edge of a pair of wildly colored boxer shorts showed.
Frankie forced herself to look anywhere else as he led her down the hall. “How did you know I was staying here?”
“I called Clay Quinn. I'm not a half-bad detective myself, you know. What's your room number, Francine? My stomach is about to freeze.”
“Five sixteen.” Simon stopped in front of the door, waiting as Frankie searched her pockets for her key. She glanced up at him as she unlocked the door, feeling oddly shy and extremely volatile, the emotions of the past few hours racing around inside of her, searching for an outlet to be set free. “I still can't believe you're really here.”
He tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear. It was an incredibly sweet and gentle gesture and it made her want to weep. His eyes were so soft, such a warm shade of blue. “I thought you might need me,” he said quietly.
It was the kindness of his voice that did her in. She felt herself crumble, her emotions avalanching in on themselves. “I did.” She felt the tears she'd held in for so long start to force their way free. She felt her lower lip tremble like a lost child's. “I do. I do need you, Si.”
One more step and she'd be inside her room. One more step. But she couldn't make it. She couldn't move. Tears flooded her eyes and escaped down her cheeks as Simon took her arm and pulled her over the threshold.
She heard the door close tightly behind her as she gave in to the tears. She sank down onto the dark pink carpeting, overcome by exhaustion and hurt, barely aware that Simon moved swiftly, vanishing somewhere behind her. She heard the clatter of ice in the bathroom sink as if from a distance, and then he was back, enveloping her in the war
mth of his arms, pulling her onto his lap, holding her close right there on the floor.
He didn't question her. He didn't ask for explanations. He just rocked her gently and let her cry.
“I'm here,” he whispered. “As long as you need me, Frankie, I'll be here for you.”
She felt his hands in her hair, stroking her back—comforting hands, strong hands. It felt so good. When was the last time she'd let herself be taken care of like this? She couldn't remember. Gram had died years before and for the last five years of the old woman's life, Frankie had been the caregiver. She'd been the strong one, always ready to smile or give comfort.
Her college boyfriend, Charlie, had wanted to take care of her. But his idea of providing care meant treating her like a child, taking all decisions out of her hands, making her his responsibility. His touch had been proprietary.
Simon's was not.
With Simon she was an equal. He'd treated her that way even when she was a child.
She'd soaked the collar of his shirt. His neck was damp and she wiped at it ineffectively as she lifted her head to look up at him.
His face was somber as he met her gaze. She could see a flash of uncertainty in his eyes, and it unsettled her.
“Hurts bad, huh?” he asked softly.
She nodded, suddenly aware that she was sitting on the floor, on Simon Hunt's lap, with his arms around her. His nose was an inch and a half away from hers, his mouth not much farther.
She could handle irreverent, devil-may-care Simon with his jokes and teasing. It was this other side of him, this quiet, thoughtful, vulnerable Simon that she found hard to deal with—and even harder to resist.
“Is there anything I can do to fix it?” he asked.
Frankie shook her head. He smelled like the ocean and fresh air and subtle traces of expensive cologne. It was the way he'd smelled for years, familiar and warm and sweetly delicious. She would have been able to find him in a darkened warehouse with her eyes closed.
“You really …. “ He cleared his throat. “You really care a lot for this guy, huh?”
It took her a moment to realize he was talking about Jazz.
Jazz.
Frankie pulled free from Simon's arms, moving to sit next to him on the floor, her back against the wall. He took her hand, lacing their fingers together.
“You don't have to answer that,” he said quietly. “You don't have to tell me anything at all— unless you want to tell me to find him and break the other side of his jaw.”
She turned to look at him. “You don't really think I broke his jaw, do you?” Simon picked up her right hand, examining her bruised knuckles. “Can you wiggle your fingers?”
She could and she did. It hurt, but nothing seemed to be broken. She glanced up at him again.
He smiled slightly. “I'd be willing to bet since your hand's not broken, his jaw's not either.”
“Too bad.”
Simon shook his head. “He's an idiot. There's got to be something seriously wrong with him.”
It was Frankie's turn to laugh, but there was no humor in her voice. “You know, I thought it was going to be the way you predicted—that my expectations of Jazz wouldn't stand up to the real man, but …. I was wrong. You were wrong. He was everything I remembered. And more. He met me in the lobby with a single rose. While we were waiting for our drinks, we had a conversation in which he actually recited several lines of poetry.” She laughed again. “He's smart, successful, romantic, handsome, sensitive …. He's perfect.”
Simon looked away, his attention seemingly captured by the sight of their hands clasped together. He loosened his grip, as if suddenly aware he was squeezing her hand too tightly. “And that was why you punched him? Because he's perfect?”
“He asked me to dance,” Frankie told him. “So there we were, on the dance floor, and yes, it was perfect. It was romantic. He didn't even mind that I was wearing jeans.”
“Famous movie stars can get away with that.”
She looked at him sharply. “How did you know …. ?”
“Me and Vinnie, the bartender, go way back.”
“You were there?”
“I saw you dancing.” Simon's gaze shifted to her mouth. “I saw him kiss you. That looked pretty damned perfect to me too.”
Frankie felt her cheeks start to heat. She couldn't believe she was sitting there, talking to Simon about kissing Jazz. “Like I said, Jazz hasn't changed.”
“Then I saw you have what looked like an argument.”
Frankie nodded. “It was the weirdest thing.” She turned toward him, suddenly wanting to tell him, needing someone to know. “We were dancing, right? He had my right hand in his left.” Simon nodded. “He …. kissed me, and yes, it was perfect. I mean …. “ She shrugged. “It was perfect. He looked in my eyes, and he smiled, as if we were sharing some kind of secret, as if he knew that that kiss rated in the decade's top-ten list of most romantic events, and he pulled me in closer and pressed my hand over his heart. I swear, the guy was oozing romance.”
Simon didn't say a word. He just waited for her to continue.
“That's when I felt it.” Frankie shook her head, still amazed at the turn of events. It was only chance that she found out. Otherwise, she never would have known ….
Simon didn't have a clue what she was talking about. That's when I felt it. She could tell from his face that he was imagining in the entirely wrong direction.
“He had a ring in the breast pocket of his jacket,” she explained.
He still didn't get it.
“A plain band,” she continued.
Simon's eyebrows flickered as he frowned slightly.
“I was dancing with Jazz,” Frankie went on, “and I looked down at his left hand, and there was a pale stripe on his ring finger. Now, that's not so strange—he told me his marriage had ended not too long ago. But I couldn't keep from wondering why a recently divorced man would keep his wedding ring in the breast pocket of his jacket.”
A lightbulb went on over Simon's head. “You mean …. ?”
“He's not divorced. He's not even separated. He's married. Jazz Chester is a smart, successful, romantic, handsome, sensitive, lying, cheating bastard.” Frankie looked down at her bruised knuckles. “So I hit him.”
Her eyes filled with tears again. Lord, who would've thought she had any tears left?
“Frankie, I'm sorry,” Simon said quietly.
Blinking hard, she looked up at him, trying her best to smile. “Why? You called it, remember?” She shook her head. “God, he lied to me. Well … no, actually, he didn't lie. He never actually said he was divorced, he let me assume it and didn't tell me otherwise.”
She looked back at her sore hand, tried to flex her fingers, and winced. Simon stood up. “Let me wrap some ice in a towel.”
Frankie's legs ached as she, too, pushed herself up off the floor. “You know what bothers me the most?” she asked, following him into the bathroom.
He shook his head no, watching her in the mirror that covered one entire wall of the big white-tiled room as he folded some ice into a hand towel. Big? This room was larger than her living room. Two sinks were set into a long counter that spanned one side of the room. A Jacuzzi tub was built into the wall across from it. Over in the other corner was a shower stall large enough for a basketball team.
Frankie sat down on the edge of the tub, bringing her attention back to Simon. He looked nearly as tired as she felt. His hair was tousled and his shirt was cried on, sleeves rolled up and tails untucked. His pants were wrinkled and he'd kicked off his shoes and peeled off his socks at some point in the evening—probably since they'd returned to her room.
He looked like a man who was getting ready to go to bed. Frankie had to look away, afraid that what she was thinking would show in her eyes. She was afraid that he'd somehow know that as she was dancing with Jazz Chester tonight, she'd been wishing she were with him instead. The truth was, even if Jazz had been perfect, she wouldn't have gone home wi
th him. How could she start a relationship with one man when she couldn't stop thinking about another?
Simon sat next to her on the rim of the tub. He lifted her bruised hand and wrapped the towel and ice around it. “Sorry,” he murmured when she drew in a short breath of pain. “Tell me. What bothers you the most?”
“It's just that …. it worked out so perfectly in theory. Me and Jazz, I mean. Talk about destiny— we meet again after all these years …. To end up with the boy I first loved—the boy who gave me my first kiss. Could it have been any more romantic?”
Her question was rhetorical, but Simon considered it thoughtfully. “Well, yeah, I could think of one or two scenarios—”
“But that's not the part that really bothers me,” she said. “What bothers me is the fact that now all my memories are tainted.”
“Tainted.”
She glanced up at him, but there wasn't any amusement in his eyes. Only puzzlement. He was truly trying to follow her, trying to understand.
“I had a first kiss that was like something from a romance novel.” She smiled sadly, remembering. “It was an incredible night—one of those warm spring nights on the key, where the air smells like tropical flowers and the stars look close enough to reach out and touch. A breeze was coming in off the Gulf, but it was from the south, and it was warm. We were on the beach, in the moonlight, with the sound of the surf …. “ She shook her head. “It was …. right out of a movie. We were walking and Jazz took my hand and I was nervous as hell.” Nearly as nervous as she was sitting there with Simon's leg pressed comfortably against hers, with his eyes glued to her face, listening to her story as intently as if she were telling him the secret to eternal life. “We'd been on the beach hanging with the same crowd of kids all day, and I'd flirted with him most of that time, but finally we were alone. He stopped walking, and he just looked at me, and I was so sure I could see all the way into his soul just from looking in his eyes. And then he kissed me. It was perfect.”
She risked another glance in Simon's direction. “But Jazz was probably as insincere then as he is now. That kiss was just a fake.”
The Kissing Game Page 10